Now this prompt really has me puzzled: the town hall is temporarily closed? The last couple of Lord Derby entries have provided temporary closure and prepared you for the stages of grieving? The deer gate is blocked by a fallen tree and so is temporarily closed? So many questions!
A temporary closure "Well this sucks," said Pestilence. He and Famine were stood outside their favourite Diner, the one that had avoided being shut down seventeen times over health-code violations that they were responsible for and three they weren't. The windows had been opaqued with a white solution of some kind, and though the lights were on inside the doors were locked. A sign, handwritten in red marker pen on the back of a menu, was pinned to the door. "Temporarily closed for renovation," said Famine, reading it. "I guess we just come back when it's open then?" "Like we have a choice, Fam," said Pest. He folded his arms and glared at the door as though that would make it open. "Does it say when it's reopening?" "No," said Famine. He reached out and peeled the menu off, and checked the back-side. "No, but... hey, do you remember them selling gyoza?" "No," said Pestilence. He unfolded his arms and let them dangle by his sides, but he still looked grumpy. "I think hot-dogs were as exotic as they got." "Exotic, fam?" "French mustard, Fam." "What?" "The yellow stuff." "That was mustard? I thought they were just using the bile-ducts in the sausage...." "Hah! First time I tried it I thought it was paint, Fam. I was actually impressed, I think I gave half the Diner lead-poisoning as a thank-you." "Violation six?" "Yeah. They blamed it on the municipal water supply." They fell silent, and stared at the closed Diner a little longer. Then: "Let's go, fam," said Famine. The pair turned, slowly, passing through 180 degrees and continuing to 360. As they turned the world seemed to thin and become translucent, a pale blue light shining through everything from somewhere previously unsuspected, and odd shapes, distinctly inhuman, moved around them. Light caught odd facets like glass objects being moved around in a brightly-lit hall of mirrors and there was a hum just loud enough to set teeth on edge. They stopped turning and the world seemed to crystallise out around them again. In front of them, the Diner doors were now open and a smell of spring onions and ginger filled the air. "Smells like summer," said Pest. "In Cambodia," said Famine.
They sat at a booth, and Pestilence frowned. "Have you noticed we're already in here?" he said. "Six times," said Famine. "Looks like the place is going to have troubles for a while then." "Hmm. I think we ought to make sure this is really only a temporary closure, Fam." "Yeah, we must succeed too. Otherwise we'd be queuing with ourselves for a seat." Pestilence smiled. "Cool," he said. "Wait, is that the right word these days?" "Good enough, fam," said Famine. "Want to try these gyoza then? Hey! They come with a side of mustard, ketchup and Ranch!" "Vinegar and sugar six ways. Let's do it, Fam."
Here’s a very, very brief overview of much of the campaign so far—in a letter, because all my characters are epistolary buggers. ===== Uč’čive Ubo, Though restrictions on both our ends means I won’t be able to send this letter, I have to hope the winds will give you some sense of our fortunes. As it happens, you’re not the only one of our party to be waylaid—our venture to Saltberg took a minor detour, and I myself have had a bout of interesting luck. Our venture to help Iylen and Ket exact vengeance on their traitor was, all things considered, a success. A venture to assist a warlock in freeing their former home from an icy Neighbor was technically successful, though only through foolish bravery on Seeker’s part, and complete, shameful cowardice on mine: In exchange for the place, they gave the Neighbor the story of themself—and in the nature of the Gentry, she took the whole story from them, leaving them with no memory of who or where they were, and no memory of us. Our arrival to Saltberg turned into something of a whirlwind, and in the initial perusal of the targets our esteemed hosts & your current companions charged us with taking care of, we inadvertently dug up some deeper unrest lurking in the city. And in digging that up, we found ourselves in a position obliged to help settle some of that unrest—I will own that, I made a deal with an information broker to bring an end to an unjust raid, and to prevent Seeker from making another deal. Not that I was able to do much else—following that arrangement, we tried to scope out an old fortress long buried by time but familiar to Iylen, and though we tried to call it a night, we resurfaced in a warehouse full of those mechanical slatteritches. We found some things pertaining to one of the targets—something of a former colleague of mine—and almost immediately thereafter the place was blown apart. I’m not sure how separated everyone got, because I got swept away by the river the moment I touched it, and was nearly consumed by it. It’s only by luck that a device my former colleague left behind turned out to be bait for me, and another target—the infamous Inquisitor—decided to use it to track me to the bay, fish me out, and crimp me into his service once we reached the Lost Land, instead of turning me over to my colleague as she’d intended. At this point, I will say I’m not currently en route to the Lost Land, thank every last one of the Sisters. I have been in the Inquisitor’s company for several weeks—much of it tense, but not unpleasant. I’m more useful in one sound piece, though he made it quite clear that I was a luxury and thus worth risking if I tried anything funny. Though at the end of these several weeks—and within range of the Cove—he both made a show of his Inquisitor’s force, and offered to let me loose back to the Buccaneers if I could give him a good reason to do so. And somehow I managed. Tomorrow morning I begin my return to the start of this whole affair. My journey is nowhere near over, on so many fronts, but I have to admit that I appreciate closing this particular circle. I confess that I fear what’s happened to the rest in these last weeks—our array of tasks was dangerous to start, and if my last day with them was any indicator, things were far more complicated, and were going to unfold much faster than we’d expected. I’m grateful to have a means to contact at least one person I left behind, though who knows if she can contact the others, and what the roiling depths has happened in the interim. I can only hope for them some measure of safety, some fraction of success, and some small chance of reunion. And I hope the same for you—that you’re some measure of safe; found some fraction of success, whatever that may mean for you at this point; and that we can reunite soon. All of my best wishes to you until then. — Qaz
3 comments:
Now this prompt really has me puzzled: the town hall is temporarily closed? The last couple of Lord Derby entries have provided temporary closure and prepared you for the stages of grieving? The deer gate is blocked by a fallen tree and so is temporarily closed? So many questions!
A temporary closure
"Well this sucks," said Pestilence. He and Famine were stood outside their favourite Diner, the one that had avoided being shut down seventeen times over health-code violations that they were responsible for and three they weren't. The windows had been opaqued with a white solution of some kind, and though the lights were on inside the doors were locked. A sign, handwritten in red marker pen on the back of a menu, was pinned to the door.
"Temporarily closed for renovation," said Famine, reading it. "I guess we just come back when it's open then?"
"Like we have a choice, Fam," said Pest. He folded his arms and glared at the door as though that would make it open. "Does it say when it's reopening?"
"No," said Famine. He reached out and peeled the menu off, and checked the back-side. "No, but... hey, do you remember them selling gyoza?"
"No," said Pestilence. He unfolded his arms and let them dangle by his sides, but he still looked grumpy. "I think hot-dogs were as exotic as they got."
"Exotic, fam?"
"French mustard, Fam."
"What?"
"The yellow stuff."
"That was mustard? I thought they were just using the bile-ducts in the sausage...."
"Hah! First time I tried it I thought it was paint, Fam. I was actually impressed, I think I gave half the Diner lead-poisoning as a thank-you."
"Violation six?"
"Yeah. They blamed it on the municipal water supply."
They fell silent, and stared at the closed Diner a little longer. Then:
"Let's go, fam," said Famine. The pair turned, slowly, passing through 180 degrees and continuing to 360. As they turned the world seemed to thin and become translucent, a pale blue light shining through everything from somewhere previously unsuspected, and odd shapes, distinctly inhuman, moved around them. Light caught odd facets like glass objects being moved around in a brightly-lit hall of mirrors and there was a hum just loud enough to set teeth on edge. They stopped turning and the world seemed to crystallise out around them again. In front of them, the Diner doors were now open and a smell of spring onions and ginger filled the air.
"Smells like summer," said Pest.
"In Cambodia," said Famine.
They sat at a booth, and Pestilence frowned. "Have you noticed we're already in here?" he said.
"Six times," said Famine. "Looks like the place is going to have troubles for a while then."
"Hmm. I think we ought to make sure this is really only a temporary closure, Fam."
"Yeah, we must succeed too. Otherwise we'd be queuing with ourselves for a seat."
Pestilence smiled. "Cool," he said. "Wait, is that the right word these days?"
"Good enough, fam," said Famine. "Want to try these gyoza then? Hey! They come with a side of mustard, ketchup and Ranch!"
"Vinegar and sugar six ways. Let's do it, Fam."
Here’s a very, very brief overview of much of the campaign so far—in a letter, because all my characters are epistolary buggers.
=====
Uč’čive Ubo,
Though restrictions on both our ends means I won’t be able to send this letter, I have to hope the winds will give you some sense of our fortunes. As it happens, you’re not the only one of our party to be waylaid—our venture to Saltberg took a minor detour, and I myself have had a bout of interesting luck.
Our venture to help Iylen and Ket exact vengeance on their traitor was, all things considered, a success. A venture to assist a warlock in freeing their former home from an icy Neighbor was technically successful, though only through foolish bravery on Seeker’s part, and complete, shameful cowardice on mine: In exchange for the place, they gave the Neighbor the story of themself—and in the nature of the Gentry, she took the whole story from them, leaving them with no memory of who or where they were, and no memory of us.
Our arrival to Saltberg turned into something of a whirlwind, and in the initial perusal of the targets our esteemed hosts & your current companions charged us with taking care of, we inadvertently dug up some deeper unrest lurking in the city. And in digging that up, we found ourselves in a position obliged to help settle some of that unrest—I will own that, I made a deal with an information broker to bring an end to an unjust raid, and to prevent Seeker from making another deal.
Not that I was able to do much else—following that arrangement, we tried to scope out an old fortress long buried by time but familiar to Iylen, and though we tried to call it a night, we resurfaced in a warehouse full of those mechanical slatteritches. We found some things pertaining to one of the targets—something of a former colleague of mine—and almost immediately thereafter the place was blown apart. I’m not sure how separated everyone got, because I got swept away by the river the moment I touched it, and was nearly consumed by it. It’s only by luck that a device my former colleague left behind turned out to be bait for me, and another target—the infamous Inquisitor—decided to use it to track me to the bay, fish me out, and crimp me into his service once we reached the Lost Land, instead of turning me over to my colleague as she’d intended.
At this point, I will say I’m not currently en route to the Lost Land, thank every last one of the Sisters. I have been in the Inquisitor’s company for several weeks—much of it tense, but not unpleasant. I’m more useful in one sound piece, though he made it quite clear that I was a luxury and thus worth risking if I tried anything funny. Though at the end of these several weeks—and within range of the Cove—he both made a show of his Inquisitor’s force, and offered to let me loose back to the Buccaneers if I could give him a good reason to do so.
And somehow I managed. Tomorrow morning I begin my return to the start of this whole affair. My journey is nowhere near over, on so many fronts, but I have to admit that I appreciate closing this particular circle.
I confess that I fear what’s happened to the rest in these last weeks—our array of tasks was dangerous to start, and if my last day with them was any indicator, things were far more complicated, and were going to unfold much faster than we’d expected. I’m grateful to have a means to contact at least one person I left behind, though who knows if she can contact the others, and what the roiling depths has happened in the interim. I can only hope for them some measure of safety, some fraction of success, and some small chance of reunion.
And I hope the same for you—that you’re some measure of safe; found some fraction of success, whatever that may mean for you at this point; and that we can reunite soon. All of my best wishes to you until then.
— Qaz
Greg - I think this was a continuation of my grumpiness about hotel guests at the swimming lesson.
Ah, these two are always an enjoyable break. I welcome their visits with a smile every time :D
g2 - so good to hear from you again here :)
And thank you for this very effective summary of recent events!
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