File: the squad.png (700 KB, 849x314)

700 KB PNG

"...I... it's a distinct possibility."

He was. He smells damp. "And you don't think that's weird, or significant, or—"

"Must you interrogate, Charlotte? Day in and day out? I love you, but— I am doing my best, and I'd rather we moved on. Now, if there's anything I can do to assist you with your—"

It's relieving, almost, that Richard is getting tetchy with you. He isn't lobotomized, like Gil so rudely claimed. You didn't lobotomize him. He's just... nice! Yes! Nice, which isn't a bad thing at all. Him being your father, sort of, isn't a bad thing at all. It's only the disappearing that troubles you.

Yes, the disappearing. That's all, except the one other thing. What would you call it? The— the— complacency? The lack of awareness? He recognizes something's wrong, except he doesn't. He says he's doing his best, but has he done anything at all? Gotten any better? You and Gil are shaded under the table's umbrella, but Richard is awash in harsh noon sunlight.

"Um, I have a card for you," you say.

"...A card? For me?" He settles back in his seat and takes the sealed envelope you hand him. "Is this from you, primrose?"

No. It's from a lady who was actually a snake and also his coworker, who got a lot of other snakes to sign a get-well card (how? with their mouths?), because Richard got really messed up, and went to the snake hospital, after you killed him. It's from her. "Just read it."

"Oh, Charlie. You're that worried about me, aren't you?" Richard clasps your still-outstretched hand and squeezes it. "I do appreciate it. I do. I just wish you'd be less pesty about it. Shall I open this now?"

Gil, pinned in his chair, is driving his fingers through the lattice of the table. There is the sound of ripping paper. Richard sets down the empty envelope and stares at the card inside.

It's the shape and size of a regular greeting card, which is encouraging. You can't see the design on the front, which is what's furrowing Richard's brow, but you're thinking about standing up and creeping behind him when he flips it open and furrows deeper. "..."

"Richard?" you say.

"...I... I can't..."

"Are you okay?"

"I can't r..." His hand is jittering. "I can't re..."

"He doesn't look okay," Gil says insightfully. You throw him a Look, stand, and attempt to pluck the card back from Richard— who resists, clenching tighter. But he shudders all over, then, and works his mouth, and looks up. "I— I'm sorry, Charlie. I can't read this."

"You can't read—? Oh." You've craned your neck over. There is certainly writing on the inside of the card, but it's like nothing you've seen before: all triangles and lines, no letters at all. It's conceivable that the little fragments of it are names, or signatures, and the longer chunk is a message. But you can't read it either.

(2/3?)

File: get well card illustration.png (423 KB, 492x385)

423 KB PNG

You not being able to read it makes sense, though. You're not a snake. Richard is, and should be able to read this, and was expected to read this, and probably used to be able to... and you know he's saying he can't read it, but he was looking at it for a really long time. Something's off. "Are you sure? Maybe we can try it together? Uh... let's see... think quick! What does that say?"

You jab at a random collection of triangles. Richard focuses spasmodically. "Corre— corr— I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Correspondent?" you say.

"I really don't know. This is gibberish."

"You were reading it just now," you say huffily. "Try again! Think fast! Or don't think at all. If that's Correspondent, then that there is—"

"...3... 3-2-6...?"

"326?" A different snake name? Or title, or whatever. "See? You read all of that, easy. And if you read it all together, it says..."

"I don't know what it says. I— I can't read this." Richard snaps the card shut. "It's very creative, Charlie, so thank you, but next time I might suggest writing it in something universally legible? I'll assume it contains nice words about me all the same. Should I keep it or would you like it back?"

"Keep it! It's for you! And you were literally reading it right now, so I don't... I don't know what..."

Richard has exposed the front of the card, which is illustrated just like a normal non-snake greeting card would be. It depicts a large tube of water, with a... a... a white lizardy thing sleeping inside, rendered all roundish and cute. That and some more writing, this time stylized bubbly lines and triangles, but still incomprehensible. (Maybe "Get Well Soon" or something like that.)

It's incomprehensible to you, in any case. Comprehensible to Richard, somewhere in his tiny snake brain. Buried there. What's the matter with him?

(Choices next.)

>[1] He was definitely reading it. Press further.
>>[A] This isn't even a fraction of how pesty you can get. Grab the card and shove it in Richard's face. Get Gil to help you goad him into reading it. Etcetera. Works every time. [Roll.]
>>[B] Attempt to be reasonable. He likes it when you're reasonable, right? If you can get him to notice something's wrong, maybe he'll do the rest for you? If you can do that. [Roll.]
>>[C] Propose a theory about why Richard thinks he can't read it. If you're in the ballpark, maybe it'll get through to him? (Write-in.) There will be further opportunities to piece things together, particularly after you inform Richard about his coworker. Consider this an "early" option if you're bold.

>[2] Okay, whatever. It probably just says dumb regular card things, just in snake language. Move on to prying about everything else you know.

>[3] Write-in?

Discerning anons might recall that the final vote of Thread 35 ended with the decision to give Richard the card *and* tell him all the other details. You will still be doing the latter (barring unexpected diffculties), just not in this update.

File: DQR - @sirenqm.gif (109 KB, 831x666)

109 KB GIF

>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux, finally! My wrists are mostly feeling better, so I am hellbent on getting us all back on schedule. The Who's Who and accomplishments pastebins are both updated, and I have lots of exciting plans for this thread (and beyond), so buckle up!

Also, as it's been 3 months(!) since the last main thread, I recommend refreshing yourself via the lengthy Thread 35 recap below, as well as the extremely convenient "future plans" update from the same thread: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2023/5718133/#p5745620. And, as always, please ask if you have questions. I am happy to answer anything that isn't spoilers.

>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!

File: the man in red & the man (...).png (295 KB, 849x487)

295 KB PNG

>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX

You cure Earl's injured shoulder via injecting him with emergency 50% solution, which turns him into a huge nonverbal man-beast. Henry, a bit unnerved, drags you aside and asks you about getting overtaken by the red stuff-- apparently you did Wayne in pretty good. You dither about telling him, but do so after he promises to be "straight" with you in return. And he does: he tells you that he finds your level of Wyrm involvement (up to and including catching its direct attention) to be implausible for a complete novice. You admit that you can't remember 3 years of your life, so maybe you were involved back then, considering that the Wind Court has you wanted for "aberration" and desertion.

Henry buys it, and in exchange tells you about the cult's teachings-- that the end of the world has been in motion for 200 years, and he believes that it's due to finish up very, very soon. Then he asks about your father. At a loss for an explanation, you summon Richard, who has a weird tense stand-off with Henry. Henry, shaken, leaves and returns with the loot from Wayne. You take most of it, including a gold mask identical to the Gold-Masked Person's, and Henry tells you that Richard isn't your father. You tell him that duh, you knew that, and at his insistence you leave and take monster-Earl with you.

After a quick jaunt back to camp, you leave Earl in the Fen and find Madrigal and Branwen. Branwen, unfazed by Earl's current state, takes him back to her home; you exchange a few words with Madrigal, then inadvertently make her emotional by reminding her of her fake snake general store. She storms off.

You go find Gil, who's excited to discover that you're not dead, and drag him with you to speak with Eloise. You dodge her questions about the disastrous attempted-rescue and distract her with news of Ellery and Headspace. You ask her for help locating potential employees to possess. Then you grill her about the prospective apocalypse. She refuses to answer directly, but tells you obliquely about an unpublicized skientific finding: that the strings of the universe have been tensing up ever since the Flood, and one wrong move could snap them all, presumably causing the end of reality. Eloise doesn't seem too happy about this.

You leave to speak to Monty about housing. Monty politely refuses to give Gil his own tent, but sends him outside with paperwork. Then he asks you who you murdered.

File: ramsey - @eyebrowls.png (1.78 MB, 1000x1414)

1.78 MB PNG

You fess up to murder... in defense of somebody else! So it's okay! Then you ask Monty about the loot from Wayne. He freezes up. After some prodding, you accidentally hit on the truth: Monty was originally in cahoots with the Gold-Masked Person, his "friend" Jean Ramsey. He intended to temporarily borrow and return the Crown, though-- he claims that he didn't know Jean ran off with it, and he seems distraught. He offers to help however he can, so you extract both information about Jean and a IOU for Gil's tent. You head back to Eloise and tell her about the tent, which she readily agrees to.

Gil doesn't seem super excited about having his own tent, but apologizes for it: he says he's just having a hard time adapting to everything. You decide to take him back to your manse so he can meet up with Other Gil, but don't make it that far-- out of nowhere, you collapse.

Another one of Richard's snake coworkers has invaded your head. She introduces herself as R/D-C #1 and claims to be here "unofficially," ostensibly to deliver Richard a get-well card but mostly to gossip about his current status. She informs you that he hasn't been at his desk for a while, and is excited to learn that you've seen him since then-- this confirms her theory that his "house of cards" collapsed in on him, and that's why his "backup" didn't go off automatically. You inquire if R/D-C #1 happens to know about Management, since that's another group of corporate weirdos, and she freaks out, clamming up and shoving the get-well card onto you.

You wake up... but get tackled straight into a wigged-out Gil's manse. You harshly correct his assumption that he rescued you, then have second thoughts after he skulks off. When you find him again, he's already re-merged with Other Gil, and he's tetchy with you. After some sideways apologies, you change the subject, embarking on a planning session in the hopes of luring Richard out.

This succeeds. You weigh your options...

File: I am a normal sea snake.jpg (119 KB, 800x528)

119 KB JPG

Immediate goals:
- Clue Richard in
- Show Richard the get-well card

Short-term goals:
- Use, extract, or otherwise deal with the Wyrm stuff you got going on
- Possess a Headspace employee to gather intel
- Ask Us for permission to smash Headspace into the ex-Namway facility
- Update Real Ellery on the current bombing plan
- Meet back up with Earl and Branwen
- Witness the raising of Gil's tent
- Bluff and/or magyck Management so they don't kidnap Pat

Long-term goals:
- Blow up Headspace
- Resurrect Annie
- Regain your missing memories (...if possible)
- Attend your richly deserved Game Night
- Find Jean Ramsey and her snake; challenge her to epic single combat (probably); 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 do they want with a massive store of Law?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you? What is its relationship with Management?
- Who is Horse Face investigating, and why?
- Who wiped three years of your life from your memory? Why? Can Richard really not remember them either?
- What is the Herald? Why does it keep showing up? What does it want? What are you supposed to forgive yourself for, exactly? (You haven't done anything wrong!)
- When is the world going to end? How?
- Do you have a destiny? Is it God-related? It's a good destiny, surely?

Ongoing assignments:
- Inform Eloise (and the Wind Court?) about anything you discover about Namway Co
---

Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>5851084
>>>[B] Attempt to be reasonable. He likes it when you're reasonable, right? If you can get him to notice something's wrong, maybe he'll do the rest for you? If you can do that. [Roll.]

>>5851084
>>>[B] Attempt to be reasonable. He likes it when you're reasonable, right? If you can get him to notice something's wrong, maybe he'll do the rest for you? If you can do that. [Roll.]

>>5851084
>B
we can't press nice richard

>>5851106
>>5851442
>>5851688
>[1B]

Called. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 5 (-5 Pesty) vs. DC 65 (-10 Darling Daughter, +25 Anosognosia) to try and reason with Richard about his current condition!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are currently at 10/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 7 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5851912

>>5851921
>Y

>>5851912

Rolled 24 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>5851912

Rolled 71 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5851912
>N
spendy ain't saving those rolls
and we won't need it for this sick nat 100

File: the crown 2 - @observerqm.png (2.63 MB, 1920x1080)

2.63 MB PNG

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5851921
>>5851959
>>5852040
>2, 19, 66 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

Squeaking by. Classic Drowned dice. Flipping for spendy/no spendy and writing.

Also, many thanks to ObserverQM's phenomenal 3d modeled(!!!!) fanart of the Crown [pic], which you'll get back someday...

>>5851921
>>5851959
In the future, please make sure to include your ID vote with your roll! The intended purpose of the mechanic is to make you gamble a little, so voting afterwards is kind of cheating. I've been nice about this in the past, but in the future I may have to flip for it or auto-spend ID instead.

File: busssinessssss-isss-good.png (163 KB, 422x550)

163 KB PNG

>Appeal to logic
>12, 29, 76 vs. DC 65 — Mitigated Success
>Spendy

At least you know you're right and he's wrong. He can't trick you, no matter how hard he tries— plus, Gil is right there to back you up. You're sure he's listening closely, even if his gaze is fixed on the wall of the workshed. He's listening.

Anyways, the illustration isn't important right now. You draw yourself up. "Richard?"

"Yes, primrose?"

"You were reading it! You were looking at the gibberish and you were saying exactly what it meant, until you stopped yourself on purpose. Or how do you explain knowing that it said 326?"

"You were putting me under pressure. I took a random guess at it." Richard raises his eyebrows. "I have no idea what those symbols actually mean. They're as likely to be 'toothpaste' as they are '326.' I don't think I would call that reading, per se— perhaps at a stretch 'interpreting', but—"

"That's a really specific thing to guess," you say narrowly.

"I don't think so." He flips it back open. "All of these— these have repeated characters, and they're simple, compared to the string up here. I assumed they were numerals, and guessed accordingly. Why so ardent? Was I correct?"

Maybe? Probably? "How should I know? I can't read snake."

"Did you not write this, Charlie?"

Before, this certainly would've been passive-aggressive. Now Richard just sounds inquisitive. "I— no. Your coworker gave it to me. Your coworker at the snake company? R-D/C #1? Ring a bell?"

"The snake company?" Richard chuckles. "Do they make snakes, or just sell them?"

"Huh? Neither! They're— it's run by— you know about this! You're a snake! Remember? You've been a snake for... for months, at least, but probably years? For your whole entire life? You remember being a..."

"Er, yes. Of course I remember... yes." No more chuckling. His brow is furrowed. "I'm very sorry about that, Charlotte. That was deeply unpleasant for you. Deeply unpleasant for me also, of course— I didn't like to be in there— but it was difficult to like much of anything, inside there, even my own charming daughter. I am really very sorry."

You cannot get used to the "daughter" thing, no matter how often he repeats it. It makes you itch. "So you weren't a snake before you were, um, inside one?"

"No, of course not." (You knew this, sort of. You guess. He had said as much obliquely, but never so forthright.) "You're not half-snake, are you? Well, maybe now. What with the fangs. But you weren't half-snake before. I was as human as you are, believe me."

Gil must actually be listening, because his eyes have widened, and yours may have as well. On one hand, you suppose that... that, if Richard is or was your father, this must be factually true. On the other, there's the matter of the— of the other snakes. His coworkers. Are they all formerly human too? If so, why did R-D/C #1 get the neck wrong? And you have never seen writing like that before, ever. It's not making any sense.

(1/3?)

You drum on your knee. "Um, that makes sense. I guess. But why be a snake at all if you could just... do what you're doing now? Be a person? If you hated it so much..."

"Ah. I'm afraid it was required."

"By who?" Gil says. (Which is what you were going to say, of course.)

"Hmm?"

You seize the chance before Gil can outshine you again. "Did the snake company require it, Richard? The snake company? That you work for, and also your weird rude snake coworkers work for? Your coworkers who steal Crowns and make people go randomly unconscious and stuff?"

"I... er... I- I don't... I'm a lawyer, Charlie. I wouldn't deem it polite to refer to a law firm as a 'snake company,' but I suppose it isn't entirely incorrect. Very witty of you."

Gil's side-eying you, but you hardly need the encouragement. "Richard?"

"Yes?"

"Do you feel weird at all right now? Does it feel like something's sort of wrong? With you, or in general, or anything."

He opens his mouth, and closes it. "I wouldn't know what you mean."

"Does it maybe feel like, um... you're trying to think about something, but you can't? Like it's missing, or blocked off, or something's replacing it, or— the specifics don't matter. I just want to know if you feel something weird. Because I'm... you know, I'm a little bit worried about you."

"About me! Well, that's no good, Charlie. I should be the one worried about you. That's what I'm there for." He smiles broadly. "I assure you, I'm very capable of taking care of myself, so don't even think about me. Why do you ask? Are you feeling 'weird' at the moment?"

Damnit! You were close, you felt it— you could see distress creeping into his expression. Then, bam, back to Nice. It's possible this is something you can't just talk him out of. Talk him out of in a normal way, you mean. If you try really, really hard, you're sure you can pull it off.

Yup. Very sure. Extremely sure. There is no doubt in your mind as to how capable you are of talking Richard out of his stupid fugue. You're good at this, aren't you? Excellent at this. You have never failed in your whole life. Of all the different outcomes in the entire universe, none of them contain failure, because it simply isn't possible. You are positive thinking right now, and your positive thinking is absolutely, 100% true.

>[-1 ID: 9/14]

And maybe it's also true that there's something more to it all, something you don't understand and don't want to. You're positive thinking. You're thinking positively. You are opening your mouth and you are saying, with sunny conviction: "No. I think something weird is happening with you, and I think you sort of know it. I think you know there's something way wronger happening than just having a cold, or whatever, you just can't admit it. Because there's something in your head stopping you. Right?"

Richard's gaze is hot on you. "Charlie..."

(2/3?)

File: goop.png (216 KB, 709x608)

216 KB PNG

"And— and I think you should know that your snake coworker said that you're missing. Right now, you're missing. From snake work, wherever that is. And she thought you were missing because whatever you were doing got all scrambled up, and so you were secretly taken to the... snake hospital... or whatever snakes have. I don't know. You know that better. So that's where you actually are right now, the snake hospital, but you don't know that because you're... stuck here? In my head? And— and that card isn't from me, it's a get-well card from all the other snakes, because they think you're sick. You were right about that, being sick."

His eyes are pale blue and not snakey in any objective measure, but there is something snakey in the way he's looking right into you. You're uncertain whether this a good sign. "You're really a very bright... a bright... an independent..."

"Richard?"

"I... one moment. Forgive me."

You had expected him to turn away, most likely so he could forget what you just said and ruin everything. That would've figured. You had not expected him to jerk forward, rattling the table, and clutch his stomach, and grimace in apparently terrible pain. "Ngh!"

You stand. "Wh—"

"Ungh." Still pressed against the table, he screws up his face, tries to swallow something down— fails— contracts from his stomach, and spews a quart of clear water onto the tabletop. And, sliding out after it, a mucousy glurge of pitch black goop.

You are glad you stood, because some of the water is dripping off the table and onto your chair. It smells distinctly salty. Gil, safe across the table, looks like he'd like to hurl himself. Richard is dabbing at his chin with a handkerchief, and when you catch his eye he appears ashamed. "My sincere apologies. I... I could not contain it. If you'd close your eyes, I can have it cleaned up in—"

"Do you feel weird," you say.

Richard glances down at the card, now goop-spattered, and wipes it off. "There is a... a possibility that I am ill rather seriously. Yes. Thank you for your concern, Charlie, I believe it is... well-placed."

Progress. Not much, but progress.

(Choices next.)

>[1] You may as well strike while the iron is hot— if you wait, he might forget. Inquire if Richard knows of the *origin* of his illness, and prepare yourself to enlighten him about the, er, ritual. And the things that occurred there. Maybe that's the key you need, even if it's highly unpleasant to think or talk about. [-1 ID]

>[2] Richard just puked stuff onto the table. You don't want to see what'll happen if you push him too hard, too soon. Try deescalating, maybe asking him some questions— if nothing else, he's unusually open about the stuff he *does* remember. (Write-in question/s.)

>[3] Time to put your awe-inspiring detective skills to use. There are some mysteries staring you right in the face— if you can answer them for yourself, maybe you can clear Richard's head up, too. (You may try answering some or all of these. Some solutions are easier than others; some may have more impact than others.)
>>[A] What exactly did Richard just vomit up? Does it have any significance? What? (Write-in.)
>>[B] Why does he claim to be floating in saltwater in between appearances? Does this have any significance? Multiple significances? (Write-in.)
>>[C] What is that illustration on the get-well card, anyways? [>>5851083] (Write-in.)
>>[D] What, *specifically*, is wrong with Richard? More specific than "he died and came back wrong," please. (Write-in.)

>[4] Will he try to "guess at" the contents of the entire card now? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? You just want to know. [Roll.]

>[5] Write-in.

>>5852560
>[4] Will he try to "guess at" the contents of the entire card now? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? You just want to know. [Roll.]

>>5852560
>[1] You may as well strike while the iron is hot— if you wait, he might forget. Inquire if Richard knows of the *origin* of his illness, and prepare yourself to enlighten him about the, er, ritual. And the things that occurred there. Maybe that's the key you need, even if it's highly unpleasant to think or talk about. [-1 ID]

>>5852560
>1

>>5852985
>>5853180
>[1]

>>5852936
>[4]

Writing. We'll see if I finish in a timely fashion.

>>5852560
Late vote, but
>[3C] It's, of course, that lizardy thing we've talked to a couple of times

>So I uhhhhhhhhh might have killed you a little bit

"You think so?" you say eagerly. "I think it's— uh— yes. Definitely well-placed. Because, I mean, you have been acting weird, and it all started after... um... do you have any idea what might've caused it?"

"Caused it? No. I believe it came on rather suddenly."

Right. "There wasn't anything unusual that happened right before..."

"Didn't you kill him?" Gil offers.

If you concentrated really hard on him, could you revoke his power of speech? You were the one who let him do it in the first place, after all. Before that, he was just a bunch of dumb beetles.

"Hmm?" says Richard.

Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. "I— well, you died. Do you remember that at all?"

"I suppose so, yes." Richard stretches his handkerchief between his fingertips. "Though it wasn't a large issue. I returned good as—"

"What if you weren't good as new?"

"What's that?"

"What if you weren't? What if you returned... different... um, mostly in a good way? But also not? And what if you were actually... not recovered from... I mean, you're in the snake hospital now. Supposedly. So you're not really good as new. You're sick, or injured, or something, and they're— they're trying to put you back to normal, but they can't figure it out. That's what your snake coworker said was happening. Something's so messed up they can't put you back to normal."

"And what's 'normal,' Charlie? My callous mistreatment of you? I wouldn't like to be put back to that. Consider it a good thing that—"

"I am! I'm glad you're— you're nice. I'm glad you're not a stupid lying snake. I am. I just don't want you to— to— to die for real, okay?! And I feel like you're acting really... I feel like you're just going to vanish one time and never come back, and you're already taking longer to come back, and... so there! That's it! I just want you to realize you're all messed up. So you can fix it yourself, because you're really smart, and I'm not as smart as you are. I— I mean, I'm very intelligent, but mostly about detective-type things. Not weird brain things. So."

What are you even saying? You guess it's not... it's not not true, but you aren't supposed to go and tell Richard that you don't want him to— he'll hold it over your head! Or he would. He would hold it over your head. Now he's just coming over to you and wrapping you in a damp, bony hug. "Oh, Charlie."

"Guess I-I-I'll go ahead and clean this up..." says Gil, to nobody.

(1/3)

File: brass blood.jpg (18 KB, 400x400)

18 KB JPG

Richard is very big on hugging these days. Very big on it. You don't know what your father's opinion on hugging was, because you can't remember it. You do know he hugged you right before he died. He was very calm about dying. You weren't exactly calm, but you weren't freaking out as much as you should've been. You should've yelled at him and called him crazy and thrown the knife back in his face. Always that one knife. Instead you... it was like you were out of your body. It was like you were following a routine, sort of, like you didn't have to think about it at all. And he was so calm. He made it seem so rational, even though it didn't make any damn sense. But it worked. It worked, and it left your palms brassy...

You can actually feel his heart beating, which is some kind of manse illusion, probably. You just want to think he has a real heart, so you're imagining it. This isn't his real body or anything. Or is it? Was it? You wish everything were less confusing. You wish you hadn't done it. You're in a way glad you did, but you shouldn't have done it. You didn't mean to do it.

Except you did, and short of making Horse Face summon a god again you don't think you can change it. You need to tell him. You don't want to, but you need to, and, yes, Gil stole your thunder— but not really, because Richard ignored him. Good. It's your thing to tell, not his. It's your pure and honest heart. You killed him with a knife and then he came back to life all different. That's what happened. You just need to out with it, even if it hurts.

>[-1 ID: 8/14]

"Richard?" you mumble.

"Darling Charlie?"

"Um, Gil was... Gil was right. I did kill you. That's why you died, is I— I stabbed you. To death."

"Is that so? Well, I'm sure I deserved it."

No! Wrong reaction! "You don't get it! I— I stabbed you! For God power! And it turned out to be evil, and it just makes me want to kill more people, and I did kill one person, and even though I won Annie's heart with it she just died anyways, and I don't know how to bring her back yet— it could involve killing you again! I don't want to kill you again! I didn't even want it the first time, I just— you were just telling me that I had to, and you were supposed to be stabbed, or something, and I- I- I don't even know what that—"

"Shh. Slow down." He strokes your back. "I told you to do it?"

"Yeah! But you were so weird about it, and I should've realized something was— something was— it was like I didn't even have a choice, it was just happening, and—"

"And this has been eating at you this whole time?"

It's not like that. You've been trying to think about other things. "Sort of..."

"Oh, Charlotte Fawkins. What for?" He pulls back to see your face. "It wasn't your fault, was it?"

"I stabbed you!"

"Because you were told to? I'm sure I had good reason for it." Richard smiles. "But I forgive you, for whatever that's worth."

(2/3)

It doesn't feel like it's worth very much, coming from Nice Richard. Of course he forgives you. You don't think Richard, the normal one, ever wanted to die. He hated to die. "You don't understand. I should've—"

"There's nothing to be concerned about. It all ended up for the best, didn't it? And you weren't in your right mind, from the sounds of it. It'll be okay, primrose. Of course I forgive you."

Is something off?

"As a matter of fact," says Nice Richard, "I love you very much, Charlotte. Charlie. I'm—"

Have you heard this before?

"—sorry I may not always have expressed this as clearly as I wanted to... you might not have known that. I'm sorry."

He looks pained. He looks... really pained. He's clutching his stomach, like he's going to retch again, except that you can see a dark stain through his fingers. Probably water. Definitely water.

"Is that water?" you say, even though you know it's water.

"Is it?" He clenches the fabric of his polo. "I— I don't— I don't know what you mean, Charlotte. Is what water?"

It has to be water. "What are you hiding with your hand? I'd like to see it. ...Please."

"The magic word," grunts Richard. "Very polite of you. But I really don't know what you— ahem! Excuse me!"

You have darted your hand out and pulled him away from the stain, and with your other hand you lift his polo shirt a little bit— not a lot, nothing indecent, just enough to expose a sliver of stomach. A sliver of stomach and a wound, fresh-looking, not large. An inch wide, maybe, a fraction of an inch thick. A puncture wound, oozing metallic-looking blood.

>[-1 ID: 7/14]

"I— I didn't do that," you say.

"What's going on?" Gil in your peripheral, hovering like always. "Do what?"

"I didn't do that. I didn't... who did that? You need bandages! When did this— when did it— I couldn't have done it. I didn't mean to..."

"It's not your fault," Richard says, glassily. "It's my fault, Charlie."

"Aw, shit! When did that— does he need bandages?" Gil, moving jerkily. "I-I-I can get bandages! This is my head! Just gimme a—"

"It's my fault in the end. Don't blame yourself. You didn't mean to. I was careless to leave that thing up there. I should've known it would come to this. It all leads to death in the end. All of us die. We were made just to die. I—"

"You're not dying!" you say, as non-hysterically as you can. (Not very.) "Richard! You just said you couldn't die! And you came back, and you're not— you're not actually— don't say stuff like that, it—"

"Not with one, Charlie." His fingers probe the wound. "Not with one. It was eight. Eight in the stomach, and then I'll die. Don't you see?"

(3/4)

You do not see. What you are seeing, here, is that this isn't Richard. This isn't even Nice Richard, who should be reassuring you that he can take care of himself. He's not talking how Richard talks. This is nonsense. This is... you don't know if you tripped a switch somewhere, or if Richard went off to his swimming pool and something else replaced him, stabbed him, but this isn't right or good. This is, as your Aunt Ruby would put it, "not good."

Yes. Not good. And not sustainable, either. If Gil bandages one wound, will another spontaneously open? Will seven? Something has gone sideways, no matter how deathly calm Richard/Not-Richard is about it. Good thing you are (positive thinking) the ultimate and world-renowned master of fixing gone-sideways situations... yes?

>[1] Snakes don't bleed. You can't even stab them, really (too squirmy). So if Richard's a snake, he can't have a stab wound, right? And you can make him a snake, just like you made him a person: easy-peasy. [Roll.]
>[2] You can fix this! You can do things now! Or make things happen, or... yeah. Whatever it is. You just have to think on what. (Advanced Advanced Gaslighting— what are you convincing yourself of? Write-in.) [Roll.]
>[3] It's not just that he's stabbed. Something's gone wonky in his head, or something, and you just don't know what. But you can find out. [Communion. -1 ID.]
>[4] The issue here, fundamentally, is that you don't understand what's happening. If you understood it, you feel certain that Richard would too— he *is* in your head. Put your thinker to the task. [See >>5852560 for open mysteries.] (Write-in.)
>[5] Write-in.

>>5853700
>[4] The issue here, fundamentally, is that you don't understand what's happening. If you understood it, you feel certain that Richard would too— he *is* in your head. Put your thinker to the task. [See >>5852560 for open mysteries.] (Write-in.)
I can only try
>[A] What exactly did Richard just vomit up?
It's blood. Very old blood that makes Richard Richard and not Dad. My source is I made it up.
>[B] Why does he claim to be floating in saltwater in between appearances?
Meta-knowledge go! He experiences being the chassis in 314's cubicle
>[C] What is that illustration on the get-well card, anyways?
Meta-knowledge go! It's the Herald of the Bright Epoch
>[D] What, *specifically*, is wrong with Richard?
Meta-knowledge go! The part of him that goes into the chassis got stuck there.

>>5853700
>>5853740
Supporting whatever this anon answers since my brain is too small to understand what's going on here.

>>5853740
>I can only try
Godspeed! For your valiant efforts I'll throw you some hints.

>Generic hint
Answering some of the questions correctly/completely might help illuminate others.

>It's blood. Very old blood that makes Richard Richard and not Dad. My source is I made it up.
This is like... 1/4th correct? 1/3rd? You've seen and heard about the black goop before.

>Meta-knowledge go! He experiences being the chassis in 314's cubicle
Clever, but not what I was going for. You're on the right track, though, for one of the answers. The other one is significantly more obscure (I don't necessarily expect it to be landed on, though I'd be pleasantly surprised if it were).

>Meta-knowledge go! It's the Herald of the Bright Epoch
Correct! And no meta-knowledge necessary: Charlotte has seen the Herald twice before and knows its name. There's two other pieces of information that can be gleaned from the illustration, one more relevant than the other.

>Meta-knowledge go! The part of him that goes into the chassis got stuck there.
Correct, but not sufficient. Also not really metaknowledge-- Charlotte can probably piece together something along these lines from what R-D/C #1 said. That being said, the key question here is *why* he's stuck, and what exactly is driving him to behave the way he's behaving (why "nice"? why the apparent mental block?). "He died" isn't sufficient either, because he doesn't seem to think "dying" in a normal way would be a big deal.


>>5853954
>since my brain is too small to understand what's going on here
Only one or two of the "correct" answers require synthesizing information-- the rest are memory games/archive-diving quizzes. Don't sell yourself short. (But if you're a busy anon, I understand.)

>>5853991
Alright. Forgetting mode on! I will return once I look through the archives.

>>5854010
Based.

To support your (and anybody else's) efforts, I have finally semi-"completed" my super secret RECAP GOOGLE DOC. I've been sitting on this for maybe a year, trying to finish, but couldn't motivate myself to... but perfect is the enemy of the good. This doc contains increasingly long custom-written recaps of Threads 7-29, a really long recap of Thread 1 I wrote years ago, and the in-thread recaps of Threads 30-35. They cover all major events, but I will not guarantee that they contain every minor-but-important detail--- consider this a way to jog your memory and find the right thread to hunt through, not a guide to solving every mystery out there.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VPJwXzTpv4lO_t6R3jA32NLbKjdIZjtJlRFsWQgBMnM/edit?usp=sharing

>>5854031
So
>Black goop
Eloise told us it's rejection fluid. A body produces it when rejecting a real change to the integrity of a person. Meaning our actions were producing a change in Richard. The change may or may not have been successful. I assume the change was trying to make Richard more like the old Richard.
>Saltwater
The Herald on the card is pictured floating in a tank of water. Considering it's a get well card, I'm gonna assume this tank is associated with recuperation in snake culture. Richard remembers floating in saltwater because he experiences his hospital stay.
>The Herald's image
I'm gonna go out on a limb and say this is what the snakes look like in their snake dimension.
>Stuck Richard
Richard hacked together something, and I think this something is the replica of our dad. Whatever allowed him to exit this state went haywire when we killed him, and now he simply doesn't know how, nor does he even know that he's supposed to do it. Maybe we killed the part that knew.

>>5854057
Ah, and the change Richard is undergoing is becoming more and more like dad, until all the wounds reappear and he dies.

>>5853700
>>5854057
backing the mega based research vote

>>5854057
>>5853700
Backing this!!!

>>5854057
I fucking kneel researchchad

>>5854096
>>5854112
>>5854181
Anons, I may be wrong.

>>5854202
I need to catch up anyways so I'll read the doc if I have time tonight, but IIRC your guesses have been extremely solid so far if it's also been you in prior threads.

>>5854230
You flatter me.

>>5854202
If you are I will take zero responsibility for backing your vote and blame everything that's gone wrong in this quest and all other quests I follow as well as misfortune in my personal life on you.

File: splat!.png (60 KB, 319x287)

60 KB PNG

>>5854057
>Eloise told us it's rejection fluid. A body produces it when rejecting a real change to the integrity of a person. Meaning our actions were producing a change in Richard.
Correct. You've seen it most conspicuously with Monty's spooky arm, but it also turns up when you or other people come out of weird manse transformations/bodyswaps (changes forced upon you).

>I assume the change was trying to make Richard more like the old Richard.
Less correct, but you got the important thing right, so acceptable.

>Considering it's a get well card, I'm gonna assume this tank is associated with recuperation in snake culture. Richard remembers floating in saltwater because he experiences his hospital stay.
Correct (though "snake hospital" is Charlotte's goofy term for it, not necessarily a real thing). R/D-C #1 also mentioned that they probably put him in a "stasis tank," which is the direct tie, but you got it regardless.

The obscure second answer for the saltwater is more "interesting lore"-tier than "meaningful plot point"-tier, so here it is in a Pastebin because it'd be a giant chunk of spoilered text otherwise: https://pastebin.com/KfpKZymK

>I'm gonna go out on a limb and say this is what the snakes look like in their snake dimension.
This is not what I was thinking of personally... ...but it's a very interesting guess. I can't confirm or deny it. The actual second piece of information was the closed spirals as decoration, which isn't directly important to this, so no hardship missing it.

>Richard hacked together something, and I think this something is the replica of our dad. Whatever allowed him to exit this state went haywire when we killed him, and now he simply doesn't know how, nor does he even know that he's supposed to do it. Maybe we killed the part that knew.
Generally correct. The important detail is that Richard was killed, not as himself, but after you mind-raped him into acting as your dad (for help with the ritual). The last time you mind-raped him into being your dad, way back in ye olde Thread 12, he warned you that it was really, really dangerous for him to stay that way for any real length of time... because it was liable to override his own personality/ego in a permanent way. So, yeah.

>Ah, and the change Richard is undergoing is becoming more and more like dad, until all the wounds reappear and he dies.
There we go. His body is able to reject the change you're (unintentionally) forcing upon him because you're getting through with the truth a little bit. The wounds thing is unproven... but hopefully it won't progress far enough to know!

Overall very good work! Certainly enough to make a difference.

>>5854057
>>5854096
>>5854112
>>5854181
Writing.

>>5854256
Based?

>Elementary, my dear Gil

Of course you are. And the very first thing you need to do is dispel any and all uncertainty about this situation. Yes, Richard is bleeding for no reason and rambling about death, and to any ordinary person this would be a frightening experience. Are you an ordinary person, though? No. Of course not. You are quite extraordinary, and to you this is a sign of... nothing! Nothing at all! You will only think of it what you choose to think of it, and you are choosing to think positively. Therefore he is not dying. That would be silly.

Phew. Now that that's over with, you can put on your attractive detective cap (why don't you own a detective cap?) and put to work. Because, now that you've decided to be all logical and stuff, this is seeming very familiar. Not the rambling, that's new, but the wound. That's what happened the last time, before you killed him— he started bleeding before you even had the knife. And before, even. Way before, and you were drunk, and he was drunk, and you were crying, and he wanted to... he wanted to... he was saying something dumb about having no emotions, or not enough of them, or something. He didn't have enough emotions to comfort you properly— but your father did, and that's who you wanted. But your father was dead, and Richard wasn't him, but he would let you make him into him. Because you wanted it so, so bad. He would risk himself and let it.

You did it to him and it was awful. Your memory's a little blurry of it, on account of the drunkness, but you distinctly remember it being awful, sickly sweet— because Richard wasn't your father, and your father was dead. Your father died and lost his entire self and all his memories and wound up a dumb mean snake who hated you, and adding the fatherliness back afterwards just didn't work. It was like baking a cake full of berries, then deciding you hated berries, and you picked all the berries out. And then three years later you decided you like berries after all and dug all the rotten berries up and dumped them on top of the stupid rotten cake and ate it. Just like that.

This isn't like that. Well, a little, but when you did it then he didn't know anything. He couldn't tell a... a... a snake from a lizard, or a metaphysical whosit from a whatsit. He didn't know you were underwater, or that you were 23 years old, or that you'd found the Crown, or Gil, or any news at all. Like he'd been teleported in just then. Nice Richard isn't your father in that sort of way— he still remembers things, mostly, and does Richard things, mostly. Drunk Richard was your father. Nice Richard is Richard if he were your father, and your father was nice.

(1/5?)

File: gauze.jpg (149 KB, 1280x1000)

149 KB JPG

That stab wound happened both times, though. The ritual. The stab wound happened all three times. In Gil's manse, too. Four times. If your father is around, Richard around or not, knife around or not, he is stabbed in the stomach. Why? Why? Why? Why? You can't think about that right now. You don't want to think about it. It's not even important to this, here. Richard is important.

"Here!" Gil shoves a roll of gauze in between you and Richard. Richard is breathing steadily. "Bandages! Should I-I-I— does he still need—"

"Do you know how to use that?" you say.

"Y— yeah? Mostly? Uh... i-if you're working with a lot of scrap metal, and bent nails, and bits of... uh... and if you hammer your thumb, you know..." He is jiggling the gauze.

"You don't need to justify...?" Does he think it's embarrassing? First aid is practically required for a retainer. Somebody has to tend to the heroine's dramatic wounds, and it's not supposed to be the heroine. Or a snake, for that matter. "Okay, yeah! Fix him! Richard, let him fix you. You're not gonna just stand there and bleed out, that's stupid."

"Of course," Richard says smoothly, as if he wasn't just certifiably insane. "Thank you for the swift intervention, Charlie. I await your ministrations, Gil."

"Ministrations?" Gil mumbles, and doesn't move until you catch his eye and shoo him onward. With them both occupied, you can safely return to pondering.

What were you thinking about? The stab wounds? No, you're not. Moving on. Something is wrong with Richard, is the whole thrust of the issue. And what's wrong with him? He's nice, which is wrong. Richard is rarely nice, and never for longer than a minute or two. It has been days and days now, and still he's nice. That's Thing One. Thing Two is that his brain's all messed up. He can/can't read the get-well card. He does/doesn't recognize Henry. He spaces out when you ask him about the Wyrm. He vanishes whenever you're not looking at him.

Where does he go when he vanishes? The lady snake said he was probably in a "stasis tank." The card has a lizard-thing in a tank of water. It's a get-well card, so maybe it's the same as showing somebody sick in bed, but snakes don't have beds. They have... stasis tanks. Maybe. Maybe the snake's in one of those, since it isn't around. Maybe Richard's real physical body is. You don't know. That's why he barfed up all that water, though. And that black gunk, too, which you're 99% sure is spooky gunk. Rejection gunk? Whatever Eloise said it was. From rejecting a really big-deal major alteration to your Very Being. An alteration like maybe going from Richard-Who-Is-A-Mean-Snake to Richard-Who-Is-Lottie's-Father-And-Very-Nice-About-It. Maybe.

And who altered his Very Being, again? On purpose? The stabbing wasn't on purpose, but the altering sure was. You didn't think it'd stick.

(2/5?)

What did you do to him? It did stick. That's what happened: he died as your father, and came back, and your father's still grafted on there. Maybe fused in now, like melting two candles together. Richard, who is your father, but really not. Your father's dead. He's not your memories of your father, either, because those are also dead. He's Richard, who is your imaginary father. Right? The father you would've liked to have had. Always nice to you, and safe to be around, and gracious, and thoughtful, and caring, and who loves you, openly, not in resentful snatches. He's that now.

If that were all, there would be no problem. You'd hardly even feel sorry. You're suffering less now, and he's not suffering at all— he prefers it, is sorry he was any other way. If he didn't think he'd like it before, he was completely wrong, and so there. You're not sorry. The thing you're sorry for is that something was botched somewhere— the brain issues. You're sure there's a common thread to them. If you could...

"Done!" Gil presents his handiwork. Richard's torso is securely bandaged, even excessively so. "That's all I-I need to do? He's fixed?"

"Um, is he bleeding anymore?" You don't see anything. "No? Good job. Did Richard hold still?"

"Is there a reason why I wouldn't, Charlie?" Richard tucks his shirt back into his khakis. "I'm very grateful to your friend for helping me out— I'm sure it'll heal straightaway, thanks to him. No need to worry."

"You were talking about how you were going to die," you mutter.

"Was I? I really don't think so. That doesn't sound right."

Nice Richard, beatific. Truthfully, you don't really know how this one brain problem fits the rest, but you already said you were skipping the 'stab wound' stuff. So, here: "Okay! Cool. Whatever. Um, can we sit down again? I have some important things I'd like to tell you. I mean, that I need to tell you."

"Certainly." Richard pulls out his chair and sits. You do too. The table is free of seawater or black goop, but there is a damp towel plopped in its center. "What's the matter?"

You lace your fingers. "I need you to promise that you'll listen. Remember you're really sick, so there might be things trying to stop you from listening, but you have to fight them, okay? I'd really like you to fight them. It's really important to me."

"Yes, of course. I'll do my utmost."

That's all you can hope for, you guess. "Okay. So, when I killed you, I didn't just... kill you. I made you into my father first. And—"

"I already was, no?"

"No! You weren't. Maybe you used to be, but you weren't then. You were Richard. But then I sort of—" You mimic pushing clay. "—molded you into— this fake person, who was my father. I put the berries back on the cake, right? Then the berry cake told me to kill it, and I did, and I think it... uh... it made berry cobbler... or something."

(3/5?)

"I assure you, I'm fighting very hard to listen," Richard says, "but I— I don't know if I'm—"

You struggle for a better explanation. "Um, you didn't wake up one day and randomly decide to be nice. That's stupid. That stuff just doesn't happen. You woke up one day after you died, and you didn't decide to be nice, you had niceness baked into you all of a sudden. You're not Richard. You're a berry cobbler. You're— no. I'm— I'm still— Richard!"

He appears bewildered.

"I'm smooshing those berries into you right now! I've been doing it the whole time!" You clutch your forehead. "What did you say about Henry? You said something really weird about Henry. You said you didn't know him, but you felt like you were supposed to know him. Supposed to by who? You don't have my father's memories! And I don't, either, but I know he was supposed to be friends with Henry. I know that. Me. And you're in my head. And I know you're not really him, but you're in my head, and you've been saying this whole entire time that I've been trying to squish you into... into... I finally did! You got squished, Richard!"

You are alive with deduction: spreading your hands, stabbing at the air, tipping your chair back so far Gil darts to catch you. He takes the opportunity to hiss into your ear. "What the shit are you talking about?"

What does he mean? It makes perfect sense to you. Brilliant sense. You can see it all in front of you, right in the air. "You're nice... because I want you to be. You sort of knew Henry... because I knew you were supposed to. You can't read that card... because you're not supposed to read it! Don't you get it? You're not Richard anymore. I mean—" Gil is frowning. You place both palms flat down on the table and attempt to re-articulate. "According to my brain. Inside it. I know you're Richard, but my brain thinks you're my father. Maybe you read like it, or something. Or you got squished into the right shape. I don't know how it works. But my father's not a snake, right? So he can't read snake writing. Richard can, but my father can't, so you can't. Richard knows about the Wyrm, but my father... um..." A flaw in your argument. "...I... I guess I don't want him to, so you can't either. And you can't realize something's the matter because I didn't know what was the matter, exactly, and maybe I- I didn't—"

Richard is staring.

"—I didn't want you to get fixed... I mean, I do! But my brain, uh... I don't want you to go back to being mean, I guess. And I was worried you'd be mean again if I fixed you. That's all."

Still staring.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I guess it's my fault."

"..." He presses his lips together. "No."

"I mean," you say petulantly, "it is. Even if I don't mean any of it, it's my brain doing it to—"

"No. None of it is your fault in any way. It was always going to come to this. The idea was fatally flawed, primrose." Richard shrugs. "I'm not unhappy. Do I seem unhappy?"

(4/5?)

"You seem screwed up," you mutter.

"Well, yes. Your mind is a terrible, terrible force, Charlie. I'd been withstanding it until now, but it was rather like pointing an open umbrella into a 100-mile galestorm. Or into a divine ripcurrent, if you'd prefer. It is safe to say that I am being stretched like a wad of taffy at the present moment, and that this is not particularly healthy or sustainable— though also not painful, so don't be too concerned. Commendable deductions, by the way."

"...Richard?"

"Hmm?"

You study his face. "You are Richard?"

"Was I ever anything else? And, at the same time, was I ever? You made up the name, and, I dare say, the whole person. I wasn't much of anything before you got to me. Very kind of you."

This is unhelpful. "Um... are you fixed, though?"

"Fixed? I can't stay for long stretches. I may phase out uncontrollably. Like I said, not healthy or sustainable. I believe the dissonance has tempered itself, if that's what you meant— very uncomfortable, being pulled in two directions, is all I'll say about it."

You process. "So all I had to do was talk about it...?"

"It wasn't a defect in me. It was conflicting orders from you. Unintentional, of course, but that's the kind of thing that happens when you set up shop in somebody's mind. Would not necessarily recommended it. Regardless, yes— once you worked it out for yourself, you successfully overrid the default settings. All better."

"...But you're still nice? You didn't go back to...?"

"You killed me, Charlie. I was baked into a... cobbler?" He scratches his cheek. "I believe that change was at the raw psyche level, not imposed externally, if that's helpful."

Okay. You understand. Maybe. Phew. Huh.

...

...Wow! You did it! Just like that! You're pretty amazing aren't, you? Um, you mean— your detective powers have never been matched in the history of the world! Your talent is unimpeachable! It cannot be peached! Or baked into a cobbler. (Richard is smiling genially. He's not reading your mind, is he?) Um... it doesn't matter if he is! Because you're also amazing at metaphors. Yeah.

>[+3 ID: 11/14]

"I might be due for some more recuperation soon," says Richard. "But I'm here for you as always, Charlie, even more effectively now. And you too of course, Gil— thank you again for the bandaging. Much appreciated. If you have anything you'd like to confer about...?"

(Choices.)

File: richard fullbody grungy.png (210 KB, 288x363)

210 KB PNG

>[1] Oh boy, do you. (May be split over 2 updates if many options are selected.)
>>[A] Is he really sure he's okay with all this? Because you're 100% certain he wouldn't have been okay with this before, so haven't you sort of just accidentally brainwashed him?
>>[B] So you... met God? Sort of? You think he knows that, but he just spouted some cryptic stuff and vanished. Would he like to provide his complete opinion now?
>>[C] Does he know anything about the stab wounds? Just asking.
>>[D] Does he know anything about the Herald? Because it's shown up twice, and it gave you venom glands, and also it's on that card. Just so he knows.
>>[E] Does he want to read that card for you now?
>>[F] So you actually found out about the Gold-Masked Person! And the Crown! Is he proud of you? (The snake would be proud of you.)
>>[G] So, you're still planning on possessing some guy in order to infiltrate Headspace. He had some very weird opinions about that earlier. Does he have more normal ones now?
>>[H] Write-in.

>[2] Not right now. You'd like to move straight into something you really do need to talk about— if Richard's current state isn't sustainable, um, how does he intend on sustaining it? If he's thought about that at all?

>[3] Write-in.

>>5854824
>[1B]
>[1C]
>[1D]
>[1F]

>>5854824
1B
1C

1F

>>5854824
>1
A, B, C, D, F, G

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5854883
>>5854959
>>5855254
Called for

>[1B]
>[1C]
>[1D]
>[1F]

and flipping between [1A] and [1G]. Writing.

>Waiter! Waiter! There's an exposition in my soup!

Sure, there's things you'd like to confer with him about. There's always things you'd like to confer with him about, given how he knows everything. Typically you're put off from it by his attitude when conferring (rude, evasive, condescending)... but this is a new day, and a new Richard. New and completely improved. He even agrees he's improved.

...You sort of wish he didn't, though. It's one thing to be nice, but to be nice about getting killed and squished and rejiggered into your complete antithesis...? Shouldn't he be the littlest bit upset, even if he were polite about it? You didn't lobotomize him (shut up, Gil), but that is how someone lobotomized would feel. You don't want to have lobotomized him. You want to have improved him, um, consensually.

"You want to confer?" you confirm. "Er, you're happy about it?"

"Charlie, I offered. What am I here for if not to confer with?"

You purse your lips. "...Bossing me around?"

"I haven't been doing that for quite a while. Haven't been able to, one might say. But no, it would make me very happy to help you with— you're not still concerned? Charlotte."

"I just want to know if you're happy by yourself—" You shift in your seat. "—or if I'm making you be. That's all."

"Oh, primrose. You have a big heart, you know that? I haven't earned your concern. By all rights, you should be overjoyed that I'm putty in your hands."

"It's weird," you mutter.

"Not as much as you think, really. One moment." He shakes a cigarette out of a box, klik-kliks a lighter, and leans back. "Your perspective on the matter is very human, Charlie. When you think of the name 'Richard,' you think of a distinct individual, a person, with certain traits and qualities. When you look at me, you see me violating those traits and qualities, and this bothers you. I believe that's the root of the issue. But as I mentioned just earlier, 'Richard' simply does not exist."

He's trying to trick you somehow. This is classic Richard trickery. "Uh-huh. So, what, I've been hallucinating you?"

"Of course you've been hallucinating me. You were the only one to see and hear me. But I'll forestall you there— of course I exist. Not only do I exist, but I am real. Richard isn't real. Richard is a collective delusion. We have both constructed him, and now you have taken the initiative to alter certain things about him. There's no harm in that."

It's actually worse when he's tricking you and being nice about it. He needs to be smugger. "Okay."

"You're skeptical. Riddle me this, Charlie. What's my true name?"

Oh! You know this! The snakes keep calling him: "Correspondent 3—"

"That is a role I happen to be filling, and not well, mind you. There have been hundreds of Correspondent #314s, if not thousands, or tens of thousands. Try again."

Oh. "I don't know. I— whatever. It doesn't matter."

(1/4?)

File: richard - @abstractrights.png (7.92 MB, 4896x4924)

7.92 MB PNG

"I don't have one. There is no secret identity, Charlie. There is no fully-fledged man behind the mask. If there is something beyond, it is in comparison to Richard a deficient husk." Richard puffs at his cigarette cheerily. "And even then, what was Richard? Not a person. An accident. A compression artifact. A collective delusion, as I said. Improvisation in real-time with audience input. A role, Charlie. A role that I played consciously and not, willingly and not. A role that, mind you, I got extremely attached to—" He shrugs. "—so of course I didn't want major edits. But my feelings now are no less legitimate now than they were then, and they are no less Richard now than they were then. They're on exactly the same level."

Frankly, you don't buy it. "And that's why they're completely opposite from—"

"Completely opposite? Not at all. More openly expressed, possibly. I didn't hate you."

"Right," you say.

"I couldn't hate you, Charlie. I was incapable of it. This frightened me very much, as I was accustomed to hating everyone I met." His lips quirk. "I even found that I liked you a great deal of the time. Not when you were being intractable, to be sure. But often."

You fold your arms. "And you're going to tell me you were so mean because—"

"I am. Moreover, I am going to tell you that I was cruelest when I felt most attached. You have to understand how disturbing and frightening it was for me— it was a sign I had made an enormous error. Not only was I not intended, professionally, to feel that way, but I had supposed I was biologically immune, and, beyond that, psychologically inured. Wouldn't you be frightened if you woke up one day with, say, a third foot? Wouldn't you do anything you could to rid yourself of it? That was how I felt."

"A third foot isn't the same as liking me," you say.

"Loving you. And it was to me."

"The snake didn't love me," you say.

"The snake," Richard says, and waves his half-burnt cigarette around in the air, leaving a lingering trail of smoke, "loves nothing. The snake feels nothing, or close to it. It does not qualify as even a husk. It is a cage. ...It is intended to avoid situations like this one."

You wish your chair could spin, so you could spin it disgruntledly back and forth. Could Gil make it into a spinny chair? Where is Gil? He's gone off somewhere.

"I hope you have achieved a higher level of understanding, Charlie. You have done nothing wrong. You have, in fact, freed me from a great deal of fear, anger, and self-conflict. Thank you very much. Now, shall we talk about something other than me? You can't possibly find me that interesting. You have been busy, lately, have you not?"

"I guess," you say.

"You have something new in your mouth."

You probe the roof of your mouth reflexively. "...I guess."

"I noticed it when you were drinking the lemonade, Charlie. Those are some well-crafted venom glands. Where did you pick those up?"

(2/4?)

File: charlotte - @vongacy.png (477 KB, 1956x2878)

477 KB PNG

Richard is blandly inquisitive, not offended-seeming. Still you hesitate. "Uh... it was... I was dreaming. And, um..." The get-well card is discarded in front of you. You reach out and tap the front of it. "...that thing gave it to me. Um, it was less cute than this, though. More spiny. And I, um—"

"When did this happen?"

"While you were..." You gesture. "...dead...?"

"I should've guessed. Well, let's see here. The Herald of the Bright Epoch came to you in a dream and performed a physical alteration upon you. Is that an accurate assessment of what happened?"

"Um, it also said some things. And it showed up again later, while God was dissecting me— so I wouldn't be scared. It gave me hot chocolate, except I wasn't sure if maybe it had bugs in it, or something, because it was a lizard, and I thought maybe lizards liked drinking bugs...? But it didn't have bugs in it. I think."

"God?" says Richard.

"You remember that, right? I was on the heist, and I went underground, except I got sucked through that seal... and the seal was sealing, um, a hole to God? Except I thought it was a big eyeball, except Henry told me later that was actually God. So I guess I saw God. And you tugged me up with that rope...?"

"...Yes. I remember." Richard taps his ash out. "Quite an adventure. Your strings have been crunched into the size of a fist or so, if you were unaware."

"Huh?"

"You are packed to maximum efficiency, meaning very densely. You are now causing minor-but-measurable distortions in the paths of other strings. I would imagine God was responsible for this, because I certainly wasn't, and it doesn't seem to be impacting your functioning." He tilts his head. "A curiosity. You are fairly lucky you weren't just vaporized."

"That's the only thing you have to say about it?"

"I don't know what to make of it, Charlie. I don't know what to make of a mythological figure appearing to you and offering you hot chocolate and performing renovations on your mouth. These things simply do not happen. I believe you—" He raises a hand. "—but they do not happen."

Your eyes flick to the card. "A mythological figure?"

"The Herald doesn't exist. Or it hasn't been born yet, depending on your school of thought. It is like... one of your books. Yes? It descends from the heavens and ushers us all into a new golden age. It is a symbol, or a— a mascot, I suppose you'd call it." Richard raises his eyebrows. "But I will reemphasize that it does not exist, because everyone would know if it existed."

"And yet," you say.

"And yet. I will say again, these things do not happen. And yet."

"Well," you venture, "perhaps I am... special? Chosen from birth? I do have a magyckal bloodline, and, um... well, I am a heroine, and on a quest, and..."

(3/4?)

File: redness 6.jpg (25 KB, 260x300)

25 KB JPG

"You are unusual, Charlie. I wouldn't go so far to say 'special,' no offense meant. Your bloodline is a dime a dozen, for one, and there's nothing intrinsically different about you than there is from any other human being. There wasn't, in any case."

In your imagination, you swivel your chair petulantly. (Where's Gil when you need him?) "Well, I— I'm a positive thinker! You mean to say that every single other person out there is thinking just as positively? Because ha! No way! Just look at—"

"You are in the top percentile of optimism, yes. I wonder about that. I wonder if the universe likes to listen to you, Charlie." He raises his eyebrows. "But I don't know, and I'm afraid I have little to offer you in terms of interpretation. It'd be foolish to write these things off as pure coincidence, but I— I don't know if what they portent is good or bad. Most likely it's a mix of both."

"Okay," you say suspiciously. "But do you think I have a destiny? Maybe?"

"Oh, primrose, I hope not. You don't want one of those." Richard sighs. "We may pray I was unsuccessful."

You pretend to swivel.

"Now— you still have God in you, right? It's dug itself deep; I nearly missed it. How has it been treating you?"

"Uh..." you say.

"You see? This is why you don't want destinies, Charlie. They're malignant. Did you get it all from killing me?"

You're pretty sure even Nice Richard would have choice words about the 'drinking evil blood water' incident. "Pretty much?"

"Patricide is worth a lot of favor." Richard's smile is a little sad. "Well, I'm sorry you've had to carry it around in there. It's really not designed for long-term exposure... or short-term. The Wyrm isn't known for its tender concern for the well-being of humanity, I mean."

"I figured that," you say uncomfortably.

"Would you like me to try my best to remove the last of it? I can't guarantee anything— it's slippery. But I will wear gloves."

>[A1] Yes! Please! The red stuff has been dormant for a little while, but that's only because you *killed* somebody with it. (Oh, God.) You're certain it'll rear its ugly head again, likely sooner vs. later. If Richard can take a stab at it, he should.
>[A2] Er, is this safe? Not that Richard won't try his best, but what if the red stuff gets angry and starts making you try to murder him? Or what if he gets infected instead? Too risky. You'll have to deal with it by yourself.
>[A3] Write-in.

>[B] Additional questions? (Write-in. Optional.)

>>5856309
>Tsundere Richard
You know, when I started reading this quest, I thought it was to be a second Snakecatcher. So now either this notion is completely laid to rest, or reinforced even more, and I don't know which.

>>5856311
>[A1] Yes! Please! The red stuff has been dormant for a little while, but that's only because you *killed* somebody with it. (Oh, God.) You're certain it'll rear its ugly head again, likely sooner vs. later. If Richard can take a stab at it, he should.

>>5856311
>[A2] Er, is this safe? Not that Richard won't try his best, but what if the red stuff gets angry and starts making you try to murder him? Or what if he gets infected instead? Too risky. You'll have to deal with it by yourself.

Last time we did anything related to God with Richard around we autopilot killed him.

Also the last of the red has Jean Ramsey's name on it.

>>5856311
>>[A2] Er, is this safe? Not that Richard won't try his best, but what if the red stuff gets angry and starts making you try to murder him? Or what if he gets infected instead? Too risky. You'll have to deal with it by yourself.

>>5856311
>[A2] Er, is this safe? Not that Richard won't try his best, but what if the red stuff gets angry and starts making you try to murder him? Or what if he gets infected instead? Too risky. You'll have to deal with it by yourself.

>>5856485
>>5856885
>>5857017
>[A2]

>>5856318
>[A1]

Called and writing shortly.

>>5856318
>You know, when I started reading this quest, I thought it was to be a second Snakecatcher.
Part of the original concept for Redux was "what if Snakecatcher but Hiss was unfuckable." Take this as you will.

>Better safe than sorry

You shrink back in your chair. "I- I don't know. I don't think that'd be safe."

"I assure you, I'm very good at—"

"For you."

Richard clucks his tongue. "Ah. In that case, I assure you that I'm very hardy, and—"

"That's what you said before," you say. "You said you couldn't die. Then I killed you."

"Hardly. Am I not right here? Am I not Richard? You debodied me temporarily, and only via exploiting a loophole, at that. I—"

"Okay, I debodied you," you hiss, "and it was horrible! I felt so awful! And that was when you were telling me to do it, and— what if you try to pull the red stuff out and it vaporizes you, huh? Or what if it infects you, and you start trying to kill me, and— it's not worth it! I've handled it fine so far. It's only made me kill one person, and he deserved it, probably. I'm fine."

"Okay, Charlie. I find those outcomes unlikely, but I understand your viewpoint. I won't touch it." Richard leans back, clasping his fingers. "You are awfully hardy too, after all."

"Yes! I am! Thank you." You cross your arms. "Probably even more than you are, seeing how I don't go around developing random fatal wounds—"

"I'd need a few more of those for it to be fatal. But thank you for the reminder." Richard waves an idle hand over his torso, then pulls his polo up to show the result: a binding of gauze, white and clean. No stain. "You see? Not a real body, not a real wound. Issue resolved. Don't tell Gil, though, please— he's easily demoralized."

"I don't go around developing random fake wounds," you say. "And I don't start saying weird stuff about dying after I develop random fake wounds, and I don't shove knives at people and start asking them to kill me, either. If I did any of that you'd have me sedated."

"Well, we aren't the same, Charlie." He looks evenly at you.

"Keeping secrets isn't very nice of you," you parry. "That's what the old Richard did. You want to be acting like the old—?"

"The 'old' Richard was not making decisions to hurt you specifically, Charlotte, however it appeared to you. I was making decisions based on what I believed was best at the time. I am currently making decisions based on what I believe is best at this time. Sometimes these decisions will overlap, even if the fundamental reasoning differs." He tosses his spent cigarette onto the table. "In this instance, I believe that discussing this further will make you extremely unhappy. The last thing I want is to make you extremely unhappy. That is all there is to it."

You narrow your eyes.

"If you press the matter, I will have no choice but to remove it as a topic of inquiry from you. I am respecting you enough as a bright young woman to inform you of this ahead of time, rather than violating your mind at my personal whim. I trust you'll take this into account accordingly."

(1/6?)

File: ramsey & monty - @rextrex.png (278 KB, 681x687)

278 KB PNG

His gaze is hard and steady. If you were to take this in a positive-type direction, you could take this as final evidence that he's definitely not lobotomized. If you were to take this in a less positive direction, you could say that maybe your brain was keeping him confused for good reason. "Deleting memories isn't very nice," you mumble.

"No. But sometimes it's what's right." Richard flicks the cigarette butt through the grate of the table. "I don't think we'll have a productive debate about this, really. Did you have other news?"

You slump way down. "I should go find Gil."

"Oh, come now. Don't be obstinate. He went inside the workshed. Shall I find out directly, if you're unwilling to speak?"

"So you can wipe my memories?"

"You know, I don't believe you were listening to me at all. No. Come here." He stands and strides over. The chair scrikkkks against the pavement as you shove it backwards, but he's already lifting your head with one hand and cradling it with the other. You attempt to think mean, evil, loud thoughts about him. You attempt to sic the red stuff on him, except not really, because you don't mean that. But it's in the right spirit. You feel a little riffle, and see Richard's pupils skipping, and then it's over and he pats you on the head ("Hey!") and withdraws.

"You located the Crown and didn't think it was news?" he says brightly.

"Um..." Can you remember the stab wounds? Yes. Can you remember Richard threatening to wipe your memory about them? Also yes. (Huh. That should've been a gimme.) "There's been a lot going on..."

"Well, Charlie! How exciting. It's very like you to make major progress on that front as soon as I've lost interest, by the way."

"You've lost interest?" you say warily.

"My external motivators have been greatly diminished. We may put it like that. If you remain interested in pursuing it, I am here to support you in your endeavors."

"I mean... I never didn't want it back. I just... um... it seemed a little bit hopeless. And I had a lot of other things going on. And you were always being annoying about it, so I didn't want to—"

"See? Very, very like you. Regardless of motivation, though, I will extend my admiration towards how you pressured that man—"

"I can't believe Monty was lying to me the whole time," you grumble. "I thought he was supposed to be nice."

"From what you've gathered, I believe any perceived 'niceness' is the fruit of a great deal of painful labor. It is no small feat to battle against ingrained tendencies, Charlie. Not everybody is so lucky to have others do the work for them." Richard half-smiles. "I suggest you grant him forgiveness. He is only human, and he seemed sincerely regretful."

(2/6?)

File: correspondent #301.jpg (254 KB, 792x600)

254 KB JPG

"Maybe if he's helpful I will." You toss your head. "It isn't him who stole it, anyways. It was his stupid friend I only talked to, like, one time—"

"That seems about right. You have never been much in the need of a medic. Strange to think the world works that way, though, yes. You haven't received any word from her?"

"No? Why would I? She stole it, and now she's trying to secretly—"

"I don't believe that woman has any idea what she's doing. I won't discount the possibility that she's dangerous, but she wouldn't be the brains of the operation. That would lie in the person of—"

"Your nemesis!" you say. "Uh... I can't repeat his name. It's too rude."

Richard appears faintly embarrassed. "Yes. I am more... crass... when you are not busy tempering me. I will suggest '301.' This is his pet project, and he will be dictating its terms as it suits him. And what suits him is not maximizing efficiency. The success or failure of the endeavor will be a byproduct only. What he will be after is, simply put, my personal disgrace and humiliation."

"Why?" you say.

"Because we do not like each other. And because he is a grandiose personality. And because I have been known to be... provocative to the norm. My existence was a personal offense to him and his... fiefdom. I will not devolve into politics with you, Charlie, you will not be interested. The long and short of it is, I am certain he, and by extension the woman, will be seeking to humiliate me, and by extension you. This is why an invitation will be extended. You can't be left to drift along in peace. That is letting you off too easy."

"Um, okay... but I haven't heard squat. So."

"It's been a week. I'm sure they're just getting established. They're not idiots, Charlie, they wouldn't usher you in while they had weaknesses exposed. In fact, the invitation is bound to be a trap." Richard scratches his nose. "You will come, and they will have allies and power, and they will string you up in public and laugh at you. Maybe kill you, but more likely torment you. This is all by extension me, so you're keeping up— the dominance would be established, my compliance secured, my mouth shut, etcetera. The impact on you would be an nonexistent concern. You might as well be inanimate."

"My crown was stolen," you say, "because of a stupid snake grudge match? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes. Well, it may have been stolen without it, but that woman would not have known how to work it. Technical instruction is needed. Regardless, Charlie, I guarantee completely that this will happen."

"But you're dead," you say.

"What's that?"

"You're... you're in the snake hospital. You're dead. He has to know you're in the snake hospital, right? So hasn't he already won, according to him? Um, since he's more alive than you are?"

"Ah." Richard purses his lips. "...I would suppose so. Yes."

"So maybe they'll come and give the Crown back?"

(3/6?)

"No, I wouldn't expect that. It's a seductive prize. The woman is likely already reeled in with promises of... anything, really. But it's possible... it's possible that they may still reach out. Out of amusement, or pity, or to verify that I am truly out of the picture. It's possible you could be roped in as a lesser partner in the venture."

"But!" you say. "It's my Crown! She stole it! She can't—"

"I would suggest this as a strategic opportunity if I didn't know your ability to maintain a consistent front. Yes, Charlie, it was stolen, but that... no, it doesn't matter. We may choose how to respond if or when such an invitation comes."

"I'm not joining her stupid evil thief gang."

"I wasn't about to advocate for it. At the moment, I think the optimal move is, literally, to wait and see. Gather your own base of power. Improve your personal ability. Throw various wrenches in their works, if the opportunities come. But, at the moment—"

"I could duel her," you say. "I have a sword, which is way cooler than a stupid axe, and I have magyckal powers, and you, and—"

"Charlotte, this woman has a kill list, her very own dubious enhancements, her own snake, the Crown, and almost certainly a growing number of lackies. You would like to duel her. Do you think she'll engage in a fair fight?"

"...Yes?" you say.

"No, of course not. She has survived any number of fellow assassins, and that's assuredly not all by luck. I expect she'll be happy to fight you one-on-one, given the stipulation that you're bound and unarmed."

"...What if I make her fight me one-on-one?" you say. "Um, with my mind?"

"Then you will have to get close enough to accomplish that, and hope there's no intervention or difficulty anywhere along the line. Then you will have to win that fight. Be realistic, Charlotte. The most practical response is to thumb your nose at her provocations, prepare to the maximum extent, and go in on your terms."

When you killed Richard, why didn't you decide to make him less boring? "And how long is preparing supposed to take? Because if I hole up in some stupid cave and meanwhile she's busy becoming God—"

"I don't know. Some time. You would be starting from behind. But efficiency is unlikely to be the object for them, and the Crown will attract its own attention. I would expect it to take no less than a full month to fill it completely, and more than likely twice that. Moreover, I assign it zero chance that you'll awaken one day and that woman will be god-queen. She is a showwoman, from the sounds of it, and 301 is a boaster. There will be obvious signs of progress, if not outright announcements being made." Richard shrugs. "But as I said, we may take it as it comes. There's little to do now, particularly not with your full plate. I wish I could help more reliably with it all."

"Rather than vanishing randomly."

(4/6?)

"Yes, primrose, rather than vanishing randomly. It's exceedingly disconcerting for me, too. At one moment I'm here, and at the next I am wet." He pushes the discarded towel with his finger. "Speaking of, I would imagine my time here is close to up. I am called elsewhere."

"Why?"

"Because there are individuals working to extricate me, and occasionally succeeding. And because I am at present metaphysically unstable. You did a number on me, is all the detail you truly need to know." He picks the towel up and tosses it into the air. "If what you're intending to ask is 'what is there to do about it,' I'm pleased to inform you that I've paid the matter some thought."

"Have you?" you say, and reassure yourself that you were going to phrase that question completely differently. So it doesn't count.

"Of course. It was top of mind as soon as I became aware of the precise issue. I see three routes forward, the status quo not being one of them. The first one you may not like much. The snake."

You groan.

"I know. It's hardly a walk in the park for me either, Charlie. But the fact of the matter is, it's extraordinarily effective at shielding me from pernicious influences, and at keeping me all together, so to speak. Something like being smothered inside a solid lead coffin. I could not try to be unstable inside it."

"You'd just be really busy shocking me."

"Only outside. I would have the runway to appear as myself in your head, in unreal spaces— just like I am here. The time bought with the snake could be spent then. And, in terms of the shocking... I'm afraid to say that you brought much of that upon yourself."

"Wow," you say. "Thanks."

"I am a linear thinker inside it. I have no other option. A snake is closer to a complex automaton than it is a living thing... there are directives, and incentives, and restrictions. If you had ever learned them, I could've been placated with small concessions. Instead, you met me with defiance at every turn, and I met the defiance with incentives. Do you see? I didn't enjoy hurting you, or harassing you. I'm sorry I did. But it was what was most efficient, and you never made it not most efficient."

"...You could've told me this earlier."

"It is not considered professional to inform the client that their friendly correspondent is really a living machine clamped around a mind. much less that it can be gamed. And besides, I was frustrated at you. I thought you colossally stupid for never yielding."

You shift. "And now?"

(5/6)

"It was stupid. But it was brave of you. You could be bent, but for the life of me I could never break you. The same could not be said for many others. In any case... we could work out some manner of keeping me reasonably satisfied, and thus less volatile. Maybe not pleasant, but you can't expect much from a snake. That's option #1. Option #2 is that I take a sabbatical. I can most likely fix the issue myself, but I will need uninterrupted time to do so. That means I won't be here, with you, in any way. I'd return as soon as I could, but it could be days."

Right smack-dab in the middle of all your complicated plans, of course. "Okay."

"That is #2. #3 is... drastic. I could pull the plug."

You would say something like "what?" or "huh?", but you assume it's implied, so you stay silent.

"Meaning I would be disconnected from the thing that is called Correspondent #314, and I would be something like what Gil is. A being of thought. I expect I would be moderately diminished in ability, and perhaps in body of knowledge as well, but I would be loosed from all obligation and metaphysical stress. I expect things would otherwise be much the same for you. For me... I..." His eyes wander. "I would be Richard and nothing less. I would be happy to commit my existence to advising and aiding you in any way that was possible for me. And I could also serve in the position of your father, if you would like that. I, er, believe there is a vacancy."

You goggle. He clears his throat. "I will of course defer to your judgment, primrose."

>[1] Go with option #1— the snake. Safe, familiar, immediate, no side effects except snake Richard being mean at you. And that might or might not be mitigatable.

>[2] Go with option #2— the sabbatical. If Richard can fix himself, he can fix himself. You can muddle by without him for...
>>[A] Tomorrow, at least. You'll be talking to a lot of people, including Management, but you won't be bombing Headspace yet or anything. (There will be a roll for how successful Richard is.)
>>[B] A day or two. You'll get through all your Headspace preparations, and you may or may not be possessing somebody. But you won't be in the middle of the actual expedition. (There will be an easier roll for how successful Richard is.)
>>[C] A little while. A day or three or four. You might be inside Headspace by the time he gets back, or you'll just be done bombing it... but then you can gloat about how you did it without him! If you can do it without him. (Richard will succeed.)

>[3] Go with option #3— pulling the plug. You still don't know exactly what it entails. It sounds kind of scary. But it's what you've always wanted, right? Right?

>[4] Write-in?

>>5857651
>>[B] A day or two. You'll get through all your Headspace preparations, and you may or may not be possessing somebody. But you won't be in the middle of the actual expedition. (There will be an easier roll for how successful Richard is.)

>>5857651
>2C
I believe in us

>>5857651
>[2] Go with option #2— the sabbatical. If Richard can fix himself, he can fix himself. You can muddle by without him for...
>>[C] A little while. A day or three or four. You might be inside Headspace by the time he gets back, or you'll just be done bombing it... but then you can gloat about how you did it without him! If you can do it without him. (Richard will succeed.)

>>5858191
>>5858371
>[2C]

>>5857704
>[2B]

Writing.

File: snake key 2.jpg (39 KB, 564x1100)

39 KB JPG

>Lol bye

You look down. You look sideways. "I... I don't want to mess you up more. If you're able to fix everything, then I don't know why you wouldn't—"

"No, of course. Very sensible." Richard is also finding the horizon very interesting. "If I am crossing my 'T's and dotting my 'I's with it, though, I'm concerned it could bleed into your Headspace expedition. That's really the only..."

"So what? I can handle it." You fold your arms. "It's not like you've been all that useful lately, even while you've been—"

"I believe I prevented your imminent vaporization? But no, yes, of course. You're a highly capable young lady. If you ever needed me, you don't now."

He's smiling ruefully. "God," you say. "It's a few days, not forever. And after that you'll be totally fine, and you can stick your nose in my business all you want, okay? That can still be your sacred purpose. Or whatever. It's better than you being all messed up inside."

"Of course," Richard says, and sighs, and sits up. "As I said, very sensible. Very well-reasoned. I will pursue this course of action. But, if I'm to be absent while you're engaged in risky activities, then I ask that you do what I say now. Alright?"

"If it's good advice..."

"I have only your best intentions in mind. The first thing I'll say is that you were intending on taking control of a Headspace employee as a means of infiltration. Is this still correct?"

"Pretty much. Um, and also to sort of gather info? Like, sneak around, and—"

"That's all well and good, but don't maintain it for longer than a day. Two if you must. I'm sure I told you that eight is the theoretical maximum, but that is the maximum for somebody who knows extremely well what they're doing. Not only do you not know what you're doing, but you have actively avoided learning. Two days at most. Do you understand?"

"I guess..."

"Say you understand."

"I understand," you say. "Geez."

"Thank you, Charlie. The second thing I'll order is to [not infiltrate that place alone. Please bring Gil. Bring others, if you can trust them and they would provide a positive benefit. I would not recommend the man who killed your worm."

"I wasn't planning on it," you mutter.

"Really, please bring Gil anywhere risky. He will reel you back from recklessness in my stead. Plus, he is usefully portable." Richard steeples his fingers. "Most people are not."

"I'll be sure to tell him that." You glance at the workshed. "Do you have more?"

"Only the usual. Don't act stupidly. Haste makes waste. Treat others kindly, and they'll be kind in return. None of it is heady stuff, but sometimes you need the reminder, Charlie. And, last— take this."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key on a yellow string. "Put it around your neck, or you'll lose it. I am not going through that again."

You take it and dangle it. The key itself is black iron, with a twisting groove on it. Familiar. "...Okay."

(1/3)

File: gil - @realiste.jpg (213 KB, 707x893)

213 KB JPG

"I may be otherwise occupied, but I shouldn't be completely unreachable. If you are in serious danger, I will intervene, no matter what stage of the process I am in. I will rend myself apart if I must."

You duck through the loop, despite some difficulties with you hair, and let the key settle near your heart. "Um, please don't?"

"Then don't find yourself in serious danger, Charlie. It's that simple. Your safety comes above mine every time." Richard spreads his hands. "That's what I am here for."

"What if the world ended?" you say.

"What?"

"What if the world ended? What if reality broke up into little bits... or the Wyrm woke up and decided to kill everybody... would you be keeping me safe then?" You run your finger up and down the string. "Just asking. Hypothetically."

"No need for hypotheticals. If the world ended, I would have already striven to put you in the safest place you could possibly be. With any hope, I would have succeeded."

"Oh," you say, and feel a tiny bit better. "Um, you're not vanished yet, by the way."

"Any minute now, not any moment now, Charlie. When it happens, I'll be gone for some time, but meanwhile... should we check on Gil? We wouldn't to make him feel excluded."

"I was just thinking about that," you lie. "Yes! We should— it would not due to keep my retainer waiting— yes. Yes, I shall venture forth and, um... yes." You push yourself out of your seat and traipse to the back door of the workshed. You rap on it.

"Shit! Hold on!" Banging noises. Scuffling. The door squeaks as it unlatches, and a harried Gil sticks his head out. "Um... hi, Lottie! And Richard."

"Hi," you say. "Is everything...?"

From inside, more scuffling. Gil whitens and looks over his shoulder. "Yup. Everything's— everything's— i-i-i-it's going awesome. Going aces. Um, I-I got the portability on the mini-siphons working, I think, so that's great... uh..."

He glances over his shoulder again. You attempt to peer past him, but his head's too big. "Is there something in there?"

"Nope! Just me. Just me in there. Uh... can you give me a second?" He slams the door shut before you can respond. There's a muffled whump, and blue light shining out through the doorframe— then Gil reopens the door. He looks only slightly less harried. He's covered in beetles. "Okay! All set! Sorry about— sorry about that— do you want to come in?"

"Yup," you say meaningfully.

"Sorry. Um, feel free to—" He pushes himself to the wall so you can slide by.

Inside the workshed, there's zero sign of disturbance— just ordinary mid-project messiness. There's a load of mini-siphons scattered about, plus sprongs and dongles and springles and whatever else goes in a machine. You recognize a screwdriver and feel proud of yourself.

(2/3)

"Umm." Gil hastens over to the central workstation, beetles trailing behind. "Um, sorry. Here. Do you want to see it? Because I-I can, uh... I'll just show you. Watch." He picks up a mini-siphon and fumbles at it. "Uh, i-i-it's just— there's a switch— ah!"

With a clack, the mini-siphon collapses into a grey, dice-sized cube. Raising the cube, Gil taps it firmly against the workstation, and it unfolds back into a... device. (Look, this is not your area of expertise.) "That's portable enough, right? You didn't need i-i-it microscopic?"

"No, I- I think that's— how does it do that?"

Gil exhales deeply. "Um, I-I-I-I don't know."

"You don't—"

"I-It's locus gullshit. The internals don't make any sense. I-I-I just... made it."

It would've been incomprehensible to you no matter what he said, but you refrain from telling him this. "But they work, right? So you did it! Good job! Excellent retaining. We can carry these into Headspace easy-peasy, and they're going to do a fantastic job sucking... uh... suctioning up all the Law and stuff, after we blow it up, and nothing will go wrong with them, because you've worked so hard! Yes! I can see it now!"

"Y...es," Gil says. "I-I really hope so."

"Me too! Did you see that, Richard?" Richard's coming in. "Oh, by the way, I fixed him. And he's going to be gone for a few days so he can fix the rest of him, just so you know. So you'll have to make sure I don't die!"

"Oh. Great."

"Also," you say, "you were acting really weird when I came in here! Do you know that?"

Gil flinches. "Sorry."

"No, no—"

>[A1] That's it. You just wanted to say that. (Let it drop. You trust Gil enough to let him have his little secrets.)
>[A2] He should tell you what was going on. Because that's what good retainers do! And he's a good retainer, yes? [Roll.]
>[A3] You already know what happened! Was it... (Write-in.)
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B] Questions or comments for Gil before you leave his manse? (Write-in. Optional.)

>[C] Final questions or comments for Richard, before he's gone for 3-4 threads? (Write-in. Optional.)

>>5858739
>[A3] You already know what happened! Was it... (Write-in.)
Pagan magic! He was paganing all over the shed.

>>5858739
>A3
he doesn't need to be ashamed of his pagan magickness

if that's completely off the mark drop it in shame

>B
how did he configure the locus gullpoop correctly?

>>5859059
>>5858739
+1

File: blueness.jpg (83 KB, 564x842)

83 KB JPG

>Infallible

"—I already know what was happening! Did you think you could outfox me, Gilbert?" You fold your arms. "I saw that pagan magyck through the door!"

"...Oh yeah?" says Gil.

"So I know it! I know you were doing magyck of some description! And I know you don't like being all magyck, so that's why you don't want to tell me about it! Except that's stupid, because it's really cool, and it's not your fault it has pagan origins. So I'm willing to overlook that. You really need to be less dumb and nervous about these things."

"Aw," Gil says. "...Yeah. Sorry. You're right, i-i-i-it was just magic, um, and... yeah. Yup. So, uh, should we be heading...?"

"This is nice craftsmanship, Gil." Richard, who's breezed past the both of you, is handling a mini-siphon. "Many hands make light work, eh?"

Gil winces. "I-I-I-I don't know what you're..."

"No? You don't? Does Charlie?"

"Do I what? I already know he used magyck! I just said that. Weren't you listening?"

"Ah, but how? I don't believe a god of mechanical engineering blessed him, did it?" Richard holds the mini-siphon up to his eye. "Inquiring minds must know."

"Well— I don't know all the specifics how how it works, really. Maybe, um, upgrading something counts as changing it? Even if it's not alive? It'd activate then, I think... right, Gil? How did you make it, anyways, if it doesn't make any sense on the inside?"

"Uh," Gil says. "I-I-I-I don't really... know. I-I just stopped thinking too hard about it, uh, on a technical level, and then it started fitting together...? And then I fiddled with it until it started working all the time. I-I guess."

"See?" You flourish at Richard. "It makes perfect sense! Obviously magyck was involved! Why are you being all nitpicky, anyways? Are you trying to bother Gil? Or demoralize him? Because he's my retainer, not yours, and just because you're going away and he's not doesn't mean—"

"I just don't think it's intelligent to keep pointless secrets, Charlie, or to dog yourself with shame over patent non-issues. If you're going to make it half a week without me, you'll have to work as a team, yes?" As he pushes past Gil, he pats him on the back. (Gil looks like he's been shanked.) "Nothing more complicated than that."

"Um, I'm not lying? Or shameful? I have a pure and honest heart, and I am very proud of my many accomplishments, and— oh." Gil's beetles are swarming like crazy. "Gil wouldn't lie to me! He swore an oath of loyalty!"

"I-I-I-I'm not lying about anything," Gil mumbles.

"Deliberately misleading is just as wrong, don't you think? I would know." Richard twinkles. "Will you out with it, or will I? Or can Charlie guess?"

"Guess what?" You look between them. "Is it not magyck? I saw it happen!"

Richard looks at Gil. Gil buries his face in his hands. "I'll put it like this, primrose. He's been doing a lot of work for just one person."

(1/4)

File: of two minds.png (1.01 MB, 814x934)

1.01 MB PNG

Clear as mud. "What? Has he been— have you been summoning things, Gil? Can you do that? Are there demons that will help out with... oh. Wait. That can't be— there can't be two of him, Richard. Don't be stupid. They stick back together if he gets too close! Like magnets! I've seen it happen! No way there's two in a little shed. Right? Gil?"

He groans.

"Also, it'd be really weird to be all secret about that? Because I already know there can be two of you, and if you were doing it to help yourself with the siphon, then that just sounds helpful? And kind of smart? I don't know why you'd think I'd be mad."

"I-I'm sorry..."

So Richard was right? Oh. You knew that all along, of course. You were only pretending.

>[-1 ID: 10/14]

Richard looks like the cat who got the cream. Gil, elbows down against the workstation, looks like the cream. God, you don't understand him. What was the point of this all? Did he really think you'd be mad? "Shut up," you say roughly. "This was stupid. So there was two of you?"

"Yeah."

"And you were working on it together just now, while Richard and I were talking? You weren't doing anything else... weird?"

Well, this gets him to lift his head. He stares at you plaintively. "No! I-i-i-i-it wasn't— it wasn't— no, no, no. We just... I-I just... I-I-I wanted to get it polished while you were busy, and... nothing weird! Please, Lottie! I wouldn't ever— that'd be so goddamn gross—"

"Okay, then why would you..." You sigh. "Can you at least show me? How does it even work? I thought you couldn't get close."

"Uh... I-I-I couldn't... but I think the goo changed that? Like, i-i-it insulates me from, uh... sorry. Do you need to watch? Or can you just take my word for it, and we can move on, and never talk about i-it again... maybe?" He studies your face. "...No?"

"Now I'm invested," you say fussily.

"...Egh." Gil stands upright and shakes his hands out, then brushes his shoulders to get the beetles off. They flit into the air, then— as he points out to his right— fling themselves sideways, forming a clump across the room. Gil is listing rightward, too, but digs his fingernails into the tabletop to steady himself.

"Sorry." He makes a face and splays his fist. The beetle clump vibrates and coruscates and—

"Ow," says Gil, who has fallen to the floor. He is wearing a turtleneck. Gil, who isn't wearing a turtleneck, lowers his arm and pays you a weary look. He is clambering to his feet. He is looking pointedly at the ceiling.

"Are you happy now?" he says.
"Are you happy now?" he says.

Richard, coming up behind you, rests his hand on your shoulder.

"Uhh... shit. Sorry. It's hard when he's right there to—" Gil raps his knuckles on the tabletop.
"Uhh... shit. Sorry. It's hard when he's right there to—" Gil pinches the top of his nose.

(2/4)

"Um, it's okay," you say. You don't know what you were expecting. Except for the clothes, and the telltale seams on the first Gil's artificial body, they're identical to the inch. Is it uncanny? Well, yes. But you don't need Richard's warning hand to know you shouldn't say so.

"Hold on. I-I-I can fix..." Gil points at his other self.
"Hold on. I-I-I can fix... oh." Gil, pointing at his other self, lowers his arm. "Yup. Uh-huh. My turn. Uh... well... you've seen it. Can I-I go back now?" (The first Gil is nodding.)

"Not yet!" You feel bad for feeling strange about it. "Uh, I think you did a good job! And this definitely seems very... useful."

"I-i-i—" The first Gil covers his mouth.
"I-i-it's weird," the second Gil says flatly.

"Okay... well... sort of. But I'm just not used to it!" You fold your arms. "It's way less weird than a lot of talking beetles, and I got used to those in a couple days. And I don't even like beetles that much! Normal beetles, not you. So don't be all— hey! Ow!" A bright light— and just Gil, no turtleneck, and he's blinking a lot. Beetles everywhere. "You weren't supposed to do that! I would've been perfectly fine, so you know. Right, Richard?"

"Mm?" Richard says. "Oh, yes. You're highly adaptable. I think I have to go, primrose."

"Oh," you say, and process. "Now?"

"Yes, now." He pulls you into a side embrace and kisses the top of your head. "Be good. Be safe."

That's it. He's gone after, leaving you with empty air and a warm side and a key around your neck and Gil, singular— unless the beetles count. You guess the beetles count. Leaving you and Gil x 100, whose eyebrows are way up. "Wow! He's gone?"

"Yeah," you say.

"For days straight? Shit! That's ace! How'd you convince him?"

You have the distinct feeling he's trying to push you past the whole 'double Gil' thing, and you're not in the mood. You're not sad. You're not going to cry. You just feel, suddenly, a bit adrift. "Um, I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh. Did he...?"

"No. He was really nice, like I keep trying to tell you." You slip your hands into your pockets. "I think we better wake up. You're getting your own tent, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Um, thanks again for dealing with all that..."

"I'm just doing my noble duty," you say.

"Um, they don't have those where I-I'm from... so thanks." He scrunches his mouth up. "Do you need help getting out of here?"

"Nope." Your model is in your palm already. "See you out there."

Gil nods and fishes for his matchbook. You hold the model up, inspect it from all angles, see the light of afternoon filter through its tiny flimsy windows, and imagine yourself beetle-sized in it— and shrink rapidly to a point, and vanish.

-

You are on the ground. There is hair in your eyes. There is sand in your mouth. How did you get here?

"Aw, shit! Sorry!" Gil is upside-down from your vantage, but he appears to have propped himself against your bookshelf. "You, um— you collapsed! So I dragged you into your tent..."

(3/4)

File: bubbles.jpg (104 KB, 500x750)

104 KB JPG

That would explain the body-sized trail out the door, now that you're sitting up. You squint. The world seems all hazy here, coming from fresh air and sunlight, but that's okay. You'll live. "How long has it been?"

"Uh, I-I don't know. I went in after you as soon as I could, pretty much, but then we were in there for... 2, 3 hours? So maybe an hour out here? Do you think we missed it?"

"I think we're probably right on time! Hang on." You shake the sand off and go over to push the tent door open. Outside, the water's the smoky shade of dusk, and— okay, yes— there's eight or nine people crowded across the way. "Yes! Follow me!"

As you emerge into the pathway, it becomes obvious that the actual tent-making hasn't quite begun— a few people are watching Eloise intently (you can just catch the blue of her cloak up front), but the rest are milling or chatting. Like Horse Face, for instance. Of course Horse Face is here. And that's Madrigal, you think— you didn't recognize the ponytail at first.

Gil sidles up behind you. "We can just watch from back here," he offers. "No need to, uh, get super i-i-involved in—"

"What, you don't want to stand next to Horse Face? Ha-ha."

"Uh..." He appears to seriously consider this. (God-damnit.) "Maybe i-i-if he isn't busy?"

Okay, well, you call the shots here.

>[1] Stay in the back? No way. This is *your* tent— uh, Gil's tent, but same thing. Barnstorm up there and get a front-row seat. (Do you announce yourself also? Y/N)

>[2] Go sidle up next to somebody else.
>>[A] Madrigal. You haven't seen her since she got mad at you for no reason. Maybe she'll want to apologize?
>>[B] Horse Face. Because you have a noble duty to keep your retainer happy, even at great personal cost. Also, he probably has things to say about the end of the world.

>[3] ...And you're calling the shot to stay back here. No need to get super involved in anything— you've had a long day. Maybe you can catch Eloise after she's done?

>[4] Write-in.

>>5859606
>[2B] Horse Face. Because you have a noble duty to keep your retainer happy, even at great personal cost. Also, he probably has things to say about the end of the world.

>>5859606
>2B
Damn it Gil we didn’t expect you to say yes
Now we have no choice but to do it
We must honor our word and all

>>5859606
>2B

>>5859627
>>5859777 (Checked)
>>5860215
Writing.

File: c.m.s. garvin - @clark.png (1.5 MB, 1766x1653)

1.5 MB PNG

>He of equine visage

And... uh... oh. Gil's already going. Great. Off to a good start.

"Ah, the man of the hour!" Horse Face is already greeting Gil when you get there. "And Charlotte Fawkins, of course, of course— here I was thinking you were going to miss it! I think the setting up's the most interesting part, myself."

From this vantage, you can see what's happening a little better. Eloise, up front, is all business— hair tied back, sleeves pushed up. She's marked out a tent-sized square on the ground, has brushed away all the stray rocks and shells and tiny crabs living there, and is presently hammering some kind of stakes into the square's corners. It doesn't seem like it'd be riveting to you, but then again, you're not Horse Face. (Thank God.)

"Uh, hi, Garvin. I-I-I don't know about 'man of the hour.'" Gil folds his hands. "Um, i-i-it's not— it's just a tent, right? There's nothing special about it? I-I don't understand why there's all these—"

"Nothing special except it doesn't exist yet. That's exciting enough, don't you think? The threshold is low around here. Plus, I'm led to believe Eloise puts on a good show. Have you not prepared a speech?"

"A speech?" Gil's eyes go so big it's funny.

"Of course! It's traditional that recipients of new tents give speeches. Shows you're part of the community, yes? I hear they're very big on the quality of them, too, compare them against each other— peculiar local custom, to be sure, but—"

Alright. There's a lot of things you can't remember. But you've been living here for six months, and even if you're not exactly a prized member of the local community (you would never stoop that low, of course), you haven't ever heard of this before. Not even once. "Shut up, Horse Face. He's lying! He's evilly tricking you! You don't have to give a speech. And if you did have to give a speech, I would give it for you, because I happen to be excellent at public speaking. So there."

Gil compares the two of you like there's any chance at all you're wrong here. Damn him. Horse Face grins wide, making him look even horsier. "Indeed! Alas, I'm just yanking your chain. Though I'd be excited to see a speech by the famous Gil, if he had one—"

"No," says Gil.

"Better luck next time, then. So how are you two? Keeping yourselves busy?"

(Choices next.)

>[1] Something like that.
>>[A] As a cryptotheologist (which seems like a made-up job, but whatever), what does he know about the end of the world?
>>[B] Or about magyckal seals in the world?
>>[C] Or about a big white lizardy-type thing? It's a mythological creature, apparently.
>>[D] Or about origin myths in general? You feel like you should probably learn some more about the Wyrm, given circumstances.
>>[E] Has he received any missives from Henry yet? You're still waiting on his worm-revival instructions.
>>[F] Hey. Monty made him sign a contract after he hypothetically almost destroyed the entire camp, and this contract included your free use of all his dumb gadget collection. You're raiding Headspace in a couple days— can you please take him up on that now?
>>[G] Write-in.

>[2] No, no, no. You graciously allowed Gil to approach Horse Face, but that doesn't mean you're engaging in conversation yourself. Intervene if necessary, but otherwise focus on watching Eloise at work.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5860714
[1Everything]

>>5860714
>1A, B, C, D, F

>>5860713
>>[1]
>A
>B
>C
>D
>E
>F

File: juice that makes you write.png (146 KB, 480x360)

146 KB PNG

Pulling my once-a-week "no update" card. See you folks tomorrow.

>>5860713
>[1] Something like that.
>>[A] As a cryptotheologist (which seems like a made-up job, but whatever), what does he know about the end of the world?
>>[B] Or about magyckal seals in the world?
>>[C] Or about a big white lizardy-type thing? It's a mythological creature, apparently.
>>[D] Or about origin myths in general? You feel like you should probably learn some more about the Wyrm, given circumstances.
>>[E] Has he received any missives from Henry yet? You're still waiting on his worm-revival instructions.
>>[F] Hey. Monty made him sign a contract after he hypothetically almost destroyed the entire camp, and this contract included your free use of all his dumb gadget collection. You're raiding Headspace in a couple days— can you please take him up on that now?

>>5860763
>>5861734
>>5861743
>>5862233 (checked)
>Everything

Tfw your players hate you. (Kidding!) Writing.

File: us - @tairbaz.png (78 KB, 689x695)

78 KB PNG

>HOOOOORSE FAAAAAACE

"A little bit busy," you say narrowly. "We've been doing... some things. A few things."

"Just a few? Oh, my, maybe our definitions of "few" are different. I did hear that you encountered some manner of goo-based entity? From the distant past?"

You glare at Gil, who swallows. "So what if we did?"

"Well, it's a phenomenal discovery, don't you think? A colony of ancient minds— and they're friendly, or so I hear. Never heard of a single thing like it, and I have been around the proverbial block. My, I'd like to give them an interview."

"Don't," you hiss.

"We'll see what occurs, won't we?" Horse Face rubs his hands together. "Oh, yes, and what else. I was speaking to my good friend Madrigal, and she informed me that you abandoned her and poor Gil to go on another heist? I knew you had a secret life of crime, but—"

He was the one who secretly funded your first heist, which was Richard's idea to go on, anyways. And then he used the relic you stole to almost kill everybody. Hypothetically. He'll twist this all somehow if you bring it up, because he's the living embodiment of evil, more or less. "Shut up, Horse Face. I— I'll have you know, it was actually a reverse heist. I stopped something from getting stolen, because I'm a— a noted heroine, and that's what heroines do! Prevent wicked thievery. If I hadn't prevented the thievery, by the way, then really bad things would've happened. So, ha."

"Really bad things!" Horse Face evilly feigns surprise. "Like what?"

"Like—" Did Henry ever say what, exactly? It was sort of just bad things. 'Unpleasant' things. "Like bad things, okay? This is a trick question. I bet you already know what sort of bad things, you're just— you're just testing me. Right?" You clear your throat. "If a seal on the world was taken or destroyed, then... you know."

"Do I?"

"Um," you say. Think positive! "Yes. You do."

"Do you?"

When you are queen, you will let a snake swallow Horse Face's brain. This is your sacred promise to yourself. "...Maybe. Can you just tell me?"

"Why, of course! Always happy to spread knowledge." Horse Face taps his cheek with a crayon. "The seals have been empirically proven to exist, which is a solid step up from most topics in the area of cryptotheology. They are antediluvian. They are made from a porous type of stone fairly good at absorbing Law, though not as well as crystal, naturally."

"And?"

"That's all reliable sources have to offer. Are you looking for unreliable sources?"

You scrunch up your face at him.

"Unreliable sources posit four possible origins. Two pertain to the origin of the holes or cracks underneath. Naturally occurring, or human-drilled? The others pertain to the origin of the seals. Were they slapped on hastily to prevent tragedy, or were they installed deliberately to create locations of power? Nobody living knows for certain. Plenty have strong opinions, though."

(1/4?)

File: THE WYRM (artist's interp(...).png (12 KB, 300x300)

12 KB PNG

"What's yours, Garvin?" says Gil, your glorious and favoritest retainer.

"Mine? Oh-ho! I do my best not to hold opinions. Or stances. I collect and sort the facts available, and that is all I am good for, I'm afraid." Horse Face toothes at you. "Are you looking for the spurious sources?"

You fold your arms. "Fine."

"Well, in that case, the spurious sources claim that these seals block a direct drop to the earth's underbelly. These sources furthermore claim that the earth is not merely floating in the void, but is actually supported by a reptile of enormous size and considerable power. This reptile—"

"I know what the Wyrm is," you hiss.

"My contacts did you some good, then? In that case, the unsealing of these holes would allegedly cause this reptile to be directly exposed to the upper world. Which would cause, allegedly, in no particular order, the painful deaths, mutations, or transformations of any nearby sapient being unless pre-protected by a counterritual, the leaching of the Wyrm's power (specifics debated) into a large surrounding area, to bad effect, and also a direct, sustained, and corrosive blast of pure and concentrated reality into a large surrounding area, also to bad effect. It'd overall resemble the effects of prolonged Edge exposure. Does this answer your question?"

Yes. You guess. 'Allegedly.' But also, no, not the real question. "Could they cause the end of the world? Um, them being all unsealed."

"One unsealed? Allegedly, I doubt it. All of them unsealed?" Horse Face's eyelids flare. "Well, I doubt it'd be particularly good. If the Wyrm is real, which is under much debate, then I do think it'd be in humanity's interest to expose ourselves to it as little as possible. Most sources say it's not all that pleased with us, yes?"

You shove your thumbs into your pockets. "How else could it destroy the world, if not that?"

(2/5?)

"If not that? You're asking me to go into speculative territory here, so you're aware. There are no non-spurious sources. But, allegedly, the Wyrm spawned the Eight in some manner, and for a variety of suggested reasons they turned on it and trapped it under the earth, where it resides today. Additionally, they either schemed to put it to sleep, or it fell asleep on its own, and it stayed in that sleep for millennia. This is as close as we have to 'fact', as any surviving accounts of contacting the thing during this timeframe are less-than-spurious, and consist of either tapping into its power— which does not necessarily require its conscious awareness— or seeing it in dreams and such, which if anything is a point in favor of 'it was asleep'." Horse Face clears his throat. "In any case, it's an opinion of certain mutual acquaintances that the great Flood was deliberately caused with the intent of awakening the Wyrm. I cannot verify this in any way. If we're to accept this as fact, I believe we can say that the Wyrm, if awake, is not wandering out and about. It is still far underground, allegedly. And the world is still ticking along. Therefore, if it desired to wipe us all out, I speculate it'd need an avenue to the surface first. Some way to escape its confines. Wouldn't you agree?"

You don't know how to feel about this. "I guess. And that's... uh... that's the whole Wyrm, escaping? It couldn't just be a little bitty part of it inside someone's body?"

"I don't know if the whole Wyrm could fit aboveground, now that you say it. If it's as big as it's alleged to be. I suppose it'd require an avatar of sorts. A slightly smaller giant reptile? But no, I don't think it'd be trivial for it to escape, should it exist, and be awake, and desire such a thing. I haven't seen it happen."

"Okay," you say. Gil nudges you. "Huh? What?"

He leans in. "You know we're in a—"

In a crowd? Are people looking? You guess a couple people are looking, but nobody you really know or care about. It's fine. "Well, Horse Face is a cryptotheologist. This is his normal job, to... to know about the world ending, and things. Duh. It's not a secret. Anybody can ask him about whatever they want. Like, uh, for example! Horse Face!"

"Yes?"

"Do you know anything about lizards? Magyck lizards, I mean. Um... long neck, maybe 10 feet tall, spiky, bright white, one eye...? Ring a bell?"

"A magic lizard?" Horse Face twirls his crayon. "10 feet tall? No, actually, but that's a striking image. Have you uncovered evidence of a new crypto-god?"

Have you? "It's called the Herald of the Bright Epoch?"

"The Herald— hmm. Hmm. And it's white? And quite tall?"

"Yep." You're choosing to ignore Gil's sideway glances.

(3/5?)

File: eloise - @littletinydog.png (1020 KB, 1438x1567)

1020 KB PNG

"Well, I don't know about a lizard, but I believe our hermitic Fenpelok friends might have a— no? The sea people, Lottie?" He parses your expression. "Do you really only know them by 'fish'? That's horribly rude, but— well, in any case, they have their own cultivated system of belief. I won't go into it, for the sake of timeliness, but their own vision of the apocalypse... let's see... is that the sun will be knocked out of the sky and into the water, evaporating the ocean and leaving them all to suffocate and scorch and so on. And in the aftermath the world will become all white, from the salt and bones. Highly gruesome. The ones I've had the pleasure of interviewing called it 'Sun Day'— they're a very straightforward people. But, in any case, the Sun Day is supposed to be invoked by a tall white individual of a fishy persuasion. Fins like this." Horse Face indicates a halo around his face. "Scales, of course. One eye, it's possible. I believe they call him Harold."

"...Herald?"

"No, no. Like the human name. Harold. Now I will concede that there is a substantial possibility I was the target of a practical joke, or if nothing else that there's a private cultural title they would not disclose. But they were very keen on blaming their misfortunes on Harold, who sounded like a bad character."

Are you the target of Horse Face's practical joke right now? You don't know any fish you can ask. You don't make friends with fish. (They're all gross and scaly. And they eat human flesh, maybe.) Er, unless you count Felicia, but she just happened to be on your heist twice... and you did save her from getting murdered for no reason, you guess. You wish you knew where she was. You wish Richard was back already, so he could distinguish truth from Horse Face lying through his tooth gap.

Anyways, though, you guess you'll file this away in 'possibly relevant.' "Uh... I guess that could be related..."

"If you encountered yours drawn from the front-on, a sea-person could look rather lizardlike! That's my best hypothesis. Where did you first hear about it?"

Showed up in your dream for no reason. "None of your beeswax, Horse Face. Have you heard from Henry?"

"Henry? Have you been in further contact? Don't answer that one. No, I—"

He's cut off by a piercing whistle: Eloise has two fingers in her mouth. (Damnit. You guess you'll check back in tomorrow about that, and maybe his weird gadgets too.) "Hiya, folks! Thanks for showing up! We're just doing your standard tent, no frills. You've seen 'em, you've been in 'em, you live in 'em. I don't expect any hiccups if everyone follows my instructions, all right? If you're not a rules-follower, now's your chance to clear out."

The crowd shifts, but nobody leaves. "Fantastic! Love to see it. Even with a standard template, this is always touch-and-go, so your participation is appreciated. Now!" Eloise swings her arm up. "I need you all to turn around and check out that tent back there. Really study it. Go on."

File: tent.jpg (1.09 MB, 1200x1224)

1.09 MB JPG

You hate Eloise telling you what to do, but Gil's turned right around, and Horse Face has, and that leaves you little choice. They're all looking at your tent, anyways. You look. Yup, definitely your tent.

"Great! Love it. You folks are naturals. Now, please shut your eyes, keep them shut until I say so, and keep that image of that tent in your head. Or of your tent, if you want. Any tent. The imaginary ideal of tent. Tent it on up, if you will, with your eyes closed."

You close one eye. The good eye. Close enough, right? You keep the bad one cracked as you turn back around— the image is blurred, so you can't be sure you see what you see. But you think that's Eloise, holding a rectangle of something clear up to her eyes— a rectangle of glass? Real glass? And the tent-area, the whole cubic area, is shifting. It's shimmering.

You could probably do this, if you had the equipment. You're good at imagining things. You're good at telling reality what to do. You're a little put out that Eloise has taken charge of it all, even if it is supposedly her "job." This isn't to say you'll interfere, or anything.

...Just, you know, that you could. If you wanted to. You're good enough.

>[1] Resist temptation. Let the tent-making carry on as planned.
>>[A] Participate with the crowd like a good citizen.
>>[B] Sulk.

>[2] So, what, so Gil's getting a "standard" tent? He deserves more than a dumb standard tent. He's your best retainer. Sneak your own (way better) ideas in there.
>>[A] Don't do very much. Just mark your territory, so Eloise knows she's not the only one with reality-type influences in town. Put a beetle symbol above the door. [Easy roll.]
>>[B] What's he going to have in there? A cot? No other furniture? Come on. Make sure it at least has a desk and a bookshelf and a chair and some nice stuff like that. [Roll.]
>>[C] This is your chance to make Gil very happy. You have to take that, right? To make him happy? Try to warp the inside of the tent so it's exactly how he'd want it, furniture and decorations and layout and all. [Harder roll.]
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5862952
>[2B]

>>5862952
>2B

I'm ready to completely ruin Gil's tent in an attempt to show off

>>5862954
>>5863083
>[2B]

Called. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 7 (+7 Anti-Anti-Gravitas) vs. DC 60 (+5 Crowd Pushback, +5 Eloise Pushback) to interior decorate!

AND DON'T FORGET TO VOTE ON...
Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 10/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 91 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>5863519

>>5863519
>>5863520
>Y

Rolled 74 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>5863519
>N

>>5863519
>[1] Y

Rolled 5 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>5863519

>>5863520
>>5863549
>>5863699
>108, 91, 22 vs. DC 60 -- Success
>Spendy

Cool! Writing.

>Upgrade
>108, 91, 22 vs. DC 60 -- Success
>Spendy

It wouldn't even have to be a big deal. Eloise just told everybody to look at the outside of your tent, right? She's probably making the outside first. It's entirely conceivable, in fact, that she won't do anything at all about the tent's inside, and that all it would take is one courageous young lady to step in and spruce things up a little bit. For her retainer's sake, of course.

"Is somebody watching?" Eloise calls out, and you shut your bad eye. "There we go. Thanks, folks. Keep imagining. Now, I'm going to tell you what you're going to be looking at, and it'll be a real shocker. Prepared to be wowed. Ready? Well, folks, it's going to be a tent, and it's going to look exactly like every single other one."

"Except yours," some joker calls.

"That's just paint, folks! All the same underneath, trust me. Now, are you ready? One, two, three, tent. Eyes open."

You squinch your good eye open. The thing that Eloise is gesturing at is a lot more than shimmery nothing, but it sure isn't a tent— it's just a fuzzy shape, broadly tent-colored, hard to look at. You mean actually hard to look at, as in your eyes bounce right off. You must not be the only one, because Eloise is exhorting the whole crowd: "You stop looking when I say you stop! Or what, you've forgotten what a tent looks like? I told you to remember. It looks just like that one. You don't think it looks just like—?"

You peek sideways. Horse Face's expression is lightly amused, but his gaze is steady and straight ahead. Gil is— er, Gil is meeting your eyes by accident, and is looking mildly guilty. You attempt to refocus. The tent-shape is looking tentier— it has what might be flaps. Progress? Yes, progress. They probably don't even need your help. So it's okay if you forget about the outside of the tent, and think hard about the inside. Which would still be a tent, so not even that weird. Just a tent with a couple things in it. Normal things, not even weird things. Like furniture, like a cot and desk and a nice chair and maybe a bureau. Maybe the chair could spin. Maybe the cot could have some decent bedding atop it, and it could be springy, not rock-hard. There'd be no need to subject your retainer to the indignities of a rock-hard cot. (Richard has had to drug you to sleep more than once, is all you're saying.) None of this stuff would be out-of-place or even slightly unexpected. They're just tent things. That you'd find in a tent.

(1/2)

Raw enumeration wouldn't get you far enough, though, if you were trying to do something. Not that you are. You're just contemplating objects found in tents in the normal way that people do such things. What you would need to do, if you were doing anything at all, is impose yourself in some way upon the pre-tent. Make your perspective the defining one. This isn't so hard, because your perspective is the defining one, isn't it? You are a very important heroine, aren't you? Nobody else here is as important. Nobody else here has made-up mythological lizards in their dreams. Nobody else falls through the floor and meets God. Just you.

When you put it like that it's a little frightening, isn't it? A little. Disregard that. You are important and the world knows it and this stupid tent especially knows it. If you say there's perfectly ordinary pieces of furniture inside it, there are, because you said so. Because you said so.

>[-1 ID: 9/14]

And if you develop a tiny pounding headache from saying so, so be it. There's a tent in front of you now, give or take, and if you or anyone else goes inside then stuff will be in it. You don't even have to check. It just will be. Gil is looking funny at you, so maybe he knows, but that's okay. He's second-most important. (Horse Face, of course, is last.)

Eloise up front doesn't bat an eyelash. "I have to say, this is looking especially like a tent! How did you guys do that? Give yourselves a pat on the back. Don't all come up here and touch it, though, it's like wet paint— or wet newspaper? You'll punch right through. Still need to put the glaze on. But the hard part's done, so feel free to disperse- or come on up and say hi, if you like, haven't seen some of you in a while! By the way, aren't we pleased as punch that Madrigal's back with us? Have you all greeted her yet? Oh, go on-"

From Madrigal's protests, you're guessing she wasn't intending to be backslapped and circled around. As much as you'd like to compound her irritation, you hang back. (Last time you saw her, she snapped at you for no reason. No need to generate a reason.) Instead, you push past and meet Eloise, who's got a fat paint roller and a bucket of... something. It's viscous and translucent-white.

"Charlotte! Long time no see." Her earrings clatter as she turns her head. "And Gil? Oh, phenomenal. I didn't see you back there! Thought you'd miss your own tent-raising."

"Um," Gil says. "Nope."

"Well, thank goodness! I'm afraid it's not quite baked yet— needs the top coat and a spot of time to harden." Eloise waves the paint roller. "But soon! 15 minutes? Anyway, Charlotte, I was thinking about this earlier— sorry, nothing to do with the tent. I was thinking about Arledge! I flat-out forgot to ask you about him. Did you meet up okay? Was he helpful on the kidnapping mission? Madrigal came back unscathed, so I'm sure it couldn't have been too bad..."

(2/3)

File: arledge bust.png (1.06 MB, 1053x956)

1.06 MB PNG

Well, he was a pagan, which she didn't warn you of. He was also a mild bastard about the whole red-stuff thing, which wasn't your fault, except for when you drank that blood water. But you only did that because he and Lucky were being bastards, so it's really his fault. Then he turned himself into a giant worm to do battle with your highly superior giant worm, and got bitten in half by your highly superior giant worm, and almost died before cheating all his injuries away with stupid pagan magic. Then he got all pissy and left.

You can't just say these things. Eloise is expectant.

>[A1] Uhh. He was fine. Helpful. You met up okay. Can you talk about something else?
>[A2] He turned into a giant worm, which was helpful, sort of. Did she know he did things like that? Did she not tell you on purpose?
>[A3] Gil actually spent most of the time with him. (You were... preoccupied.) Kick his ankle until he responds for you.
>[A4] He wasn't actually very helpful. Also, he seemed like a total liar. If he says mean things about you, or recounts anything that might put you in a bad light, those are bound to be utter lies. Just so she knows.
>[A5] Write-in.

>[B] Questions or commentary for Eloise? (Optional. Write-in.)

>[C] Write-in.

>>5864003
>>[A4] He wasn't actually very helpful. Also, he seemed like a total liar. If he says mean things about you, or recounts anything that might put you in a bad light, those are bound to be utter lies. Just so she knows.

>>5864003
>A2

>>5864003
>>[A2] He turned into a giant worm, which was helpful, sort of. Did she know he did things like that? Did she not tell you on purpose?

>>5864003
>>[A2] He turned into a giant worm, which was helpful, sort of. Did she know he did things like that? Did she not tell you on purpose?

>[A3] Gil actually spent most of the time with him. (You were... preoccupied.) Kick his ankle until he responds for you.

>>5864014
>[A4]

>>5864686
>[A3]

>>5864288
>>5864672
>>5864677
>[A2]

Called for [A2] and writing.

File: worm.jpg (777 KB, 1500x2036)

777 KB JPG

>Worm mode

At the same exact time, though, you can't just not say any of it. You have a pure and honest heart, for one. And for two, Eloise is scarily inquisitive. If she catches a whiff of you withholding something from her, she'll be hounding you for days. Or, worse, she'll write up Arledge and get his (misleading, biased, pagan-y) side of the story.

Better to throw her something that doesn't lead back to you, then. Something provocative enough to grab her attention, but that can't be construed as damaging for you in any way. Easy. "Uh, he was... fine. You didn't say he was going to turn into a giant worm."

See, there. She's stopped mid-roll, glaze dripping down. "He what?"

"Turned into a giant worm? Uh, I guess it was for a good cause, not just randomly. And he was a helpful giant worm. I guess." According to what Gil said. You don't actually remember this in any detail. "So you can tell him thanks, but also, I just think it's a little weird to go around turning into..."

"When you say giant worm," Eloise says passively, "how giant are you talking?"

Alas, poor Annie. It hurts to think about. "...20 feet? 25?"

"Wow!"

"Well, that's how big they get." You lean onto one foot, then the other. "Does he normally turn into, uh, smaller worms? You know you didn't mention anything about him turning into any worms? In my opinion, that feels like a really big thing to leave out—"

"If I had known there were going to be worms involved, I would've told you! But no, that's a... 25 feet? I'm sure that had to be for very good reason. Was it strenuous? I can't imagine that's good on the body, 25 feet— sheesh!"

So the worm thing is a surprise... but the idea of Arledge being capable of it isn't? You probe. "Did you think other things were going to be involved? Non-worm things?"

"If you're asking if we discussed anything beforehand, Charlotte, we really didn't! I figured he had a broad enough skillset that he'd come in handy somehow. Which he did, didn't he?"

You snort. "A broad skillset including pagan magics—"

"Well, yes. Was that an issue?" Eloise redips the paint roller. "If you're going to be that persnickety, I knew he was a magician of some stripe, yes. But he's very private about it all, and we're not— I told you he was an acquaintance, didn't I? Not my business to share, since it really isn't my business, period... even if I'd prefer it otherwise. The worm, though! 25 feet! Do you think that's a record?"

So she did know, and hid it. You scowl. "How should I know? I don't involve myself in pagan—"

"Does putting that stuff on take any special technique?" Gil interrupts.

"Huh? Oh, no, not really. Mixing it, yes; applying it, no."

"Would i-it go faster if we pitched in, then? Assuming you had extra paintbrushes..."

(1/4?)

"Impatient to see it finished?" Eloise chuckles. "I don't see why not! Give me a second on the paintbrushes. That's you and Charlotte both?"

You did not sign up for manual labor, particularly to assist a meddling liar, but Gil steps slightly in front of you. "Uhh... yes."

"Okie-dokie!" As Eloise digs around in her cloak, you glare sideways at Gil. He looks studiously forward. "There we have it! Not as efficient as mine, sorry, but considerably easier to produce." She deposits a wide paintbrush into your curled hand. "Really, you just need to make sure you get the whole thing. No gaps. Wouldn't want it up and vanishing one night, trust me."

"...Makes sense," Gil says, and walks over to the glaze, and dips his brush in. After a long moment of consideration, you follow.

The act of painting is fine, you guess. It could be meditative if you were in a better mood for it. Instead, as soon as Gil dips his brush and shuffles over to the far side of the tent, you sidle next to him. You lean over. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were deciding—"

He shuts his eyes. "Sorry... I-I just..."

"Oh! No need to be sorry! I only think it's a little brave to be volunteering us for—"

"I-I-I just think that, if Richard's really gone— he's really gone?"

You nod begrudgingly.

"Um, since he's gone, somebody has to be rational for us. ...That's what I think."

Gil has been glazing the same patch of tent since you sidled over— up and down, up and down, up and down. You swipe a fat diagonal right next to it. "I wasn't being irrational. That's absurd. I hadn't even done anything yet, and I wasn't going t..."

Your voice dwindles. Not because Gil's expression is icy cold or full of pent-up hatred or anything. It isn't. It's regular boring direct eye contact, eyebrows raised a little, lips flat. It's: "Really?"

And you don't have an answer to that, so you start painting vigorously and hope he'll forget.

-

The tent is done and dusted in no time, thanks almost purely to your incredible, nigh-unsurpassable glazing skills. Plus, it takes less than 15 minutes to dry, additionally thanks to your etc. etc. glazing skills (and also because it starts drying once it's put on, says Eloise, so it's half-dry while you're doing the other half). Once it's done, it all looks pretty much like a normal tent. You wouldn't have any idea it sprang out of an empty patch of sand if you didn't see it happen yourself.

Eloise has greenlighted attempts to go inside, and after much deliberation you have graciously allowed Gil to go first. (Even though you're the one who got him the tent in the first place.) What this means in practice is that he pushes the shiny flap open, and you stick your head in right next to him.

(2/4?)

File: ART.jpg (598 KB, 3000x2250)

598 KB JPG

The interior of the tent looks just like the interior of every other tent— same size, same shape, same droopy part on the ceiling. There is furniture inside, though. There is an empty red-brown bookshelf and and empty red-brown desk and a chair that spins. There is a cot with green bedding. Above the cot hangs a framed picture of a beetle.

You watch Gil carefully. He doesn't smile. He looks methodically all around the room, right to left, top to bottom. Then he looks at you. "You...?"

If he doesn't like it, can you deny it? Too late: your pure and honest heart means you're already nodding.

He doesn't visibly react to this information, just goes inside. He's still looking in all directions, even though he saw all of it from the doorway. He pushes the chair experimentally. He stops and looks at the beetle picture. "You know I-I-I didn't even really like beetles. Um. Not that I-I hated them or anything, but I don't think I had a strong opinion. They weren't my favorite, I-I-I mean."

>[-1 ID: 8/14]

You squeeze your hands together. "Uh... well, I can take that down and find something else, I guess... what is your favorite animal?"

"Um." He sits down on the cot. "No, i-it's— I guess it's beetles now. I-I-It kind of has to be."

"Oh."

Gil still isn't smiling, but (positive thinking!!) he isn't really frowning, either. He appears to be lost in thought. "How long has it been?"

"Huh?"

He looks up at you. "Since you went and got me. Days i-i-i-in realtime, I mean. I-I've been spending half the time in my head, or yours, so I don't have a good grasp on..."

Oh, God, how long has it been? You can work this out. Today, you woke up in the cult base after the heist went sideways. The day before that, you were at Earl's. Before that was the ritual and the rescue mission, the less said about those the better. Before that was the Headspace tour, and before then was Gil getting shot and Madrigal kidnapped. Before then, you spent the whole day waiting for a snake to hatch out of Madrigal's brain, and before then the crown was stolen, and before then was Ellery not being real, plus the hypothetical current, and before then was... Gil. How many is that in all? "Um, just over a week. Nine days."

"Nine days." He looks out across the tent. "I-i-i-if you came in and told me ten days ago that I'd be... that I'd be out of there, and that I'd have a- a body, two bodies, and I-I'd be across the entire goddamn seafloor, but I'd have a tent, with a... a..." He can't seem to get the words out. He points at the beetle picture. "With that on the wall— and i-i-if I got told I'd be doing any of the shit I've been doing— I would've thought I-I was hallucinating. I-I-I would've thought I finally went bugfuck crazy. And I-I-I-I had gone bugfuck crazy, actually, I was hallucinating out of my ass all the time, so I guess it would've been business as usual... this was a dumb set-up."

(3/5?)

File: charlotte & gil - @icarus(...).png (1.53 MB, 1928x2400)

1.53 MB PNG

"Yeah?" you say.

"Uh, that's all. I-I-I just... when I try to wrap my head around it, I can't. I-I-I still feel like I'm— like I'm going to go to sleep, and I'll wake up, and i-i-i-i-i-it'll be that fucking house. I-I-I-I was in there the whole time. I-I-I-I was just imagining that some random goddamn stranger found me and decided to..."

He's cupping his face in his hands. You sit in the chair and spin it cautiously back and forth. "Um, but you're not. Because I did find you, and... you are here. Also, I burned that whole place down, so there's really nothing to—"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's how I-I know I'm not just... because of you. I-I-I-I could hallucinate the rest of it, but I'm not creative enough to come up with you. I-It just wouldn't happen."

Uh... positive thinking! You are taking that as a compliment. "Thank you?"

"Yes! Please! You should be— you deserve— I-I-I-I've been such a shithead to you, Lottie. I've been such a goddamn shithead. You saved my life, and you've done so much other shit, and you didn't even know me, and you haven't asked for so much as a— a fucking penny. You're a real heroine, whatever that is, and I owe you a fucking life debt. And I, I like the beetle picture."

>[+3 ID: 11/14]

"You do like it?" You raise in your seat.

"Yeah. I-I-I like it. It's funny. It's like having a framed picture of your big toe, or something. Um, I-I-I-I don't deserve it—" His voice cracks. "—but I like it."

"Gil!"

"I-I-I don't! There's zero reason I-I-I-I-I should've been rescued over somebody else. I-I-I'm a drain on society and I always have been. There has to be other people out there who'd be a net positive to rescue—"

"Gilbert!" You thrust the spinny chair forward and lash out at his ankle. He winces. "God! How many times do I have to— I don't care about random people I've never met. Why would I care about random people I've never met? Are they my retainer?"

"Well," Gil attempts, "they would be, if you'd—"

"Nonsense! If I rescued them instead of you, my powerful intuition would've informed me that they were wholly inferior specimens, and I would have released them into the wild and gone questing for a proper retainer. And then I would've found you and rescued you, and we'd be exactly here. You see? You're not the only one who can use logic. Furthermore, you deserve it, because you're my retainer. Duh. Do you see me gifting random strangers entire tents?"

As expected, Gil fails to respond in the face of your brilliant reasoning.

"And— and if I must be more specific, I think you have been very good at it. You haven't betrayed me even one time. And I think you make for... good company... when you aren't being stupid and negative! So stop it."

"Sorry," Gil says.

You twist back and forth with one foot. "Don't apologize, just stop it."

"Sor..." He takes a deep breath. "I-I'll try. Uh. Thanks for the... for the tent."

"You're very welcome! Now..."

(4/5)

File: richard s4.jpg (62 KB, 1280x720)

62 KB JPG

You meant to spin the chair all the around, for a dramatic flourish, but spotted something halfway that made you screech to a halt. Eloise is leaning in the doorway. She is smiling coyly.

"Hey!" you say. Gil looks out and blanches.

"Nice interior design," she says, and meets your eyes. "You two are very cute. Anyway, it's done, so I'll be heading off. If something starts going funny with it, please let me know and I'll patch it up, okay?"

You narrow your eyes.

"Alright, going!" She vanishes.

You spin your chair back around to Gil, who appears to have shed a good decade of lifespan. "I, uh... well..."

"Mngh."

"...Maybe I should be going? Yes! I should be going now. To my own tent! Where I live! So I can go to sleep, and—"

"It's barely evening," Gil mumbles.

"It's been a long day! Very long day. Anyways, I'm right across there if you need me. We shall continue our important heroic work... tomorrow!" You complete a 270º spin and hop off. "Fare thee well, Gilbert! Bye!"

"...Bye..."

-

You scurry across to your tent, tie the door firmly shut, and— wow! Your tent! It's been three whole days since you were back here, and... okay, the models are all still there, and in order. Horse Face has been sufficiently deterred. You grab The Sword off your hip and fling it down, and pull your boots off, and untie the ribbon at your neck, and glance over at your bed, with the— is that the Headspace goodie bag stashed underneath it? Did you even open it? Whatever. And right on your pillow, there's—

You pace closer. There are two things on your pillow: a black-and-yellow snake, coiled up, and a note. (Okay, three things. A snake, a note, and a pillowcase.) The snake looks out beadily as you approach. The note says

"For company.
—Love, Richard"

in small neat block print. You exhale.

The first order of business is picking the snake up and putting it anywhere other your pillow. Maybe under the bed with the goodie bag. The second order of business is getting these damned clothes off, finally. The third is sleeping. You weren't kidding about that. It might be early evening, but with those extra hours in the manse, your clock's way ahead. Plus... you don't know. You're tired.

These three things, and then it'll be tomorrow.

>[1] Submit up to three words that describe what you dream about. Can be anything within IC reason. They will be subject to extremely freehand QM interpretation. (Write-in.)

>>5865122
>Pudding, washbasin, bookshelf

>>5865122
>Despair, nightmare, failure

>>5865122
Midnight, maelstrom, murder

>>5865131
>>5865666
>>5865765
Sounds like Charlotte's going to have a bad time! Writing.

>>5865666
>666
Whoa there, Satan.

File: fangs.jpg (26 KB, 412x450)

26 KB JPG

>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKnVbC_Mc7k

The first two things are quick enough. The snake hisses when you dislodge it from its pillow nest, but doesn't strike. You make sure to position it with its little pointy head facing away, so when the clothes come off it doesn't see. Just in case. (You don't know how it works.) Your beat-up old nightclothes are still old and beat-up, but you've been in the same thing for days, so they're a relief all the same. You pull your hair out of your collar and go and lay down, then think better of it, and grab your ribbon, and tie up a makeshift blindfold. It's dimming outside, but not dark.

Then: sleep.

Then: ...sleep.

Then: sleep? Hello? Sleep?

God-dammit. You rock and roll and scratch at the blindfold and curse Richard, who surely did this on purpose to make you appreciate him. Can the snake drug you in his stead? You swing over the side of the cot to check, but its snakey eyes are shut. It's sleeping. God-damnit!

It's not like you can just get up and do something else, though. That'd be declaring defeat, and Charlotte Fawkins does not simply declare defeat. She is undefeated! There has to be something you can do. Didn't you purchase some pills from the general store? Were they... no, they were painkillers. If you took twenty of them, maybe that'd put you to sleep then. Ha-ha. (You shouldn't think things like that. They aren't actually funny.) If you... hm.

You have the idea in your head for maybe five or six seconds before you're sitting upright, palpating your wrist with your thumb. Why haven't you tried out your venom yet? It doesn't make any sense. You've had plenty of chances to bite people. You don't even know what it does, exactly, except the lizard-thing said it'd make you woozy. Which sounds great right now, which is why you're opening your mouth really wide— the fangs sort of pop forward when you do that, like they're on hinges— and sinking your teeth into your wrist's juicy flesh.

It didn't hurt as much as you expected, and you already didn't expect it to hurt very much. If anything, the mild pain is far less distracting than the sensation of new organs lurching into gear. Lodged in the top-back-sides of your mouth, like weird tonsils, your venom glands are rhythmically throbbing. Pumping? Whatever. It's sort of like sucking the spit out from under your tongue, only there's little spit-sucking engines doing it for you instead, and the spit's actually coming out of your teeth... so, uh, emphasis on the 'sort of.' You're sure Richard would have a better simile if he wasn't off in dumb snake rehab.

(1/4?)

File: dreaming.jpg (46 KB, 563x471)

46 KB JPG

The lizard-thing also said you'd need a lot of it to feel anything. You distinctly remember this. Thus you're not worried about sitting there in the semi-dark, teeth buried in your wrist, though you are trying to figure out if you're sleepy yet. Are you now? Or maybe now? Should you shut your eyes, or is that cheating? Your fingers are a smidge numb. Is that good enough? That's good enough. You extricate yourself, lick the beads of blood off the puncture marks, and lie back.

Then: sleep...?

...Maybe now?

You give it ten minutes of hopeful waiting before coming to the realization that your venom, whatever it is, is not a sedative. (Why would it be? That would actually be useful.) Though it's not like it's done nothing— actually, though you're still wide awake, it feels like somebody's stacked your whole body with cinderblocks. Actually, you feel drunk. Not the fun kind. The kind where it's 1 AM, and Jacques won't serve you anymore, and you attempt to fistfight him about it except all you can actually physically do is tip way way over and fall, and Richard has to pick you off the ground and walk you home. You've fast-forwarded yourself to that stage, which you confirm by lifting your arm and watching it droop down immediately. Arm up... down. Up... down. Up— not up. Nope. Won't raise at all now. Arm's drunk.

You remain curiously calm as you test the rest of your muscles and bits. Things at the start respond drowsily, then not at all. After a minute or two, nothing responds. You make to blink but can't. (Eyelids are six glasses in.) Your body's a big old sack of wet sand. It's funny. Objectively you ought to be frightened— but you don't think your own venom would kill you. That'd just be stupid. Plus, you guess you're used to Richard kicking you out of control. Are you locked in a mind closet right now? Could you lock yourself in one if not? A mind closet sounds dark and cozy. You could sleep in one of those. You will.

You nestle yourself down inside your unmoving body. You sleep. You dream.

-

The current rages on outside the ruined pagan temple, snapping trees and scouring wide trenches into the seafloor. Inside, Horse Face is nowhere to be seen. It's Richard on the altar, laying down casually, as if sunbathing. He's not sunbathing. It's the middle of the night. It's about time, Charlie.

You're holding a knife. No!

Please go on. It's part of the ritual. You wouldn't want to mess up the ritual, would you? Up close, Richard's face is smeary. Only the sunglasses make it obvious it's really him. And besides, I can't die. You know that. No need to get sentimental.

No! you repeat, and remember something. And it— it doesn't matter what I do. You're going to die no matter what. You're going to start bleeding out...

So what's the harm? Here, I'll tell you what: if you stab me, it won't hurt me one bit. It won't even leave a mark. I'm not real, remember? Try it.

(2/4?)

File: scalpel hand.jpg (93 KB, 427x640)

93 KB JPG

The face reflected on his sunglasses is not familiar to you. You cup your hands around the knife, so it can't hurt anybody. NO! You're— I know you're tricking me! You're just going to die!

Charlie, you bitch. You're messing it up. Richard raises a finger laxly, and your body is not yours anymore. Come here.

You are walked right next to him.

Do it.

Your arms lift, lower, pierce his flesh— and you shriek, unbidden. A gash has formed in your stomach, discoloring your shirt.

See? I told you. You never listen to me. Do it again.

Richard is unwounded when your arms are raised again. You scream, long and loud, as your navel is torn open. Well, carry on.

There is no option but to carry on. You stop screaming after the third one, and start sobbing great hiccupy sobs. The current whips at your hair and carries the blood far, far away. Richard has lowered his sunglasses to watch you— his face remains smeary, but his eyes are visibly yellow. Good girl, Charlie.

You sever an isthmus of skin with another plunge, turning two gouges into one jagged gorge. When can I stop?!

A little more. Don't be lazy.

He reclines. You stab, and stab, and stab, until your torso's shredded clean through— skin in tatters, organs in ribbons. When you point this out, he twitches his finger and sets you to work on his (on your) chest, then the non-knife arm, then his legs. Only when you collapse to the ground gooily does he get up off the altar. He bends down and picks your head and its neck off the ground, shaking strands of flesh off it like they're pumpkin guts. He slides the tortoiseshell knife out of your twitching fingers. He kisses your cold cheek. Sorry, primrose. I love you.

He stabs you through the eye socket and tosses your head down, then scrapes your pieces off the floor. He deposits you onto the altar, where at once you bubble and stretch and render into soft neoplasm. You are around the consistency of tapioca pudding. You are red.

Richard hems and haws over you for a bit before scraping you back up, walking you over to the temple washbasin, and pouring you down the long, long spiral of the—

-

You snap your eyes open. It is not morning. It is dark. Richard is in a big tube in snakeland, not here, and he's not mean. And even if he was mean, he wouldn't make you stab yourself to death. (He was very big on the whole 'no dying' thing.) You are entirely unstabbed, although your body... er... you opened your eyes, so you must be less paralyzed, but you do feel something around the consistency of tapioca pudding.

Oh, God. You should've kept a Gil in your head, so he could bumble into your worst dreams and wake you up. What even was that? Was there a point to it? You've been drooling on your pillow. Maybe Charlotte venom causes paralysis and also stupid weird dreams? That must be it. Stupid Herald. If it'd just given you something useful, you wouldn't even be here.

(3/4)

File: sunlight.jpg (65 KB, 564x564)

65 KB JPG

Anyways. You are Charlotte Fawkins, and you will not be defeated by one dumb, unrealistic nightmare! Yes! Also, you still can't really move, and it's dark, and you are sleepy for real. So, yes.

You settle back down and try to think about all the good things that happened today. You saved the life of an annoying fish lady (by murdering somebody). You fixed Earl's shoulder (by turning him into a scary monster). You discovered the identity of the Gold-Masked Person (by discovering that Monty was back-stabbing you). You... oh, come on. There has to be something. You got Gil a tent, and he was happy about it. He thanked you. There. There's nothing bad to say about that.

You sleep again. You dream again. In it, you stock Gil's new bookshelf with books about beetles, and he's very, very pleased.

-

Sunlight! Morning! Movement! You spring to your feet, ignoring the muscle aches everywhere. It is tomorrow, and tomorrow's always better than yesterday. (That's a key tenet of positive thinking!)

>[ID: 14/14]

And since yesterday was pretty darn good, today is bound to be amazing. That's how it works! Simple mathematics! And the snake, draped like a garland around the side of your cot, isn't smart enough to argue. Ah, glorious morning.

You have a lot of things to do today— you think you'll be raiding Headspace tomorrow, or the day after at an absolute push. What first?

>[1] Retrieve/wake up(?) Gil, naturally. Richard gave you explicit orders to drag him with you everywhere, and, by God, you will drag him *everywhere.*
>[2] You were informed yesterday that Branwen and (de-monsterized) Earl would be back at camp in the morning. Well, it's morning! You can't keep them waiting, can you?
>[3] Cults do all their skulking at night, so if Horse Face got his worm-revival instructions, it was probably while you were sleeping. Head over there and demand them ASAP.
>[4] From a certain perspective, it could be best to take care of unpleasant things first, so you don't have them tainting the rest of your day. You haven't seen Fake Ellery since you left, but you've since discovered the complete and entire truth around his origins. Surely he should be informed?
>[5] Write-in.

>>5865905
>[2] You were informed yesterday that Branwen and (de-monsterized) Earl would be back at camp in the morning. Well, it's morning! You can't keep them waiting, can you?

>>5865905
>2
Mmmm, that was a good nightmare.

File: I should write more.png (419 KB, 554x554)

419 KB PNG

I have a final tomorrow and a flight the day after, so I'm going to take the L tonight in order to finish up on some remaining work and chores. Will try to make up for it somewhere along the line. Vote remains open should anybody else stop by.

See you folks tomorrow!

>>5865905
>>[2] You were informed yesterday that Branwen and (de-monsterized) Earl would be back at camp in the morning. Well, it's morning! You can't keep them waiting, can you?

>>5865908
>>5866277
>>5866597

>Earl-y in the morning

Ha! Just kidding. First you get dressed. Your choice of outfit is straightforward, given that one is bloody and shredded and one you just wore for three days straight. You dig out your newly purchased cape (or is it a capelet? your Aunt Ruby would know) and button it on, then twirl around for the snake's discerning eyes. You feel spiffy.

The next order of business is retrieving Gil, except... it is rather early. What if he's still sleeping? What if you woke him up and he was indecent and cranky? A retainer ought be rising from their slumber on their lady's schedule, but you don't know if you actually warned Gil about that, so it doesn't seem fair to blame him.

Maybe you'll get one or two quick things done then check in on him— if he's still asleep at that point, it's completely his fault. What else is there to do in the morning? Didn't Branwen say she'd be back with Earl around now? You don't know if she actually is yet, and she didn't give a place to meet, but... positive thinking! They are already here, and you will find them no problem.

You tug your trusty boots on, stow The Sword at your hip, and tug the snake gently off your cot. It flicks its tongue but allows you to drape it around your neck. You start towards the door, but hitch in your step, double back, and grab the Headspace goodie bag. (You're here. Why not open it?) After turning it upside down, your cot is barraged with small items: a Headspace® wristband, a folded Headspace® bandana, an orange Headspace® bouncy ball, an enamel pin in a small baggie, and a tee-shirt bound up in a rubber band. A generous haul, considering that you did sort of cause a sinkhole and blow up a wall and pump some hapless employees for information under false pretenses. And also Gil shot some people with a paintball gun and escaped from security. Maybe you can get some use out of some of it someday.

Not now, though. You leave the junk where it is and emerge into the daylight. Where to first? Where would Branwen be likely to end up? Maybe Madrigal's?

Not Madrigal's. You march over there and tug at the door, but it's shut tight— either Madrigal is sleeping, or she's out and about. Eavesdropping reveals no noise at all, so maybe out and about. Damn. More thought is required. Branwen lives out in the Fen, doesn't she? So maybe she and Earl are emerging from its outskirts, and you can catch them before they enter camp proper?

(1/4?)

File: pink_outfit.png (1.74 MB, 931x848)

1.74 MB PNG

>>5867754

You try to mantain your optimism as you trek along the treeline, dodging boot-snarling roots and deceptively sticky mud-patches, but as neither Branwen nor Earl reveal themselves to you your spirits begin to flag. Maybe they really haven't arrived yet? But that would mean you've wasted all this time for nothing, and when you go get Gil and he asks what you've been doing you'll have to say you've been wandering around pointlessly, and what then? That simply cannot happen. It's unthinkable. They have arrived, somewhere, and you need to stop and consider the available facts. If they aren't in camp, and they aren't directly arriving, but they are nearby, then... could they be in the Landing? But what for? There has to be a good...

...Aha! You got it! Your dectectiving skills are as unmatched as ever, and when you look into the snake's beady little eyes you see complete agreement. It's settled, then. You must embark. Onwards to Lindew's Landing, where Branwen and Earl *must* be—

-

They are. Of course they are. You didn't doubt your intuition for even a second. As a bonus, unnecessary but appreciated, they're even doing what you deduced they would be. The old Richard would've dropped dead if he'd seen you march over here, or he would've taken all the credit, but the snake just lays there. You scratch its head.

They are having an argument— the general store's door is propped open all the way, so it's carrying out into the street.

"For the last time, it's no shirt, no shoes, no service."

"Man's half-dead, left his shoes'n the ass-crack of the Flats, and you have the *nerve* to—?!"

"Whoa, hey, leave the guy alone. Not like I'm all that presentable—"

"Yeah. And I recognize you two, by the way. I don't deal with criminals. This is a legitimate business, not a fucking fence, and I don't want to be involved in—"

The store owner cuts himself off: you have strolled in. His eyes go real big. "Holy shit."

Huh? Is it you? Well, it's about time somebody recognizes your inherent aura of impressiveness. "Yes! Hello! I have arrive...eth. Are you denying these fine folks their legitimate purchases?"

"Charlotte? Wow! Just the kid I was hoping to see!" Earl is talking, which is an excellent sign, and looks approximately like a regular human being— maybe a smidge fleshier than normal, but nothing you'd notice if you weren't looking. He has pants on, but (as you anticipated) no shoes or shirt. "We were just coming to see you!"

"Good timing, Fawkins." Branwen's leaned over the general store guy's counter. "Got a problem. Some real bright spark thinks he ain't selling what we're buying. Can you wrap your skull 'round that?"

The general store guy is on the other side of the counter, pressed against his seat, looking at nobody but you. Even for your aura of impressiveness, it's a bit much. Did you put your cape on the wrong way around? (You check: nope.)

(2/4?)

>>5867755

"Um," you say. "Well, that sounds really stupid. Earl can't go walking around town exposing his— his— it just isn't *moral.* I think it's extremely sensible to buy a shirt, and you'd have to be really stupid not to... you are paying for it?"

"I got a nest egg." Branwen looks offended.

"Okay, so what's the problem? He should let you buy it. You're going to let them buy it, right?"

The general store guy's spell breaks. He jolts in his seat. "Y- yeah! Yes. Of course. I'll just go ahead and count this up, and... unless you just want to take it?" Nevermind. He's looking at you again. "Should I— do you want it for free? Would that be helpful?"

"Only idjits offer fine goods for free, but we already knew that about you." Branwen snatches the shirt off the counter and tosses it to Earl. "Maybe when you grow up, you'll have a learning about honest business."

"I'm 31," the general store guy says weakly. (He looks even younger now than you thought he did. 16? 15?) "So..."

"Don't care." She turns her back. "We can talk outside, Fawkins."

Earl is buttoning his new shirt up, but takes a moment to wave to the store owner. "Thank you!"

Another problem solved by you, and you've barely been awake for half an hour. See? You knew today would be amazing. You're making to follow the two of them when the store owner raps his knuckles on the counter. "Uh... hey. You."

"Huh?" you say.

"Can we... talk?"

It's hard for you to see him as threatening when he's only a little taller than you are, not to mention skinny. Even so, Richard isn't here to inform you, so maybe it's better to play things safe. Give yourself some time to think about it. "Maybe after I talk to them! Bye!"

You emerge outside. With Earl now beshirted, he looks exactly like a regular human being. Like he wasn't just a giant voiceless slavering man-creature. Funny how things work. "Thanks for the help in there," he's saying. "Real life-saver! Just like usual! Do you know the guy? He seemed like—"

"No," you say. "Um... but I do have that effect on people! It's because I'm a famous heroine. Anyways, so, I guess you... I guess Branwen got you back to normal?"

"Ain't did shit," Branwen says. "Man slept it off like usual. Just gave 'im a place to do it at."

Earl chucks her on the shoulder. "Hey, cut the crap! I was taken good care of. Wish I could remember it for shit, but you know how it goes... at least it's temporary, huh? I'd be real fucked if it wasn't! Har-har. Er, you did know it was temporary, kid? I've told you that?"

(3/4)

File: earl_-_colonelchicken.png (5.07 MB, 1753x1777)

5.07 MB PNG

>>5867756

"Yeah," you say.

"Okay, good. Phew! And I didn't scare you any? I guess it went south, considering you had to use the emergency jab, but I didn't hurt you? Or anybody who didn't need hurting?"

He's wringing his hands. You rub your mouth. "Um, you didn't hurt me."

"Told you," Branwen says.

"Well, that's something. I didn't think I would, but..."

His big face has grown pensive. He obviously thinks there's more to know.

>[A1] Tell Earl the complete truth about his evening: he freaked out and killed five or six skimmers after you lost consciousness. You don't think he was acting maliciously, but you don't think they really deserved to die, either. He should know in case he gets recognized, because they shot him really bad in the shoulder, and they probably have a manhunt out for him.
>[A2] Tell Earl a bare outline of his evening. Yes, he hurt people who weren't you and who probably didn't deserve it. You think he thought he was protecting you. Refuse to give any more detail, so you don't wrack him with guilt.
>[A3] Don't say anything else, even if he presses. He knows it all went wrong; that's all he needs to know. Just make sure he knows it wasn't really his fault.
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B1] Tell Earl the complete truth about his employer: that he was an sociopathic bastard who attempted to murder Felicia. You were forced to kill him to defend her. He was trying to steal or maybe break a seal that prevents God from leaking in and wrecking everything, and he in turn was working for an evil thieving bitch who's trying to become a god herself. So, yeah.
>[B2] Tell Earl a bare outline of the truth about his employer. He ended up being a back-stabbing jerk who tried to kill Felicia. You stopped him, but you won't be getting paid anytime soon.
>[B3] Leave out anything about his employer. Earl doesn't need more to worry about.
>[B4] Write-in.

>[C1] Tell Earl that he did kind of scare you— not because he was scary towards you, but because his loss of humanity was so pronounced. He does this to himself all the time? How? Why?
>[C2] Tell a white lie and say he didn't scare you. He was very friendly, after all, and seemed to care about you to the extent he could. You trusted him. It was all okay. [Roll for convincingness.]
>[C3] Write-in.

>>5867757
>[A3] Don't say anything else, even if he presses. He knows it all went wrong; that's all he needs to know. Just make sure he knows it wasn't really his fault
>[B1] Tell Earl the complete truth about his employer: that he was an sociopathic bastard who attempted to murder Felicia. You were forced to kill him to defend her. He was trying to steal or maybe break a seal that prevents God from leaking in and wrecking everything, and he in turn was working for an evil thieving bitch who's trying to become a god herself. So, yeah.
>[C2] Tell a white lie and say he didn't scare you. He was very friendly, after all, and seemed to care about you to the extent he could. You trusted him. It was all okay. [Roll for convincingness.]

>>5867757
>>5867757
>A2
Mention the manhunt though, I'd pick A3 if it weren't for the manhunt. Don't want Earl jumped out of nowhere for reasons he can't comprehend.
>B1
>C2

>>5867757
>>A2
>>B1
>>C2

>>5867833
>>5868083
>>5868093
>[A2], as minimal as possible
>[B1]
>[C2]

I have a delayed flight, so if you guys roll quick I might be able to start writing in the terminal. Let's see what happens.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 10 (-10 Bad Liar) vs. DC 50 (+5 Suspicious, +5 Knows The Drill, +10 Good-Natured) to convince Earl you weren't scared at all!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 14/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 68 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>5868145

>>5868145
>N

>>5868145
>spendy

Rolled 51 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>5868145
>[1] Y

Rolled 28 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>5868145
>Y

>>5868147
>>5868188
>>5868200
>68, 51, 28 vs. DC 50 -- Success
>Spendy

Nice. Writing. Also, that should've been -10 Good-Natured, not +10-- my bad.

[i]test[/i]

>Need-to-know basis
>68, 51, 28 vs. DC 50 — Success
>Spendy

You look sideways. The pure and honest thing to do would be to tell Earl everything that happened. If he feels guilty about it, so what? He's not a heroic person, or even a good person at all; not like you are. You've only done one thing wrong in your entire life (and was it even that bad?), while the general store owner was right— he's a complete lowlife criminal. He signs himself up for helping stupid evil thieves, and he uses *pagan* magic to pretend like he isn't responsible in their schemes, even though he has to know what they're paying him for. You woke up and he'd killed five people! Five! Just because you weren't awake to tell him not to! Surely he needs to learn the error of his ways? Surely you shouldn't even be associating with him? You're not even friends. You barely know him. If Richard were here, the old one, he'd be telling you right now to cut Earl off, and you would, and that would be that.

It'd be much easier if Earl wasn't making that awful face, though. He's not doing it on purpose. If anything, he's trying to conceal it. But it's clear he's seeing the face *you're* making, on account of your pure heart/thoughts shining through, and as a result he is growing increasingly hangdog. His shoulders are sagging. His lips are sinking at the corners. If the old Richard were here, he'd inform you that this is a manipulation attempt that you will not be falling for, and if anything you should be filled with curled disgust at Earl's weak ploy for your sympathies, etcetera.

Like you said, though, you really don't think he's doing it on purpose. Unless letting you sleep in his bed without asking was also a manipulation attempt. And if you stopped talking to people just because they've done some bad things, you'd have to stop talking to, um, everybody you know. Even Gil. (Maybe even especially Gil, who's underwater because he got arrested for fraud... then started doing more crimes right away...) And, also, you did kill somebody during the heist too. Not that it was a wrong thing to do. It was totally heroic and justified. It did happen, though, and you weren't exactly conscious during it, and you thought you were doing it to protect somebody. And he wasn't exactly conscious when he killed all those skimmers, not like he is now, and you think he thought he was protecting you. It's not very pure and honest to be a hypocrite.

And he is really nice for no reason. There's also that. If he was a jerk like most people are, you'd have no issue telling him everything. You'd tell Horse Face that he turned into a scary monster and murdered innocent people if you thought he'd care. You'd tell Real Ellery. You'd tell Pat. You'd probably tell Madrigal or Monty or Henry. But Earl?

"Er, you didn't scare me either," you say.

This is not strictly speaking true. But Earl perks up. "Are you sure?"

(1/3)

File: branwen - @tradishowo.jpg (162 KB, 1401x1496)

162 KB JPG

Oh, God, he wants more detail? Focus, Lottie. It's not really lying if you're doing it for good reason. Plus, if you look way deep into yourself, you can kind of envision a world where you weren't scared at all. Maybe it's not that you were scared, but that you were disturbed. Those are different, right? And maybe you didn't even choose to be disturbed, your brain just did it for you. So when he asks if *you* were scared, it's not lying to say you weren't. Positive thinking. You can sell this. Look way deep...

>[-1 ID: 13/14]

"Um," you say. "Yeah! Of course I'm sure. I mean, you looked kind of scary—" He has to know this. It's not an insult. "—but you didn't act scary. It was obvious you sort of knew who I was and what we were doing and everything. You were really... enthusiastic. And I did know you'd go back to normal, so I wasn't worried about that so much."

Branwen slaps Earl on the shoulder. "See? Yer just a big dumb critter, Toothless. Nothin' more or less."

"So I'm told! Har-har. It's just a little mind-fucky to wake up a day late, bad taste in the mouth, no kid in sight— thought maybe I ate you! Morris told me I didn't, but— well, you get a thought stuck in your head, and— well, sorry for all the trouble. Hope I didn't cause too much of it for you."

Honestly? The murders weren't really the main issue at hand. "Uh... you were just following orders, so... you didn't cause any trouble on purpose. There might've been some misunderstandings, though. There might be some people out looking for you? Maybe?"

"People looking?" Earl says.

"Only maybe. I don't even know if they'd recognize you while you're normal... I think they only saw you, um, drugged. And it was pretty dark. I'd just steer clear of the Mud Flats for a little while, if you could."

Earl sighs. "Guess I'll have to leave my shoes where they are."

"We'll go get 'em together," Branwen drawls. "Don't worry over it."

You didn't really know what to think about Branwen, but you're glad you left Earl with her. At least somebody knows what they're doing. "Uh, and there was one other thing. The— the heist. It didn't really go as planned, because, um..."

You inform them about the Wayne situation: the seal, the attempted murder, your completely understandable and normal revenge, who he ended up to be working for, and why it's all Not Good News. Branwen hasn't reacted at all, except to arch her eyebrows slightly at your mention of Felicia, but Earl is rubbing his forehead. "Fuck me! Just my luck it's a psycho! I thought he seemed a little funny in the head, but... you know, I try not to think too hard about it... shit. What is it with people and summoning all these gods? This guy, the last guy—"

Horse Face told him flat-out that he was planning on summoning the sea-god? Of course he did. "Um, I don't think people who commission heists usually have a lot of morals?"

(2/3)

"Sure, but they're usually sane, kid! Not on some end-the-world kick! If I'd known..." He grimaces. "I'm sorry I brought you on. I figured it was all above-board, since 'Licia roped me in, but it just goes to show... man! Between this and all the Headspace horseshit, I don't know what the world's coming to! Nothing good, that's what I'm thinking. Are you still planning on going in there and wrecking shop?"

You hesitate. "Soon. Maybe tomorrow."

"Har-har! That is soon! Well, anything I can do, please let me know. Seems like I owe you a big one after all this."

"Brought you your critters for that," Branwen says, shoving her hand deep into her giant pants pocket. "Got a titch?"

>She offers you a small selection. Which do you pick for use in Headspace?
>[A1] The "pig." A bizarre sack of gelatin with waving tubes, Branwen claims that it's not only a real animal (doubtful) but that it has a keen sense of smell. Apparently it can track things down like a dog can, though it has a special preference for corpses.
>[A2] The "mantis." It just looks like a big shrimp to you, but Branwen has bound its claws in bands. She claims it can punch holes in windows, walls, and people, given sufficient motivation.
>[A3] The— it's just a overdeveloped scallop. You've seen these swimming around. Branwen claims that it has enough lifting power to slow a fall or carry a person over a gap, though it tires easily.
>[A4] Write-in. (Parameters: please choose a pocket-sized sea creature and a semi-realistic ability of moderate usefulness. Subject to veto or change if needed.)

(The [B]s are all optional.)
>[B1] How did Earl get here from the Fen without any shoes, anyways?
>[B2] Out of curiosity, how much does he actually remember? Is he "inside there somewhere" while he's doped-up and dumbed-down, or does it just feel like he blacks out and wakes up later?
>[B3] Is his shoulder feeling okay?
>[B4] Does he have a way of contacting Felicia? She seemed to know Wayne, sort of.
>[B5] You would like his help with something, actually. (With what? Write-in.)
>[B6] Write-in.

>>5868529
>[A2] The "mantis." It just looks like a big shrimp to you, but Branwen has bound its claws in bands. She claims it can punch holes in windows, walls, and people, given sufficient motivation.
Making a hole it a wall has a wide utility

>[B3] Is his shoulder feeling okay?
>[B4] Does he have a way of contacting Felicia? She seemed to know Wayne, sort of

>>5868529
>>5868624
+1 thees

>>5868529
>A1
its REAL
>B3
>B4

File: choose your fighter.png (1.22 MB, 1159x740)

1.22 MB PNG

>>5868624
>>5868684
>[A2]

>>5868727
>[A1]

>>5868624
>>5868684
>>5868727
>[B3]
>[B4]

Called for [A2], [B3], and [B4]. If you can't go worm mode, maybe you can at least go shrimp mode? Writing.

File: mantis.png (890 KB, 810x540)

890 KB PNG

>Shrimp mode

You watch with some small disgust as Branwen shows you a scallop (boring) and a pig (nasty — just a sack of goop), but the introduction of the mantis lifts your spirits. "Wow! What does that one do? Is it a shrimp? Or a lobster?"

"Shit if'n I know." She pinches it by its abdomen. Its stalk eyes swivel as it wriggles. "Bugger's a mantis. Lives in rocks, jumps out and beats up crabs and things. Those being the little crabs, not the bigguns. Eats their gooshy insides. Thing'll punch clear through glass, drywall, anything thin. Splinters wood. Breaks bones if'n the person's a stringbean, or leaves a good mark if not. Need to make sure it don't punch you, though."

You're sold. "It won't! I have a *very* good relationship with bugs of all kinds. Especially awesome bugs." The mantis isn't anywhere near as awesome as Annie, but you won't hold that against it. Annie couldn't punch things, after all. "How should I carry it around?"

"Need to watch your fingers. It don't bite, and I got it tied up good, but when you untie it maybe use a towel or something. Critter's feisty. Can't git you if you hold it back here." Branwen flips it over to show her grip. "Also, if you're in the business of seeing a juicy crab or summat, let it at it. Maybe we don't need food anymore, but it does."

"Okay." You decide not to tell her that you'll surely make best friends with the mantis, so you won't need any kind of special holding procedure. "Um, what if something happens to it? Not that I won't take good care of it, but—"

She shrugs. "Got more where it came from. Taking care's 'preciated, but not needed."

Hmm. Well, if/when you make friends with it, you'll defend it with your life anyways. (You don't need a repeat of Annie.) You extend your hand, and Branwen plops the mantis in— its pointy legs poke into your palm. "Hi," you say to it.

Earl claps his hands together. "Good choice! Isn't it a looker? Reminds me of Buster, a little, but he doesn't punch— or if he does I've never seen it! Har-har! I bet they'd be pals if they met, though."

Buster? Oh, his weird pet bug-creature. Gil was playing with it. "Is Buster okay without you?"

"He's a tough little bastard. Probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone. Which is good, because it might be a bit before I can make it back. Hell's a hike!"

Hmm. He hasn't said anything about it, but you want to be sure. "And with your shoulder—"

"Huh? Which one?" Earl pats both shoulders. "Are they funny-looking? There might be a little zazz left in the system."

"Oh. Nevermind." He has no idea what you're talking about, so it really must be fixed. "Are you staying with Branwen, or—?"

Branwen nods curtly. "Got the space."

You guess he'll be close by if you do decide you want his help with anything. "Um, that's cool. Have either of you heard from Felicia? I think she's okay, but I don't know where she went after everything happened."

(1/3)

File: roscoe 35.5.png (912 KB, 1548x1594)

912 KB PNG

"Hoo. Good question." Earl sucks air through his teeth. "I don't know if Morris has gotten any word, but 'Licia's skittish to her bones. If she was attacked like that, she's gone and locked herself up in some hidey-hole gods-know-where."

Naturally. "But you're friends with her, so you know where—"

"Haw! No. It's bad fucking luck to blab, she tells me and Morris. Don't think she's so ungrateful she'd never thank you, though, so I'd bet a solid rock or two she'll find ya. Is it urgent at all?"

You'd like to hear about what she knows of Wayne, and of the "Harold," but neither of those will kill you if you wait. Even if you think it's rude to go hide from one's selfless life-saver. "No, I guess..."

"Then give it a few. We'll point her towards ya if she pokes her head up, right? Morris?"

Another nod from Branwen.

It's not what you were hoping for, but it's better than nothing, you suppose. "...Thanks."

"Naw, no big deal at all. Don't mention it. I should be thanking you for hauling me through this shit-show! Sheesh! Don't know what I would've done solo. Let them all get away with it, I guess." Earl sighs. "Well, here. You're a real pal, kid. Shake on it?"

Even unaugmented, his outstretched hand engulfs yours. You do your best to shake, rather than be shaken, but it's basically fruitless. He pumps your arm like he's being paid for it. What do you say? (Richard would know.) "Uh... happy to help? Just doing my job? I'm glad you didn't die...?"

"Har-har-har! Me too!" Earl caps off the handshake by slapping your shoulder. "Well, it's been a good time. Sounds like we might hang around here a little while— see the sights, grab a drink, something like that. If you need me, come find me, okay? I owe you one!"

He and Branwen walk off, leaving you alone in the middle of town, holding a big shrimp. The shrimp waves its tendrils. What now?

Oh. The general store guy. Should you even go in? He seemed crazy. On the other hand, you do have a big shrimp that punches people, so you don't think your life is in any danger. And you don't know if Gil is up or not, still, so maybe you ought to check it out. Yeah. Maybe it's not even anything, and he's just your secret biggest fan? *Somebody* has to be your secret biggest fan. That makes a lot of sense, in your opinion— you'll go with that.

The bell jingles as you push the general store's door open. "Oh fuck!" says the general store guy, immediately. "You're back! I didn't think—"

"Um, yes. I am returneth! And I have a mantis, so don't even think about luring me into the back room and murdering me! It won't work. You'll just get punched by a big shrimp, and then I'll stab you with my sword, which is on fire, by the way, and it'll all be really sad and humiliating for you."

The guy is leaning way back in his chair. "I— I wasn't going to lure you—"

(2/3)

"That's exactly what an evil lurer would say." You cross your arms. "But if you're actually my secret biggest fan, that's okay too. I'm very flattered, but you need to figure out how to act less creepy and suspicious about it, okay? You can't just go around ogling me and offering me free stuff. It's not proper. And asking to talk to me alone isn't—"

"I'm not your fan!" the guy says.

"Oh." You pout. "It'd be okay if you were. But I don't understand... do you know me from somewhere? Were we, as a random example, best friends in the entire world a couple years ago before I lost my memory and mysteriously fled into the night?"

His face is telling you 'no.' Darnit. "Okay, um, do you know me in any way? Outside of me occasionally patronizing your fine establishment? And being a locally known famous heroine?"

The general store guy rests his face in his hand. "No, we're— we don't know each other. I don't even know your name."

You straighten. "What? You should at least know that! I am Charlotte Fawkins. Obviously."

"Okay." He sags. "I'm Roscoe."

Honestly, you didn't even consider the possibility he'd have a real name. You sort of thought he was just the general store guy. "Oh. Well, salutations, Roscoe. Wherefore bringeth you me into this— this fine establishment? Like I said? And why were you ogling me? I saw you ogling—"

"Can I help you in any way?" he says.

"What?"

"Can I help? With anything? I— I don't know what you need, exactly, or what you do all day, or if I even have anything I can— I don't think I have any special skills or anything. I'm just a guy. But if there's anything you can think of..."

He's almost curled up in his seat, like he doesn't want to be saying any of this. Except he is. Is it a prank? Has he been put up to it? Who would prank you in such a way, though? If Horse Face has been in here, you swear to God— "Why?"

"Why?" repeats Roscoe.

"Yeah! Why would you want to help me? I *am* involved in some extremely important business, but that doesn't mean— I don't know how you'd know about any of that. And I don't really know how you'd help, either, so..."

"Uh, I don't think I should say. Why." He grips the arms of his chair. "I don't think it's super important or anything, I just... uh... please let me know what you need me to do, okay?"

(Choices next.)

>[1] Sure. Fine. Gift horse, maw, etcetera.
>>[A] He runs this big stupid general store, right? So you bet he can give you things for free. You want some stuff for free. (What? The general store has a broad array of mundane objects. Write-in.)
>>[B] You need to be able to trust him. Tell him you want the most valuable thing he owns. You'll give it back, er, probably... but his reaction should shed more light on this whole deal.
>>[C] Say, does he have any bombs lying around? Or materials for a bomb? You really need a bomb right now.
>>[D] You're good for the moment, but if this offer isn't time-limited, you'll probably be back later. He should keep an eye out for you.
>>[E] Write-in.

>[2] No, no, no. This is way too suspicious.
>>[A] You have a sword and a very punchy mantis. What does he have? His bare fists? Threaten him into telling you what's going on. [Roll.]
>>[B] Threaten him? You don't need to do that. You know with certainty that he'll tell you the complete and entire truth. (Advanced Gaslighting.) [Roll.]
>>[C] Why bother with talking? If he's being coerced or manipulated or influenced in any way, you have a straightforward method of discovering this. Use it. (Communion. Spend 1 ID.)
>>[D] Whatever's happening, it isn't worth the time of day. Turn around and leave, to maximally spite whoever's behind all this.
>>[E] Write-in.

>>5868991
>1C
a totally normal request that is in no way suspicious

>>5869151
Support!

>>5868991
>>1C

>>5869151
>>5869173
>>5869673
>[1C]

Writing.

File: super-manse.png (195 KB, 411x495)

195 KB PNG

>It's yours, my friend

Maybe he is your secret fan, but he's just really shy about it. Like Gil would be if he wasn't already your retainer. Yeah! That seems about right. Even if you can't think of anything you obviously need right now, you better set your mind to it, so he isn't disappointed. Thinking. Thinking. Hmm... a-ha! "Why, of course! Would you happen to sell any bombs?"

"...Bombs?"

"Preferably magyckal ones? I don't think a dinky regular one will cut it, but maybe Gil can upgrade it... so any sort of bomb, I suppose. Or lots of bombs, if you have lots! I'll take a look at anything."

Roscoe is pinching his lips together and nodding, but is not proffering any bombs. You think about it. "Oh! And this would be for a good cause. A very good cause. I'm not just going around and blowing random stuff up... I mean, maybe if I had extra, but I only *need* one. There's something very important that needs exploded, very soon, or they'll release a thing, and— bad stuff will happen."

"Bad stuff?"

"You know, like... bad... things?" This is a flaw in your detectiving: you haven't yet determined what exactly Management wants all the Law /for./ Considering their methods, though, you don't think it's even a tiny stretch to assume it's undesirable for everyone else. "It's bad! You can trust me! And I know you do trust me, because I know you're my secret fan— even if you can't say so. That's what makes you a secret fan, and not a normal fan. I understand completely."

"You know what, sure. We can go with that." He stands. "Give me a second."

Roscoe disappears through a door in the back wall— needing to recover from direct exposure to his cherished favorite heroine, no doubt. You bob on your heels until he returns, carrying a small clamshell package. He tosses it onto the counter in front of you.

Jean Ramsey is on it. She is wearing *your* Crown. She is advertising a SUPER-M.A.N.S.E., which is a thing that comes in a pill, apparently. It is "SUPER quick, SUPER easy, SUPER cool."

You are SUPER going to run her through with The Sword and put her fat block head up on a pike. You snatch the package up. "Where—?!"

"Are you planning to blow up Headspace?" Roscoe says matter-of-factly.

"I am going to blow up Headspace SO hard it never—" You slam your fist on the counter, stopping yourself. Richard would be saying you shouldn't be telling random people about this. But is Roscoe, your biggest fan ever, really a random person? Obviously he's been secretly following your exploits, maybe even writing them down in a book, so there's nothing to fear. He already knows everything.

(1/2)

Also, he's turned around, placed his face in his hands, and is at present screaming a muffled "FUCK!" into said hands. Oh, he's turning back around. "Of course you are!" he says a smidge manically. "Well, good luck! You've got a lot of things on your side. Uhh. Don't take that pill."

"Wasn't planning on it." You shove the SUPER-M into your back pocket.

"Wonderful. Amazing. I don't sell any bombs." He raps on the counter rapidly. "I mean, none that I noticed were bombs. They send me a lot of weird shit. You might want to check the— I have a box for stuff I don't know what it is. It's back over there. If you find something, it's yours, okay? Please take it and go do whatever you're supposed to be doing. Is that helpful?"

"Uh... yes." Even if you don't find a bomb, Jean Ramsey's face is on a Headspace product. "You've been very helpful."

"Thank fuck," says Roscoe, and sits back, and doesn't say anything more.

You cast him a side-eye before venturing off in search of the box of mysteries. The mystery box, one might say, hypothetically.

>[A1] PLUNGE THE DEPTHS OF THE MYSTERY BOX for bombs and bomb-like objects. [I will roll 3d100 for what you find, and you may select from there. Quality may vary.]
>[A2] Now that you think about it, why limit yourself to bombs and bomb-like objects? Apparently there's pretty much whatever in here. [I will roll 2x 3d100. You may or may not locate a bomb or bomb-like object, but you will locate something. Quality may vary.]
>[A3] Is the snake casting its beady judgement upon you? Probably not. Um, but if Richard were here, he would tell you to look carefully through everything, not just jam your hand in there and see what comes out. You can restrain yourself long enough to do that, surely. [Roll. This will guarantee a fairly good bomb/bomb-like object if you succeed.]

—

Wat do next?
>[B1] Gil has probably definitely woken up by now. What are you going to do, leave him to rot? To shrivel up from terror and loneliness? Nay! Go get him.
>[B2] For some reason, being in this general store reminds you of Madrigal. You didn't exactly leave on good terms, though you have no idea why— but maybe you can go smugly inform her that Earl is all better? And/or receive a gracious apology?
>[B3] Hold on, isn't Management supposed to be checking in on Pat today? Meaning you should go check in on Pat, lest she get kidnapped right under your nose. (Not that that wouldn't be delicious justice, but...)
>[B4] You have acquired a new Headspace product to wave under Fake Ellery's exceedingly prominent nose. Maybe he has something to say about it? Maybe you can psychologically torture him if not? Sounds like a win/win to you.
>[B5] Write-in.

>>5869997
>[A1] PLUNGE THE DEPTHS OF THE MYSTERY BOX for bombs and bomb-like objects. [I will roll 3d100 for what you find, and you may select from there. Quality may vary.]

>[B4] You have acquired a new Headspace product to wave under Fake Ellery's exceedingly prominent nose. Maybe he has something to say about it? Maybe you can psychologically torture him if not? Sounds like a win/win to you.

>>5869997
[A4] Why wouldn't there be a bomb in that box? There is no reason for that. It totally plausibly believably can just lie there under junk. Legerdemain ourselves a bomb.

[B3] Hold on, isn't Management supposed to be checking in on Pat today? Meaning you should go check in on Pat, lest she get kidnapped right under your nose. (Not that that wouldn't be delicious justice, but...)

>>5869997
>A3
>B3
Time to make Pat owe a debt she can never repay even if she devotes the rest of her life to us.

>>5869997
>>A3
>>B3

>>5870231
>>5870256
>[A3]

>>5870186
>[A4]

>>5870130
>[A1]

>>5870231
>>5870256
>>5870186
>[B3]

>>5870130
>[B4]

The mystery box's lure is resisted. Calling for [A3] + [B3], and I need dice. Going to see if I can double update today.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 5 (-5 Self-Control) vs. DC 60 (+10 Long Shot) to find a working bomb!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 13/14 ID. (Please vote with your roll!)
>[1] Y
>[2] N


>>5870186
This isn't quite the right use-case for legerdemain, which works best for small, simple, familiar objects-- a bomb isn't really any of those things. (Maybe small at a stretch.) That being said, spending ID on the above roll will have basically the same effect.

Rolled 7 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5870303
THE BOOOOOOX

Rolled 61 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5870303

>>5870313
>Y

>>5870312
>>5870313
>Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 13/14 ID. (Please vote with your roll!)
Guys, you've only had to do this literally almost every single roll of this 37-thread over-4-year-old quest.

>>5870315
>(Please vote with your roll!)
I'm going to have to start arbitrarily picking the worst option here if the instructions don't get followed. I don't feel like this is all that difficult.

>>5870318
Okay okay jesus someone's grinchy today
>Y

Rolled 97 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5870303
>Y

>>5870318
So much for Christmas cheer ;_;

Rolled 68 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5870303

This time you should roll 1d2 for the spendy or not, since everyone waited until after seeing that 61 to pick.

Honestly the picking already favors us probably a bit more than OP intended even without the waiting.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5870312
>>5870313
>>5870350
>2, 56, 92 vs. DC 60 -- Mitigated Success
Or a Success if the coinflip wins here (1=Spendy, 2=No Spendy). Then writing.

>>5870324
>>5870350
It's not Christmas yet, lads, and I didn't just remind you guys earlier in the thread >>5852341 but included a special reminder with this very roll. Like I said, I've been very nice about this in the past, but my patience is wearing thin over here.

>>5870422
>This time you should roll 1d2 for the spendy or not, since everyone waited until after seeing that 61 to pick.
Sure, I'll do this.

>Honestly the picking already favors us probably a bit more than OP intended even without the waiting.
Nah, I factor in the assumption that ID will be spent into the DCs I set. It's a tool offered for a reason.

>>5870488
>>5870318
Shit. If I forget to Y/N again, assume Y at all times and refer back to my post ID (I just like spending).

File: jam tin grenade.jpg (50 KB, 400x293)

50 KB JPG

>Gambling: just say no!
>2, 56, 92 vs. DC 60 — Mitigated Success
>No spendy

Indeed, there is a large brown bin shoved against the wall, brimming with... objects. "RANDOM SHIT," declares its handwritten sign, and there's two additional stickers slapped on under that: "BUY AT OWN RISK" and "DAMNED IF I KNOW." The stickers look fresh. Perfect.

Your first, second, and third instincts are to plunge your hands in there and trust your innate bomb-detecting skills to come up with something useful. Richard isn't even here to tell you not to do that. (Because it's inefficient, or maybe because he doesn't want you to cut your fingers on a sharp thingamabob.) Except that makes it all worse— if he did tell you not to, you'd be automatically driven to spite him. Instead, it's just you, and a bin, and a dead-eyed snake. The snake is flicking its tongue right at you.

Heaving a great sigh, you flop to the ground, stow the mantis in the inside pocket of your cape(let), and begin to pick through the bin ""methodically"". Laying your findings in rows on the ground, you sort them uselessly by color to spite the snake anyways. The snake does not comment.

After a little while, you crane your neck over your rows. God, what even is this stuff? Roscoe wasn't kidding with his labels: much of it appears to be straight-up garbage or salvage. That's a rusted belt buckle, and that's a fork snapped in two, and that looks like a tangle of fishing line. There's some animal bits: a perfect folded square of alligator hide, a long pointy thing that resembles a bear stinger. There's the truly indiscernible: a dried hunk of something rainbow and shiny, a corkscrew-shaped ivory doohickey. There are no bombs.

No bombs that you've laid out yet, anyways. You consider your color-coded rows, and you consider the snake, and you consider the bin, which is half-empty. Oh, to hell with it— you're a lady of action, not of sitting on the ground and boringly sorting. If you wanted somebody to boringly sort things for you, you would've brought Gil. (He'd probably even like it.) If you shove your hand in there, you're bound to find something, and if it isn't the absolute best bomb ever... pssh! It doesn't even matter! You will find something. You will. Er, and you're even going to put your new gloves on, so nothing can poke you. Ahem. Here goes...

You feel around blindly before closing around a big cylinder. It's a... wait for it... oh. Darn. It's a can, with a label on it and everything. "Finest Plums." If you threw a lot of plums into the middle of Headspace, would that jam up the works sufficiently? No? Probably not. Well, you must've picked this up for a reason. Positive thinking. You turn it around, then upside-down, and perceive a rattling from inside the can, and the flopping-down of a... stick? It looks a bit like a peculiar string of licorice, or a cigarette with no paper on it. It smells a bit like a cigarette, too. Smoky. Are they smoked plums? Or...

(1/3)

File: eloise - @elvenking42.png (1.11 MB, 3000x3000)

1.11 MB PNG

(...What would Richard say it was...)

Oh! Is it a bomb, cleverly disguised? Well, it has to be— what's the alternative, you *failing* to find a bomb? After Roscoe so graciously offered one free of charge? How would that even work? And it's natural he stashed it here, considering that it looks awfully like a weirdo can of plums. Now, for a bomb, it does look somewhat small. And the powder inside, if there is powder inside, must be seriously damp. But you are positive thinking! This is a bomb, undoubtedly, and with a little souping-up and the proper placement Headspace won't know what hit it. They'll just think it was a can of plums! Ha-ha!

>[Acquired: Plum Can Grenade(??)]

You scoop up your rows of garbage and dump it haphazardly back in the bin, then march back out to Roscoe. "I found something!"

He squints up resignedly. "I don't even know what..."

"It's a bomb! But it looks like a can, because it's a secret bomb. Like how you're my secret fan! Secret can... secret fan... I'll work on it." You wave a hand. "Anyhow, you have been exceedingly useful, so good job! Make sure you write about this in your book."

"My book?"

"Your secret book about me? You don't have to tell me about it. I know it's secret. Anyways— bye!"

You are newly shrimped and newly bombed, and you haven't even gone and woken Gil up yet. A good start to a good day.

—

An even better start to a good day: you run into Eloise on the path back to camp. "Charlotte! I *love* the outfit! Very 'birthday cake'."

"Uhh..." If only Richard could clarify if that was an insult. Eloise has been nice to you, ish, so maybe... not? "Yes! As I intended, of course. Have you found out about nearby Headspace workers yet?"

She snaps her fingers. "Working on it! I was just about to chat up that receptionist, actually. I'll have a shortlist in a few hours, if that's no issue."

"I mean, if you'll have it..."

"Sure will. No need to worry. Oh! I thought you should know! I think your friend was busy talking to that new gal. The one Madrigal came back with. Pat?"

Your friend? Pat? "You mean Gil? He's my retainer, not my... he's talking to Pat?"

"Was! Saw her leaving. She and the other one, the yellow jumpsuit— eh, Guppy? Not sure if that's the name or a nickname. I saw her waiting around outside there, so maybe the two of them are involved in something. Those being Guppy and Pat, not your friend, so far as I know."

Pat was talking to Gil, and now she's talking to Guppy... hmm. You better stick your nose in there, just in case she's spreading vile lies or stealing people's blood or whatnot. "Okay. Uh. Thanks. Where's Guppy's tent again?"

"Three down from yours, hook a left..." Eloise conveys a complicated set of instructions. You resolve to look around in that general area, rather than trying to remember all of them.

"...Thanks."

"Sure! Just spreading the good news. Seeya later!"

(2/3)