Sleeping Gods Quest #39

Cursing softly, you glance back at where you came from – where you think you came from. Placing your trust in Fawn as best you can, you take off after her. She seems to know where she's going, at least, although you couldn't say how. Even this short distance away from the town, the clinging mist seems to have wiped away any trace of civilisation from the horizon, and any notable features from the surrounding area. Perhaps she can tell one tree apart from another, or perhaps she is guided by some otherworldly call – either way, she presses on through the woods with more certainty than you expected from her.

Following close behind, you track her to the eventual destination – a clearing, seemingly devoid of anything special. That's how it seems at first, at least – a closer inspection reveals a low slab of broken stone. Like a coffin, you realise with faint dismay, like an ancient stone casket.

Carefully setting aside her mask, Fawn crouches by the coffin and throws her weight against it, trying to push the lid away. She doesn't ask for any help, but the brief and imploring glance she cast your way is enough to make her intentions known. Adding your greater strength to hers, the stone lid soon grinds a few inches to the side. Stopping you from removing it entirely, Fawn reaches in and searches around with a blind, probing hand.

She better not have a handful of bones, you think, when she brings it out. To your great relief, she finds nothing more than a thick sheaf of blank paper and a clay bottle full of some liquid. Ink, perhaps?

A gift from the gods, you ask lightly, or something she prepared earlier?

“My side of the bargain,” she replies seriously, “I have to write.”

>And what do you get out of this bargain?
>What do you write?
>This “Murmur”... can you take me to him?
>That's enough, I'm taking you home
>Other

>>And what do you get out of this bargain?
>>What do you write?
>>This “Murmur”... can you take me to him?
Does Murmur have anything to do with the Library here?

>And what do you get out of this bargain?
>What do you write?
>This “Murmur”... can you take me to him?

>>And what do you get out of this bargain?
>>What do you write?
>>This “Murmur”... can you take me to him?
>>That's enough, I'm taking you home
I don't want to leave Howa and Koa for too long.

Going to Murmur and going back seem contradictory.

Yeah, that might be right. I thought maybe she might take us when we're ready. In that case:
Forget about taking her home for now.

She has to write, you repeat slowly, what does she have to write?

“I write what Murmur tells me to write,” Fawn answers immediately, “He puts the words in my mind, and I put them down on paper. I don't really understand any of it, but I don't need to. All I need to do is copy the words down and bind the pages when I'm finished. I'm good at that,” a faint smile touches her lips as she tucks the bundle of papers under one arm. “That way, an old book is made new again.”

An old book... she's writing books for the library?

“Yes,” Fawn nods, “Then Murmur tells me where to put them. There has to be order, you see, order and organisation. That's what he tells me.”

So what does Murmur have to do with the library, you ask, is he having her stock it with books for a reason?

“He lives there, sometimes,” Fawn pauses, “Not always. Sometimes I go looking for him, but I can't find him. It's fine though, I can just come out here and listen to his voice. That keeps me company. I suppose he wants books so he doesn't feel alone. An empty library is very sad, isn't it?”

You... you'd need to ask Howa about that, you tell her with an attempt at a smile. So, would it be possible for you to meet with this Murmur? She said that he isn't always at the library, so...

“He's always there when I have a book for him,” another pause, here, as Fawn thinks something over, “Soon. I'm almost finished one. You can meet him soon. Maybe... maybe tomorrow. I think I'll be finished tomorrow.”

Looks like you'll be staying the night here after all. Far from ideal, but you don't have much choice – not without abandoning these people, at least. You're about to ask another question when Fawn cuts you off, speaking over you in an innocent, impulsive tone.

“I'm going home,” she declares simply, turning on her heel and striding back towards civilisation without waiting to see if you'll follow.

[1/2]

Taking long strides of your own to catch up with her, you soon reach her once more. She spoke of a bargain, of her part in it – but what, you ask, does she get out of it?

Fawn says nothing to this, giving no indication that she even heard you until a few moments later, when she stops dead in her tracks and stares off into the distance. “I don't know,” she says slowly, “I never asked.”

Not much of a bargain then, you reply, is it?

“It's important work,” she stresses, “He SAID.” She almost cries that last word, the most overt display of emotion you've ever seen from her. It is as though the thought of being manipulated, lied to by a dear friend, has finally reached her mind. A second passes, though, and then her face clears. “I'm the only one left,” she whispers, “If I don't do it, who else will?” Shaking her head, whispering words you can't hear, she presses on ahead with a renewed pace. She's not running away from you exactly, but it certainly feels that way.

The next time Fawn speaks, it's when the shadowy form of the great library is looming up from out of the mist. Nestled beneath it is her home, the wooden structure she shares with Argas. Koa and Howa should be there, you think, unless something terrible happened in the short time you were away. Which, you think bitterly, seems to happen pretty often. Fawn doesn't lead you straight to the house, though, but around to a small woodshed behind it. Then, as she tucks her skull mask away in a little hiding spot, she speaks without looking around.

“Don't tell father,” she says, her voice clear and simple.

>He needs to know. You might be in danger
>He's your father, you have a duty to tell him
>Fine. I'll keep this secret – if you take me to Murmur as soon as you can
>Other

>Fine. I'll keep this a secret - if you take me to murmur as soon as you can

A lead is a lead. Best not waste it.

>Fine. I'll keep this secret – if you take me to Murmur as soon as you can
"But remember that secrets, if found out by means other than you telling him, make things worse. Don't bottle this up forever. He obviously cares about you, you don't want him to worry right?"

>>Fine. I'll keep this secret – if you take me to Murmur as soon as you can
>>Other
Why shouldn't we tell him?

You're not exactly comfortable with keeping this from her father – this Murmur is exploiting the girl's trust, after all, and that could just be start of his manipulations – but you know better than to throw away the best lead you've currently got by offending her. You'll keep this a secret, you tell her, but only if she takes you to Murmur as soon as she can.

“Of course,” Fawn nods, no trace of anger or irritation showing on her face, “I'd be happy to. I think he'd like to speak to you as well – you sound smart.”

One warning though, you add, secrets can be dangerous things. If her father found out about this from someone other than her, he might not be very happy. She shouldn't bottle it up forever, especially if he's just worried about her. Is that why she doesn't want him to know, you ask, because he'd worry even more?

“I'm already a burden,” Fawn admits, “Father never says so, but I know. I can't help him with his work, not really. I'd just make things worse if he was fretting all the time as well.” The sadness on her face only lingers for a moment, though, and soon she's leading you back around to the house. Without bothering to knock, she lets herself in – the bundle of papers neatly hidden beneath the folds of that great black cloak. As you follow her inside, she hurries up the stairs and soon, the sound of a closing door marks her departure. The sound causes Koa to hurry about, sighing a great sigh of relief when he sees you.

“Ira, thank the gods,” he breathes, “When you took off like that...”

You saw something, you explain briefly, out the window. Just a deer though, you lie, and your imagination did the rest. Perhaps the oppressive atmosphere of this place is getting to you, making you see monsters in every shadow.

“A deer, huh?” Koa doesn't sound convinced, but he's canny enough not to press the issue. Not here. Not now.

[1/2]

False alarm, you tell Howa and Argas as you return to his study – if the cramped, cluttered room deserves such a fine title – to find them both sitting. If you ignore the thick tension in the room, they could have been enjoying a warm conversation. As it is, though, there is no way to ignore the air of uncertainty and lingering paranoia that hangs over them both.

“He saw a deer,” Koa adds, shooting Howa a significant look, “That would be the first one we've seen since coming here, wouldn't it?”

“They don't stray close to town very often,” Argas explains, taking the conversation at face value, “If they do, someone usually ends up shooting it. The stupid ones don't live very long, you see?” He laughs, then, with the same skittering giggle that you're growing to hate.

“Argas was telling me a little about the library,” Howa picks up the conversation, her eyes flicking between you and Koa, “It sounds like a fascinating place.”

“If you're planning on staying a while, you could do worse than sleeping in the library itself,” Argas offers, “It would be drier than any of the other ruins – most of them have holes in the ceilings, so they leak when it rains, see? Of course, if you'd rather not, that's fine too – but you seem like wise folk, not the kind to let a few ghost stories scare you away.”

“If we were,” Koa mutters, “We'd already have left.”

He's got a point there.

“Say, if you do happen to sleep there, I've got one request,” Argas taps a finger against his desk, “There's a stack of books near the entrance. I can't rightly tell you not to read them, but I don't want them stolen or damaged – those ones are mine. Medical books, you see?”

“That won't be a problem,” Howa decides for you, giving you another curious glance. She'll be taking a look in that pile soon enough, you don't doubt.

[2/3]

You couldn't say exactly how it happens, but you soon find yourselves making your excuses and leaving Argas' house. There's no sinister motive at work, no supernatural force urging you to leave, but simple awkwardness was enough. Without a subject to focus his attention on, Argas had taken to staring off into space, occasionally rousing himself from his stupors to make vague and disconcerting comments about his career as a doctor.

When he started to describe a particularly lurid accident, you all simultaneously decided to leave. Now, standing before the library, Howa allows herself to shudder.

“I'm never going to a doctor again,” she tells you with a grimace, “Can they really do that? Losing a tool inside you, I mean...”

“Don't,” Koa pleads, “Don't start. I can see why he decided to leave Garuna – probably more accurate to say he was chased out.”

Focus, you warn the pair, you're not here to gossip about crude medical procedures. Then, with a quick and furtive voice, you describe what Fawn told you. When you're finished, Koa lets out a loud groan.

“So we're stuck here,” he complains, “For a whole damn day, at least.”

Stop griping, you scold him, he was the one who wanted to see some field work after all.

“Fine, fine,” the apprentice shakes his head in disgust, “We'll start work tomorrow, then. I'll take first watch.”

First watch?

“What, were you going to sleep without posting a guard?” he asks, looking at you in amazement, “I mean, here?”

>You're being paranoid, Koa. I need you well rested
>You're right. You can take first watch
>You rest, I'll watch over things here
>Other

>You're right. You can take first watch
Also don't follow my example and chase something if you see anything. Wake us up first.

>“They don't stray close to town very often,” Argas explains, taking the conversation at face value, “If they do, someone usually ends up shooting it. The stupid ones don't live very long, you see?” He laughs, then, with the same skittering giggle that you're growing to hate.
This might end poorly.

>You're right. You can take first watch

>You're right. You can take first watch

>>You're right. You can take first watch
Better safe than sorry.

He's right, you admit, sleeping without organising a guard could end very badly indeed. He can take first watch, you tell him, if he wants it.

“I do,” Koa nods, a twitch dancing around the corner of his mouth, “I don't think I'll be able to sleep for a while anyway, not with that potion of yours burning a hole in my guts.”

You warned him, you reply with a shrug, you told him to take a small sip. One bit of advice, though, if he's going to be sitting up for a while – don't make the same mistake you did. If he sees something out there, don't go rushing off without waking you and Howa.

“Right,” Koa nods, “If I see another “deer”, I'll know what to do.”

Ignoring that little comment, you lead them both into the dark library tower, pausing a moment as your eyes adjust to the gloom. Above you, a thick layer of cobwebs seems to imitate the mist outside, while a clumpy cover of dust lies upon every flat surface you see. Not quite every flat surface – there are a few trails of footprints carving through the filth. Most of them travel to and from a stack of books, the ones Argas mentioned, but others reach deeper into the building.

Small footprints, childish in size.

“Cosy,” Howa remarks, her cane clicking against the stone floor, “A few blankets, a rug maybe...”

You've slept on worse, you tell her, just throw down a coat and it should be comfortable enough.

“If we ever get a little place of our own,” Howa retorts as she sweeps off her cloak and drapes it over a relatively clean part of the floor, “Leave the decorating to me.”

Fine with you, you reply. As you're settling down yourself, Koa slumps off and sits in the entrance, his sheathed blade lying flat across his legs.

[1/2]

It's hard to say how long you sleep for – your sleep is dreamless, and curiously heavy – but you wake to find yourself fearful and uncertain. The disorientation is the first thing that strikes you, the sense of being nowhere, caught between worlds. Then you remember where you are, but the disturbing sensation doesn't loosen its grip on you. A few feet away, Howa continues to sleep, only letting out the occasional murmur.

You wince a little as you think that word to yourself. A whisper, perhaps you should have said. Rising, you look slowly around for anything that might explain your unease. Silhouetted in the doorway by a low and hideous moon, Koa is exactly where he should be. Yet, some unwavering stillness in his posture causes you to creep a little closer, your bare feet whispering against the stone.

He sits stiffly in place, his sword now clutched close to his chest like a child's comfort blanket. With the shrill rhythm of this place droning endlessly in your mind, you almost miss his voice, miss the words that he is mumbling to himself.

“In the Times of Mist, before men thought to write,” he says, with the stilted tone of a child quoting an unfamiliar text, “A man... a man of wicked mind took the name of “Old Worm”, and he set out to learn the forbidden arts. North... he went north, to the great city by the sea. Then... and then...”

The words stop sharply, his head jolting up as he wakes. Reaching for his sword, he spins around and stares at you – through you – with wild eyes. A second passes, and his wits return.

“Ira?” he stammers, “I was... I think I fell asleep.”

>You were talking. Do you remember anything?
>It's my turn to stand watch. Get some rest
>Some guard you turned out to be
>Other

Shouldn't this be on qst?

>You were talking. Do you remember anything?
>It's my turn to stand watch. Get some rest

>>You were talking. Do you remember anything?
Was Murmur talking to you?
>>It's my turn to stand watch. Get some rest

So some guy under the moniker of 'Old Worm's sought knowledge of what I assume is sorcery at Nodens unsunken city.

>You were talking. Do you remember anything?
>It's my turn to stand watch. Get some rest

He was talking, you tell him carefully, saying strange things to himself. Does he remember anything about what he was saying?

“Not... exactly,” Koa frowns, “I had a dream though, a pretty vivid one. I was sitting at this desk, reading an ancient book by candlelight. At the time, I could see every word in perfect detail. It's like I was really there, studying it.”

That's it, you ask, that was his dream?

“I said it was vivid,” Koa manages a forced laugh, “Not interesting.”

Does he think it was Murmur, you press, maybe it was talking to him?

“No, it wasn't that. There wasn't anything talking to me,” the apprentice shakes his head, his face pale and drawn, “But, I don't know, maybe it WAS trying to communicate with me somehow. Hey... do you have any paper? I mean, I don't remember everything, but maybe I can write down some of what I was dreaming about. Every little helps, right?”

It does, you agree. Searching your pack, you produce a few loose sheets of paper and a sealed bottle of ink. You don't like the hungry way that Koa falls upon the items, nor you do you care much for the furtive way he retreats back away from you. Get some rest, you tell him sternly, while he can. It's your turn to stand guard now.

“Yeah, yeah,” Koa waves you away, “I'll rest soon, okay? Soon. I've just got to... got to get this down, while I remember it.” Then, clutching paper and quill closer to his chest, he shuffles further back into the entrance. With the vague dismay churning in your stomach slowly settling into something more solid, more certain, you take his place in the entrance and wait.

You've always hated standing guard, and this is no exception. Within moments, you find your thoughts wandering freely. Koa dreamed, you consider, but you specifically didn't. There has to be a connection there – when she wakes, you'll ask Howa about her dreams, if any.

[1/2]

Well Koa is younger. Maybe Murmur only influences children.

Boredom soon compels you to action, driving you to take a book from Argas' pile. The book itself seems surprisingly new, the pages smooth and unstained, but the words written are old – archaic, written with several outdated characters. It does seem to be a medical text though, so Argas was telling the truth about that if nothing else. You flick listlessly through the pages for a while before something strikes you, some strange sense of familiarity. That handwriting...

Rummaging in your pockets, you produce the original Writ and unfold it. Just as you suspected – both documents are written in the same untidy scrawl. Does Argas know, you wonder, that his daughter wrote the medical books he uses?

Shrugging, putting that aside for now, you focus on the few things you can make sense of – the diagrams. Some outdated nonsense about drilling holes in the skull to let out “evil vapours” mostly, but there are other pictures. One particularly well read section – you can't ignore the dark red stains that speckle the pages here, even if you wanted to – has a diagram of... something. The ear, perhaps?

Carefully placing the book back where you found it, you return to your post. Still, questions haunt you – just what kind of doctoring does Argas do out here, anyway? All those pictures of chisels and picks seem to surge back whenever you try to clear your mind. Just the thought of letting him anywhere near your skull with those things...

Just research, you manage to convince yourself, what other use would he have for such knowledge? Just research.

Just... research...

And then, in what seems to be the blink of an eye, Howa is shaking you awake. Outside, the early morning sun is struggling to pierce the mist, shining a feeble light upon the town. You fell asleep?

“You fell asleep,” Howa confirms, “Don't worry about it – I don't think Koa slept at all.”

>He's still writing?
>Did you dream at all?
>Right – we'd better get to work
>Other

>He's still writing?
"I don't like how this god or whatever it is, is giving out these compulsions."
>Did you dream at all?

Then
>Right – we'd better get to work

>He's still writing?
>Did you dream at all?
>Right – we'd better get to work

>>He's still writing?
>>Did you dream at all?
>>Other
Can we show her that medical book? Maybe she'll have a better idea about it than we did.

He's still writing, you ask, even now?

“I never thought I'd say it, but I think I've finally made a scholar out of him,” Howa smiles weakly, “Not funny, huh? I don't when he started, but ever since I woke up he's been scrawling away on some papers. I tried talking to him, but he wouldn't say anything about what he was working on – he even took his work elsewhere. Not far, mind, but still...” Shaking her head, Howa sighs, “Maybe he's right,” she admits, “Maybe this isn't a good place to be.”

You're almost certain that he's right, you agree, but that's why you're here – to sort out this mess. You don't like how Murmur is giving out these compulsions, sending them through dreams or whispers, and you want to get to the bottom of things. Speaking of that, you wanted to know something – did she dream at all, last night?

“Of course I-” Howa stops, her automatic reaction grinding to a halt, “Are you suggesting that not dreaming would be bad?”

Just a theory you're working on, you tell her with a shrug, now what was she going to say?

“I might just not remember then,” she tells you, a stiff note of concern entering her voice, “But no, I didn't have any dreams – none at all. Come to think of it, I don't feel very well rested either. Maybe it's just sleeping on the floor like this, but I feel more like I didn't sleep at all.” Then, with an angry sigh, she crosses her arms. “If I'd know I'd feel like this,” she complains, I would have just stayed up to read. Anyway, what's all this talk of dreaming about?”

Koa dreamed, you tell her, but neither of you did. You think it might have something to do with age – perhaps Murmur can only reach out to young people? Or, perhaps young people are the only ones who can properly understand.

“How old did you saw Fawn was again?” Howa argues, “Older than Koa, I believe.”

Maybe so, but Fawn's mind is different – she might be a special case altogether.

[1/2]

In either case, you tell her with a shrug, it's a working theory. Something you'll adapt as you go, taking whatever new information you can dig up into account – and that means getting back to work.

“I was wondering about that,” Howa frowns a little, “How do you want to play this? If possible, I'd like to stay here and see what I can dig up – and I'd like to keep Koa with me as an assistant. That, I feel, would be best. You can work on your own, can't you?”

In many ways, you work better on your own – you don't need to worry about anyone but yourself. On the other hand, having Koa with you might prove useful, especially if he's being contacted by Murmur. Speaking of Koa...

“Back there,” Howa points over her shoulder, indicating the gloom further into the library, “Assuming he hasn't moved while we've been talking, that's where he should be. I've been keeping an eye on him, don't worry. Honestly, I'm pretty interested in what he's writing about – I can't wait to read it!”

Speaking of reading, you mention, there was something you wanted her to take a look at. A book, you explain, you're interested in hearing her first impressions. It might be nothing, but you want to see how her guess compares with yours. You fetch the old medical text as you say this, handing it over to her.

“I'm warning you, Ira, I'm no doctor,” Howa gives you a curious look before leafing through the book, “Hmm... I'd say a copy of a fairly outdated medical text. Maybe even an exact copy – there's a spelling mistake here, see? If I could find the same mistake in the original, I could be more certain. I could study this in more detail, but it might take some time. Leave it with me, okay?”

Okay, you tell her, just don't mind the bloodstains.

“We have such a wonderful job,” Howa sighs, “So, where do we start?”

>I need to take Koa. Will you be okay on your own?
>I'm going alone, wish me luck
>I want to take a look around here, with you
>Other

>>I'm going alone, wish me luck
We might be better off alone.

>>I'm going alone, wish me luck

>>I'm going alone, wish me luck
Keep each other safe. I don't trust this place all that much.

This time, you might be better off going alone. Argas hinted at a child you might be able to speak with, provided you can sneak past their drunken parents, and you'd have an easier time of it on your own. Even without taking your own interests into account, you don't much like the idea of leaving Howa here on her own. She can keep Koa with her, you tell her, to help with the heavy lifting. You don't need to add anything else – you both know that the protection is an important factor.

But where, you wonder, does this intangible sense of danger come from? True enough, the people here are surly and insular, but you've yet to see any overt hostility from them. That could change very quickly if you start meddling, of course, but still – it almost seems like you're overreacting. At least, it would, if it wasn't for the nagging distrust that haunts your mind. Better safe than sorry.

“Of course,” Howa nods, “I'll keep an eye on Koa, don't you worry about that. If he lets me read what he's been writing, I might even be able to make some sense of it. If I can find anything to cross reference it with...”

You'll let her get to work then, you tell her hastily, you'll see about sorting your own side of things.

“Good luck,” she tells you, her cane tapping against the floor as she gives you a strangely formal bow, “And stay safe, you hear me?”

Loud and clear, you promise, you'll be careful. No more running off after wild deer. As you're leaving, you consider your options – there's Argas and Fawn close by, with the family of drunks further into the town. By night, Fawn might be ready to take you to Murmur, but that's still a long way away. Plenty of time, then, to cover all of your bases.

>Speak with Argas and Fawn for a while
>Sneak into the drunken household
>Explore the town a little more
>Other

>Sneak into the drunken household

>>Sneak into the drunken household
Speaking with a child might be our best bet right now.

If Murmur really is reaching out to the children here, you might be able to learn a lot from speaking with one of them. That means getting past their paranoid, overprotective parents – something that Argas has already helped with. Just go looking for a house with an animal skull above the door, and you should find your chance. With that thought in mind, you take a slow stroll through the still-slumbering town, passing by silent houses as you walk.

No, not silent – you don't this place has been graced by silence in a very long time indeed. Every step you make is haunted by a thin whistle that drives your thoughts to distraction. If only it would stop, just for a few minutes!

You have to stop halfway, just to clutch your head until the ache that has been building since you woke loosens its grip on you. At first, you thought those turbans the locals wear looked foolish but even if they gave a tiny amount of respite, they would be worth any indignity. Not so, though – Argas seemed certain about that. It's not a problem with the ears, but with the mind itself. An insidious curse indeed. It's not just the sound, but the fatigue it seems to bring about. As Howa said, you feel as though you haven't slept at all, as if the dreamless sleep had left your mind ragged.

Focus, you mutter as you stop outside the right house, you can't afford to let your mind wander now. A cautious sip from your silver flask offers a small improvement – the fatigue doesn't lift, put it's pushed back for now. Good enough. Before entering, you take a long moment to scan the street around you, looking for anyone who might be lurking. It's a fruitless search – the town could have been abandoned years ago, for all the people you see.

With a slight shrug, you carefully test the door and find it unlocked. Careless, you think with a bitter attempt at a smile, anyone could just walk in.

[1/2]

...

On the inside, the house is about as dilapidated as you expected it to be. Wooden furniture, every stick of it looking like it was bashed together by an amateur, and clumsily woven rugs. At least the stained rug on the floor will soften your footsteps, drowning out the noise they may make. Not, you consider, that you really need to worry about that – there are other, louder noises filling the room. Snoring, mainly.

There are two people here, a man and a woman. The woman lies across a mat laid down on the floor, a rough pillow clutched over her head in a senseless search for peace. The man is slumped over a table, his turban having long since unravelled to spool around his waist and feet. Above you, nearly drowned out by the snoring, you can hear some faint scratching sound. Like rats in an attic, you think, but you doubt that it will be anything so simple. Not rats, perhaps, but a scurrying child.

Grimacing, forcing down a wave of revulsion, you begin to slip through the room. The awful song in your ears is joined by a new sound, the steady rumble of your pulse, and together they seem to carry you relentlessly on towards madness. The vile but stimulating concoction is flooding your veins now, poisoning your thoughts with an urge towards reckless desperation. A risk, you're well aware, of relying on such potions.

Halfway through the room, you pause and gaze upon the shaven dome of the man's skull. Recently shaven, you notice, with the bald patch centred around a small, round hole. A few dried spots of blood still cling to that hole, suggesting some terrible injury. If he was wounded, Argas would know about it – he would have treated the injury.

Although, you consider, that bloodied hole doesn't look very “treated” to you.

Swallowing a fresh wave of disgust, you move on towards the stairs, following that skittering sound.

[2/3]

At the top of the stairs, you reach a sealed room – and a problem. The door itself looks fragile enough, like something you could kick down if subtlety was something you could afford to throw out the window, but the iron padlock bolting it shut is very sturdy looking indeed. Not impossible to remove, but anything like this carries a risk of waking the slumbering pair below you.

Drawing your knife and unfolding the blade, you kneel down and examine the padlock again. If you can just work your knife blade in and wiggle it around a bit...

Holding your breath, you tighten your sweat-slick grip on the knife's handle and lean a little closer. This is a delicate procedure, you remind yourself, but you've got all the time in the world. Just... relax.

>Please roll 1D100, aiming to beat 30 or 70. I'll take the highest of the first three.

Rolled 30 (1d100)

Rolled 84 (1d100)

At least we passed this time.

Rolled 60 (1d100)

Sneaking Mission

You've only done this a few times before – generally, you default to “kick the door down” as an entrance strategy – but you can quickly tell that this won't be too difficult. It's elegant, even, working the blade into the lock at just the perfect angle. More worn that it first appeared, the padlock gives you plenty of room to work away. Smiling a grim smile of victory, you slide the blade home and flick it up, pulling the old iron hook free. Unlocked, it falls free from the door into your waiting hand – not a single sound, other than that tiny click.

Downstairs, the pair of drunken fools slumber on undisturbed. With no idea of what might await you on the other side, you slowly open the door and slip inside, closing it behind you and blocking the doorway with your body. The last thing you need right now is for a screaming child to flee into the street.

That could give the wrong impression.

Inside the darkened room, the scratching sound is louder, clearer and mixed with the fevered gasping of a wounded animal. At least, that's what it sounds like – what you wish it was. As your eyes adjust, you see the small figure huddled on the floor, their wasted frame trembling and twitching. If there were any windows in this solemn cell, this would be the perfect moment for a dramatic flash of lightning. As it is, you need to wait a moment longer before the full picture reveals itself to you.

Like something ripped from a lunatic dream, the wooden floorboards are covered in writing. It starts at the far end of the room, deep channels dug out of the soft wood by painless and determined fingers. Soon, it switches to a darker scrawl, as if the demented author had found a new source of ink.

When it becomes clear that the child has no intention of escape, you force yourself to approach.

[1/2]

Beneath the scratching of finger – of bone – against wood, beneath the whisper of breath and the squealing horror flooding your mind, there is another sound. A murmuring voice, one that hisses and spits out words in a never ending stream that, nonetheless, matches the rhythm of their hideously improvised quill.

Steeling your nerves, you move past the child and cast your eye upon their writing. It's insane nonsense, alchemical ingredients that no child has ever heard of listed in no particular order – no order that bows before logic and reason, at least. Human blood? Horse dung? Quicksilver? Those are just the names you recognise, to say nothing of the words that seem utterly divorced from human existence.

This is impure knowledge, something drawn from the forbidden arts.

This is sorcery.

Whispering, pitching your voice low, you hiss out to the child, asking them if they are okay – a pointless question, but one that seems important despite everything. They don't answer you, or even acknowledge your presence. In one corner of the room, you spy plates of uneaten food, flies lazily crawling over the decay. Any neglect that this child suffered, it was by their own hand. Yet, how can you help them if they won't even look up at the sound of your voice?

>Gently address them again. Persistence might win out
>Grab them and pull them away from their writing
>Leave them – this child is beyond help now
>Other

>Gently address them again. Persistence might win out
If that fails
>Grab them and pull them away from their writing

>>Gently address them again. Persistence might win out
Maybe gently shake him or something. Snap fingers, etc.

>Gently address them again. Persistence might win out
Goddamn Murmur. You're kinda fucked up.

>>Gently address them again. Persistence might win out
Blood and dung, isn't that how you make a homonculus?

Grimacing, you take a step closer and circle the child a few times as you consider your options. It doesn't feel right, pacing around them like this, but you need to find some way to focus on the situation. Eventually, you let out a weary sigh – you might as well keep trying to talk with them for a while before writing them off as beyond help. Kneeling down to next to them – a boy, you notice now that you're closer – you murmur a greeting.

No reaction, as you expected, but you don't let that deter you. Not yet. Without worrying too much about what you're saying, you ramble on for a little – you tell him your name, and ask for his to no reaction. You ask about his family, before haltingly mentioning your own, sad background. When even that gets nothing out of him, you reach across and snap your fingers in front of his face. At the very least, that causes him to pause slightly, his stump of a finger growing still for one precious second. Encouraged, you gently shake them by the shoulder.

“...Busy,” he whispers, his voice cracked with long days of going unused, “Leave me alone.”

Nope, you whisper back, not going to happen.

He sighs, another brief pause in his frantic writing granting you a flicker of hope. “Moln,” he whispers eventually, “My name is Moln.”

A strange name, you reply for the sake of conversation, but a fine one nonetheless. So, you ask Moln, what's this that he's writing?

“I don't know,” he mumbles, “But I've got to write it. They... my parents stopped me, and it just kept building up inside me. It wouldn't stop until I let it out.” At long last, his hand grows still and he turns to look you in the eye. “It was fun at first – I knew things the grown ups didn't – but I never wanted this. I never wanted none of this!”

Settle down, you advise him, don't call out like that. Maybe he should start from the beginning...

[1/2]

“It all started with the voice,” he tells you, in a voice that just barely clings to waking life, “No, that's not right. It was Fawn, she started it with that stupid costume of hers. It was a game at first – she'd scare the little kids with her mask, and chase them about, and...” His voice trails off, a faint flicker of nostalgia warming it. Hearing nostalgia in the voice of a child – if he's in his teenage years, you'd be gravely surprised – hurts you in a way that you can't quite describe.

But something changed, you press gently, after Fawn started wearing that costume.

“We all started hearing the voice,” Moln nods slowly, “It told us stuff – old stuff. We all felt so cool, like we were special, but none of the grown ups liked it. They never liked it here, ever. They said it was too loud here. When they heard what we were saying, they got weird, like they were scared of us. They started blaming it on anyone else, on us playing together or going in the old library. So... we learned to keep quiet about it, only... we couldn't. When we stopped talking about it, it all started to build up.”

It, you repeat, the secret stuff?

“Yeah, the stuff we knew. The stuff the voice told us,” Moln nod again, “We couldn't talk about it, so we had to do something. I can write a little, so it was easy for me. The little kids had it worse – they could barely make letters, and it was hurting them. I mean, it was hurting them BAD.”

What happened to them, you ask, those little kids?

“Don't know,” Moln shakes his head, “My parents locked me in here, and... and I sorta blanked out. I don't know how long ago that was... I heard a voice once though, I think it was the doctor. I thought maybe he'd come to let me out, but...”

But he didn't. Nobody did.

>Is that all you remember?
>Moln, what can I do to help you?
>I wanted to ask something... (Write in)
>Other

>Is that all you remember?
>Moln, what can I do to help you?

>Is that all you remember?
>Moln, what can I do to help you?
>I wanted to ask something... (Write in)
Could it be that everyone is hearing the voice, but for some reason only kids can decipher it while it's just 'noise' to adults?

>Is that all you remember?
>Moln, what can I do to help you?

Is that all, you ask softly, is that all he remembers?

“Um... we all crept out at night once, to go into the old library. We were all daring each other to do it - like we were creeping into someone's house, you know? - but I think we all wanted to go in. There was something telling us to go in, I mean. And... and we all had bits of paper, scraps of cloth, anything we'd been writing on Fawn was there, and she had that stupid dumb mask on!” Moln, realising that his voice was growing louder, claps his uninjured hand over it, slowly peeling the fingers away after a moment.

“And he was there,” the boy breathes, “The Murmuring Goat, just like the stories. We all stood in a circle, like we knew what to do – like we'd all done it before – and the goat, he told us where to put our stuff. When we were done, we all left and went home. It was better after that, but it never lasted. Soon, we started to hear it again...”

The voice?

“The voice,” Moln confirms.

Moln, you tell the boy, you want to help him – what can you do?

“Paper,” he replies almost immediately, the wince that flashes across his face telling his true feelings on the subject, “Paper and a proper pen. My hand, it... it hurts so bad.” Growing very small, his voice wavers as he admits that. As he draws further and further away from whatever trance he was in, the harsh realities of his injuries are beginning to crush him.

The worst thing is, you could give him all the paper in the land, and the finest pen imaginable, and he still might not be able to write, not with that injury. Yet still, Murmur is pouring his poison into the boy's ear, forcing him on until he is completely broken and used up.

>Come on, I'm taking you to the doctor
>Moln, I need you to stay here for now. Stay strong
>I'm going to leave the door unlocked – do what you feel is best
>Other

>Come on, I'm taking you to the doctor

>>Come on, I'm taking you to the doctor
We watch the doctor when he does his thing. The more I hear about him the less I want him patching people up. Make sure he does it right.

>>Come on, I'm taking you to the doctor

How good is Ira when it comes to patching himself or others up? I'm sure being a Wanderer gave him some experience.

>He can sew a wound shut, and treat the kind of injuries you'd expect from fighting. He doesn't have anything in the formal teaching, however, or any real experience with sickness.

Come on, you decide as you stand, you're taking him to see the doctor. By the time first weak murmur of protest has left Moln's mouth, you've already scooped him up and started to carry him from his prison. He doesn't even bother to struggle – but perhaps that's more the product of fatigue than a lack of will. Hoping that he stays silent, and hoping even more that the streets remain deserted, you carry him downstairs.

“Dad...” Moln mumbles as you pass his father – still sleeping, still showing off that bloody wound of his. That's the one word he manages to say, and it seems to take the last of his strength. By the time you've carried him through the thankfully deserted streets, he has slipped into a restless sleep.

With stealth and subtlety cast aside, you pound on Argas' front door until it finally swings open, the doctor gazing out at you with red and aching eyes. He gives you a blank look, glances across at Moln, and then nods for you to enter. Perhaps the worst thing is, he doesn't look surprised to see either of you.

“It's bad,” he remarks, without sympathy, upon seeing Moln's wound, “But not beyond repair. Hmm... I could pull the meat back and saw a little of the bone away, then I could close the wound up and stitch it all back together. He might have one finger, oh, and inch shorter than the others, but that's the worst of it.”

The ghoulish description makes you pale a little, but you find yourself nodding. A cut on the forehead or a broken arm, those you could fix yourself. Here, though, you've got to bow before the doctor's greater experience – even if his past record is, suffice to say, dubious.

At least he didn't suggest taking the entire hand off.

[1/2]

You end up watching Argas as he prepares for the operation, mixing various liquids and powders to form a strangely odourless chemical. Something to make Moln sleep, apparently, and to keep him sleeping. It seems like quite a heavy dosage to you – to your untrained eye – but you can only trust Argas to know what's best. At least he washes his tools beforehand, which you're prepared to take as a good sign – and what tools they are!

All steel, all gleaming and polished, his equipment looks better maintained than most of the weapons you've seen carried by Imperial soldiers. You couldn't name most of them, but you do recognise a few – including, you are worried to notice, a chisel and needle thin icepick.

“So,” Argas says, his tone conversational, “You didn't happen to get a bottle of anything, while you were visiting my drunken friends, did you? No? A shame...” he giggles, “A little sip of the hard stuff makes things go that much smoother, I find. Oh well...”

You're starting to have second thoughts about this.

As the operation commences, Argas continues to prattle away irrelevantly. “How are you finding our fair town?” he asks, “Easily, I should imagine – you can hear when you're close, after all! Don't worry, don't worry, I can talk while I work, this is hardly a distraction. Any questions? You don't look like a man who's seen a lot of these before.”

>What kind of doctoring do you do here? What did you do to Moln's father?
>How's Fawn doing? I might need to talk to her later
>You're going to be careful, right?
>Alright, I've got a question... (Write in)
>Other

>You're going to be careful, right?
>What kind of doctoring do you do here? What did you do to Moln's father?
>How's Fawn doing? I might need to talk to her later

>>What kind of doctoring do you do here? What did you do to Moln's father?
"Icepicks are not medical tools Argas."
>You're going to be careful, right?

>>You're going to be careful, right?
>What kind of doctoring do you do here? What did you do to Moln's father?
>How's Fawn doing? I might need to talk to her later

So, you begin, he's going to be-

“Wait,” Argas warns you. He picks up a tool – it looks alarmingly similar to a meat cleaver – and examines it for a moment before setting it aside. “Sorry, what was that?”

He's going to be careful, you ask, right?

“Oh sure, sure. Careful,” nodding merrily away to himself, Argas prepares a far smaller, far more sensible knife, “See, we start by peeling the flesh back a bit. Like a flower, you see?”

You'd really rather not see, to be honest. It's funny, in a way. Up until now you never considered yourself to be the squeamish type – this is proving to be quite the education. To make conversation, you ask the first question that crosses your mind – what kind of doctoring is it that he does here? And, you ask, what was it that he did for Moln's father?

“You forget, this was a lumber town once. I saw a lot of missing fingers, splinters three inches deep into bodies, all that kind of thing...” pausing, Argas flicks some blood away from his knife with a practised motion, “That was then, however. Now, I just take care of whatever comes across my door. Moln's father... that was an interesting case. He was desperate, you know.”

He'd have to be, you think, to come here.

“He wanted something – anything – that might give him a little peace and quiet. Now, we've established that the ears aren't the problem – you can, for example, completely destroy the delicate structures inside and it won't do any good. You'll be completely deaf by the end of it, but you won't get the respite you seek,” Argas doesn't laugh this time, his voice turning deadly serious, “So, I did a little research. Whoever used that library, they certainly knew their stuff. I found something – a map.”

A map, you repeat uneasily, a map of what?

“The human brain,” the doctor leers, pouring as much drama into those three words as possible. As it happens, that's quite a lot of drama.

[1/2]

Christ he is using lobotomy. These voices are magical in nature, I don't think fucking with the brain is going to help anything.

“You see, according to the books I read, the brain is divided up into sections. This bit is responsible for talking, that bit handles movement. How did they find that out? I have no idea – perhaps by cutting pieces out and seeing how people reacted. Well, other than dying, I mean,” Argas takes the icepick from his box of tricks and waves it carelessly about for a moment, “It's delicate work, see? The slightest slip, the slightest mistake, and you've got a dead body on your hands. Again.”

That's not a medical tool, you argue as you lean across to take the pick away from him, that isn't even close.

“Huh, fine. I wasn't using that one anyway,” Argas allows you to take the pick and set it aside. As soon as his hand is free, however, he lunges for a saw. “So, Moln's father came to me with a bottle of his finest swill and asked for some respite. He said he was willing to try anything – I clarified, by the way, and he really did mean anything – if it might help. So, I gave him a dose, marked out the right spot, and I gave it my best shot.”

So... it failed, didn't it?

“To date, he hasn't complained about the noise,” Argas answers, a note of stuffy pride entering his voice, “As I understand it, he doesn't complain about much these days. He drinks, and he stares at the wall, but he doesn't complain.”

That's it, you snap, this operation is over. You'll finish the job yourself if you need to. Before you can do anything but protest, however, Argas has a blade pointed your way, leaning across the bloody table to wave the sharpened steel in your face.

[2/3]

“I'm finishing this job,” he whispers, his voice cold, “And then we'll have a drink, and discuss this like gentlemen. This boy is very weak – we can't afford to play dice with his life. The slightest mistake could finish him off. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Does he, you ask in response, is that something he's prepared to accept?

“Oh, I don't really hear my conscience much these days,” Argas laughs, “That noise, you know? It rather... drowns everything else out, I find. Now settle down, stranger, and I can finish this off. Are we agreed?”

Fine, you rasp – the word pulled from a dry, tight throat. You need to change the subject, and fast. Fawn, you ask, how is she? You might need to speak with her later, if possible.

“She's a little uneasy,” Argas informs you, his voice smooth and easy once more, “She doesn't like change much, or anything that might mean change. You know, when we came out here, she already had an imaginary friend, someone to talk with when things got too much. Funny thing about that... she never had one before we came here.”

Yeah, you whisper, funny.

“Anyway, she's upstairs in her room, doing... well, I don't know what,” Argas begins to drag the saw across the length of white, exposed bone, “Girls need their privacy. She'll come if I call her down, though. When we're finished here, should I?”

>No... no, that's fine. I was just checking
>Yes, there are some things I'd like to ask her
>Later, maybe – I had some other business first
>Other

>Yes, there are some things I'd like to ask her

>>Later, maybe – I had some other business first
>>go check on Howa and Koa

This

>>No... no, that's fine. I was just checking
>>Later, maybe – I had some other business first
Priority goes to getting out of this house.

>No... no, that's fine. I was just checking
>>Later, maybe – I had some other business first

No, you reply hastily, no that's fine. Really, you were just checking – it doesn't hurt to look after the neighbours, does it? You might end up talking with her later, if you happen to see her, but until then...

“You look nervous, friend,” Argas remarks as he's threading a long, hooked needle with heavy cord, “Relax. We can have a drink soon enough, and toast the boy's successful recovery.”

Regrettably, that might have to wait. You have other business, you explain, other things that you've got to take care of. Very important things, you add, that can't be postponed. Even as you're saying this, you're backing away out of the house. If Argas takes any offence at your poorly disguised retreat, he doesn't show it – if anything, it seems to cheer him up. Humming a single, long note – humming along to the buzzing in his head, you realise with vague disgust – he bends down to focus on sewing up Moln's injury. The “flower” that he carved is now closing up, folding into a fleshy bud.

Outside, leaning against the library doorway, you draw in a great heaving gulp of air. Soldiers don't frighten you – even gods don't frighten you that much – but that, in there? That was bad. Argas is erratic and unpredictable, entirely the wrong kind of person to be put in charge of vulnerable patients. When a single flash of anger could have led to Moln's death, you had little choice but to meekly play along. Now that you're out, a rush of humiliated anger boils up from within you. Next time you meet, things might end very differently.

Drawing another calming breath, you shake off the anger as best you can. There's no point in dragging a grudge with you when you find Howa, no point at all.

[1/2]

When you find Howa, she's sitting at an old reading desk, the medical book open in front of her. In a way, you're almost regretting asking her about it now – you already know far too much about it, and the vile sciences it proposes. Looking up at the sound of your footsteps, she gives you a skittish smile.

“Ira, hello,” she greets you, tilting her head to the side, “I'd say you look like you've been having a bad day, but, well, we've all been having a bad day. I think the people here might have had bad lifetimes, if I'm being entirely honest with you. Suffice to say, things haven't been going so well here, either.”

Why, you ask, has Koa had some kind of problem?

“Well, that depends on what you'd call a problem,” Howa shrugs a little, “I managed to get him to help, but he passed out not so long ago. He's sleeping now, so that's probably for the best. No, I think this place might be more trouble than it's worth – there's so much here, all different topics, but there's barely any order to it. None that I can recognise, at least. In the end, I just sent Koa to pick a number of books at random. I wouldn't exactly call that a successful experiment, either.”

>So, was there anything that might counter the Seer's sorcery?
>What about that medical book?
>I'm warning you now, we're leaving as soon as we can
>I had a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>So, was there anything that might counter the Seer's sorcery?
>What about that medical book?

>There is sorcery at work, for sure.

>So, was there anything that might counter the Seer's sorcery?
>What about that medical book?
>Other
I really don't like this place, but it doesn't feel right leaving things as is. Hopefully we can put a stop to whatever this is when I meet this Murmur.

Not 100% on that. There is knowledge of sorcery here for sure, but for all we know this could be a fucked up god that forces kids to restock it's library after it keeps getting burned down.

While that's true, gods are affected by those who worship it. This is too much of the other way around, and not enough signs of anything that should perpetuate this sort of god.

But I guess that's not 100%.

>god that forces kids to restock it's library after it keeps getting burned down
and its whispers drive the adults to madness from which they escape by tearing down the library, this god needs a lesson in etiquette and a priest!

So, you ask, out of all those books she checked was there anything that might help counter the Seer's sorcery?

“In these?” Howa prods the leaning stack of books piled up beside her, “Not a damn thing. I mean it – there's a lot of information about sorcery here, but nothing that we can use. I mean, take this one...” Pulling a book – fairly new, and neatly bound – out of the pile, she waves it about in a way that reminds you, unpleasantly so, of Argas and his tools. “This here has the instructions for a ritual that, if I've understood this correctly, could completely strip any man of his mystical powers. For a short while, at least.”

That sounds like exactly what you need, you argue, so what's the catch?

“The catch, dear, is what it costs – the death of a god, or so the instructions say,” with venom in her words, Howa lets the book drop carelessly to the floor. You've... never seen her treat a book so disrespectfully before. “I won't use the weapons of our enemy, Ira, and I damn well hope you won't either. We've got to hold ourselves to a higher standard, and if that means weakening ourselves... so be it.”

The oppressive atmosphere that hangs over this cursed place, you decide, has started to influence her behaviour as well. You've seen her prickly and bad-tempered before, but never with this kind of bile. You're not even sure what to say, and it ends up with Howa being the one to break the silence.

“I'm... sorry,” she mutters, “That was uncouth of me. I meant what I said, though. Some lines, I don't think-”

The medical book, you ask gently, did she learn anything new from it? Although you don't know if you really want to know, it offers a good opportunity to change the subject. Howa can recognise that as much as you could, and the grateful light that glints in her eyes lightens your heart.

[1/2]

Sounds like this god or whatever cannot help itself with sharing the knowledge it gained over the years, but like an autist fuck it share it in the worst way because people are trying to do other things while the retards yells and shits in their minds.

>HEY LISTEN!
>not now, I'm trying to sleep.
>HEY HEY DID YOU KNOW THAT SLEEP IS-
>Titanos' stony butt I'm trying to catch some shut eye!
>YOU NEED TO CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE YOU WHITE CIS SCUM REEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A god of REEEEEEE

“This thing? Well, I won't lie – it's all rot and nonsense,” she shakes her head sadly, although that light still lingers in her eyes, “If anything, I'd say it's a good list of what NOT to do. Argas hasn't been using this as a reference, has he?”

Maybe he has, you reply grimly, he certainly suggested as much. Maybe he was just using it as she said, as a list of what doesn't work, but that still doesn't give you much hope for the rest of his research. At least Moln's injury was only to a finger – there's no need for the good doctor to go rummaging around inside the boy's head. Not, you consider darkly, that that might stop him.

“It's a fascinating book though,” Howa admits, “Even if much of it is wrong, the few things that are correct suggest a staggering understanding of anatomy, especially if my estimate of the time period is correct. Well, the original time period, I should say – this copy can't be more than a few years old, and that's the absolute maximum.” With a low sigh, Howa bends down to pick up the book she threw aside, placing it neatly back on the pile. “You know,” she adds as she straightens up, “I really don't like it here.”

You don't like it either, you agree, but you wouldn't feel right leaving this job unfinished. You've got a chance to meet this Murmur thing, and that might be the key to putting an end to things. Even so, that leaves you with plenty of time until nightfall. You might see about getting some sleep...

“Sleep!” Howa snaps her fingers suddenly, “Oh, that reminds me. I should have told you straight away, but I got distracted and... and... well, never mind.” Clearing her throat, Howa slips out a few sheets of crumpled paper – the notes Koa scrawled out. “Would you believe, he never let me even glance at these?” Howa rolls her eyes, “I had to take them after he passed out. Honestly, I started to think he was writing a love letter, considering how secretive he was!"

[2/3]

But it's not a love letter, you guess, is it?

“Not even close,” Howa shakes her head, “The short version is, it's the life story of a sorcerer who called himself Old Worm. Now, our new friend took his practice to a great city in the north, one that rested upon the ocean itself. Pretty poetic, wouldn't you say?”

Yeah, you agree, you never thought Koa had it in him.

“So, the story gets a little vague at this point – it rather focussed on various depravities and atrocities attributed to Old Worm instead of anything useful – but the most interesting part comes at the end. Old Worm's death,” Howa flashes you a victorious smile, as if she had been the one to put the old sorcerer to rest, “According to this a warrior of the north, armed with a weapon of the gods, was the one to slay Old Worm. A weapon that was said to cut through anything – even the spells that Old Worm tried to weave.”

That would be a useful weapon to have, you point out, does the story say anything about it?

“Only that the warrior took it with him when he returned to his northern island,” Howa frowns, “And here's the problem. We're assuming that this ocean city is Nodens' domain, correct?”

Correct, you nod, and Nodens' city is close to Dumas. Pulling out your map, you point to the island – the island that you happen to own. Then, you realise the problem – there isn't anything to the north of Dumas. Not a single island.

“Exactly,” Howa nods, “Not on any of our modern maps. There might be a clue, but the chances are that it sunk with the city itself.” Folding up the sheaf of notes, Howa hands them over to you, a bitter smile touching her lips. “Hey Ira,” she asks, “How do you like swimming?”

>I think I'll end things here for tonight. Next thread on Tuesday, and I'll stick around for a short while in case of any questions!

So uhh, this ISN'T the glove things, right? Or is it?

Oh shit we getting a anti magic blade. I think. Does it do extra damage against filthy sorcery abominations?

Thanks for running Moloch.