Start of a transcript of Cragne Manor An Anchorhead tribute by various authors Release 10 / Serial number 181208 / Inform 7 build 6M62 (I6/v6.33 lib 6/12N) Identification number: //1A586AF4-661C-4879-ADFF-7DDE35836AF1// Interpreter version 1.3.5 / VM 3.1.2 / Library serial number 080126 Standard Rules version 3/120430 by Graham Nelson Cragne Suite version 2 by Ryan Veeder (including Basic Screen Effects and Modified Exit by Emily Short, as well as modifications by Andrew Plotkin of Epistemology and Conversation Framework by Eric Eve) Plus modified versions of: Optimized Epistemology by Andrew Plotkin Conversation Framework by Eric Eve >d You pass over the bridge. The ravine has become a white river, teeming with creatures: you see a fin, a gill, a plaintive upturned face, before each is swept away. Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A giant milkweed leaf dangles just within reach from the mass of stems. Almost hidden within the milkweed is a dilapidated shack built more of splinters than of planks. >undo Exterior of Train Station (Emily Short with additions from Graham Nelson) [Previous turn undone.] >s You pass over the bridge. The ravine has become a white river, teeming with creatures: you see a fin, a gill, a plaintive upturned face, before each is swept away. Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A giant milkweed leaf dangles just within reach from the mass of stems. Almost hidden within the milkweed is a dilapidated shack built more of splinters than of planks. >* We crossed the bridge to the bottom of the ravine? I'm having a hard time picturing this >* atmospherically written place, though! >x ravine You can't see any such thing. >x creatures You can't see any such thing. >* Guess we passed those by >x bramble The brambles are overgrown and yet sickly, with yellowed leaves and black-spotted stems. Thorns are plentiful, though apparently this isn't the kind of bramble that produces an edible berry. Or perhaps berries are out of season. >x road This stretch of road is heavily washboarded gravel. Not your favorite. In high school, a week after you got your license, you flipped your parents' Jeep Cherokee driving too fast on a surface just like this. >x track The tracks run north and south beneath mats of dead grass and bramble, bringing to mind an impossible serpent banded with the black of the resinous ties. Are the tracks in use? Could a train actually traverse them? Who knows. >* ooh, backstory >* Also someone's getting excited to write all Lovecraft-y >x milkweed Which do you mean, the patch of milkweed or the giant milkweed leaf? >patch Does milkweed normally grow to a height of eight feet? You're doubtful. This variety's leaves are ragged ovals the size of Halloween masks, notches rimmed with milky sap where they've been gnawed. The stems, a-crawl with ants, clatter in the breeze like rattling spears. One huge curled leaf dangles by a green thread, just within reach. >x ants The ants are hard at work on some incomprehensible project. It's almost as if they don't realize that all of their labors are ultimately pointless. >* ooh, metaphor! >x sap The milkweeds are dappled with a milky white sap having a consistency eerily similar to blood. >take sap There's no need. >smell sap Bitter. >taste sap Bitter. >* that surely won't turn out to have been a bad idea! >x leaf A giant milkweed leaf, curled in such a way that it could cling to your face like a mask. It even has two milk-ringed holes for your eyes. >* that's an odd idea to pop into our head >take it Taken. >wear it You put on the giant milkweed leaf. >* why not >x me Out of the sun, the sweat on your body has rapidly cooled, giving you a slight chill. Isn't this supposed to be summer? >* oh, I wonder if X ME is different in every location? >n Exterior of Train Station (Emily Short with additions from Graham Nelson) To the north is the gargantuan windowless bulk of the train station. A metal trash can squats beneath its carved facade. The town itself is downhill, on the other side of a ravine. >x me The salient fact is that you are drenched. No other state information is nearly as important right now. >n Train Station Lobby (Shin) The surroundings are as dim and dingy as ever. The platform is to the north. The dirty, cobweb-covered windows and the station exit are to the south. The large mirror and the green door are to the east. The restroom door is to the west. You are unsure what you should do. >x me Even in these dim and dingy surroundings, you are as good-looking as ever. >w Train Station Restroom (David Petrocco) A harshly lit pay restroom. Dust and grime mar the once white tiles and marble of the facilities: A small shower stall with the curtain open, a bathroom stall with a single dirty toilet (there are mounts for a door, but it is nowhere to be seen), a small storage closet for janitorial supplies, a four by four row of small lockers, and an extremely dirty dual basin sink. The train station is EAST. >x me Looking at yourself in the dim restroom light you take note of the physical toll of your trip so far. You're covered from head to toe in dirt, sweat and god knows what else. You could use a good scrub up, or even better a long hot shower. None of the facilities present tempt you into taking a break but the desire to be clean again lingers on. >* fun! gotta add that to the routine when entering a new place >e Train Station Lobby (Shin) The surroundings are as dim and dingy as ever. The platform is to the north. The dirty, cobweb-covered windows and the station exit are to the south. The large mirror and the green door are to the east. The restroom door is to the west. You are unsure what you should do. >s Exterior of Train Station (Emily Short with additions from Graham Nelson) To the north is the gargantuan windowless bulk of the train station. A metal trash can squats beneath its carved facade. The town itself is downhill, on the other side of a ravine. >s You pass over the bridge. The ravine has become a white river, teeming with creatures: you see a fin, a gill, a plaintive upturned face, before each is swept away. Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. Almost hidden within the milkweed is a dilapidated shack built more of splinters than of planks. >x shack A hateful structure less than five feet high. The wood frame of the shack has tilted, twisting subtly out of true. The angles itch at your eyes, somehow uncomfortable to look at. No windows. The low doorway, lacking a door, hisses at you open-mouthed. Or would that just be the standard summer susurrus of Vermont? "Hateful" might an odd way to describe a building, but you can't escape the impression that the shack is capable of such an emotion. It's got to be a death-trap, anyway: take a step inside, or even give the shack a push, and surely it will just collapse. >* oh, it's summer -- I thought autumn given the overall spookiness >enter shack You have to crouch to enter the shack. The interior is still and dark and reeks of dry rot. Before you're even all the way inside your elbow bumps the doorframe and something cracks. The walls and roof fall in, crushing you dead under a heap of splintery old wood, tar paper, and rusty nails. Hungry mosquitoes gather, not unwilling to harvest a few last sips of blood before your body cools. Ants gather, and flies. *** Death, Sudden and Awful *** Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, QUIT, UNDO the last command or TAKE BACK the action that sealed your fate (for when UNDO is not enough)? > undo Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) [Previous turn undone.] >* well at least that was telegraphed. Too bad for me (though the mosquitos made out OK) >push shack You set your shoulder to the corner of the shack and give it a shove. The whole structure slumps, then leans, then falls over with a sound of splintering wood and tearing tar paper. The walls fall back and outward, somehow not falling onto the (what is that?) stone altar that once stood inside the shack. A swathe of milkweeds are knocked down, and a cloud of dust drifts up from the shadows, seeming to turn more solid in the sunlight far above. "Knocked down..." Oh no; it happens just that easily. The lyrics of a song pop into your head unbidden: I get knocked down / But I get up again / You're never going to keep me down! >* the very-90s backstory and the Lovecraft-y present make a funny combination >sing tubthumping I only understood you as far as wanting to sing. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: I get knocked down / but I get up again / you're never going to keep me down! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. [Author's note: messing with the earworm is entirely optional. Not that I would try to dissuade you from it!] >i You are carrying: a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >take earworm The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength: He drinks a whiskey drink / he drinks a vodka drink / he drinks a lager drink / he drinks a cider drink! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >* he sings the songs that remind him of the good times, he sings the songs that remind of the better times >* oh danny boy, danny boy, danny boy.... You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* EVERYBODY! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* I get knocked down, but i get up again You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* You're never gonna keep me down That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* I get knocked down but I get up again That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* You're never gonna keep me down That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He sings the songs that remind him of the good times / he sings the songs that remind him of the better times! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Iä get knocked down / but iä get up again / you're never going to keep mi-go down! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >* This is concerning >* this version of the song doesn't seem to just be encoding criticism of the way drugs and toxic masculinity are used to pacify the British working classes >* (Did you know Chumbawamba is an anarchist collective that rotates their frontpeople for egalitarian reasons?) >* Well, I don't see how keeping going with this could possibly go wrong >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He drinks a wgah drink / he drinks a ph'nglui drink / he drinks a fhtagn drink / he drinks a cthulhu drink! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >i You are carrying: a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >take earworm The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength: He sings the songs that remind him of the r'lyeh times / he sings the songs that remind him of the leng times! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >ignore earworm That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Iä get knocked down / but iä get up again / you're gla'nagl going to keep mi-go down! Apparently Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >pull doll The doll intones: "Avoid the sky! The sky is fathomless! The sky is measureless!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the sky! The sky is measureless!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the threat of the patch of milkweed! Feet are low and signify humiliation!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the milky sap! White is the hue of a dead dove!" >g The doll intones: "Flee the ants!" >g The doll intones: "Flee the brambles!" >g The doll intones: "Flee the thing that isn't here!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the road!" >g The doll intones: "Avoid the terrain!" >g The doll intones: "Flee the brambles!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the hazard of the road!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the ants!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the patch of milkweed! Feet are low and signify humiliation!" >turn head You rotate the doll's head, concealing its sinister face and exposing its insincere one. >pull string The doll chirps, "I like the patch of milkweed! Feet! Yay!" There is a tinny sound of applause. >g The doll chirps, "I like the sky! Sky! Yay!" There is a tinny sound of applause. >x feet You can't see any such thing. >x sky The sky is deep blue, cloudless, sunless, and yet saturated with summer light. It seems to dream of the warm, pleasant day from which the terrain has neatly divided you. >* I think this is just grabbing a random object in the location and pulling an adjective or something? Cleverly done >pull string The doll chirps, "I like the thing that isn't here! Yay!" There is a tinny sound of applause. >l Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He drinks a nagl drink / he drinks a ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks a fhtagn drink / he drinks a cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He cta'nagl the songs that remind him of the r'lyeh times / he sings the songs pha'zo remind him of nagl leng times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl get knocked down / but ry'zr get up phleh / you're gla'nagl going to keep mi-go down! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Mp'zr drinks a iä! Drink / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks a fhtagn drink / he drinks a cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He cta'nagl the iä! That phleh him of the r'lyeh times / he sings the songs pha'zo remind him of nagl hwu times! Apparently Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl get knocked down / but ry'zr get up phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Apparently Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Dzo drinks hwu iä! Drink / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks a fhtagn cto / he drinks a cthulhu drink! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He cta'nagl the iä! That phleh him of the r'lyeh times / he cto the songs pha'zo dzo him of nagl mp'lyeh times! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl dzo lu'gl down / but ry'zr get wga'nagl phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >* getting there! >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Dzo drinks hwu iä! Drink / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks wazr'cb fhtagn ry'cb / he iä! A cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He iä! The iä! That phleh him of the lu'zo times / zlee cto the songs pha'zo dzo him of nagl mp'lyeh times! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl dzo lu'gl down / but ry'zr get wga'nagl phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Dzo drinks zlee iä! Iä! / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks wazr'cb fhtagn mglw / he iä! A cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He iä! The mglw iä! Nfah him of the lu'zo times / zlee cto the songs pha'zo dzo him of nagl mp'lyeh times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl wazr'nagl lu'gl down / but ry'zr get iä! Phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Dzo drinks zlee iä! Iä! / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks iä! Fhtagn mglw / he iä! A cthulhu drink! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He iä! The lu'zr iä! Nfah him of the lu'zo times / zlee cto the songs pha'zo dzo him iä! Nagl iä times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl wazr'nagl lu'gl iä! / iä ry'zr get phleh phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Dzo drinks phleh iä! Iä! / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / he drinks iä! Fhtagn mglw / iä wga'lan a cthulhu drink! Apparently Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He iä! Phleh lu'zr iä! Nfah dy of the lu'zo times / zlee cto the songs pha'zo dzo him iä! Nagl iä times! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl lu'nagl lu'gl iä! / gneh ry'zr get phleh phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Apparently Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Dzo drinks phleh iä! Iä! / he drinks phleh ph'nglui mp'zr / izh drinks iä! Fhtagn gneh / iä wga'lan a cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He izh phleh lu'zr iä! Nfah dy iä! The lu'zo times / zlee gneh the songs pha'zo dzo him iä! Nagl iä times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Zhot lu'nagl lu'gl iä! / gneh ry'zr get phleh phleh / cto gla'nagl going to iä! Mi-go down! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl drinks iä! Iä! Iä! / he drinks zhot ph'nglui mp'zr / izh drinks iä! Fhtagn gneh / iä wga'lan a cthulhu drink! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: He izh phleh lu'zr iä! Nfah dy zhot the lu'zo times / zlee gneh the songs zlee dzo nagl iä! Nagl iä times! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Zhot nagl lu'gl iä! / gneh ry'zr get zlee phleh / cto gla'nagl going wga'zr iä! Mi-go down! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Nagl drinks iä! Iä! Iä! / he lu'cb zhot ph'nglui mp'zr / zlee drinks iä! Fhtagn gneh / iä zhot a cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Iä izh phleh lu'zr iä! Nfah dy zhot the lu'zo times / zlee gneh the songs zlee dzo nagl iä! Nagl iä times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >sing Your lips sing along, almost involuntarily, to the earworm in your head: Zhot zhot phleh iä! / gneh iä get zlee phleh / cto gla'nagl going wga'zr iä! Mi-go down! Yes, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >* think we maxed out >i You are carrying: a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >x earworm You have a strange and terrible fancy that an earworm is attached to your brain with a thin tendril. The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength: Nagl drinks iä! Hla phleh / he iä zhot ph'nglui mp'zr / zlee drinks iä! Fhtagn gneh / iä zhot a cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >x tendril The tendril has to be imaginary. Doesn't it? >take tendril It's hard to know how, since it's only imaginary, isn't it? >forget tendril That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >imagine tendril That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >cut tendril You're carrying nothing with which you might cut the imaginary tendril. >i You are carrying: a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >x altar A six-foot long and three-foot high altar of pale green stone, polished smooth. The sides are humped and bulged, suggesting poreless coral. The top is flat, and bears a shallow impression in the shape of a human body, with a slightly deeper cavity at the top for the face. >play What do you want to play? >tag You can't see any such thing. >* I wanted to pray, actually, but playing's next-best You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >pray It can't hurt. Can it? >pray at altar I only understood you as far as wanting to pray. >pray to cthulhu I only understood you as far as wanting to pray. >get on altar You get onto the stone altar. You lie down, settling your body into the impression and your face into the cavity at the end. The milkweed leaf mask protects your face from the strands of orange slime that you belatedly notice fill the cavity. Is it even you doing this? It feels like the most natural action in the world. As you press your face deeper into the cavity, your vision warps. The world seems to fold and buckle: what was convex becomes concave and what was concave becomes convex. The altar wobbles and inverts, giving you the bizarre sensation of lying atop a smooth green hole that floats in midair. Deeper within the hole is a shelf of green stone with several items resting (how?) on it. >x shelf On the shelf are a postcard of Big Ben, a diary and an imaginary basalt sphere. >* well all that stands to reason >take all earworm: The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength: Iä izh phleh lu'zr phleh nfah dy mglw hla lu'zo times / zlee gneh the songs zlee dzo nagl iä! Nagl iä times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. postcard of Big Ben: Taken. diary: Taken. imaginary basalt sphere: Taken. >x postcard A faded postcard with a picture of Big Ben on it. You'd guess the picture dates from the first quarter of the century. >x diary A small brown book with embossed letters on the front, mostly worn away, spelling "DIARY". Inside it's filled with spidery letters in faded ink. According to the name inscribed inside the cover, this belonged to Phyllis Cragne. You think you remember your husband speaking of a "Great Aunt Phyl," a sprightly old lady who haunted his earliest memories and always wore tartan trousers. >x sphere It's a black stone sphere about the size of a basketball, and it doesn't really exist. There is (well, technically, there is not) a narrow slot on one side like that of a piggy-bank. >* trippy >put worm in sphere You can't see any such thing. >put earworm in sphere The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength: Zhot zhot phleh iä! / gneh phleh get zlee phleh / cto gla'nagl going wga'zr iä! Mi-go down! Apparently Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head. >* I mean they're both imaginary >get up You get off the stone altar. Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >x coffee The swirls in your cup form concentric circles. Lack of a symbolic image means that you have accomplished everything you must in your current environment and should move on to find new challenges in order to grow as a person. >* OK, I suppose that's our lot. We're singing Chumbawamba indefinitely, but there are worse things >* OK, restored after some computer annoyances >* This room has been fairly British; we sure we're still in Vermont? >* Like between the postcard and the Chumbawamba >* (There was just a day and a half break there, so let's check in with what we were doing) >i You are carrying: an imaginary basalt sphere the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >l Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >* I don't think we read the diary yet, right? >x diary A small brown book with embossed letters on the front, mostly worn away, spelling "DIARY". Inside it's filled with spidery letters in faded ink. According to the name inscribed inside the cover, this belonged to Phyllis Cragne. You think you remember your husband speaking of a "Great Aunt Phyl," a sprightly old lady who haunted his earliest memories and always wore tartan trousers. >read diary You read a few passages from near the beginning of the diary: "Danced with Freddy Morgan tonight. He's not the most graceful, but I'm hopeful he will improve. Tomorrow I leave for college." "How the professors scowl when they learn I'm a Cragne! I'm sure it would hurt my feelings, if they weren't all crusty old throwbacks with beards full of toast crumbs anyway." "Today in the sealed archives I found a most wonderful secret: evidence that the Court truly exists! One day I will join it -- I will make them let me -- and I will work harder than all the others who came before." You skim back and forth a bit, gathering that Phyllis Cragne was probably born around 1890, and that she started her archaeology studies at Ompompanoousuc College in 1918; she also seems to have become engaged to a local by the name of Frederick Morgan at around that same time. There's still a fair amount of the diary left; you could read more if you wanted to. >* nothing good ever comes of an archaeology major >* though sounds like it was in Connecticut somewhere, not Arkham, at least >read diary You read a few passages from the middle of the diary: "It has finally happened! They extended an offer, and this morning, I accepted. I am looking forward to the fulfillment of my duties, particularly the travel necessitated by my new position. I wish I could persuade Freddy to come with me on at least one trip, but he's terrified of the ocean. I shall leave him to the calm waters of Vermont, with the promise to bring back a 'priceless antique' from each city I visit." "Received word of Freddy's accident." "Finished Prague. Turin, too. Magdeburg will wait until spring." You skim back and forth, gathering that during the 1920s and 30s Phyllis Cragne was often away from home on extended work trips. It was while she was on one such trip to London that Frederick Morgan was killed in a canoeing accident. Afterwards, and on through the 1950s, she spent even more time abroad, working tirelessly for the Court. There's still a small amount of the diary left; you could read more if you wanted to. >read diary You read a few passages from near the end of the diary: "Bristletail greatly prefers the climate of Barcelona to that of Stockholm. I haven't informed her yet that next we must visit a ruined Norse colony in Greenland, where, it is rumored, the colonists briefly, and in desperation, worshipped Vaadignephod before all succumbing to the Black Death." "Bristletail shows an increasingly superb comprehension of Ancient Akkadian. Twice she has caught an error in my translations, saving me from not insignificant embarrassment." "Bristletail has grown stubborn in her old age, refusing to communicate with feral insects. She claims the act to be beneath her dignity. Still, I have never known a more capable archive assistant." You skim the text, reading of Phyllis Cragne's research. Throughout the 1960s she wrote frequently of Bristletail, her cunning familiar, which (who?) apparently took the form of an unusually large silverfish. It seems likely that Phyllis died in the early 70s, which correlates with Michael's early memories of Great Aunt Phyl. You've read the whole diary; you could read it again if you wanted to remind yourself of something. >* "Michael", you say? I thought ours was Patrick >* Anyway guess the Court is a cult to/occult investigators fighting against Vaady-boy here >* Also if you were to think of somewhere to ride out the Black Death, Greenland seems like it'd be a good candidate, no? >* In fact, per wikipedia there's no indication the Black Death ever hit Greenland >* It killed about half the population of Iceland, though, which I would have also thought relatively safe, though >* Regardless! >* Occurs to me we X'd the postcard, but didn't read it >read postcard "18th of June, 1923 Dear Freddy, You'll never guess where I am: Paris! Ha ha. Today I broke into the mausoleum of a notorious baronet and pocketed an amulet interred, in 1627, next to his heart. Tomorrow I must liberate an unspeakably ancient mammoth-bone idol, purported to portray a coeval of Vaadignephod, from the prison in which it languishes (the British Museum). Such excitements make up my life now. If only you were allowed to know about such things, I would tell you that I am now a member of the Variegated Court, and that I have been granted the position of Cesious Alderman in this 'august order'. How I wish I could actually mail you this postcard, and that afterwards we could laugh together over such a stuffy phrase. Much Love, Phyl" >* Point of order: baronetcies, I believe, were invented by the English; there's no French equivalent >* It was a Stuart-era invention to facilitate fundraising (by allowing rich commoners to buy a new, objectively lame title) >* I am super fun at parties, FYI You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* At least she seemed to like Freddy >* Any other loose ends >l Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >* Right, the earworm >* and the imaginary sphere, which seems linked >x sphere It's a black stone sphere about the size of a basketball, and it doesn't really exist. There is (well, technically, there is not) a narrow slot on one side like that of a piggy-bank. >x slot The slot is pinched very narrow, like a tiny, unhappy mouth. If the sphere is a piggy-bank, you shudder to imagine what dreadful, corroded coin was intended to be inserted. >i You are carrying: an imaginary basalt sphere the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >insert leaf into sphere The imaginary sphere rotates suddenly, spinning the slot away from the giant milkweed leaf. >insert coffee into sphere The imaginary sphere rotates suddenly, spinning the slot away from the half-full styrofoam coffee cup. >insert postcard into sphere The imaginary sphere rotates suddenly, spinning the slot away from the postcard of Big Ben. >* Well it's thin, but guess the sphere really does want money >* I doubt this little optional puzzle involves any other locations, so I'm guessing there's something to put in the sphere still hidden? >l Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >x sky The sky is deep blue, cloudless, sunless, and yet saturated with summer light. It seems to dream of the warm, pleasant day from which the terrain has neatly divided you. >x trough Having grown up in the midwest, the terrain in Vermont, with its peaks and valleys, its banks and troughs, always strikes you as confining. The whole state is like a rugged green trap into which you've somehow wandered without noticing until it's too late. >* More backstory! >* FYI, since we know our initial is N but not our actual name, I've decided to lean into the Lovecraft angle; we're Nitocris >x road This stretch of road is heavily washboarded gravel. Not your favorite. In high school, a week after you got your license, you flipped your parents' Jeep Cherokee driving too fast on a surface just like this. >x track The tracks run north and south beneath mats of dead grass and bramble, bringing to mind an impossible serpent banded with the black of the resinous ties. Are the tracks in use? Could a train actually traverse them? Who knows. >x brambles The brambles are overgrown and yet sickly, with yellowed leaves and black-spotted stems. Thorns are plentiful, though apparently this isn't the kind of bramble that produces an edible berry. Or perhaps berries are out of season. >search bramble Ouch! A thorn stabs your palm for your trouble. >* eek! >* Though that implies searching works (ugh, I hate games where searching works -- hopefully not too many locations do that) >search road You find nothing of interest. >l Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >search milkweed (the patch of milkweed) Well, there's that green stone altar surrounded by broken boards. But you don't find anything else. >search altar There is nothing on the stone altar. >search shack You find nothing of interest. The most noteworthy thing about the former shack is the green stone altar it once held, which now stands in the middle of the milkweed. >search trough You find nothing of interest. >search track You find a flattened penny, which you take. >* aha! >x penny A ruined penny, left on the tracks and flattened by a train. The damage to the coin has obscured and swollen Lincoln's head, giving him the appearance of an effaced carving of a bulbous king on a blasphemous onyx obelisk forgotten to history. >* that's an awfully specific reference >put penny in slot The coin vanishes into the sphere with a click. The imaginary basalt sphere fluctuates, briefly taking on the appearance of a grotesque black frog. The frog croaks, spitting an imaginary athame up from its gullet into the world, before becoming once again a featureless stone sphere. >* ...well that happened >x athame A non-existent black-handled knife, with a blade of sparkling metal that would be sharp enough to cut razors, if it actually existed. >* Well, there's our ticket out of the earworm >* Good topic for a vote I think! >take athame Taken. >l Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >w You're too tired for bushwhacking; better stick to the road, which runs north and south. >s The imaginary basalt sphere vanishes with a sound like a popping soap bubble. The imaginary athame vanishes with a sound like a piece of spaghetti snapping in half. Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >* oh, do they disappear for good? >undo Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) [Previous turn undone.] >undo Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) [Previous turn undone.] >save Ok. >s The imaginary basalt sphere vanishes with a sound like a popping soap bubble. The imaginary athame vanishes with a sound like a piece of spaghetti snapping in half. Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >n Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn't reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough's nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track. A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank. A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed. (That earworm is still lodged in your head.) >x sphere You can't see any such thing. >i You are carrying: the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >* OK, gone for good. I've kept the save so we can decide to get rid of the earworm later >s Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >* Andy Holloway is another figure cloaked in mystery >* This seems like a fairly liminal space >* In the boring way, not the New Age woo-woo way >x road The road is gravel here, though it looks to be paved further into the village. For all that it's the only route to take for any village folk who want to pray or meet a train, it doesn't seem to be very well traveled. >* Nice detail: implying piety and travel are not especially valued here! >x trees The trees around the church are spindly and as of yet still bare, though there is a decaying mush of last year's unraked fallen leaves scattered about the earth around their trunks. >x graveyard You can't see any such thing. >x leaves The leaves scattered under the trees, clearly untended since the fall, have rotted together into a general mass that is indistinct if not entirely homogenous. >search leaves The idea is unappealing. >* True! But blarg, another search-enabled area >x coffee The swirls in your cup form a sailboat. Modes of transportation mean that your current environment presents challenges that can only be overcome by seeking fresh perspectives elsewhere until you're ready to return. >* So the church is locked, then? >open church doors You can't see any such thing. >open church It isn't something you can open. >in (first opening the church doors) It seems to be locked. >* Well, they're locked, but I'm having some naming issues here >x church An elderly and dispirited structure made of close-set stone blocks, long and rectangular, with an arched roof and a few scattered and muted stained glass windows. A couple of low stairs lead up to a double door at the front, facing the road, which is set in a square tower that juts slightly forward from and rises slightly above the rest of the structure, culminating in what you presume is a belfry (though you can't make out any bells). >x roof You can't see any such thing. >x glass (the glass jar containing an insect) A clear glass jar containing a hideous green insect. It's either dead or doing a very good job of playing dead and you have no desire to find out which. The number of legs and eyes appear to change every time you look at it. It currently has seven legs and two eyes. >x windows Jealously small, and too high to see through. You can vaguely make out the cataclysmic sufferings of some unfamiliar saint. >* "Jealously small" and "cataclysmic suffering" are good phrases >x tower The tower sits slightly forward from the church proper and holds the entrance door. It culminates unambitiously not far above the rest of the roof, in a shadowy open area that might be a belfry. >x belfry The tower sits slightly forward from the church proper and holds the entrance door. It culminates unambitiously not far above the rest of the roof, in a shadowy open area that might be a belfry. >climb tower You can't get an adequate grip on the stone. >* Gotta remember this an Anchorhead tie-in, not an Assassin's Creed! >l Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >x graveyard You can't see any such thing. >x stones You can't see any such thing. >x bridge The concrete bridge is narrower than the road on either side; a single vehicle might cross it, but not two abreast. A thin metal railing at about your waist height discourages those crossing from hurling themselves into the rocky waterway below. >* More bridges! >x hill The land rises to the north of you, obscuring the tracks and station beyond, although you can still hear the occasional train. >listen You hear nothing unexpected. >* OK, we'll be back for the church, but of course let's start in the graveyard >ne The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. A discarded flashlight sits amidst the weeds behind an overturned gravestone. >* A lot of folks for whom their Cragne Manor rooms are their only published IF so far, which is pretty cool >* (I liked Andy Holloway's room back there) >* Stepping away again >save Ok. >* Chapter two, try three >l The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. A discarded flashlight sits amidst the weeds behind an overturned gravestone. >* Oooh, a flashlight! >* (please don't have a battery timer) >x fence A pitted wrought iron fence surrounds the graveyard. The fence seems fairly sturdy, but one of the cast iron spires seems to have been knocked loose from the top rail and is leaning askew. >x spires You can't see any such thing. >x spire A four foot long piece of the wrought iron fence that surrounds the cemetery. It's tipped with a wicked looking, spear-shaped finial. >* vocab word! >take finial You can't see any such thing. >* nuts >take spire You grab hold of the loose rod and wrench it free from the fence. >i You are carrying: a cast iron spire aviator goggles (being worn) the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >* That seems handy >x markers You can't see any such thing. >x gravemarkers You can't see any such thing. >x gravestones Simple, rough hewn marble markers, overgrown with weeds and stained by untold generations of blackened moss. The wind and weather have made sure that you can't make out any names or dates on any of these tombstones. >* there we are >x church Stark and imposing, this church might have been a thing of beauty once upon a time. Dark, nearly black timbers huddle together conspiratorially, hiding beneath ranks of rain-slick slate rooves. Telltale signs of some long ago fire can be seen along the tops of several of the windows. High above, the light of a single candle burns in what you assume must be the bell tower. >x bell tower You don't see anything out of the ordinary. >* what's a "stave church"? >x slate You can't see any such thing. >x stave You can't see any such thing. >* huh >x mausoleum Covered in moss and half buried in a litter of dead leaves, the remaining letters above the door read "VERL C". Large, rough cut stone bricks make up the walls of the crypt, and a series of steeply pitched slate rooves protect the mausoleum and its internees from the fierce New England winters. A large oak door is set into wall beneath a peaked stone arch. >* Ruh roh >* (I think the Verlacs were the bad family in Anchorhead, right?) >x leaves You can't see any such thing. >take flashlight Taken. >x it A small flashlight, with a rubber ring where it screws together to keep the water out. >open it You open the waterproof flashlight. >x it A small flashlight, with a rubber ring where it screws together to keep the water out. It is currently open. It currently contains a small light bulb and a dead battery. >* (shakes fist) >x bulb The filament inside has burned through. >* (shakes fist x2) >close flashlight You close the waterproof flashlight. >l The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >x forest Tall pines stand along the northeast edge of the cemetery, like too-eager mourners gathering before a funeral. >open door You attempt to open the mausoleum door. The heavy door shifts slightly, but does not open. You suspect you'll need more leverage. >open door with spire You work the iron spire into the narrow gap between the door and the stone jamb and attempt to pry it open. After several minutes of effort, you're able to slowly work the door open far enough for you to be able to squeeze through. >* Yay! >* or maybe ...yay? given what we're getting into here >* (I'm suspecting it'll be dark) >in Mausoleum (Gary Butterfield) Immediately upon entering, you feel hot. This is a square chamber, made of stone. Dust is suspended in the air, clearly visible in the bright purple light eminating from the center of the room. The dust does not seem to fall. There is a plinth in the center of the room with a tome on it. Each corner has a full length mirror. On the plinth is a shabby journal. A faint chill comes over you. >* Oh hey, not too dark! >* That chill seems fine >* Gary Butterfield appears to be another author making his debut here >x purple You can't see any such thing. >x light A small flashlight, with a rubber ring where it screws together to keep the water out. >* I mean the uncanny purple light >out The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >drop light Dropped. >i You are carrying: aviator goggles (being worn) a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) > * Only now that I'm reviewing the transcript do I notice that chill -- is that going to be a problem I wonder? > * Also did I always have aviator goggles? > * No, I didn't. Another mystery! >in Mausoleum (Gary Butterfield) It's hard to see very far due to the dust in the air. On the plinth is a shabby journal. >x light You can't see any such thing. >l Mausoleum (Gary Butterfield) You're blinking more than usual. You shake your head to try to clear it. On the plinth is a shabby journal. >x mirror Which do you mean, the northward mirror, the eastward mirror, the southward mirror or the westward mirror? >northward The mirror is positioned in the northern corner of the room. It has an oaken frame and a small bas relief of a human figure in the stone above. When you examine your reflection, you find that it reflects only you, not the room that surrounds you. You stare at yourself, staring at yourself, floating in a purple void. >x eastward The mirror is positioned in the eastern corner of the room. It has an pine frame and a small bas relief of a spider in the stone above. When you examine your reflection, you jump backwards away from it. The mirror does not seem to reflect you, but instead it shows you as if a giant had crumbled you up like a piece of paper. Your neck is folded so that your ear is resting on your collarbone. Your arms are bent, and twisted. Bones break through the skin, and spurs jut to the surface. At first you do not think it is actually you, but it clearly is. The creature in the mirror has the same terror in its eyes that you do. >x southward The mirror is positioned in the southern corner of the room. It has a brass frame and there is a bas relief of a small humanoid in the stone above. You see a small version of yourself, though it is not exactly the same. Its posture is more confident, defiant even. When you look at its eyes, you see that its eyes do not match yours and it instead watches your hands carefully. >x westward The mirror is in the western corner of the room, but it has been destroyed, though oddly enough, not broken. It looks as if it were melted. There is a bas relief of a writing quill in the stone above. >x hands You can't see any such thing. >x quill You can't see any such thing. >x bas relief You can't see any such thing. >* hrm > x journal A shabby looking leather volume with uneven pages. The letters "LVPB" have been burned onto the spine, under the insignia for The Backwater Public Library, which features two back to back crescent moons joined by a downward looking eye. This appears to be what's known as a commonplace book. It's a place for a writer to jot down ideas and fragments. There's really no order to it, but you could flip through it, if you wish. >* Hmm, initials don't indicate a Cragne or a Verlac... >take journal You hear a voice that says "Do you remember the first time you stole something? Do you remember when you first realized that adults lie all the time? How did that feel?" You close your eyes and shake your head, clearing it. When you open them, you find yourself at the entrance of the mausoleum. >x plinth Unlike the rest of the room, the plinth is starkly industrial. It is made of rusted iron, with rusty streaks moving downward towards the ground, as if water had poured from the top at one point. There is a tome on top. On the plinth is a shabby journal. >x tome A shabby looking leather volume with uneven pages. The letters "LVPB" have been burned onto the spine, under the insignia for The Backwater Public Library, which features two back to back crescent moons joined by a downward looking eye. This appears to be what's known as a commonplace book. It's a place for a writer to jot down ideas and fragments. There's really no order to it, but you could flip through it, if you wish. >take it The voice returns, "It is interesting to me that you think I belong to you. We both contain worlds, universes, multitudes. Possibility. And you would possess me." A bright flash of light and you find yourself at the entrance of the mausoleum. >read it You'll have to take it off the plinth first. The chill behind you intensifies, and you feel like you're being watched. >x coffee The swirls in your cup form a pear shape, complete with stem. Botanical images mean that while there is much left to accomplish in the present situation, your immediate environment sustains you, and you have everything that you need. >* reassuring >take journal The voice is louder. "Your name is written on water. Everything around you, everything in this place will be here long after you're dead and no one remembers you. Be gone." Again, you find yourself at the entrance of the mausoleum. This time, though you don't remember falling, you are on one knee. >* Hmm, there's a progression here huh? >take journal The voice is exasperated. "What if you don't like what's at the end of all of this? Think about the time you're wasting here. All of this effort, all of this reading and for what? Do you not realize that some day you will die? How many entire days have you lived and complete forgotten? More than you can count, I wager." Your vision goes black and you feel yourself slammed against the door of the mausoleum, banging your head. Your rub the back of your hair and feel wet. >g The voice is whispering. "Do you know what I have forgotten? Nothing. Every moment of my life is valuable and preserved. Every finger that has ever turned one of my pages, every set of eyes that has read me, I remember them all. I'm something that all of your kind wishes to be- permanent. How much time do you have to waste on this silly game? Here, let me make the decision easy for you." You hear a high pitched whining and... You are back at the train station. You look around. Everything seems to be reset. You sigh, and painstakingly begin the process of dutifully repeating all of the actions that brought you to the mausoleum. Hours later, exhausted, you pry the door open and re-enter the tomb. >* Ha! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Mausoleum (Gary Butterfield) Despite the presence of the mirrors in the corner, the room feels claustrophobic. You'd really like to get out of here. On the plinth is a shabby journal. >take journal The voice screams. "What is wrong with you? Examine yourself. I'll give you time." The whining sound is much louder and more intense now, and is accompanied by the smell of ozone. When you open your eyes... You see a man in a mask pulling you out of somewhere safe and warm. You're surrounded by strangers and people you love. ... You open your mouth to scream and WAAAHHHHHHHH. A...baby? This can't be real. You start pumping your fists in anger, trying to shake it off. Suddenly, the man with the mask reels back his gloved hand and SMACK You are on the floor of the mausoleum. >x me Looks like everything is in place, more or less. >take journal You stare at the book for a moment before reaching out to yank it off the plinth. It puts up no resistance this time. >* Well that was anticlimactic >x coffee The swirls in your cup form horizontal bands. Lack of a symbolic image means that you have accomplished everything you must in your current environment and should move on to find new challenges in order to grow as a person. >read journal everything you eat goes into a room in your house instead of your stomach. your house eats it for you >g man can break one rib to curse another, collapses his chest to get revenge >g man finds someone with his exact fingerprints and a shocking number of similarities. man is from one day in future >g lungs have to be manually inflated via a pump in a sea side town. no one thinks its strange >g whenever you forget something, it ceases to exist for ever, and never has existed. it's a curse >g person loses structure, folds like a newspaper, but carries on living >g Man plays piano and when he does, his finger bones push through his finger tips. he continues playing, crowd gathers >g person loses structure, folds like a newspaper, but carries on living >g person becomes blind, but only to certain objects >g bloodstains always spell out unfulfilled wish of victim >g hair starts growing from teeth/eyes >g school system in uproar about something called shadowdrinker >g teeth you lose grow entire new skulls, identical, one in ten will grow hair, fat >g you can spend years of your life for knowledge at a specific store. lines around the block, it's like an apple store. >g man can break one rib to curse another, collapses his chest to get revenge >g grandma keeps knitting, never stops knitting, end of long scarf eventually found by dark suitor >g Man plays piano and when he does, his finger bones push through his finger tips. he continues playing, crowd gathers >g Man's sense of taste becomes more and more sensitive until water is too spicy to drink >g whenever you forget something, it ceases to exist for ever, and never has existed. it's a curse >g named knife, with a family >g family crypt, with evidence of trying to get in >g person becomes blind, but only to certain objects >g person loses structure, folds like a newspaper, but carries on living >g book from outside world enters world >g everything you eat goes into a room in your house instead of your stomach. your house eats it for you >g book from outside world enters world >g child leaves tooth under pillow, wakes up to find hundreds of identical teeth >g as you get smarter, you get bigger. townspeople live in the hair of the wise elder. >* Ok this one is my favorite >x e You see nothing unexpected in that direction. >x me Looks like everything is in place, more or less. >read journal man finds someone with his exact fingerprints and a shocking number of similarities. man is from one day in future >read journal element spontaneously leaves our planet for another >g bloodstains always spell out unfulfilled wish of victim >g man finds someone with his exact fingerprints and a shocking number of similarities. man is from one day in future >g Man plays piano and when he does, his finger bones push through his finger tips. he continues playing, crowd gathers >g child leaves tooth under pillow, wakes up to find hundreds of identical teeth >g credit line for emotional labor, she comes to collect >g family crypt, with evidence of trying to get in >g Assembling a human in your stomach by eating one part at a time (warlock spider?) >g whenever you forget something, it ceases to exist for ever, and never has existed. it's a curse >g heartbreak insurance broker, sinister end >g as you get smarter, you get bigger. townspeople live in the hair of the wise elder. >g child leaves tooth under pillow, wakes up to find hundreds of identical teeth >g bloodstains always spell out unfulfilled wish of victim >g person loses structure, folds like a newspaper, but carries on living >g element spontaneously leaves our planet for another >g person loses structure, folds like a newspaper, but carries on living >* OK, calling this good >enter northward That's not something you can enter. >take northward That's hardly portable. >out The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. You can see a waterproof flashlight here. >take flashlight Taken. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form no discernible pattern. Lack of a symbolic image means that you have accomplished everything you must in your current environment and should move on to find new challenges in order to grow as a person. >* OK, that's three new locations done! >* Probably good enough for an update, let's call it here >save Ok. >i You are carrying: a waterproof flashlight aviator goggles (being worn) a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >* Realized I have those two new items, and didn't X ME everywhere >l The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >x me Mud (and god only knows what else) spatter your legs and black leather riding boots. You idly brush a bit of bone from your sleeve and adjust your aviator goggles. >* ah, that must be where the goggles came from >sw Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >x me You're trying not to think too hard about that. >* Yup >x goggles You can't see any such thing. >i You are carrying: a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >ne The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >i You are carrying: aviator goggles (being worn) a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >x goggles A pair of tinted, leather wrapped aviator goggles. A thin scratch mars the left lens. >remove goggles You take off aviator goggles. >l The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >drop goggles Dropped. >in Mausoleum (Gary Butterfield) Despite the presence of the mirrors in the corner, the room feels claustrophobic. You'd really like to get out of here. >x chill A chill emanates from behind you, fading as you turn. >i You are carrying: a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >out The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >x chill A chill emanates from behind you, fading as you turn. >i You are carrying: aviator goggles (being worn) a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >* goggles are back on us >sw Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >x chill A chill emanates from behind you, fading as you turn. >i You are carrying: a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >drop chill It's not quite so easy to rid oneself of a haunting presence. >* nuts >turn around You can't see any such thing. >ne The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >in Mausoleum (Gary Butterfield) Despite the presence of the mirrors in the corner, the room feels claustrophobic. You'd really like to get out of here. >x chill A chill emanates from behind you, fading as you turn. >drop chill It's not quite so easy to rid oneself of a haunting presence. >exorcise chill That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >pray That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Well, I'm sure that chill won't be any sort of a bother! >sw You can't go that way. >out The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >remove goggles You take off aviator goggles. >sw Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >i You are carrying: a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn)