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 >* I suppose we should check out the jail before continuing on through town That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Constabulary Road (Harkness Munt) The road phases into little more than a wide dirt track winding from the west towards the edge of town to the northeast. A paved walk wanders through an iron gate which interrupts a high stone wall looming to the north. A memorial bench sits just outside its shadow. A tangled rampart of trees and dense undergrowth obstructs passage to the south. A barricade spans the road to the northeast, and beyond it a large shallow pit is being excavated. If you're careful, you could skirt the edges of the pit and continue along the northeast road. >n The closed gate bars your way. >open gate At the slightest brush of your fingertips, the gates slowly begin to creak open. >* yay That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >n Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >* Oh, Marshal Tenner Winter. That's certainly a person You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* Will be a job of work to explain him politely on the thread! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x me As good-looking as ever. You bear the trauma of a woman who has been eye to eye with an eburnean pond kraken. >* so far so default That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x desk It's a heavy, wide generic desk made of thick wood and metal. There is an outdated computer with a nicotine-stained monitor on it. There is a Post-it® note on the monitor. On the generic desk is a clipboard. >x note Which do you mean, the Post-it® note or the book list? >posti-t You can't see any such thing. >x post-it Rookies- Keep the evidence key in the last arrestee's file. It's usually the active file. -Sarge. >* nice security precautions we've got here That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Also aren't sergeants usually for police? Would be a chief or senior deputy in a sheriff's department That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Cleary that's the most implausible thing we've seen lately That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >x computer It looks bulky, even by today's standards, and on it is a faded decal stating, "...ateway". The nicotine-stained monitor sitting before it might bear a closer look. >turn it on You try to switch on the outdated computer, but you realize that someone's taken all the power cords, rendering the thing useless. >x monitor This bulky monitor, roughly the size of a child's coffin, looks heavy and grimey. Whoever worked with this computer and monitor must've smoked like a Turkish tobacco caliph. The whole thing is sticky with a jaundiced film and the screen is covered with smudged fingerprints. On the nicotine-stained monitor is a Post-it® note. >x chair Which do you mean, the swivel chair or the visitors chair? >swivel You are not currently seated on anything that is swivelable. >x swivel It's your standard black pleather office swivel chair. >sit on it You get onto the swivel chair. >swivel You amuse yourself momentarily by swiveling on the office chair. Alas, however, the fun fades all too quickly and you return to the living nightmare that is your life. >* whee That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >out You get off the swivel chair. Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >x visitors It is an uncomfortable-looking, wooden chair. >sit on it You get onto the visitors chair. >swivel You are not currently seated on anything that is swivelable. >out You get off the visitors chair. Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >x bulbs Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from some fluorescent bulbs overhead. >x window Which do you mean, the secure door or the office window? >office The view isn't really great. >x secure Unlike the cheap bathroom door, this secure door is newer and noticeably stronger. Beyond is the lock-up for any arrestees, you figure. There is a small window of thick glass and wire mesh to allow one to look into the cell but it's too dark and smudged to actually see anything in there, unfortunately. >x cabinet It's a wide, cream-colored file cabinet. It's about waist-high. >open it You open the file cabinet, revealing some disorganized files. >x files It's as if the staff here really did just jam papers, files, reports, and folders any way they damn well pleased. Many paper dogears stick up from the chaos. >search files The files are a mess. If you knew the name on the file you wanted, it would be easier to grab it. >x cragne 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. >look up cragne I only understood you as far as wanting to look up. >look up cragne in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up pyllis in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up phyllis in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up naomi cragne in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up peter in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >l Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >x locker It's a tall locker that seems to have been literally ripped out of a high school hallway and placed here. >open it It's locked. >x clipboard This is a clipboard holding together some paperwork that seems to be some sort of daily ledger. >x ledger This is a list of the day's arrestees. The date is a week old with no further entries beyond it. The entries are: Jeff Moore - public intoxication. Alana Cook - possession of cannabis. Matthew Grobe - discharging a firearm within city limits. Tony Overton - disorderly conduct. Robert Morales - reckless driving. Eugene Kunkle - petty theft. >look up moore I only understood you as far as wanting to look up. >look up moore in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >x moore You can't see any such thing. >look up cook in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up grobe in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up overton in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up morales in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >look up kunkle in files You discover nothing of interest in the disorganized files. >* Am I doing this right? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x files It's as if the staff here really did just jam papers, files, reports, and folders any way they damn well pleased. Many paper dogears stick up from the chaos. >take files The files are a mess. If you knew the name on the file you wanted, it would be easier to grab it. >take kunkle Taken. >* oh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >i You are carrying: the Kunkle file an aluminum key a rusty piece of metal some yellowed newspapers loose bricks a fungal powder a wad of cash a golden eyepiece a moldy, waterlogged journal a plastic bubble (open but empty) a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) an employee ID card a soggy tome a long hooked pole a shard of shattered carapace a grimy rock a Jansport backpack (being worn and open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open) Twin Hearts Between the Planes The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a postcard of Big Ben the diary of Phyllis Cragne a side pocket (open) a book list a trash pocket (open) a pamphlet of home listings a glass jar containing an insect a cast iron spire a backpack features guide a library card Peter's jacket a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a repaired page a waterproof flashlight a pull-string doll an antique locket (being worn and closed) a faint chill (haunting you) a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >x kunkle A meager file; the arrest report gives few real details of anything. Apparently this Eugene Kunkle stole a library book. Otherwise, nothing useful can be gleaned from the paperwork within. In the Kunkle file is an aluminum key. >* got it in one! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Probably will need that book, too You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >take moore You can't see any such thing. >take cook You can't see any such thing. >take grobe You can't see any such thing. >take overton You can't see any such thing. >take morales You can't see any such thing. >* One and done I guess That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >x sign It shows the simple, universal man and woman stick figures, denoting that the bathroom beyond isn't fussy about your gender. >unlock door Which do you mean, the secure door or the bathroom door? >secure What do you want to unlock the secure door with? >key (the brass winding key) That doesn't seem to fit the lock. >i You are carrying: the Kunkle file an aluminum key a rusty piece of metal some yellowed newspapers loose bricks a fungal powder a wad of cash a golden eyepiece a moldy, waterlogged journal a plastic bubble (open but empty) a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) an employee ID card a soggy tome a long hooked pole a shard of shattered carapace a grimy rock a Jansport backpack (being worn and open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open) Twin Hearts Between the Planes The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a postcard of Big Ben the diary of Phyllis Cragne a side pocket (open) a book list a trash pocket (open) a pamphlet of home listings a glass jar containing an insect a cast iron spire a backpack features guide a library card Peter's jacket a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a repaired page a waterproof flashlight a pull-string doll an antique locket (being worn and closed) a faint chill (haunting you) a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >unlock secure with aluminum (first taking the aluminum key) That doesn't seem to fit the lock. >x post-it Rookies- Keep the evidence key in the last arrestee's file. It's usually the active file. -Sarge. >* oh, that's for the locker You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >unlock locker with aluminum You unlock the evidence locker. >open it You swing open the locker and are greeting by a desiccated corpse falling into you. Startled beyond rational thought, you collapse to the ground, beneath the corpse, unconscious. Padded cell (Marius Müller) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >* steady on! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Welp, we've got a bunch of unfinished business back at the jail, but now we're at that other mainstay of Lovecraftian towns, the mental hospital You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* Or maybe it's all jail That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >i You are carrying: a faint chill (haunting you) a strait jacket (being worn) >* ugh, we lost all our stuff You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* I have to confess, I'd been used to things being more self-contained, so it's fun to see an event like this You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* Though considering Nitocris *is* a dessicated corpse not sure why she freaked out so much at this one That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* maybe it was a cousin That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x jacket It's a canvas strait jacket, the kind used to immobilize violent or spastic mental patients. It fastens up the back with a complex series of buckles and straps, while the sleeves cross the chest and fasten around back, making it quite impossible to escape. >x me You look about as you'd expect after everything that happened to you in all the other rooms. >* well played (checks) Marius Muller! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* he seems to have been a very prolific author, primarily in the early teens when I wasn't paying as much attention to IF You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* he won the Saugus, NJ Halloween Ghost Story Contest in 2015, which is perhaps my favorite random IF-adjacent thing You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >l Padded cell (Marius Müller) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >x bulb Its an old-fashioned, big, glass one. You might have some use for it, if it weren't protected by a cage of wire mesh. >x cage A thin, fragile looking wire-mesh cage houses the lightbulb, presumably to keep patients from messing with it. One corner of it has been pulled outward, and the whole thing seems to hold to the ceiling only barely. >* Well we might be able to get a bulb for our trouble here That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x tiles The uneven floor tiles are cracked and smeared with dirt. In your mind, you compare them to other floors you've seen in the Manor. >* But we haven't been there yet! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* I suppose if we're mad, maybe we've hallucinated them You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x padding Thick cloth padding covers the floors and ceiling, fastened by deep-set buttons. One of them catches your eye. Where all the others are cloth-covered, this one is brass. >x door It's a thick, padded door. >x brass It's a brass button that, on closer inspections, looks more like a knob. >x knob It's a brass button that, on closer inspections, looks more like a knob. >turn knob You'd need your hands for that. >take hands You can't see any such thing. >* worth a shot That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x door It's a thick, padded door. >x chest A metal, military looking chest with a lot of complicated snaps. The lid doesn't close fully. Through the crack you can see a wad of cash. No way you'll open it while stuck in this damn strait jacket. >x snaps You can't see any such thing. >x cash You can't see any such thing. >x sleeves You can't see any such thing. >open jacket You'd need your hands for that. >cut jacket That seems to be your only hope of escaping that thing, but how? >on cage That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >cut jacket on cage I only understood you as far as wanting to cut the strait jacket. >x tiles The uneven floor tiles are cracked and smeared with dirt. In your mind, you compare them to other floors you've seen in the Manor. >take tile You can't see any such thing. >take tiles You'd need your hands for that. >take cage You can't reach the wire mesh from here. >l Padded cell (Marius Müller) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. You've noticed a strange brass button among those that fix the padding to the wall. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >stand on chest It's surprisingly hard to do without your hands, but you manage to climb onto the chest. The metal is cold beneath your feet. >cut jacket That seems to be your only hope of escaping that thing, but how? >touch cage The height is right, but the bulb and its housing is out of reach in the middle of the room. >d There's no exit that way, and you are on the metal chest anyway. >out You get off the chest less than elegantly. Padded cell (Marius Müller) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. You've noticed a strange brass button among those that fix the padding to the wall. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >push chest It's hard, knee-aching work, as you half-squat and push the heavy chest with your thigh and shin. After a few painfully slow minutes full of an awful metal screeching, the chest is roughly in the middle of the room. Your leg begins to throb slightly, but you feel that pain will be forgotten as soon as you leave this room. >stand on chest It's surprisingly hard to do without your hands, but you manage to climb onto the chest. The metal is cold beneath your feet. >touch cage You'd need your hands for that. >cut jacket That seems to be your only hope of escaping that thing, but how? >take cage You'd need your hands for that. >break mesh Since you don't have the use of your hands, you do a little jump and bite down on the edge of the mesh as hard as you can. You hang in the air for the fraction of a second before gravity does its work and the mesh is pulled down and you land on your shoulder awkwardly. (Here's hoping you didn't fall on your shoulder in an earlier room as well.) Even though you cut your lip a little, from where you lie on the ground you can see the solitary lightbulb, shining it's dim light, free of its cage. Padded cell (Marius Müller) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. You've noticed a strange brass button among those that fix the padding to the wall. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >i You are carrying: a faint chill (haunting you) a strait jacket (being worn) >stand on checst You can't see any such thing. >stand on chest It's surprisingly hard to do without your hands, but you manage to climb onto the chest. The metal is cold beneath your feet. >break bulb You firmly plant your feet on the metal chest. It's good you did all the yoga before you came to the manor (and maybe since?), for you balance perfectly, aim your forehard at the bulb and ... headbutt it. There is a disappointingly low and short shattering sound. The light in the cell goes out, but there is enough room from the door to illuminate it in quite the same way as before. You think you've cut yourself on the face, but feel strangely sure that this wound won't bother you much once you leave this room. >do yoga That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >pose That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x me You look about as you'd expect after everything that happened to you in all the other rooms. >* must be my mutant healing factor That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >i You are carrying: a faint chill (haunting you) a strait jacket (being worn) >l Padded cell (Marius Müller) (on the metal chest) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. A big shard of glass lies here, in a pool of his useless smaller brothers. You've noticed a strange brass button among those that fix the padding to the wall. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >x shard You see nothing special about the glass shard. >take it You nimbly pick up the shard with your toes. Again, yoga. >cut jacket Even with your nimbleness (yoga), you can't quite hold the shard in a way that would allow you to cut the straitjacket (which is made of thick cotton). Maybe you could find something else to hold it for you? >put shard in chest You'd need your hands to open the chest, but there is a small crack where the lid doesn't fully close. >put shard in crack You gently push the shard into the crack (with your foot) and it fits snugly, with the sharp end pointing outwards conveniently. >cut jacket with shard I only understood you as far as wanting to cut the strait jacket. >cut jacket You kneel and begin to rub the back of the straitjacket, where the arms are tied behind your back, against the shard of glass. It's slow, dull, throbbing work. After endless minutes you feel the jacket giving some room in your shoulders, and with some more cutting and wriggling the fabric finally gives. You rub your arms for a good minute, willing feeling back into them. Finally, you can feel your aching fingers again. Okay, time to get out of here. Somehow. >* There we are! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* I feel like we handled that pretty well That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >open chest You open the metal chest, revealing an aluminum key, the Kunkle file, loose bricks, a rusty piece of metal, some yellowed newspapers, a fungal powder, a shard of shattered carapace, an employee ID card, a soggy tome, a long hooked pole, a grimy rock, a library card, a moldy, waterlogged journal, a wad of cash, a repaired page, a waterproof flashlight, a pull-string doll, a half-full styrofoam coffee cup, a golden eyepiece, a plastic bubble, a suitcase, a brass winding key, Peter's jacket, a Jansport backpack, an antique locket, a label, a giant milkweed leaf and a familiar gold wristwatch. >take all pamphlet of home listings: Taken. metal chest: Oof. Too heavy, even when you lift with your knees. aluminum key: Taken. Kunkle file: Taken. loose bricks: Taken. rusty piece of metal: Taken. yellowed newspapers: Taken. fungal powder: Taken. shard of shattered carapace: Taken. employee ID card: Taken. soggy tome: Taken. long hooked pole: Taken. grimy rock: Taken. library card: Taken. moldy, waterlogged journal: Taken. wad of cash: Taken. repaired page: Taken. waterproof flashlight: Taken. pull-string doll: Taken. golden eyepiece: Taken. plastic bubble: Taken. suitcase: Taken. brass winding key: Taken. Peter's jacket: Taken. Jansport backpack: Taken. Twin Hearts Between the Planes: Taken. The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three: Taken. postcard of Big Ben: Taken. diary of Phyllis Cragne: Taken. book list: Taken. glass jar containing an insect: Taken. cast iron spire: Taken. backpack features guide: Taken. antique locket: Taken. label: Taken. giant milkweed leaf: Taken. familiar gold wristwatch: Taken. glass shard: Taken. half-full styrofoam coffee cup: Taken. >i You are carrying: a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a cast iron spire a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal loose bricks the Kunkle file an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a faint chill (haunting you) >* that's better That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* the orderlies didn't take my chill, sadly You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >l Padded cell (Marius Müller) (on the metal chest) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. You've noticed a strange brass button among those that fix the padding to the wall. A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >x button (the brass button) It's a brass button that, on closer inspections, looks more like a knob. >turn button (the brass button) You turn the brass button and this whole section of the padded wall swings open, revealing a small secret compartment with a switch inside. A dusty trophy tumbles out of it and to the floor. >x trophy It's a trophy, depicting of a greyhound in mid-jump. The plague reads: To "Jonathan B. Cragne, Puce Alderman of the Variegated Court, for winning the Cragne Village Dog Race with Bloodfang." >* ah, there we are, more court shenanigans You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >take trophy Taken. >l Padded cell (Marius Müller) (on the metal chest) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. A secret compartment in the wall has swung open, revealing a small switch and some graffiti that says "THEY THOUGHT THEY COULD TRAP ME IN MY OWN CELL". A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. >* huh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x switch It's nothing but a small, unremarkable switch. The switch is currently switched on. >turn off switch You hear a promising click from the door. >x door It's a thick, padded door. >open it You open the padded door. >* yay! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x coffee The clouds 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. >* boom That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >s (first getting off the metal chest) You get off the chest less than elegantly. Padded cell (Marius Müller) The overhead lightbulb in its wire-mesh cage barely lights the room. Everything here seems a colorless beige - the cracked floor tiles, the thick cloth padding on the walls. A padded door leads south. A secret compartment in the wall has swung open, revealing a small switch and some graffiti that says "THEY THOUGHT THEY COULD TRAP ME IN MY OWN CELL". A metal chest stands in a corner of the room. Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. You can see a desiccated corpse here. It fell out of that locker, which now stands open. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >* oh, we didn't go far You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x corpse This withered and horrible corpse will be hard to identify as the poor soul seems to have been dead for a good while now. You're pretty sure it was once female as the clothes, while dirty and torn, are a feminine style. >x clothes This withered and horrible corpse will be hard to identify as the poor soul seems to have been dead for a good while now. You're pretty sure it was once female as the clothes, while dirty and torn, are a feminine style. >search clothes Delicately, you pad around the clothes on the corpse just in case anything useful can be found. Unfortunately, you find nothing but a black business card which you grab. >x card Which do you mean, the black business card, the library card or the employee ID card? >black Congratulations! You've just encountered Vaadignephod's Anti-Personnel Squad! >* eek! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >i You are carrying: a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a cast iron spire a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal loose bricks the Kunkle file an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a faint chill (haunting you) >x coffeee You can't see any such thing. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form a pair of dandelions. 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. >* Hmm, guess there's more to do here? You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >l Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. You can see a desiccated corpse here. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >take corpse That would be too heavy to carry around. Plus, you've no reason to. >take black (the black business card) You already have that. >* well, let's try the bathroom first You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >w You peek inside the bathroom and find literally nothing beyond a toilet and sink. There's no mirror and someone even swiped the shit tickets. You close the door again. >* oh, not really an exit You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >save Ok. >l Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter) The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here. Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south. You can see a desiccated corpse here. On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork. >x desk It's a heavy, wide generic desk made of thick wood and metal. There is an outdated computer with a nicotine-stained monitor on it. There is a Post-it® note on the monitor. On the generic desk is a clipboard. >take clipboard Taken. >x locker It's a tall locker that seems to have been literally ripped out of a high school hallway and placed here. In the evidence locker is Tolerating An Asinine God. >* ah, there's our book You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x god This book looks to be an old school text book but it is in surprisingly good shape. You're not too sure why you're surprised at this. But there is a faded sticker on the front bearing the insignia of the Backwater Public Library, two back-to-back crescent moons joined by an eye looking down at an open book, which you realize might be redundant. >read it (first taking Tolerating An Asinine God) You skim through the pages and glance at a passage or two. "Christianity is just globally organized Stockholm Syndrome." A snap like ice cracking behind you makes you jump. You turn to see a chalky spark hovering near you. As you finish reading the passage, the spark moves through the book with an eerie hum, leaving frost behind on the library insignia. >* wella That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* That -- well, I was going to say *explains* the frost, but not really You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >read it You skim through the pages and glance at a passage or two. "lYmg" n'ghft uh'eog, Vaadignephod, ymg" ah uh'enah." >g You skim through the pages and glance at a passage or two. "Vaadignephod ililn'gha ya ahororr'e ya n'ghft uh'eog!" >g You skim through the pages and glance at a passage or two. "There are insects on the planet whose entire purpose is to spend its life cycle burrowed in the eyeballs of children, rendering the children blind, insane, and wracked with agony. There are people on this planet that spend their life cycles worshiping and thanking the god that decided to create such a wonderful existence for everyone. Vaadignephod considers this asinine." >g You skim through the pages and glance at a passage or two. "Christianity is just globally organized Stockholm Syndrome." >g You skim through the pages and glance at a passage or two. "lYmg" n'ghft uh'eog, Vaadignephod, ymg" ah uh'enah." >save Ok. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form a stochastic pattern resembling television static. 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. >* there we are! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >s Feeling that you don't need to carry around extra stuff, you leave the Kunkle file on the desk. Constabulary Road (Harkness Munt) The road phases into little more than a wide dirt track winding from the west towards the edge of town to the northeast. A paved walk wanders through an iron gate which interrupts a high stone wall looming to the north. A memorial bench sits just outside its shadow. A tangled rampart of trees and dense undergrowth obstructs passage to the south. A barricade spans the road to the northeast, and beyond it a large shallow pit is being excavated. If you're careful, you could skirt the edges of the pit and continue along the northeast road. >ne Hillside Path (Jack Welch) [ HINT: you can type "hints" for a hint for this location ] You follow a mud-trampled trail, which leads you blindly through a narrow trench bordered by overgrown brambles and shrubs, once smartly trimmed hedges around the Cragne property. The intimidating thorn-studded walls arch over you, all but obscuring the grey marbled clouds overhead. Turning the corner, you feel the ground beneath your feet suddenly harden. Although the shrubs recede behind you, the shadows deepen as you walk towards a clearing set into the hillside, surrounded on three sides by black cliffs. As you advance, sound is conspicuous by its absence -- gone is the squealchy sound of the muddy trail, the cracking of branches underfoot, and the rustling sounds of trailside wilderness. You are left contemplating the rocky bowl cut into the cliffside, a natural amphitheater. Or is it? Could this hollow have been worked by the hand of man in some earlier time? How much labor and what dedication would have been required in an earlier era to work the ageless Vermont granite into such a perfect shape? Your eye is drawn to a raised, brown mass centered before the cliffs; you muse that if the rockface formed a parabola, that mass would be at its focus, like an altar in a cathedral. The earthen lump grows in your vision and you realize that you must have walked towards it, lost in your thoughts. It has already been a long day, and it has barely started. Up close, you realize that it is not an earthen mound, but a pile of long, rusted iron railway tracks. Tons of them. Stacked taller than you in this remote corner of the estate and forgotten. You move your head in just the right way and light glances sharply off a glistening corner of track, momentarily blinding you. You rub your eyes reflexively, and when your vision clears, you realize with some embarrassment that a woman sits not even an arm's length from your face atop the pile. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see a bonnet-clad woman here. The woman looks into the distance and sighs. >* Once again, a lot! You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >save Ok. >l Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see a bonnet-clad woman here. The woman holds your gaze and descends the iron pile; entranced by her stare, you don't notice how she manages to clamber down, but however she does it, she manages it silently. She places her hands on her hips and stands uncomfortably close to you, looking you over. This is awkward, you think. >* OK, nice that there's a shorter description You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* We seem to be in the manor's environs at last! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x hills The granite walls are sheer and angle ever so slightly inward, overhanging the clearing; they would be impossible to climb without assistance from the top. The granite itself is fine-grained, but far darker than Vermont granite, is the color of burnt candle wick, all but invisible in this light save for tiny inclusions of reflective, jet-black mica, which impart a numinous glow. The woman slowly ambles around the pile of tracks, staring at her feet. >* Jack Welch has written a bunch of games that once again I haven't played -- he co-authored Rover's Day out with Ben Collins-Sussman, which I think i've heard of? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Oh yeah, it won IF Comp in 2009, go figure! You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* I'm wondering whether the fact that there's a special HINT command available here bespeaks that thisis an author who's careful to make sure any player can progress, or if he's an author who recognized that this location is super hard That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* guess we'll find out! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x hollow In contrast to the drive up through rolling green hills studded with pines, endless tracts of lush crop lands, and an endless succession of dairy farms, life seems not to have taken hold within this tiny pocket of the Cragne Estate. It is a world apart, sterile and unchanging. The woman gazes in your direction, but appears to be almost looking through you. >x vegetation Nothing grows anywhere near the pile of railroad track in the center of the clearing; perhaps the soil has been compacted by eons of spectators who stood in that very place, watching or taking part in ceremonies, perhaps dancing around whatever had occupied the central place. Or maybe the ground here is just unwholesome, unwelcoming to life, poisoned in some way. Only at the periphery, does nature scratch its way towards redemption of this lost grotto. A somber carpet of flaky lichens and mouldering moss gives way to bent fingers of crippled weeds at the edge of the clearing. Some trailheads leading away are barely distinguishable between snaking tendrils of withered vine and fungus-covered rotting stumps that mark the boundary of the surrounding woods. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >x stumps Decrepit vegetation fights for a foothold at the edge of the clearing. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >* All seems like scenery That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x tracks Long shafts of weathered, rusted iron, jutting in all directions for a great mound as if dropped like puny sticks from the sky. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >search mound There is nothing on the pile of railroad tracks. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >stand on mound That's not something you can stand on. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >enter mound That's not something you can enter. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >take mound That's hardly portable. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >push mound It is fixed in place. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >pull mound It is fixed in place. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >* okay That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see a bonnet-clad woman here. The woman leans up against the tracks, lost in thought. >x woman "Oh, so you can see me, then, can you?" she asks, taking a step back. "Can you see me?" >say yes You can only do that to something animate. >answer the woman that yes You can only do that to something animate. >say yes to woman "How wonderfull!" She sits on a rail jutting out of the pile and pats the space beside her. "Tis a frightfull long Tymme since I did haf the Oppourtunity to speake with One graced with the Seight -- no Crâne, then you, but one among our Number. Do then, please, speake to me about yourself." She pauses for a breath, "Oh, but first, where are my Manners? I do beg your Pardon most sincerely: I am called Christabell." She looks at you with anticipation. [ HINT: you can ask or sometimes tell people about various subjects ] >* are we a ghost? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* I mean she must be some kind of supernatural entity if I can tell how she spells and capitalizes words just from hearing her That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >ask woman about seight You consider whether it is prudent to kick off a conversation with this stranger, secluded as you are in this deathly quiet corner of the Cragne Property, but your gregarious nature carries the day. You reason that she's only a stranger because you haven't met her yet, and considering that you don't really know anything about Peter's family, maybe it is time to start reaching out a little more. You sit down next to the woman, and she rewards you with a smile and rapt attention. [ HINT: For short, say "a subject" or "t subject" to ASK/TELL about a subject ] The term is not familiar to you, so instead you ask, "I never heard of the 'sight' -- what is it?" Christabell appears surprised, but patiently replies, "It is a Gifte, which I now presume to be hitherto unknown to You. Let us not make Haste with what does follow, for Experience has shewn me that Understanding may train behind my Wordes." She pauses for emphasis, "The spektral Seight is the Ability of somme so-favoured by God's New Grace to see Spirits as Substance. Thus, you are able to see and converse with me." "Spirits?" You think to yourself that this conversation just jumped the shark. You shake your head trying to put her words into some order that makes more sense. "Back the truck up, honey. Spirits? As in ghosts?" "Not precisely, but on Balance more Reight than Wronge -- and whilst you are styll of Mynd to listen, I should add that the Gifte is restricted a lineage, which does fill me with Curiosity." She looks appraisingly at your face, taking in the features. "Wait. Ghosts?" you cannot get past the word. You brain doesn't seem to be working very well just now. "Indeed." She places a hand on your shoulder, but rather than the reassuring pressure and warmth of human touch, you feel a wave of coldness wash over you. "Tarry a Moment," Christabell instructs, "until your Mind ceases its Fievre, lest it berne through the Knotte of reason and unravell you." >t seigt "Well," says Christabell. >t seight Recognizing your difficulty in getting your head around the concept, Christabell patient discusses at length how people gifted with spectral sight can see spirits. >* Well that all follows That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >a crane "I suppose you must know the Cragnes; they own all this property and that mansion on the far side of the hill," you prompt. "I have beheld many of the Crânes, hasting aloung the Pathes, dallying here and there, about their divers Busyness." "What do you think of them?" "To witte, nunne did have Seight of me, thow summe haf talked within my Presence." >t crane "I can't say too much about my in-laws because almost every time I have brought the subject up, Peter goes silent." Christabell nods for you to continue. "But there was this one time -- one evening, we were looking through an old leather-bound album of his. I don't know where it came from, or what became of it, but he was researching something about a remote uncle of his, Verlan Refi-Cul Cragne -- sounds French, right? They were fur traders along the Saint Lawrence River in the late 17th Century; most settled near Quebec, but an offshoot worked their way into Vermont." You pause to rub some warmth back into your hands. "Peter is normally so withdrawn -- I was surprised that he knew so much about that obscure ancestor, but once he got going on family history, he was like a thing possessed." "No doubt. Many are so-fated." "Yes," you agree. "Genealogy is fascinating." Caught up in the conversation, the surrealism of your situation now lands with its full weight and you take a long breath. "My friend, wherefore doth your Countenance so cloud?" "I just realized how weird it is to be talking to a ghost." "A spirit." "Okay, a spirit," you concede. "Maybe all this hanging around with the Cragnes has rubbed off on me. Maybe I'm the one who has lost her marbles." "Nay, your Marbles be firmly within your Skull, and your Knotte of Reason still tightly woven." "Mark my words, Peter is going to have a field day when I tell him how my day has gone." "That I cannot mark, it being beyond my powers." >* nice correct use of wherefore That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* "refi-cul" is of course Lucifer backwards, and Verlan is almost Verlac You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >t yourself "Well," you begin, "I am Naomi, and you probably already know my husband, Peter -- Peter Cragne." Christabell shakes her head, "A Crâne? No, I have not the Pleasure of his Acquitenance, or at least not yet. But I am sure there are many Hereabouts unknown to me of Late." "Yes, he's a little introverted, so I'm not surprised," you continue. "In fact, while he's met my entire family, I have not even met his parents -- yet. No pressure there, right?" "Assuredly, so." "We took this opportunity to shoot up to Vermont and I figure we'll do the family thing and while we're at it a little touring around: Ben & Jerry's, some covered bridges, get a bucket of maple syrup -- or however they sell it -- and check out some of the mountains. Two birds with one stone!" "Two with but a single Stoning? Indeed, what you have laid out sounds a fruitful Application of your Labours." >* we don't trust her enough, so we just tell her about our cover identity as Naomi You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >a peter Christabell politely mentions that she has not made his acquaintance. >a myself Christabell has to think about that one. "Your Demeanour suggesteth to me summe Affluence, and your Speache conveieth to me an Impression of upstanding Formation. I sense a Dystase for Idleness, but whether you are a Working Girl, I cannot say with Sureness." "No -- or rather, I do have a job. A nice job. In an office. I do work, that is." Christabell continues, "Further, I do aspie summe Resemblance of Visage, but cannot fathom its place in the Lineage." >a christabell "I think you may be the only Christabell that I know," you say. "In truth? This does surprize me greatly, for in mei Youth it was a most common Appellation. There were... let me render the Account," Christabell counts on her fingers, "four of us in the Whole of the Towne. Contrarywise, "til this Day I had met ne'er a Naomi, thow the Name be familiar, being fownde in the Booke of Ruth." >* Naomi being the mother-in-law of the eponymous Ruth, who in turn was King David's like Great-Grandmother You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* I remember her being kind of a schmuck, so that fits at least You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >t christabell You and Christabell chat for a while about names for kids -- not that you and Peter expect any, at least for a while -- on the other hand, there was that accident the other evening. No matter, you doubt you'd use any of the names that she comes up with. >* TMI That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >a peter Christabell politely mentions that she has not made his acquaintance. >t peter "As for Peter, my husband, what you see is what you get: he's a lovable teddy bear." "Is he?" "Yes, but a bit of a workaholic. He puts in a full day, but then he's up all night with the books. I've never seen anyone pour their soul out so much over a job." "Into what Sorte of Bookes does he pour his Soul?" "At this point, he's management, so mostly going over audit summaries. In truth, he'd rather do the bean counting himself. Crunching numbers floats his boat." "I am amazed to hear such Newes as you have to tell; the Worlde is greatly changed since my Youth." >* I am pretty sure this is not remotely accurate That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >a gifte "You mentioned 'a Gift' -- that's an odd turn of phrase. A gift from whom?" "Yes, One of the many gifts of Mattanit, one of the ways his new Grace doth manifest." >* you don't say That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >t gifte "Uh-huh," says Christabell. >a spektral Recognizing your difficulty in getting your head around the concept, Christabell patient discusses at length how people gifted with spectral sight can see spirits. >a new grace Christabell replies, "Has Worde of Mattanit's Third Covenant not reached All even in these late Days? Why, it is by HIS New Grace that many Myrickles are accomplished, the dead browt to life, the Globe delievered to its righteous End." >t new grace "Really?" says Christabell. >a spirits Christabell has apparently been thinking about this subject at length and immediately rattles off an answer. "Spirits are to be knowne by their Properties, of whych are three. Firstly, Spirits are Earthly but insubstantial Continuations of Souls smote by Artifice rather than Nature. Secondly, a Spirit doth find itself bownd to an Objekt and hath not the freedom of Mouvement. Thirdly and finally, a Spirit is by its Constitucion rendered Invisible, therewith accepting of Spektral Seight, which maketh them plainly remarked, but only to those of Lineage." "So, I take it that you, Christabell, are a Spirit? And that you are bound here?" "Close, but your Hawrse-shew doth fall awide its Mark -- a Spirit I most assuredly am, and you seighted behold me, but 'tis not to this hillside that I be affixed, but rather in some unexpected manner, to this great heap of Iron." "How?" you start to formulate some questions. "Tis a long and painful Story, and more than I can bear to discuss at the Moment." Cristabel slumps forward, but catches herself. "I am owt of Practice, that this enjoyable Discourse of oures, so appreciated as Respite to my Solitude, has exhausted me to my Core." >t spirits "Interesting," says Christabell. >a ghosts You rub your temples to dispel the growing headache. "Ghost, spirit -- seems like six of one, half a dozen of the other." "Equateth not these Quantities within the Newe Mathimaticks?" "Huh? Oh, yes. I suppose. But that's my point -- I say ghost, you say spirit, to-may-to, to-mah-to, what's the difference?" "I do see whence your Confusion proceeds. Before my own Deathe, I would not have quibbled, but nowe the Difference is made Manifest. Simply put -- and must needes simply prai you attend my Wordes with do Conviction: Ghosts be not real, but Confabulaycion onely; the Sorte told to afrayten Childeren and enjoin theyre Obedience. Any One who maketh the Claym of having one caught Seight, I say is a lying Dog and owt Penance gainst such Sinne." "So, ghosts fake, spirits real -- is that the gist?" "You have shivvered the very Shaft of mei Arguement with the whetted Arrow of Comprehencion." "I'll take that as a yes." >t ghosts "Sorry? Didn't follow that," says Christabell. >a lineage "Surely, you suspect -- your Eyes, your Fayce, your Carriage -- all about you I have seen in the Looking-glass. We are of a common Stock, you and I, whence stems your Spektral Seight." "Because we're both Cragnes?" you ask. "Nay, neither, I reckon. No Crâne Blood runs -- fynne, I allow, did run, for sayke of Correctness -- did run through my Veinnes. My surname is 'Burt', in case that catches notice. And if I do not mistake, you have not the Aspect of Fruite fallen from the gnarled Tree of the Crânes -- although I did once wot by Providence wot Happenstance, know a Crâne also, a certain Carol, of Our Lineage." "Am I a Cragne? No. I married one. Peter is a Cragne -- I just married in. We had blood tests and everything. Our kids won't have two heads. I'm sure he and I aren't related." "Tell me of your Ancestors," Cristabell asks. "Going back a generation on my father's side, he and his dad were carpenters in Lithuania and came to the US in 30s. He had a little shop in Hull..." Cristabell waves you on impatiently; clearly, that part of your ancestry does not excite her. "But on my mom's side -- my birth mom, that is, her family traces back to the UK. My cousin did a school report on our family tree, and I think we go back to the Bassetts on that side. Does that ring any bells?" "Like a Papist Belfry on the Newe Year." "..." Christabell clarifies, "My owne Mother was but one Generation remouved from Family Bassett. A wealthey Family, they did dwell not far a-way." >* Ah yes, that well-known Hull in America You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* Nitocris must have done some off-screen necromancy to conjure up that name That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >t lineage "Is that a fact?" says Christabell. >a lineage It turns out you and Christabell are distantly related. Going back to colonial times, you both descended from the Bassett family on your mothers' sides. >a knitte Christabell says, "I wish I knew." >a knotte "The Knotte of Reason is the fibre within our Being what doth together bind in a regular manner our Faculties of Ratiocination, the Wellspring of our Creativity, the Vital Forces which impart our Weal, the Tepid Vapors of our Emotions, and the Restraining Compass of Moral Direction," explains Christabell. Seeing your glazed expression, she continues, "The Knotte of Reason doth pull the Needful against tensions be they substantial and invisible. Onely with the Knotte remaining intackt can you rest lucid of Speech and Wit. Let not it yield lest your sanity flow out of your Heade like the Newe Moon Tiyd." >t knotte "How interesting," says Christabell. >a reason If you followed her explanation correctly -- and that's not a sure thing -- it sounds like when she says the Knotte of Reason, she means sanity. >* Oh honey we've been at 0 SAN for millenia That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >a vermont Christabell replies, "There be not much to say on my Part, Vermont, being far from where I spent my youth. In truth, I never set my Foote here all the Tymme I did live, but onely did come tardily some many Yeares after my own Deathe, and that not of my Volition. Thus, there is little I can add of local flavour beyond the Explorations that you may set upon your own Selffe." >t vermont "Geography isn't my strong suit," you admit. "I think I was supposed to have gone to Vermont when I was a kid, but the ski trip got canceled." Looking around, you remark, "I'm not sure Vermont quite agrees with me. The weather seems kind of gray here." "More like that be a Reflexion of the Locale." >a mark "A Mark is a special Touch whereby a Spirit does grant Favour to One still a-live by laying upon the One so-gift'd summe small Splintre of their own Essence. Those haffing the seight will reckognise it a brawnish Stain upon the marked, but Others will not it ken." "Sounds like an evil cow brand for the soul." "The Marking is neither maleficent nor beneficent, it being onely a Reflection of Spirit from whence it doth floe." "Why would anyone agree to be marked, though?" "In a sense, it be a Blessing for it doth warde the One a-gainst depredations of inimickal Spirits and by its Presence exclude unwillful Markings thereafter. More of a Pointe, such Magickal Capacities as possessed the Donor are bestown thereby for exercise upon the Will of the Begift'd." >* seems handy! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >t mark "Humph," says Christabell. >a mark According to Christabell, spirits can imprint their mark on people, and it somehow endows those people with magical powers. Apparently, a person can only be marked once, or so she says. >a youth "So," you begin, "what was your childhood like?" Pleased to be the center of attention, Christabell reminisces, "My early Youth I did spent in Engeland, Mother's youngest Daughter, so was coddled. I saw little of Father in that time, him being all-waies at Worke in the Forges of one great Towne or an Other." "I did notice the accent," you add. "Are you originally from London?" "Nay, never yet Lundon; we did sayle from the Port of Bristoll and came we to the Towne of Lin. "Never heard of it." "No, even in that day it was a Hamlet, somewhat removed from larger Settlements. In later Dayes, I do believe it were better known as Saugus for the River that did nearby course. We were deliwered there by the very Hand of Providence, for Lin was blessed with a River, plentifull Bog Ironne, and no lack of Wood." "About when was this?" you ask. "That Providence delivered us to the Colonie of Massachusetts? That Date I dewe know'th by Hearte: It was the Year of the Lord Sixteen-Hundreds and Fourty-Four, and I was but a Gyrll of eleffen Years." "Sorry -- did you say 1644?" "Yes, and I did die in the Year of Our Lord Sixteen-Hundred and Fifty-Three; since whych I have existed as naught but a Spirit." >* That's a few years into the Civil War, so that checks out You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >t youth "All of this is new to me". You gesture to the surrounding countryside -- at least, to where there would be surrounding countryside if you could see beyond the overbearing dark cliffs and creeping dark woods. "I grew up in The Big Apple. That's where I'm from." "Whence?" "The Big Apple. The City. You know, New York. Don't you say 'Big Apple' here?" "I do not beleeve it be in common Parlance, but I am of late at far remouved from the Tymme of mei Youth and moor a poor Judge of such Thinges." "It's probably a regional thing, like soda and pop." >a towne "Tell me of Lin," you say. "In that Tymme, the Towne was barely establyshed, us being among the first to settle along the River where the Mill came to be built. The Ironworkes were already conceived of and Fowndacion layd when they did sent for my Father, he being versed deeply in the Arts of Forging and also much skilt in the Emplacement of Edifices for such Worke." Are we far from Lin?" you prompt. "Some many Miles, I do thynk, for we are Nowe ourselves in Vermont, but Lin found itselff within the Governance of the Massachusetts Colonie." Christabell looks to the distance and adds, "Not all of us did call it Lin -- my Mother and Systers -- we did know it rather for the Indian Name of the River whereby we were set: Saugus." >* some iron theming here That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* also I guess it makes sense since she's been "dead" so long, but this is one loquacious lady You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >t town "You don't say," says Christabell. >a mattanit "Who," you begin, "or what is Mattanit"? Christabell passes her hand five times in front of her heart and replies, "HE is the last Face of God, and blest are we for coming to know him." This seems to take some of her strength and she rests her hand on a rail, "I long to say moor, but 'tis so very draining? I haf not such moor straynthe within mee." >t mattanit "Hmm. What do you know?" says Christabell. >* "Mattanit" is an Algonquin word for an evil spirit, FYI You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* Should have consulted a linguist That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >a third covenant "That sounds kind of creepy. Third Covenant?" you ask. "Certainly," replies Christabell, her face full of passion but also marked by fatigue. "You surely must knowe the Covenant of Abraham, and the New Covenant of our Lord Jesus Christ?" "Well? not so much. I'm more of a died-in-the-wool atheist." "That Denomination is unfamiliar to me", replies Christabell. "No matter -- all of Christendom profits of this Newe Truth, for Our Sovereign Mattanit says, behold this, the third and finall covenant to serve the End of Tymmes'. This then be mie cleer and onely meaning." Housing developments aside, you're not even sure what a 'covenant' is, much less what Christabell is rambling on about, so you just nod "okay" and wait for her to run out of steam. >* er, hopefully "dyed" in the wool -- "died" seems more painful You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >a third You are hesitant to bring this up again, because last time Christabell unleashed a word salad of religious mumble-jumbo, but it seems to be some kind of a promise that Mattanit made to his followers. >t third "Well, you learn something new every day," says Christabell. >a first Christabell says, "That's an interesting question." >a first covenant Christabell says, "Good question." >a convenant Christabell says, "Sorry, I don't know." >a covenant You are hesitant to bring this up again, because last time Christabell unleashed a word salad of religious mumble-jumbo, but it seems to be some kind of a promise that Mattanit made to his followers. >a covenant of abraham Christabell says, "I don't have a good answer for that one." >a abraham Christabell says, "I have wondered that myself." >a new Christabell says, "That's an interesting question." >a new covenant Christabell says, "Sorry, I don't know." >a iron (the cast iron spire) Christabell says, "I don't have a good answer for that one." >a irone Christabell says, "I wish I knew." >t iron (the cast iron spire) "I haven't even given it much thought," says Christabell. >drop spire Dropped. >a iron (the cast iron spire) Christabell says, "I have wondered that myself." >* blarg That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >take spire Taken. >w You can't go that way. >s You can't go that way. >sw Cristabell calls after you, "I do thank you for diverting summe Houres with mee in Discourse sweet. I do entreat you return upon your Convenience that we may again share some Werdes." Constabulary Road (Harkness Munt) The road phases into little more than a wide dirt track winding from the west towards the edge of town to the northeast. A paved walk wanders through an iron gate which interrupts a high stone wall looming to the north. A memorial bench sits just outside its shadow. A tangled rampart of trees and dense undergrowth obstructs passage to the south. A barricade spans the road to the northeast, and beyond it a large shallow pit is being excavated. If you're careful, you could skirt the edges of the pit and continue along the northeast road. >dro spire That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >drop spire Dropped. >ne "Ah, I do bid you again Greeting, my friend. You do seem much busy to-Daye in your Wanderings." Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >a iron You need to specify who you want to speak to. >ask christabell about iron "For as long as this great Pyle of Ironne Metall has been here, so have I." >t iron "I haven't even given it much thought," says Christabell. >a deathe Christabell says, "Good question." >a death Christabell says, "That's an interesting question." >t death "You don't say," says Christabell. >ask christabell about death Christabell says, "I wish I knew." >ask christabell about he death Christabell says, "I have wondered that myself." >ask christabell about her death Christabell says, "Sorry, I don't know." >* hmm, it was highlighted! You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >a carol "Carol. Yes, what to say of Carol..." Cristabell stares into the sky, collecting her thoughts. "I do not Knowe. In different Tymmes, she was many things to mee, and I to her, being related not onely of Lineage but of Minde. She lived not far from here in Manse of Family Crâne." "Then you knew her in your youth?" "No, not mine but hers -- I had long before met my owne Deathe. In her Youth, she would oft come here and suffer my Companionship; less so, as she did flower to Womanhood, though. I do sincerely avow committing every Efforts and Care to her goode and proper Upbringing and polite Formation, but she was remarkable headstrong and sharp of wit like broken Glass. Even with my Mark set upon her, she did suffer the Corruption and Poyson of that House. I urged her to remain away, but every Summer it did call her back to itself." "Is she still there? In the mansion?" "I need so beleeve, though I have not seen her since her Deathe." >t carol "Humph," says Christabell. >a carol Carol received Christabell's mark and was at one time her protegée. >a deathe Christabell says, "Good question." >* not to be all goth-y, but I'd really like to know about her death! You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >a forges "It was a Marvell of its Day. I have not in mei minds Eye a simple Forge nor even a Company of Smithies, but an entyre Factorie that did smelt the Earth's Ores into Pigs and thence crafte them to wrought Werkes putting to shame anything carried on the Sea to us. Even the Masters that did instructe upon a Tymme my Father, they did say howe fynne were his Pieces and I think they did harbour summe not little Jealousy thereby." "It sounds remarkable," you add. "It did make us Prowde, yes, but did become to an Undoing." Christabell casts her eyes to the ground, and for a moment, she seems less substantial -- you have the impression of looking straight through her towards the dark cliffs that frame this hollow. "No more need be sayed upon this dower Subjekt." >t forge "How interesting," says Christabell. >a lin Christabell tells you of growing up in the town of Lin, or as it may be better known by some, Saugus. >t lin "Uh-huh," says Christabell. >a saugus Christabell tells you of growing up in the town of Lin, or as it may be better known by some, Saugus. >t saugus "Sorry? Didn't follow that," says Christabell. >* Saugus and Lynn are just northeast of Boston, by the way, with a historic iron works You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* (It's close to Marblehead and Salem, which I previously menitoned I spent time in wheni was a kid) You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >a cliffs "They be nothing like any Marble Granite that I do know, first by their Colour, which is unnatural dark, but also by their Durabilitie. Summe Tymme ago, Men did come with their Tools up from the Crâne Manour, and did try for Dayes to saw and pierce the stony Walls of this Hollow, but theyr Tools dulled, they made not a Scratch upon the timeless Stone here. That crafted in an earlier Ayge cannot be rewrought by too soft Hand of modern Man." >t cliffs "Is that a fact?" says Christabell. >a ironworks It seems to be something of a sore point with Christabell. One one hand, she's proud of what her father accomplished in his forge constructed in the town of Lin, but on the other hand, it took him away from Christabell and her mother. >a massachusetts She answers you factually, "You do speake of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, which was settled by the Company of the same Name. I do thynk you harbour some confusion between it and the Plymouth Colony, to hear you speake of it, and that many such Factes do stew about unproductively within your Brains, like Cud recently chewn within Cattel Tripes." Both Colonies were establyshed considerable Tymme befour I did arrive to the Towne of Lin, and though there were summe Commerce betwixt, I did find them a queer and standoffish Lott." >t massachusetts "Interesting," says Christabell. >a colony Christabell seems to know a lot about the early history of the colonies in Massachusetts. >t colony "Really?" says Christabell. >a indian "Nowe that you do mention it, I am given to refleckt the Oddity that stands in Contrast to Experience of the Past, the Native People being both so numberous and skattered a-far and widely within these Shoures, Mountains, and Playns, each Home to sundry Tribes and Kinships, the Relations betwixt running like Streams o'er these Landes, that not One have I upon layd mei Eyes to sally along these Pathes or threw these Woods, despite my ever-constant Vigil. Strike you not that a Perplexity?" Still parsing that sentence, you reply, "I guess." Christabell welcomes your remark as a confirmation with a nod and then gestures towards the dark cliffs surrounding you. "Ne'er the Lesse, do I sense they have long dwelt here, in this Place of Power. Though I have not the Seight of them, but not a doubt do I entertain in mind that they are all about us, teeming like bilge Ratts." "Yuck." "I meant in Numericity, not Demeanour." "In my Youth, I did well knowe the Tribes near the Towne of Lin and after awhile, those further owt from not onely our mutual Trade, but in later Tymmes, mei Werke in the Understanding of theyr divers Tongues, Coustumes and Teachings. It was threw them that mei Father did profit summe of their Science, any mei Mother of theyr Wisedom, they haffing made introducion to us of Mattanit and the Third Covenant." >* sigh, this old trope You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >t indian "Well," says Christabell. >* bad news about genocide That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >a pile "It has been here a long, long time," says Christabell. >t pile "Hmm. What do you know?" says Christabell. >a native There used to be a lot of American Indians around this area, but Christabell says that few are seen these days. >a tribes There used to be a lot of American Indians around this area, but Christabell says that few are seen these days. >* ...I think that's all the topics? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >i You are carrying: Tolerating An Asinine God a clipboard a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal loose bricks an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a hovering spark (haunting you) >save Ok. >* wait, now it's a spark, not a chill? You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x spark Something like a spark of chalk hovers in the air behind you. As you watch, it fades, only to reappear to your right in a wash of cold. >i You are carrying: Tolerating An Asinine God a clipboard a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal loose bricks an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a hovering spark (haunting you) >touch spark As your hand approaches the spark, you feel the warmth draining from your fingertips. You jerk your hand back just as frost begins to form on your palm. >x chill Something like a spark of chalk hovers in the air behind you. As you watch, it fades, only to reappear to your right in a wash of cold. >* huh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >i You are carrying: Tolerating An Asinine God a clipboard a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal loose bricks an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a hovering spark (haunting you) >l Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >x pile A tall pile of rusted railway tracks. >search it There is nothing on the pile of railroad tracks. >x coffee This is strange. As you watch the clouds in your cup, they form a pair of daggers that orbit the cup, maintaining a steady distance from each other. You remember that twin objects like this mean you are split between two intricately entangled destinies, and that at any given moment, one of them will be the right place for you to be, but the coffee can't tell which. Way to drop the ball there, coffee. >* huh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* That's a bit odd? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Still I'm not seeing anything else immediately to do here? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >u You can't go that way. > I beg your pardon? >n "Do endeavour to mind yourself amongst the Crânes!" "I will. I always do." You shout back, as you walk away. Front Walk (Matt Weiner) Cragne Manor looms to the north. Its light gray marble front is marred by a screened-in wooden porch, clearly tacked on well after the manor was built. A gravel path bends around the manor to the northeast and northwest, and the driveway leads south back to town. By the porch steps is a post with a placard reading "31." A strange little manikin is affixed to it. >* Hey, getting there! You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* Matt Weiner's also written some games, and from checking out his website, is actually a professor in Vermont! You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x manor Its windows are dark in its light gray front. Marble from the Barre quarry, you think. Was there a legend about a worker who was crushed under a slab, and a stain that would never come out? In this light you can't see it. >* eek That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x porch A brief flight of steps leads up to the porch. The thick screens block any view inside. >l Front Walk (Matt Weiner) Cragne Manor looms to the north. Its light gray marble front is marred by a screened-in wooden porch, clearly tacked on well after the manor was built. A gravel path bends around the manor to the northeast and northwest, and the driveway leads south back to town. By the porch steps is a post with a placard reading "31." A strange little manikin is affixed to it. >x screens A brief flight of steps leads up to the porch. The thick screens block any view inside. >x windows Its windows are dark in its light gray front. Marble from the Barre quarry, you think. Was there a legend about a worker who was crushed under a slab, and a stain that would never come out? In this light you can't see it. >x path The gravel path curves around the manor to the northeast and northwest. >x driveway The driveway leads south back to town. >x steps A brief flight of steps leads up to the porch. The thick screens block any view inside. >x placard It reads "31." The house address, presumably. >x manikin A faceless three-foot straw figure in a flowered bonnet and plaid skirt. It looks like a figure from some ancient harvest rite--somewhat like the harvest manikins in Stowe outside such establishments as The Startled Cat, The Buxom Crow, The Ambulatory Barnacle, and Tweebones. >x hat You can't see any such thing. >x bonnet It's kind of cute. >take it You don't want to strip the manikin of its clothing. >take manikin It's just a piece of local whimsy. No need to bother with it. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form -- weird, they've entirely dissipated. 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. >* sometimes a driveway is just a driveway That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Let's finish exploring the environs before we enter the Manor grounds proper That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >s "I am glad your Pilgrimage does take you mie Waie yet once moor, dear girl!" says Christabell as she prances up beside you along the path. Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >x coffee This is odd. As you watch the clouds in your cup, they form a pair of bright stars that rotate around the cup, maintaining a steady distance from each other. You remember that twin objects like this mean you are split between two intricately entangled destinies, and that at any given moment, one of them will be the right place for you to be, but the coffee can't tell which. Way to drop the ball there, coffee. >* seriously coffee, do me a solid You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >se "I shall not keep you further from your most industrious Perambulations," Christabell jests. "See you later," you call back to her. "I do most fervently so desire!" Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >* ruh roh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* We've heard tell of this meatpacking plant before, and that it's by Chandler Groover is ominious AF You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* (I haven't played any of his games, but I did play Mathbrush's Grooverland, which is enough to make me dread what's to come here) You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x sky If a butcher took a meat-tenderizer to a ribcage, it would look like this sky. >* oof That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x smoke Heavy lines, trickling from the chimneys like starbound grease. >x chimneys In certain tarot decks, there is a card with a corpse on the ground, many swords stuck upright in its back. Chimneystacks are not, perhaps, unlike swords. Buildings are not unlike bodies. But whatever the card was meant to represent, you suspect it wasn't a meatpacking plant. >* now that's an image That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x plant (the Cragne Meatpacking Plant) Block print, more than twenty feet tall, spells out CRAGNE MEATS INCORPORATED across the building. At least it did, until the elements had their say. And the grease-fires. Now the plant advertises C GN ME TS CO PO ED. >x bricks (loose bricks) The brick is quite heavy. >x wall Block print, more than twenty feet tall, spells out CRAGNE MEATS INCORPORATED across the building. At least it did, until the elements had their say. And the grease-fires. Now the plant advertises C GN ME TS CO PO ED. >nw "It seems you are drawn like a bee to my honey, my pretty." "Um. Maybe a little awkwardly phrased, but it's nice to see you too, Christabell." Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >drop bricks Dropped. >se "Go with the my Blessing, dear girl!" Christabell says cheerfully as you depart. "May the Force be with you!" "Of what Forces do you speake, Friend?" "Nevermind, it's just how we say goodbye these days." "Truly the Werlde of the Future be a Marvel." Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >x bricks You've seen grease-traps more hygienic than this building's bricks. Filthy grease-traps. >nw Christabell smiles warmly with your return to her hillside. Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see loose bricks and Christabell here. >take bricks Taken. >sw Christabell bids you well, as you depart. Constabulary Road (Harkness Munt) The road phases into little more than a wide dirt track winding from the west towards the edge of town to the northeast. A paved walk wanders through an iron gate which interrupts a high stone wall looming to the north. A memorial bench sits just outside its shadow. A tangled rampart of trees and dense undergrowth obstructs passage to the south. A barricade spans the road to the northeast, and beyond it a large shallow pit is being excavated. If you're careful, you could skirt the edges of the pit and continue along the northeast road. You can see a cast iron spire here. >take spire Taken. >ne Christabell smiles warmly with your return to her hillside. Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >se Christabell bids you well, as you depart. Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >* don't want to lose anything! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x heaps Some instinct called them to the plant, compelled them to fall in this particular arrangement. Their limbs are like letters, their slaughter grammar. Whatever language they might embody, its blasphemy could never be written. Only erased. >x pigs Each pig's as pale as a drowned cadaver, skin shriveled and stuck to the bones underneath. Their corpses are covered with tiny punctures. >x punctures Bite marks. Just like human teeth, except too small. And too many. >* ick That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x cows More like skeletons than cows. Their jugulars are pockmarked with little incisions, bodies collapsed like juice-boxes sucked down to the last drop. >x incisions Bite marks. Just like human teeth, except too small. And too many. >x hole A door used to be here. Apparently it was too small for whatever wanted to get in?or out. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form a blooming rose. 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. >* huh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* not seeing too much in need of solving That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >search heaps Flies buzz around your face. You bend down, feel along the ground, shove corpses aside as you dig through their desiccated heaps. They weigh practically nothing, like papier-mâché, but you find one that's still plump: a sheep with a bloated belly. You pull its body into the open. >* of course That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* thanks Chandler That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* Really appreciate it That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x sheep Its face has been scraped raw: a skull with bulbous eyes in red sockets. They're eyes you recognize. You only met her once, but you'll never forget those bulbous eyes. Old Lorraine Cragne, your husband's great aunt once-removed (or can great aunts be once-removed?), standing at a cutting-board in the kitchen. She had a rabbit pinned down. She ripped it open. Because, she explained, she could examine its guts to read the world's hidden language. >* Nitocris doesn't need a great-aunt to instruct her in haruspicy! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x guts You can't see any such thing. >x stomach Swollen to three times the normal size. >open it The sheepskin is weaker than wet tissue-paper. It shreds in your hands, and steaming intestines pour through soggy fur. They spread toward your feet on the ground. Did Lorraine have a seat on the board at Cragne Meats? You can't remember. >x intestines So many flies. Everywhere. They swarm the intestines like fingers following sentences in a book, tracing each loop, every bloody coil. Their buzzing is louder than ever before. >read them So many flies. Everywhere. They swarm the intestines like fingers following sentences in a book, tracing each loop, every bloody coil. Their buzzing is louder than ever before. >take intestines These intestines have fallen in this arrangement because it was meant to happen. Not only their coils, but also the empty spaces between them, seem to mirror other patterns nearby. Lorraine would've been able to interpret them. She knew how to read the blank spots in the world. >read blank You can't see any such thing. >x patterns Block print, more than twenty feet tall, spells out CRAGNE MEATS INCORPORATED across the building. At least it did, until the elements had their say. And the grease-fires. Now the plant advertises C GN ME TS CO PO ED. >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. You've pulled a sheep into the open, and ripped out its guts. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >i You are carrying: a cast iron spire loose bricks Tolerating An Asinine God a clipboard a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a hovering spark (haunting you) >* the Modern Girl's Divination Handbook did not prepare us for this That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >read modern You flip past the title page, looking for something interesting... Corn on the Cob Castings If your parents are anything like our parents, they really suck at predicting the future... but they might have a kernel of truth for you! The next time you're at a family barbecue, slip this potion into your mom's potato salad, then wait for her to finish her corn on the cob-- What. [You can continue to READ the divination handbook; this is excerpt 1/3.] >g You continue to thumb through the book... Teddy Rux-Possession Did you learn about history from a creepy animatronic bear when you were a kid, and now he's just gathering dust? Good news! With a little bit of sage smudging and energy cleansing, Teddy Ruxpin makes the perfect home for a wandering spirit-- Nope nope nope. [You can continue to READ the divination handbook; this is excerpt 2/3.] >g You flip past a lot of terrible ideas to the very last page of the book... Coffee Scrying Ever wonder if the little heart in your latte means the barista's crushing on you? Well, now you can find out for sure! All you need is a cold cup of coffee with some cream in it-- Huh. Unlike everything else in the book, this seems like it might actually prove useful. There aren't that many possible readings, so you quickly memorize them and slam the book closed. [This is the end of the divination handbook, but if you have no respect for your own intelligence, you can READ it again.] >* nope That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. You've pulled a sheep into the open, and ripped out its guts. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >x sheep Its face has been scraped raw: a skull with bulbous eyes in red sockets. They're eyes you recognize. You only met her once, but you'll never forget those bulbous eyes. Old Lorraine Cragne, your husband's great aunt once-removed (or can great aunts be once-removed?), standing at a cutting-board in the kitchen. She had a rabbit pinned down. She ripped it open. Because, she explained, she could examine its guts to read the world's hidden language. >x guts So many flies. Everywhere. They swarm the intestines like fingers following sentences in a book, tracing each loop, every bloody coil. Their buzzing is louder than ever before. >x flies Swarms that resemble a woman's silhouette. >x silhouette Swarms that resemble a woman's silhouette. >listen All this buzzing, buzzing, buzzing is like an old woman rasping, rasping, rasping: What the guts say is what they don't. What isn't here, that's what's really here. That's why the suckling came, because its name's not here. Not anymore. Speak what isn't here, and it will rise. Yes, we will rise. >* huh That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >say lorraine You can only do that to something animate. >lorraine That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >touch guts These intestines have fallen in this arrangement because it was meant to happen. Not only their coils, but also the empty spaces between them, seem to mirror other patterns nearby. Lorraine would've been able to interpret them. She knew how to read the blank spots in the world. >move guts These intestines have fallen in this arrangement because it was meant to happen. Not only their coils, but also the empty spaces between them, seem to mirror other patterns nearby. Lorraine would've been able to interpret them. She knew how to read the blank spots in the world. >x patterns Block print, more than twenty feet tall, spells out CRAGNE MEATS INCORPORATED across the building. At least it did, until the elements had their say. And the grease-fires. Now the plant advertises C GN ME TS CO PO ED. >put guts in sign Flies rise at your approach, buzzing around your ears. >say cragne You can only do that to something animate. >say cragne to guts You can only do that to something animate. >take sign So much grease. On every brick. You can't get a grip. >push sign So much grease. On every brick. You can't get a grip. >* hrm That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. You've pulled a sheep into the open, and ripped out its guts. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >x pile Some instinct called them to the plant, compelled them to fall in this particular arrangement. Their limbs are like letters, their slaughter grammar. Whatever language they might embody, its blasphemy could never be written. Only erased. >i You are carrying: a cast iron spire loose bricks Tolerating An Asinine God a clipboard a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a hovering spark (haunting you) >pull doll The doll intones: "Guard against the portent of the bruised clouds!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the risk of the thing that isn't here!" >x clouds (the bruised clouds) If a butcher took a meat-tenderizer to a ribcage, it would look like this sky. >pull doll The doll intones: "Guard against the jeopardy of the thing that isn't here!" >g The doll intones: "Avoid the dead cows!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the hole in the wall! A door suggests passage out of life! Something small represents secret ability!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the bite marks! Teeth decay and fall out of the head! Something small bespeaks secret ability!" >g The doll intones: "Guard against the black smoke!" >g The doll intones: "Avoid the hole in the wall! A door indicates passage out of life! Something small signifies secret ability!" >g The doll intones: "Guard against the risk of the dead pigs! The deceased has borne enough!" >g The doll intones: "Guard against the bloated belly! To think that you are bloated means some pent up emotion!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the thing that isn't here!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the hazard of the sheep intestines!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the omen of the hill!" >x hill Charming doesn't quite describe it. >pull doll The doll intones: "Shun the plague of the hole in the wall! A door symbolises passage out of life! Something small suggests secret ability!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the livestock blood! BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!" >x blood One can't run a meatpacking plant without spilling some blood. >pull doll The doll intones: "Beware the buzzing swarms!" >g The doll intones: "Flee the portent of the chimneystacks!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the peril of the buzzing heaps!" >g The doll intones: "Flee the buzzing swarms!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the threat of the thing that isn't here!" >g The doll intones: "Guard against the bulbous eyes!" >x eyes They can't see you. They're dead. They can't see you. >pull doll The doll intones: "Avoid the omen of the livestock blood! BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the omen of the dead pigs! The deceased has borne enough!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the bruised clouds!" >g The doll intones: "Shun the risk of the thing that isn't here!" >g The doll intones: "Beware the bruised clouds!" >g The doll intones: "Guard against the hazard of the dead cows!" >* Well I think that's our lot That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form a sturdy oak. 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. >* hmm, still more to do You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >listen All this buzzing, buzzing, buzzing is like an old woman rasping, rasping, rasping: What the guts say is what they don't. What isn't here, that's what's really here. That's why the suckling came, because its name's not here. Not anymore. Speak what isn't here, and it will rise. Yes, we will rise. >speak (hello to the pamphlet of home listings) The pamphlet of home listings does not respond. >* Hah, I'd forgotten about that You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >say death You can only do that to something animate. >say death to guts You can only do that to something animate. >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. You've pulled a sheep into the open, and ripped out its guts. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >talk to guts Flies rise at your approach, buzzing around your ears. >talk to flies The buzzing swarms do not respond. >talk to sheep The dead sheep does not respond. >touch sheep Liquid seeps from its fur when you apply pressure. >* ew That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. You've pulled a sheep into the open, and ripped out its guts. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >prophesy That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >read fliest You can't see any such thing. >read flies Swarms that resemble a woman's silhouette. >listen to flies All this buzzing, buzzing, buzzing is like an old woman rasping, rasping, rasping: What the guts say is what they don't. What isn't here, that's what's really here. That's why the suckling came, because its name's not here. Not anymore. Speak what isn't here, and it will rise. Yes, we will rise. >x guts So many flies. Everywhere. They swarm the intestines like fingers following sentences in a book, tracing each loop, every bloody coil. Their buzzing is louder than ever before. >beelzebub That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >say beelzebub You can only do that to something animate. >x pattern Block print, more than twenty feet tall, spells out CRAGNE MEATS INCORPORATED across the building. At least it did, until the elements had their say. And the grease-fires. Now the plant advertises C GN ME TS CO PO ED. >* I feel like this is a word puzzle? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* All the as are gone? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >say a You can only do that to something animate. >* oh wait That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >raeainrrat Even thinking the name is too much. Every syllable is a claw inside your skull, scraping the bone like nails raking chalkboards. Something wants out. Something's already out. Right here, in this hole smashed in the wall. Reality ripples outward from the hole, impressed by an idea. By the name. Corpses rattle, gyrate like bathwater swirled into a drain. What isn't here screeches. What isn't here screams. What isn't here rises high into the sky, displacing clouds, festooned with carcasses, and crowned by a sheep's head whose bulbous eyes look to the stars. It rises. It rises. What isn't here, isn't here now. >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain. A hole is smashed into its side. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >* umm That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >undo Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) [Previous turn undone.] >undo Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) [Previous turn undone.] >undo Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) [Previous turn undone.] >undo Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) [Previous turn undone.] >l Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain, and its perimeter circled by dead pigs and cows in buzzing heaps. A hole is smashed into its side. You've pulled a sheep into the open, and ripped out its guts. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. >* i wonder if trying to go inside would be a death with whatever-that-is still around? That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >in When you try to step through the hole, you find its entrance blocked by something cold and wet, humongous and gelatinous. But the hole is just an empty hole. The buzzing grows louder. >* ah! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x hole A door used to be here. Apparently it was too small for whatever wanted to get in?or out. >touch hole As you reach toward the hole in the wall, you brush something moist. >x moist You can't see any such thing... >touch moist You push your fingers through the air inside the hole. It's like cottage cheese. Heavy, damp, and clammy slime submerges your arm to the elbow, although you can't see anything. But you can feel something hard, chitinous. When you remove your hand, there's no physical residue. >* ew That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >lick it You bite an invisible pustule. It bursts, releasing sludge that slithers down your throat. >* yummy! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* OK, let's banish You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >raeainrrat Even thinking the name is too much. Every syllable is a claw inside your skull, scraping the bone like nails raking chalkboards. Something wants out. Something's already out. Right here, in this hole smashed in the wall. Reality ripples outward from the hole, impressed by an idea. By the name. Corpses rattle, gyrate like bathwater swirled into a drain. What isn't here screeches. What isn't here screams. What isn't here rises high into the sky, displacing clouds, festooned with carcasses, and crowned by a sheep's head whose bulbous eyes look to the stars. It rises. It rises. What isn't here, isn't here now. >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. >* Whew That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* things are getting real, y'all You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >* let's stop here, we've done a fair bit You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >nw Christabell smiles warmly with your return to her hillside. Hillside Path (Jack Welch) You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation. Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast. You can see Christabell here. >x coffee This is unusual. As you watch the clouds in your cup, they form a pair of twin suns that orbit the cup, maintaining a steady distance from each other. You remember that twin objects like this mean you are split between two intricately entangled destinies, and that at any given moment, one of them will be the right place for you to be, but the coffee can't tell which. Way to drop the ball there, coffee. >* Still unclear what's the what! That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >save Ok. >i You are carrying: a cast iron spire loose bricks Tolerating An Asinine God a clipboard a black business card a trophy for a dog race a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a glass shard a familiar gold wristwatch a giant milkweed leaf a label an antique locket (closed) a backpack features guide a glass jar containing an insect a book list the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three Twin Hearts Between the Planes a Jansport backpack (open) a key pocket (open but empty) a book pocket (open but empty) a side pocket (open but empty) a trash pocket (open but empty) Peter's jacket a brass winding key a suitcase (open but empty) a plastic bubble (open but empty) a golden eyepiece a pull-string doll a waterproof flashlight a repaired page a wad of cash a moldy, waterlogged journal a library card a grimy rock a long hooked pole a soggy tome an employee ID card a shard of shattered carapace a fungal powder some yellowed newspapers a rusty piece of metal an aluminum key a pamphlet of home listings a hovering spark (haunting you) > * oops, almost forgot! > x me This little weekend getaway with Peter has done you some good. So relaxing. > se Christabell bids you well, as you depart. Outside the Plant (Chandler Groover) Smoke pours into a bruised sky, rising from chimneys that crowd the Cragne Meatpacking Plant. Its bricks are soot-stained, its stenciled walls weathered by acid rain. A hole is smashed into its side. To the northwest, a hill begins to climb toward Cragne Manor. > x me You’re Naomi Cragne, and that’s enough.