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 >restore Ok. >i You are carrying: an imaginary athame an imaginary basalt sphere the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) An earworm is lodged deeply in your head. >s The imaginary basalt sphere vanishes with a sound like a popping soap bubble. The imaginary athame vanishes with a sound like a piece of spaghetti snapping in half. Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >i You are carrying: the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >undo Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) [Previous turn undone.] >undo Milkweed (Caleb Wilson) [Previous turn undone.] >* bad news, chums -- the earworm won't follow us out of the milkweed patch even if we don't cut it off >* so much as is the case in a state where MAGA people are taking over as secretaries of state, your votes were meaningless >* I'll show off the tendril-cutting as a consolation-prize, I suppose >cut tendril with athame As the imaginary blade of the athame touches the tendril attaching the earworm to your brain, the tendril snaps, with a sound like a plucked harp string. The earworm vanishes with a sound like a crack cross a pane of glass. >sing You try to think of song to cheer yourself up, but nothing comes to mind. >* OK this is clearly the BAD END >* ah well >* we'll just restore back to the regularly-scheduled end of chapter two, and soldier on Chumbawamba-less >restore Ok. >l Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >* Let's keep going through the forest -- there are presumably people in the village, and I think Nitocris is an introvert You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >ne The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >ne The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) Branches scramble overhead, straining toward one another in a bid to blot out the sky. Mercifully, light manages to filter down through an opening in the canopy above a small pond. Paths slither away into the forest to the north, southwest, and southeast. You pause a moment to let the hushed peacefulness of this place soak in -- a welcome relief from the unsettling events of the day. >* We have forged a path! Into what seems like a mazelike place, written by IF Comp organizer and ClubFloyd maven Jacqueline Lott Ashwell >x branches You gaze up. Were it not for the pond, you get the feeling these branches would weave themselves together to plunge these woods into near-total darkness. A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind. >x pond Your reflection stares back at you, tree branches framing your face. You can discern nothing beneath the surface of the black water. The pond might be a foot deep, or a hundred feet deep. Or bottomless. For a moment, the wind dies down. Leaves on the ground come to rest. >* I like the lyrical naturalism here -- reminds me I need to play Fire Tower one of these days... >x me As good-looking as ever. >i You are carrying: a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >drink pond In the interest of self-preservation, you think better of drinking from the pond. >x coffee The swirls in your cup form a row of trees. 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. >* That probably means we need to look at the leaves or the path, right? >x leaves Leaves are everywhere. Some float, withered and aimless on the surface of the black water, the rest carpet the forest floor. The wind momentarily stirs up a pile of leaves. >search leaves You feel no need to collect any leaves, but you poke at them with your foot, uncovering a flat stone. >* oh, I was being sarcastic because I thought I was going to have to swim in the pond! >* this is much better >x stone A flat stone with rounded edges. You eye the surface of the pond speculatively. >take it Taken. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a mourning dove's plaintive song. From above, a leaf floats slowly toward the ground. >listen You look up, into the trees, and listen. Wind occasionally moves through the branches. Now and then, a dove calls. The wind picks up again for a moment, and a few leaves fall from above. One of the leaves settles in your hair. You disentangle the leaf and toss it to the ground. >* nice >x leaf (the giant milkweed leaf) A giant milkweed leaf, curled in such a way that it could cling to your face like a mask. It even has two milk-ringed holes for your eyes. The wind comes from a new direction. The skeletons of dead leaves scratch against one another. >* disambiguation hell begins >tempt fate You weigh the flat stone in the palm of your hand for a moment or two, then decide to see if you can make it skip across the pond: you wind your arm back and fling the rock at an angle near-parallel to the water. It unfortunately hits the surface at an imperfect angle, makes a sad *plop* sound, and disappears from view. You sigh. All of the sudden, the forest goes quiet. Completely quiet. No wind, no doves, no sound at all. You are frozen in the stillness, too scared to move. >* (that was actually SKIP STONE, of course) >listen The unsettling silence continues. It's almost as if the forest is waiting for something to ... to happen. From the pond, a slimy ivory tentacle emerges, feeling its way toward you through the dead leaves. You are transfixed, and powerless with fear. >x tentacle It is as if you are observing from outside your own body: you watch as the eburnean appendage begins wrapping itself slowly around your ankle. Suddenly, you are back inside your skin, and feel yourself being dragged toward the pond! You kick at the clammy white arm with your free foot, and desperately dig your fingers into the earth in an attempt to prevent the inevitable. The surface of the once-placid pond now churns violently. >* I don't learn a new word often, but today I did! eburnean means "made of ivory", apparently >* er, in the meantime we're being dragged to our death, though. Where's an imaginary athame when you need it? >kick tentacle That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* the idea that there'll be a later seems optimistic >bite tentacle That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >x tentacle To your horror, you are pulled beneath the surface! All is dark. All is still. An unearthly calm consumes you. You cannot breathe, but you do not seem to care. You blink, unable to make out any shapes in the black water. Then, from the depths, an ivory shape emerges: a many-tentacled creature. The cephalopod floats toward you, coming eye to eye, and you sense something... maybe sadness?... >greet cephalopod Gently, two white tentacles place a delicate silver chain around your neck. Before you have time to express surprise or gratitude, the pond kraken carries you to shore. You inhale, thankful for the air, and turn back toward the pond just in time to see the last of the creature slip back beneath the surface. >* OK that was awesome >* (I really like octopi, though I guess this was a squid) >* (Did you know octopi are tool-users, like us, but as invertebrates have a distributed nervous system that means that their consciousness is probably profoundly different from our own?) >* (Like, it seems like their higher-order nervous functions can delegate a task like "turn over that rock" to an arm, but the nervous tissue in the arm has considerable autonomy in how it interprets that instruction) >* (It's a sort of federal version of consciousness) >* (Anyway I recommend Other Minds, totally mind-blowing book) >* Er, we got a necklace from our fairy kraken-mother, right? >x necklace The locket and chain are silver, surprisingly untouched by the murky depths from which they came. The front of the locket bears a tiny embossed likeness of a kraken. The initials E.C. are engraved on its back. >* well that's a Cragne, presumably >open locket You open the antique locket, revealing a tintype. A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind. >x tintype A portrait of a young but stern-looking woman with dark locks and darker eyes has been placed within the locket. The photograph is, to your amazement, dry and in good nick, despite how it came to be in your possession. You idly wonder if there's anything hidden behind it. For a moment, the wind dies down. Leaves on the ground come to rest. >* "in good nick" is a nice turn of phrase too >look behind tintype As you handle the photo, you notice something on its reverse. The handwriting is so small! You marvel at the clarity of the feminine script, which you are just able to make out. It reads: To my Eliakim, Eburnean Alderman of the Variegated Court. I would follow thee to the depths of Hell. - Faythe >* Hmm, I'm wondering if there's going to be a puzzle requiring me to match Cragne family members to their offices in this Court >* let's keep everything safe >put tintype in locket The wind momentarily stirs up a pile of leaves. >* I wonder... >put all in locket waterproof flashlight: The waterproof flashlight does not fit within the locket. shabby journal: The shabby journal does not fit within the locket. cast iron spire: The cast iron spire does not fit within the locket. diary of Phyllis Cragne: The diary of Phyllis Cragne does not fit within the locket. postcard of Big Ben: The postcard of Big Ben does not fit within the locket. The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three: The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three does not fit within the locket. pull-string doll: The pull-string doll does not fit within the locket. glass jar containing an insect: The glass jar containing an insect does not fit within the locket. half-full styrofoam coffee cup: The half-full styrofoam coffee cup does not fit within the locket. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a mourning dove's plaintive song. From above, a leaf floats slowly toward the ground. >* Ha, nicely done Jacqueline! Some author I'm sure will create an unpoliced container I can overstuff to comedic effect, but it won't be this locket >close locket You close the antique locket. The wind picks up again for a moment, and a few leaves fall from above. One of the leaves settles in your hair. You disentangle the leaf and toss it to the ground. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form a blank, mirrored surface. 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. >* So far so good! Let's see, we have a lot of choices, right? >x south The trees are too thick to go that direction. The wind comes from a new direction. The skeletons of dead leaves scratch against one another. >l The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) Branches scramble overhead, straining toward one another in a bid to blot out the sky. Mercifully, light manages to filter down through an opening in the canopy above a small pond. Paths slither away into the forest to the north, southwest, and southeast. >x north Paths slither away into the forest to the north, northeast, and southeast. >x northeast The trees are too thick to go that direction. >* hmm >* Also didn't we come from the southwest? >x southeast Paths slither away into the forest to the north, northeast, and southeast. A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind. >save Ok. >* Oh lordy not a maze >sw The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >* OK, so there is a regular southwestern exit >ne The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) Branches scramble overhead, straining toward one another in a bid to blot out the sky. Mercifully, light manages to filter down through an opening in the canopy above a small pond. Paths slither away into the forest to the north, southwest, and southeast. >* before we leave, let's try one more thing... >swim There is absolutely no freakin' way you're going anywhere near that water. For a moment, the wind dies down. Leaves on the ground come to rest. >* Fair >se Shack Exterior (Michael Lin) You enter a clearing, the earth barren and the air heavy with mist. A low windowless wooden shack dominates the area. Sitting by the shack is a wooden painted doll, clockwork mechanisms visible in its joints. It's startlingly lifelike. The woods are to the northwest, while that godforsaken town is to the southeast. On the ground, just out of the doll's reach, lie some loose scraps of paper. >undo The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) [Previous turn undone.] >s You don't feel much like bushwhacking. The wind momentarily stirs up a pile of leaves. >e You don't feel much like bushwhacking. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a mourning dove's plaintive song. From above, a leaf floats slowly toward the ground. >nw You don't feel much like bushwhacking. >n The Old Well (Reed Lockwood) The trees here gather, black with wet; glimmering fingers hung with ragged matter, huddling beneath a cold and gently weeping sky. Beneath your feet, the damp red felt of rotting leaves slopes down toward a still, murky puddle. Nearby is a well, capped off with crumbling cement. A broken-down section of brick wall waits for raindrops to fall along its spine, and an old, half-dead oak straddles an angular boulder studded with quartz. A path through the forest leads south. You can see a wooden sigil here. >undo The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) [Previous turn undone.] >ne You don't feel much like bushwhacking. >* OK, so confirming that our exits are SW, N, and SE >* let's try north first >n The Old Well (Reed Lockwood) The trees here gather, black with wet; glimmering fingers hung with ragged matter, huddling beneath a cold and gently weeping sky. Beneath your feet, the damp red felt of rotting leaves slopes down toward a still, murky puddle. Nearby is a well, capped off with crumbling cement. A broken-down section of brick wall waits for raindrops to fall along its spine, and an old, half-dead oak straddles an angular boulder studded with quartz. A path through the forest leads south. You can see a wooden sigil here. >save Ok. >* Reed Lockwood is also a first-time author, looks like. They have a played-games list on IFDB that contains a lot of classic parser titles from the late 90s and aughts, for the most part, so perhaps we'll have a classic vibe here... >* This is another nicely atmospheric location; I like "damp red felt" >* (I mean qua image; qua reality seems ick ick ick) >* sigil seems creepy, we can do that last >x trees You can't see any such thing. >x leaves You can't see any such thing. >* hmm, less scenery than I was expecting -- I guess that's a 90's, memory-conscious kind of thing! >x sky You can't see any such thing. >* creepy! >x puddle A still, murky puddle sits beneath the tree. The slightest of ripples disturb its surface. There's something a little odd about it. >search puddle You find nothing of interest. >look in puddle You find nothing of interest. >drink it There's nothing suitable to drink here. >touch puddle You feel nothing unexpected. >* hmm >put flashlight in puddle That can't contain things. >smell puddle You smell nothing unexpected. >x tree It's an old, twisted oak tree grown over a granite boulder here. Many of its branches are rotting away, yet it clings to life. It has a hollow knothole at about eye level, and a large, prominent root juts from its base. >* hmmm... >x root Just a thck root sticking out from the base of the tree. Or is it? This might require a closer look. >* oops >x root Just a thck root sticking out from the base of the tree. Or is it? This might require a closer look. >search root You find nothing of interest. >look under root You find nothing of interest. >* a little frustrating that I'm being invited to look closer but not sure how to... >tap root That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* worth a shot >pull root It is fixed in place. >take root That seems to be a part of the twisted old oak. >x oak It's an old, twisted oak tree grown over a granite boulder here. Many of its branches are rotting away, yet it clings to life. It has a hollow knothole at about eye level, and a large, prominent root juts from its base. >x knothole You peer into the knothole and find an oilcloth parcel. You pick it up. >* hmm >x parcel An old rectangular parcel, oilcloth wrapped with twine. Given its size and shape, you're guessing it's a book. >open it You open the parcel, discovering a moldy journal and what looks to be a strange little battery. You toss the wrappings away. They look biodegradable enough. Indeed, they look like they've already begun biodegrading. >* good joke! >x journal Which do you mean, the moldy, waterlogged journal or the shabby journal? >moldy It's heavily damaged by the elements. You can make out the letters "-AGNE" on the front cover. >read moldy You riffle through the pages; only short passages are still legible: "... circular golden prosthesis seems to have chosen Mabel ... doctor said he can't remove it without harming the child ..." "... Mabel spends long hours examining stumps and rocks in the woods ... and I are most concerned. Mabel's stories of fairies and HIDDEN LANDS seem more than childish fancy" (There's a long section of the book here which is ruined and entirely illegible, although you can make out diagrams and the faded, troubling outlines of strange shapes) "... constructed the sigil out of sculpted and varnished wood after many ... Mabel instructs me on where it should be placed ... spirits she is in communication with have constructed various devices at her command ... creatures I have dubbed microphids ... " "... Clara still doesn't believe; threatened to get Pastor Crowell involved ... able to dodge him so far ... quit my position at ..." "... very concerned but there is no body ... up to seven successful SUMMONINGS that have remained docile ... we will never know, and quite frankly these studies are more important than that ... Each creature must process through three ARCHES, through three HABITATS and stages of development before finally maturing through the ARCH and SIGIL ... special GLUE created by that one created via the sequence ->FOREST->(illegible)->CLIFFS ..." "... at Clara's insistence I have written to the University ... fake name ... one we have dubbed Moppy is friendly enough and a loyal companion to Mabel ..." "... siphoning off the rest of the inheritance ... haven't seen her in a while ... sent an officer of the law to fetch Mabel, but Moppy took care of him ..." (another long damaged section) "... only Tall Pete is left ... lay Mabel in a grave beside Moppy ... TERRIBLE LIZARD-BIRD was raised up from the OCEAN - is still out there somewhere ..." "... now I wear the PROSTHESIS; now I can see everything. ... breached the walls of perception ... I am PRODDING the EGG MACHINE on the QUARTZ OUTCROPPING ... dozens of them GATHER to PROTECT me from the LIZARD BIRD ... PULLED the ROOF clear off my SHELTER ..." And that's it. There's no more. Well, you suppose you didn't actually expect the author to keep writing right up until the point of his death, but you're a little disappointed. >* that's a good dig at Lovecraft, who often did that >* (though less often than the Derleths of the world) >* this all seems quite disquieting! I wonder if the prosthesis is the thingy in the vending machine? >x batter You can't see any such thing. >x battery (the small, rectangular battery) A slick golden rectangle, slightly bowed, with contacts at one end marked "+" and "-". >* much less delicious >put battery in flashlight (the small, rectangular battery in the waterproof flashlight) The small, rectangular battery is too large to fit into the flashlight. >* ah well >* (in fairness, it is small) >l The Old Well (Reed Lockwood) The trees here gather, black with wet; glimmering fingers hung with ragged matter, huddling beneath a cold and gently weeping sky. Beneath your feet, the damp red felt of rotting leaves slopes down toward a still, murky puddle. Nearby is a well, capped off with crumbling cement. A broken-down section of brick wall waits for raindrops to fall along its spine, and an old, half-dead oak straddles an angular boulder studded with quartz. A path through the forest leads south. You can see a wooden sigil here. >x root Just a thck root sticking out from the base of the tree. Or is it? This might require a closer look. >x thick You can't see any such thing. >x base You can't see any such thing. >x roots Just a thck root sticking out from the base of the tree. Or is it? This might require a closer look. >look closely at root You can't see any such thing. >look closely You can't see any such thing. >study That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >peer at That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >ogle That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >leer That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >put head right up next to root That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >worry that the root is secretly a tentacle That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >remember I'm supposed to X ME 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. >* Ooh, neat after rule worked in there! >touch root You feel nothing unexpected. >eat root That's plainly inedible. >bite it That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >kick it That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >hit it Violence isn't the answer to this one. >* Maybe the "looking closer" means the eyepiece? >* well, we'll see what the coffee says after we finish our explorations >* ditto the puddle, perhaps >x wall Damp bricks, decades old. They are not quite right, somehow. >push wall It is fixed in place. >* I'm sensing a trend >x boulder A jagged gray boulder leans here among the trees, coming to about your waist. It would be largely unremarkable but for the fact that it is straddled by the twisted old oak. A ghostly patch of quartzite graces one corner of it. >x quartz Pure, translucent white. Something is a little bit off about it. >take quartz That seems to be a part of the jagged boulder. >push it Nothing obvious happens. >pull it Nothing obvious happens. >touch it You feel nothing unexpected. >lick it That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >rub it You rub the patch of quartz. >* you know, for luck >x well An old well cap made of crumbling cement emerges from the forest floor here. Two wrought-iron handles, pitted with rust, emerge from the top. A padlock, also rusted, holds it closed. >x handles Two rusty loops of iron jut from the top of the well. >pull handles You yank at the handles, but the cover doesn't budge. >x padlock It's rusted tight, but still solid. >break it Though rusted, it still proves to be very durable. >unlock it What do you want to unlock the rusty padlock with? >key You can't see any such thing. >* alas >x sigil A circular wooden frame is embedded in the ground here, organic arcs of wood carved with strange symbols. Though surrounded by rot, it is entirely intact despite its apparent age. >take sigil That's fixed in place. >enter sigil That's not something you can enter. >put battery in sigil (the small, rectangular battery in the wooden sigil) That can't contain things. >touch sigil You feel nothing unexpected. >enter sigil That's not something you can enter. >sit in sigil That's not something you can sit down on. >stand on sigil That's not something you can stand on. >pull sigil It is fixed in place. >look under sigil You find nothing of interest. >search sigil You find nothing of interest. >* Well, seems like some kind of magic needs to be done here, but I suspect we'll need that eyepiece to make much headway here >x coffee The clouds in your cup form the engine of a train. Modes of transportation mean that your current environment presents challenges that can only be overcome by seeking fresh perspectives elsewhere until you're ready to return. >* Yes, makes sense. Lots of possibilities here, I think! >* checking directions >w You can't go that way. >e You can't go that way. >ne You can't go that way. >nw You can't go that way. > I beg your pardon? >n You can't go that way. >s The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) Branches scramble overhead, straining toward one another in a bid to blot out the sky. Mercifully, light manages to filter down through an opening in the canopy above a small pond. Paths slither away into the forest to the north, southwest, and southeast. >undo The Old Well (Reed Lockwood) [Previous turn undone.] >sw You can't go that way. >se You can't go that way. >d No, the well is sealed shut. >u You can't go that way. >s The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) Branches scramble overhead, straining toward one another in a bid to blot out the sky. Mercifully, light manages to filter down through an opening in the canopy above a small pond. Paths slither away into the forest to the north, southwest, and southeast. The wind picks up again for a moment, and a few leaves fall from above. One of the leaves settles in your hair. You disentangle the leaf and toss it to the ground. >se Shack Exterior (Michael Lin) You enter a clearing, the earth barren and the air heavy with mist. A low windowless wooden shack dominates the area. Sitting by the shack is a wooden painted doll, clockwork mechanisms visible in its joints. It's startlingly lifelike. The woods are to the northwest, while that godforsaken town is to the southeast. On the ground, just out of the doll's reach, lie some loose scraps of paper. >* IFDB thinks Michael Lin might have written Legend Entertainment's 1992 adaptation of Frederik Pohl's Gateway, but that's only because it can't distinguish Lin from Lindner >* geez, another doll >save Ok. >x earth You can't see any such thing. >x air You can't see any such thing. >x mist The air is foggy here. There's nothing to be done about it. >x woods You can't see any such thing. >* OK, this looks like an alternate way into town (did we cross whatever the bridge goes over without noticing?) >x shack A simple wooden shack, with a closed door in it. >x door A wooden door, with a keyhole by the handle. >x keyhole You see nothing special about the linKeyhole. >* oops! >open door It seems to be locked. >unlock door What do you want to unlock the Shack Door with? >verve You can't see any such thing. >* worth a shot >x paper Three scraps of paper, with various handwritten words on them. You can't read the contents from here. >* saving doll for last >* please don't come alive and eat me >take papers Taken. >read them That noun did not make sense in this context. >read it Three scraps of paper, with various handwritten words on them. You suspect that they may form a complete page if you reassemble them. >* ah well >reassemble scraps With some experimentation, you rearrange the pieces back into a single page. They seal together, as if by magic. You now hold a repaired page. >* "as if by magic"? >* That sure seems like magic >x page A complete page, grimy yet strangely untorn. It reads: "I must have rest. My senses deceive me into thinking she can see me, hear me." >read page A complete page, grimy yet strangely untorn. It reads: "I must have rest. My senses deceive me into thinking she can see me, hear me." >tear page That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >rest That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >* a bit ancticlimactic >* to the extent murderous clockwork dolls are anticlimactic >x doll (the clockwork doll) A little doll of a girl. She's sitting at a little writing desk, with a book in front of her, firmly held underneath her arms. In one hand is a feather quill pen; at the other is an inkwell. Her eyes seem to bore through your pocket to where you're keeping the page. As if she wants to see what's written there. >* ooh, neat >x desk An ornate writing desk of fine stained wood. >x book Which do you mean, The Dollmaker's Journal, the moldy, waterlogged journal, the shabby journal, the diary of Phyllis Cragne, the postcard of Big Ben or The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three? >* Is this all just sitting in the forest? Creepy >* Also we're gonna have a bunch of books by the end >x dollmaker's A simple leatherbound journal, daubed with wayward paint splotches. A sticker on the cover bears the insignia of the Backwater Public Library. >read it (first taking The Dollmaker's Journal) The doll's grip is far too strong. You can't read The Dollmaker's Journal from here. The chill behind you intensifies, and you feel like you're being watched. >i You are carrying: a repaired page a moldy, waterlogged journal a small, rectangular battery an antique locket (being worn and closed) a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >x chill A chill emanates from behind you, fading as you turn. >* I'm still sure that's fine! > x pen An ordinary feather quill, hovering ready above the page. >x inkwell An ordinary inkwell filled with crimson liquid of unknown and unknowable provenance. >take pen The doll's grip is supernaturally strong. >put pen in inkwell (first taking the quill pen) The doll's grip is supernaturally strong. >* crimson you say? >smell ink You smell nothing unexpected. >taste ink You taste nothing unexpected. >* ...but did I expect it to be blood or not? That's the rub >open desk It isn't something you can open. >show page to doll (the clockwork doll) The doll springs to life with the whirring of hidden gears and mechanisms. Her eyes dart between the page and the book in front of her. Her quill moves from inkwell to paper and back again, copying the page's contents into the book. Finishing the passage with a terminal stroke of the pen, the doll's shoulders move up, then down, as if taking a breath. Her open hand clumsily raises one cover and pushes it over, closing the book. She pushes it in your direction until it tumbles to the ground. >* eek! >x dollmaker's A simple leatherbound journal, daubed with wayward paint splotches. A sticker on the cover bears the insignia of the Backwater Public Library. Frost lines the edges of the library insignia. >take it Taken. The doll begins to shudder and glow with heat. After a moment, the shaking stops, and the doll's head and hands sag, lifeless. >* ... I'm not a fan of whatever this is >x book Which do you mean, The Dollmaker's Journal, the moldy, waterlogged journal, the shabby journal, the diary of Phyllis Cragne, the postcard of Big Ben or The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three? >journal Which do you mean, The Dollmaker's Journal, the moldy, waterlogged journal or the shabby journal? >dollmaker's A simple leatherbound journal, daubed with wayward paint splotches. A sticker on the cover bears the insignia of the Backwater Public Library. Frost lines the edges of the library insignia. >x insignia Two back-to-back crescent moons joined by an eye looking down at an open book. Frost lines the edges of the library insignia of The Dollmaker's Journal. >touch it You can't really do anything with the insignia separately from what it's on. >touch book Which do you mean, The Dollmaker's Journal, the moldy, waterlogged journal, the shabby journal, the diary of Phyllis Cragne, the postcard of Big Ben or The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three? >dollmaker's You feel nothing unexpected. >open it She is finally done. My finest clockwork creation. So wonderfully lifelike. The book continues. >g I've yet to decide what I should call her. The book continues. >g I must have rest. My senses deceive me into thinking she can see me, hear me. The book continues. >g What has she become? Is my child now my gaoler? The book continues. >g I think I've managed to lock her safely away. I only hope tha(the rest of the page is unintelligible) The book continues. >* LOL again >read book Which do you mean, The Dollmaker's Journal, the moldy, waterlogged journal, the shabby journal, the diary of Phyllis Cragne, the postcard of Big Ben or The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three? >dollmaker's (The remaining pages are nothing but a mess of crusted blood.) >* OK yeah it was blood >x pen An ordinary feather quill, hovering ready above the page. >take it The doll's grip is supernaturally strong. >x ink An ordinary inkwell filled with crimson liquid of unknown and unknowable provenance. >take it The doll's grip is supernaturally strong. >l Shack Exterior (Michael Lin) A clearing, outside a wooden shack. A clockwork doll sits here, utterly incongruous at the edge of the woods. The woods are to the northwest, while that godforsaken town is to the southeast. >x doll (the clockwork doll) There is no life left in her. >x coffee The clouds in your cup form a kayak. Modes of transportation mean that your current environment presents challenges that can only be overcome by seeking fresh perspectives elsewhere until you're ready to return. >* Another key needed >nw The Dim Recesses of the Forest (Jacqueline A. Lott Ashwell) Branches scramble overhead, straining toward one another in a bid to blot out the sky. Mercifully, light manages to filter down through an opening in the canopy above a small pond. Paths slither away into the forest to the north, southwest, and southeast. >sw The Churchyard (David Jose) A neglected and long forgotten cemetery stretches out below you, surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence. Lopsided gravemarkers, slowly succumbing to the elements, topple downhill like a congregation bent low in prayer. At the very center of the graveyard, set into a low valley, a squat, stone mausoleum crouches menacingly. To the southwest a dilapidated, stave church rises up obscenely against the night sky. A dark pine forest crowds against the wrought iron fence to the northeast. You might be able to forge a path between its trees. >sw Church Exterior (Andy Holloway) The gravel road curves here past the doors of an old stone church, which squats defeatedly amid a few straggly trees. Behind it, to the northeast, you can see the first few stones of a modest graveyard. To the east the road narrows to cross a small bridge into the village proper; to the north, it crests the hill toward the train station. >* Bridge it is >e Town square, Backwater, VT (Marco Innocenti) The first thing you notice, when entering the open yards of the town square, is the soft breeze that relentlessly caresses the buildings. It is so unlike the warm, salty air you were used to back home that you finally realize how long your trip has been, and how far removed you are now from everything you once knew. The large, hexagonal-shaped square is paved with big, white stones, polished by rain and wind over the decades; around it, low red-brick buildings look like watching peasants. One single street leaves the square to the north, while less accommodating paths lead west, in the direction of a towering church, and southwest. Due east, an iron bridge crosses the river, and southeast, a walkway leads down to its bank. The swollen, slate-colored clouds that blanket the sky are reflected in the shiny, circular shape embellishing the center of the square, muttering ominous portents amongst themselves. Ominous portents, you murmur to yourself. Since that day, twenty years ago, when you first read them in a Lovecraftian novel during that uneventful summer vacation, you've been waiting for the occasion to use these words yourself. Another cold, harsh gust of wind interrupts you before you can decide whether this was a coincidence worth being happy... or scared about. A man is leaning on the bridge rail, staring intensely at you with his only eye. >* Wow, a lot going on here! >save Ok. >* Marco Innocenti is probably best known for the Andromeda sci-fi games, I believe, which have seen some sequels and prequels made by other authors >* (I haven't played any so not sure what to expect) >x breeze You fill your lungs, but to no avail. The wind is too unsubstantial to cling to your nostrils. >* interesting detail >x buildings The houses, all alike, form a low wall (for a building, that is) that form a wobbly hexagon around the square. The red bricks have been polished by rain and wind over the ages and now appear like polyps in human tissue. No window shows signs of life, and many of the blinds are either closed or barred from the inside. You wonder where everyone's gone. >* all alike, you say? >* "like polyps in human tissue"?? Geez, we are a weirdo >x wall You can't see any such thing. >* also, I thought we had to cross the bridge to get to the town, but it's actually on the far side >x stones You realize how the square is probably a perfect hexagon, such an uncommon feature in rural towns. The big, white stones forming its pavement are interrupted in the center by an odd... manhole, a circular shape representing an emblem of some sorts. >x manhole The big emblem, one yard wide, is embedded in the center of the square like a manhole. The surface looks golden, although you seriously doubt it is anything more than pyrite. Its three rings surround a central circle tightened by bird claws with a single triangular mark pointing northeast. The rings themselves are bedecked by a series of symbols (outer to inner, then clockwise from north): BLACKBIRD |TREE |SPARROW |CUBE |WOMAN |FEATHER DAAN |SHI |AAK'EE |HAI |TLÈÈ |JI PIG |EYE |WOODPECKER|CROSS |FISH |EAGLE. >* umm >x ring Which do you mean, the outer ring, the median ring, the inner ring or the rubber ring? >outer The outer ring is bedecked by a series of symbols (starting from the outer ring and going clockwise, from the north): BLACKBIRD |TREE |SPARROW |CUBE |WOMAN |FEATHER. >turn outer You maneuver the outer ring and it turns one step clockwise with almost no friction. The symbols now are: The outer ring is bedecked by a series of symbols (starting from the outer ring and going clockwise, from the north): FEATHER |BLACKBIRD |TREE |SPARROW |CUBE |WOMAN. >* oh jeez >turn inner You maneuver the inner ring and it turns one step clockwise. The symbols now are: The inner ring is bedecked by a series of symbols (starting from the outer ring and going clockwise, from the north): EAGLE |PIG |EYE |WOODPECKER|CROSS |FISH. >turn middle You maneuver the median ring and it turns one step clockwise. The symbols now are: The median ring is bedecked by a series of symbols (starting from the outer ring and going clockwise, from the north): JI |DAAN |SHI |AAK'EE |HAI |TLÈÈ. >open manhole It looks like a gigantic manhole, but doesn't seem to work like one. >push it It's too large to fiddle with. Maybe you could try the single parts. >x claws The circle looks solid. Apart from the set of talons that frame it, it has one single mark: a triangle pointing somewhere northeast. >x triangle You can't see any such thing. >* Maybe that's where the manor is? >* Or where the combination is? >l Town square, Backwater, VT (Marco Innocenti) The large, hexagonal-shaped square is paved with big, white stones, polished by rain and wind over the decades; around it, low red-brick buildings look like watching peasants. One single street leaves the square to the north, while less accommodating paths lead west, in the direction of a towering church, and southwest. Due east, an iron bridge crosses the river, and southeast, a walkway leads down to its bank. The swollen, slate-colored clouds that blanket the sky are reflected in the shiny, circular shape embellishing the center of the square, muttering ominous portents amongst themselves. A man is leaning on the bridge rail, staring intensely at you with his only eye. >x path You can't see any such thing. >x bridge Large enough to let a single car pass through, the bridge is arched like a live fishing pole. Leaning on the bridge rail, a man is demanding attention. >x walkway You can't see any such thing. >x clouds (the swollen, slate-colored clouds) They stay there, muttering ominous portents amongst themselves. Really. >* I'll take your word for it >x shape The big emblem, one yard wide, is embedded in the center of the square like a manhole. The surface looks golden, although you seriously doubt it is anything more than pyrite. Its three rings surround a central circle tightened by bird claws with a single triangular mark pointing northeast. The rings themselves are bedecked by a series of symbols (outer to inner, then clockwise from north): FEATHER |BLACKBIRD |TREE |SPARROW |CUBE |WOMAN JI |DAAN |SHI |AAK'EE |HAI |TLÈÈ EAGLE |PIG |EYE |WOODPECKER|CROSS |FISH. >x man Tall and slender, the one-eyed man reminds you of someone you knew back in your hometown: a fisherman with as many stories in his pockets as years on his back, who went by the name of Captn Squinter. He used to know a lot of tales about tormented ships... or at least he was good at making them up. He vanished years ago in unknown circumstances. >* We grew up in one of those midwestern fishing towns >* With warm, salty air >* Something on the Mississippi, perhaps? >* Well, nothing for it You seem to want to talk to someone, but I can't see whom. >x me You can imagine your grey eyes are all but glittering under this grey sky. You just wish Peter were here to caress you on thinking this. >* Eyes on the prize, Nitocris >* Though I guess Peter is notionally the prize, so I suppose that's all right >greet man He bows his head dramatically, acknowledging your salute. "Mrs Cra-gnee, welcome to Backwater. He's been waiting for you." >* ...you know, I hadn't quite internalized that I'm a Cragne >* Nitocris Cragne, P.I. >* (We're not really a P.I., it just sounded cool to say) >ask man about backwater "What do you know about this place?" you ask. "This place? You mean Backwater?" You nod. "Oh, it is just a small town, the likes of which you can find everywhere in America. In rural America, I'd say. It's not about the town, anyway. It's about the magic. Isn't it?" >ask man about magic "Magic?" The man smiles, providing no further insight. >ask man about cragne He glances at the diary of Phyllis Cragne with his good eye and then returns a snort. >ask man about cragnes He seems uninterested in dealing with this subject. >* Oh lordy the disambiguation >ask man about me "Are you staring at me," you ask. "Or am I imagining things?" "Oh, well, you came to the right place, Madam, if you seek imagination." >ask man about him "Who are you?" you ask. The man smiles, as if you have asked the most trivial thing. "I'm a man made by the mountains, as you were made by the sea, Madam. I'm of no consequence, just a prop for indications." >ask man about he "He? Is someone expecting me?" You start believing the stranger is referring to Peter... then something more sinister comes into play. Why would Peter be expecting you when he's the one gone missing, to begin with? And what's with the man's voice? Isn't it fascinatingly wrong enough to suggest more malice? The answer leaves you puzzled: "Edwin, Madam. I suggest you pay a visit to the Manor, and have your questions answered." >* oh is the bold topics? I thought he was just overenunciating >ask man about peter "Do you know my husband? His name is Peter Cragne and..." you stop, looking for the right thing to say. "Well, I need to find him." "Oh, Madam, how twisted is the fortune of a bride missing her groom! Although, these days, I come to think of it as a natural aspect of modern marriage, isn't it?" >* ugh a social conservative >ask man about marriage "You didn't answer my question," you insist. "Do you know where I can find Mr Cragne?" Captn Squinter points across the town square to a hill where you can see lights from Cragne Manor's upper balcony. The rotten finger displays a silver loop as big as a cherry pit. You fleetingly glimps a strange icon on it, covering the entirety of its flat top. "Up there, Madam," he says with hollow voice. "that's where all the Cragnes rest." You don't fail to notice how he finally pronounced your name correctly. You shiver at the last word he used. >x loop You can't see any such thing. >x ring Which do you mean, the outer ring, the median ring, the inner ring or the rubber ring? >rubber It allows the flashlight to be opened easily to change the batteries, while also being waterproof when closed. >ask man about loop "Nice ring," you flatter him. The one-eyed man looks away. "I ain't got no ring," he says, hiding the hand in a pocket of the weary jacket. But you are pretty sure there was a ring on that finger. And it was so big it could be used as a seal for sealing wax. The stamp on it -- provided it was a stamp -- resembled something in the likes of an octopus, although you could swear it held more than a dozen tentacles. Maritime symbols, you convince yourself, and don't insist further. >* Maybe it's our cephalopoidal friend from earlier! >ask man about manor "So the Manor is..." "A very nice piece of a building, if you ask me, Madam. It dates back to the very... I mean: it is very old. But it never grows old, does it?" >ask man about old "It never grows old," you puzzle. He must see something in your eyes he doesn't like, as he is quick to continue: "I mean. Some styles never quite age, right?" The next second he's again staring into nothingness, to the far distances beyond his shoulder. >ask man about edwin "Who's this Edwin? I know nobody by that name. And now that you mention it, I know nobody at all, up here!" The one-eyed man rubs his hands as if to heat them from a winter that's gone on too long. "Sir Edwin's a quiet man who mostly keeps to himself. But he's also a philanthropist, in his own way. I'm sure you would find him entertaining enough as to follow his lead, Madam. Or so I was told." >ask man about entertaining "Entertaining?" "Oh, yes. He knows a lot of tricks. And he has gifts. Gifts for all that are bold enough to follow his example." >ask man about told "Do you even happen to know this man... Sir?" "Oh, everybody in Backwater knows about Sir Edwin. They know of his heritage." He then scrubs his hands -- showing for the first time a vast irritation, a blotch of red, dead skin, covering both his palms -- and sends the glance wandering to the southeast, from where a cold, inhumane sirocco comes wailing abruptly. You hold on to your garments. "We are his heritage, after all." >* mysteries upon mysteries That verb doesn't work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later. >ask man about gifts "Gifts?". "Oh, yeah Madam. Very nice gifts, and very precious ones too. He has a gift for each one of us, and each gift is tailored to its intended bearer's wish. He gave me one, too, and promised I'd be free of it once the mid-summer woodpecker sings. Wanna see it?" >* hmm, is that a clue? >ask man about see You lose yourself inside the man's only eye. For minutes, or hours, you stare into a vast, expanding abyss of pure blackness, increasing its circle as a dark stain of bleeding oil. Then, something happens. He grabs your hand and pulls it towards his jacket. Before you know what you're doing, your fingers latch onto the fabric and start pulling it open. Where the man's body should be, is the same engulfing darkness you saw in his eyes. Twisting, twirling like a thousand microscopic suns, like the limbs of an ever-forming galaxy. In a few seconds the jacket is open and you can't see anything other than this despair, like it is devouring you. You are falling into it. When you regain consciousness, the man is gone, and with him all his secrets. You are left standing disconcerted near the iron bridge, questioning if any of this really happened... and your own sanity. >undo Town square, Backwater, VT (Marco Innocenti) [Previous turn undone.] >* I just wanted to ask him about the Holy See of the Vatican! >ask man about heritage You take a deep look into his eyes, checking for the remnants of this figure's sanity. "You are his heritage," you whisper. The man laughs abruptly, startling you. "We, Mrs Cragne, Madam. Us and you. Everybody. Everybody in Backwater is his heritage. And everyone that's ever been here. It's always been like that, and it always will. He put his gentle hand on our hearts -- mine and yours, Madam -- and since then we got to see beyond the veil that divides the worlds." >ask man about veil You widen your eyes in disbelief. "Find Sir Edwin," he says, with a relaxed smile. "He has all the answers. He will show you things." >ask man about manhole "What is this... emblem, in the center of the square?" "It is a symbol of sorts. Don't know much about it. Except that you can see similar... designs scattered all around Backwater. Usually, though, they are hidd-... I mean: less exposed. They represent some sort of feast, or the likes of it. But, then again..." He scratches his nose. "The inscription are in Navajo," he concludes. >* Hmm >* NAVAJO??? >ask man about navajo "The old Indian language? Aren't they supposed to originate, like, thousands of miles from here?" "You can't really understand the history of this town if you aren't ready to accept some level of absurdity, Madam." >* Fair point >ask man about welcome "Name's Cragne, Sir. But thanks. Do I know you?" He smiles, and a phalanx of rotten, metal teeth opens up like a crack in the asphalt. "Oh, yeah -- har! har! -- sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Crane. Didn't mean to offend you," he says, avoiding your question completely. "Did you visit the Manor already, Madam?" >no That was a rhetorical question. >* well, nothing for it I suppose >* woodpecker in mid-summer, though? >x rings The big emblem, one yard wide, is embedded in the center of the square like a manhole. The surface looks golden, although you seriously doubt it is anything more than pyrite. Its three rings surround a central circle tightened by bird claws with a single triangular mark pointing northeast. The rings themselves are bedecked by a series of symbols (outer to inner, then clockwise from north): FEATHER |BLACKBIRD |TREE |SPARROW |CUBE |WOMAN JI |DAAN |SHI |AAK'EE |HAI |TLÈÈ EAGLE |PIG |EYE |WOODPECKER|CROSS |FISH. >* I wondered for a minute if I could Google my way through this puzzle (I know, that's cheating) -- turns out Tlee is a verb meaning "to handle or propel mushy matter (as butter, mud)" >* I'll wait for the real clues I think >ask man about see You lose yourself inside the man's only eye. For minutes, or hours, you stare into a vast, expanding abyss of pure blackness, increasing its circle as a dark stain of bleeding oil. Then, something happens. He grabs your hand and pulls it towards his jacket. Before you know what you're doing, your fingers latch onto the fabric and start pulling it open. Where the man's body should be, is the same engulfing darkness you saw in his eyes. Twisting, twirling like a thousand microscopic suns, like the limbs of an ever-forming galaxy. In a few seconds the jacket is open and you can't see anything other than this despair, like it is devouring you. You are falling into it. When you regain consciousness, the man is gone, and with him all his secrets. You are left standing disconcerted near the iron bridge, questioning if any of this really happened... and your own sanity. >i You are carrying: The Dollmaker's Journal a repaired page a moldy, waterlogged journal a small, rectangular battery an antique locket (being worn and closed) a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn) >l Town square, Backwater, VT (Marco Innocenti) The large, hexagonal-shaped square is paved with big, white stones, polished by rain and wind over the decades; around it, low red-brick buildings look like watching peasants. One single street leaves the square to the north, while less accommodating paths lead west, in the direction of a towering church, and southwest. Due east, an iron bridge crosses the river, and southeast, a walkway leads down to its bank. The swollen, slate-colored clouds that blanket the sky are reflected in the shiny, circular shape embellishing the center of the square, muttering ominous portents amongst themselves. >x coffee The swirls in your cup form the engine of a train. Modes of transportation mean that your current environment presents challenges that can only be overcome by seeking fresh perspectives elsewhere until you're ready to return. >* I'll say! >* Well, we've started to learn some secrets >* And have a name for who might be waiting in that manor >save Ok. >i You are carrying: The Dollmaker's Journal a repaired page a moldy, waterlogged journal a small, rectangular battery an antique locket (being worn and closed) a waterproof flashlight a shabby journal a faint chill (haunting you) a cast iron spire the diary of Phyllis Cragne a postcard of Big Ben a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask) The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three a pull-string doll a glass jar containing an insect a half-full styrofoam coffee cup a label (being worn) a familiar gold wristwatch (being worn)