rtech
Bewildered Beginner
What is Snicket's favorite game?
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Post by rtech on Jun 21, 2022 15:15:11 GMT -5
Henrietta Colet was a full-blown, all the way, no holds barred, librarian.
Henrietta had spent 4 of her best years getting a degree at the Uptown University of Special Tactics and Filing, where she had spent her days getting educated in the noblest of pursuits. She was working on her master’s degree in Applied Theoretical Decimal Systems, through a wonderful correspondence course, and when she was a young girl of almost 13, she had participated in a very prestigious internship program at the Institute for Interfering with Illiteracy.
Ms. Colet had also just completed a rigorous training regiment at her last post, working the midnight-shift and being responsible for snacks, late-fee accounting, and fire prevention under her direction as the sub-librarian at Moosburg Memorial Library. Before that, Ms. Colet had been the sub-sub-librarian in Hootinannie County, working under the great Kelvin Klemp before his retirement.
Henrietta stepped off the train and onto the platform in Stain’d-by-the-Sea at precisely 01:43am. She would’ve preferred not to arrive at this absurd hour, but it was difficult for anyone to understand the convoluted train schedules, even for talented librarians such as herself.
Her belongings were being loaded off the baggage car by a portly old porter, wearing the traditional uniform of The Thistle of the Valley, complete with a lapel pin attached to his front, thus denoting him as an official staff member. She tipped him, as was the custom at the time, and still is actually, and pushed the loaded cart of her most prized possessions to the front of Stain’d Station.
“Prized possessions” can mean different things to different people. For example, if the Mayor of 's-Hertogenbosch (a good friend of mine) had gone on this trip, the belongings might’ve been comprised of a large mason jar holding his mother’s black licorice candy, a spiffy looking robe to wear to lengthy bureaucratic meetings, and a bright blue bicycle with custom wicker saddlebags. Had I been taking the trip, I would’ve taken a fire extinguisher, an electric fly swatter, and a trusted associate.
Alas, poor reader, we have the terrible gift of hindsight and Ms. Colet, despite her perfect vision, had not been granted the same luxury that we, the ones who exist in the ‘here’ and not in the ‘then’, are cursed with.
As far as Henrietta could see, she was the only one disembarking at that bleak time, and when the train behind her started to sputter and chug along down its very straightforward and predictable track, Henrietta began to feel like she maybe hadn’t done all of her research thoroughly enough and was partially worried about her own track.
She was still clutching her dog-eared copy of Making Your Mark: Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s Bright Past, Present, and Future, the official guidebook published by the city’s Department of Tourism. Dog-eared is a word meaning “well-loved” and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Despite Henrietta’s careful tabs, her vast collection of highlighters, and her hip-mounted pencil pouch, she felt minutely less bright about her future than her new home clearly was.
Henrietta looked a little dog-eared herself. And in this case, it was a word which here meant “tired”. So in actuality, Henrietta looked dog-tired. It had been a tiring journey, not due to any physical athleticism that the average train ride requires, but owing entirely to the fact that Henrietta had not slept a wink on the two-day train ride. Instead, she had spent that time reviewing her notes, reading and re-reading all the pamphlets, maps, guides, obituaries, magazines, blueprints, recipes, and books she had brought along with her that detailed everything she might possibly need to know, want to know, and should know about her new home.
I want to make it very clear that it is in my professional and unimportant opinion that Ms. Colet’s research capabilities were the best that this city would ever see, which is saying something - considering the pedigree of her competition. However, Henrietta was so focused on what she should know about Stain’d-by-the-Sea, that she forgot to look into what she shouldn’t know. But please know, this was not her fault; she was not aware of the unfortunate circumstances that would one day befall this town.
Henrietta pressed on, wheeling the large trolley loaded with her trunk of worldly possessions, suitcases stuffed with clothes that she didn’t really feel comfortable in, boxes of books that she did find very comforting, and a terrarium.
Inside the glass walls of the portable domicile, sat Janszoon. Janszoon was about the size of one of those clerical stamps that librarians use to denote the date at which a book was checked out. He was dark, very dark, and covered in little bumps and warts and bubbles all over his body, save for his bright blue belly, which when he had just walked in his water dish, would glisten as the sliminess of his amphibious skin shined.
Henrietta peered into the overgrown undergrowth of his habitat, spying his beady eyes hidden behind his favorite piece of bark.
“Hello darling,” she cooed at him, ”Are you doing alright? I know it's been a tiresome trip, Jans, but we will be home soon.”
Jaszoon blinked back at her, a simple look that denoted a lot of information. What information he shared with her, I do not know and will never know, but I’m sure that like with all pets and their owners, she understood him perfectly.
A single taxi was waiting in the curved loading zone of the station. It stuck out, like a bee in a bowl of blackberries, alone in this quiet and reluctant night. She spied a young man, who had to be close to her own age, reclining in the front seat of the cab. He had lowered the seat back, and was holding a left arm lazily behind his head, and was holding a right arm stiffly ahead, splaying open a small novel in his hand. He looked to be about halfway through the book.
Henrietta felt bad about knocking on the window of the cab, as she did not enjoy strangers interrupting her while she was lost in the words of a brilliant author, but she was tired and desperately wanted to get to her lodgings; the hotel had seemed quite lovely in the reviews and she wanted to take a long bath. If you haven’t taken a lovely soak after you have uprooted your entire life to begin a new job in a new city and taken an exhausting train ride, I would highly assert that when possible, please do so.
As her knuckle tapped on the vehicle, the young man inside jolted with a start. He dropped his book, luckily a paperback, so it caused no harm as it plopped on his bespectacled face.
“I am so sorry - I didn’t mean to spook you!” Henrietta gasped, slightly embarrassed by her poor first impression.
The man slowly lifted the book off his face and a sheepish grin emerged from behind. He was laughing, a quick, high-pitched titter, and it sounded like a jazz percussionist’s impression of a snicker. His face looked rosy, warmed by the blush rising to his face.
“Oh mademoiselle, it is no problem of yours, I should have been giving more attention to you,” the driver said, with a very heavy accent, while adjusting his seat back to the upright position. “You must be Ms. Colet. I was waiting here for you, I told them I would do the picking up.”
Henrietta was beginning to feel even more embarrassed. Not only had she bothered this gentleman while he was reading, she had caused him a fright, and he had been waiting for her, for who knows how long.
As if the look on her face was as readable as the book he was placing in the passenger seat, the man behind the wheel gave her a friendly smile. “Don’t worry Ms. Colet, I was not waiting a long time, I figured you’d be arriving on le dernier train.”
Many people in this world speak more than one language. Some of us are fortunate enough to be raised by people who hail from far-reaching lands, allowing ones to learn native tongues from our guardians as we grow up. Some of us attend schools and programs that offer classes in foreign dialects. And some of us are determined enough, resourceful enough, to learn on our own, educating ourselves with local resources, like the 400-499 section of the local library.
No matter the language or the matter in which you learn it, being able to explore the parts of this terrifying and incredible world of ours that you would’ve missed otherwise, is a wonderful thing to be able to do. I recommend Esperanto, but I am biased due to my own guardians, education, and local libraries.
For the sake of anyone reading this who did not have a stepfather from Quebec, or a class in French 17th century writing, or their town’s book-mobile only had textbooks on Hungarian, I have translated the rest of their French conversation for you into English. Which is a troublesome language, and one I find myself getting annoyed with constantly for not following the rules, but is at least easier for me to write than French is.
Henrietta said in a flawed, but earnest endeavor at the language. “What is your name, sir?
“Wow, you speak French too? It’s better than my English,” he said with a sly smile. “My name is Gustave, and you may call me Gus. I’ve never met a librarian before, let alone one as accomplished and evidently well-read as yourself, Ms. Colet”.
Now it was Henrietta’s turn to blush.
“I do appreciate you waiting for me, but please, call me Henrietta. I’m quite glad you’re here, I did not especially desire to walk all the way into town with my belongings.”
She grabbed her shoulder bag, swinging it overhead, and carried the terrarium by its handle. Gus had clambered out of the automobile quickly, swinging open all the doors and rear trunk, before loading her belongings into the surprisingly spacious compartments.
“You are too kind, Gus. I don’t get a lot of practice speaking French, unfortunately I spend most of my time reading. Occupational hazard, I guess,” Henrietta tried to shrug, but with the cumbersome objects weighing her shoulders down, it looked more like a shimmy, a word which here means “a weak shrug”.
Henrietta was trying to help load things into the cab, but every time she would reach for a bag or a leather strap to grab, Gus would swing in, lift the item away, and give her a wink.
“You have had a very long trip, I’m sure. Please, sit, I will have things loaded in no time.”
Gus was not demanding this, but she had the feeling he was not going to relent and let her load anything herself. She was grateful for his help, as he was right - she was pooped, and when she sat in the backseat, she found herself beginning to finally decompress.
Things were going to be ok, she told herself. There are good people in this city, just like there are in every city. There were book readers, and French speakers, and taxi drivers, just like in every city she had worked in. What did she have to be scared of? This book-reading, French-speaking, taxi-driving individual had managed to help Henrietta find comfort in her arrival, a very difficult task when one is new to a place, which was helped enormously by his kind manner and smile, which Henrietta thought looked very coquet, a word which here means “flirtatious”.
Soon the cab was fully loaded, packed to the brim with enough prized possessions to begin a new life somewhere. Gus lowered himself into the front seat, and turned the key. The cab purred. The bright yellow 4-door looked expensive and new on the inside, and the engine noise matched the pleasant interior. Soft leather on the bench seat, 4 cup holders, an FM-AM radio, and lights built right into the dashboard, illuminating the glow of the dials indicating the vehicle’s current state.
They drove slowly in the quiet night, windows rolled down just slightly, and Henrietta could smell the salty sea in the air. She had seen the enormous body of water from her view on the train, but the waves of aromas gave her a new perspective, one she couldn’t get from reading and looking. She thought of those stickers you pester with your fingernails to get an artificial approximation of a real scent. Henrietta felt that smelling it in person was a much better choice.
“I was told you were an accomplished librarian, with many accolades and honors to your name, and that we were very lucky to have you here in our humble town. They didn’t tell me you spoke French and carry around a frog, but we are all full of mysteries. What kind of French reading do you enjoy, Ms.Colet?” Gus asked, his eyes never leaving the road. He was a professional, a word which here means “didn’t let go of the wheel or turn his head ‘round to talk”.
“Mostly Dumas, he was my first French love,” she said, her eyes glancing at the rear view mirror. Henrietta was fortunate, she could look wherever she wanted, she didn’t have to pay attention to the road, and she could instead pay attention to Gus. She liked glancing at his eyes and was happy they weren’t hidden by a hat, as was the custom at the time, and still is actually. They were the kind of blue that made her feel relaxed.
“Have you read the one about the sailor who thinks he’s been given a chance to lead a new life, but ends up being thrown in jail?” Gus asked. “I always felt so sorry for him.”
“Of course,” Henrietta said. “It’s my favorite of his. I do enjoy reading many other French authors though; Hugo, Voltaire, Leroux, Fontaine. French romance always lets me fall into a colorful portal of love, death, revolution, cuisine, revenge.”
“Sometimes all at once!” Gus chuckled. “I know what you mean. English has allowed me to explore new worlds too. Although I do feel silly, Musketeers and Phantoms seem far grander topics than the ones in the books I'm reading. I'm still learning my words, so I’ve picked up a few chapter books at Stain'd Secondary School to help out. Ever read the ones about the siblings who travel in time and space using a treehouse?”
Gus talked more, about his favorite books, his old home in France, and his time here in Stain’d. He told her about the city, its history, how it had boomed when Ink Inc. opened its wells, and all the changes and new buildings that had been constructed in just the last couple of years. He was telling her about the sights of downtown, pointing out landmarks and locations, but she could barely see much. The darkness didn’t provide the best time for a scenic view.
She didn’t speak much, besides simple pleasantries, owing mostly to her tiredness, but it also worked out well that Henrietta found the bright, lilting voice of Gus to be one of the loveliest sounds she had ever heard, and she did not want to waste any time hearing her own voice, when his tenor tones could fill those gaps much better.
The trip wasn’t long, which Henrietta found rather disappointing. Janszoon blinked again at her, his eyeballs making an imperceptible noise as they squeezed closed and opened. Henrietta avoided his gaze, not wishing to be judged for her tastes by someone who ate several worms a week.
“And here is your stop, Ms. Colet!” Gus made a smooth and effortless parking job, pulling alongside a modern multi-story building. “The hotel is brand new, just opened up a few weeks ago, just enough time for the fresh paint smell to dissipate. I’ll help you unload.”
“Oh, it’s really ok, I can just-” But Henrietta’s meager protests were ignored by Gus. He was out of the car, swinging open the door for his passenger in the back seat. He quickly unloaded her belongings and placed them on a new trolley, one stationed by the bellhop stand at the front of the hotel.
Henrietta was reaching into her shoulder bag, setting Janszoon on the top of all her other items on the stacked cart, trying to find her wallet. She pulled out some crisp bills, and offered it to Gus.
“Thank you so much for the ride. I know I have a lot of faff with me, you’re a very kind man for helping me out.”
Gus shook his head, vigorously, his glasses sliding down his nose as he did so. He cupped her hand, folding her fingers closed around the money.
“Oh, mon cherie, you do not need to pay me, I was happy to chaperone our brand new librarian into town.”
“Could you at least take a tip?” Henrietta pleaded. She felt like she was taking advantage of his kindness and did not want to make him think poorly of her manners.
“Here’s a tip for you. Les Malheurs De Sophie, my mother read it to me often. I think you’d like it too.” Gus tipped his head, winked, and walked back to his puttering cab.
He waved goodbye as he pulled away, Henrietta herself waved back, hoping she would see him again soon. She walked her way into the lobby, her baggage in tow, and she felt happy and confident in her new adventure. She thought it would be wonderfully wonderful, being a brand new librarian for a brand new library.
I hate that she was wrong.
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Post by Agathological on Jun 21, 2022 16:33:06 GMT -5
Cargo
The Stain’d-By-The-Sea Train Station was a grand building, though Silas Sallis believed that was due in part largely to nostalgia. The iron lattice work that made the frame of the station was being eaten away by rust. The glass ceiling was coated with a thick layer of grime, built up from the smog of coal dust from the trains on the inside and the occasional rain storm allowed moss to thrive on the edges of the glass on the outside. Despite this, the moon, crescent in shape could still be made out through the ceiling.
The interior of the station looked better, though the years had tried their best to eat at the polish and veneer. The tiled floor had the occasional crack. The wooden panelling that made up the ticket booth, coat check and information counters, once shiny and dark had faded, with deep grooves of blue, black and red dug into the wood where workers and passengers had scratched their pens to get the ink to flow again. The brass banisters were dulled due to a lack of polish. The station matched the state of the town; past it’s prime. But Silas enjoyed working here. He sat alone in the ticket booth, light shone above him from a bulb in a green shade. A cup of coffee, pale in colour from the creamer was getting lukewarm and it sat next to a paperback book, turned downward so the spine would crease. This in turn was next to a thick black ledger with ‘Stain’d-By-The-Sea Train Station’ stamped in gold emboss. He was in for a long night, and it had yet to begin.
The clock that was opposite the ticket booth and was mounted above the large timetable that showed the rather optimistic arrival and departure times was nearing eleven in the evening. A train from Paltryville should be arriving soon. Silas took a sip of his almost cold coffee and opened the ledger to the right page. The Paltryville train was only pulling lumber carriages and the number of carriages was getting smaller every month. Word was that the Finite Forest was running out of trees, but despite this Silas was unsure why large supplies of lumber were coming to Stain’d-By-The-Sea. The only place that sold wood was Boards but when Silas two weeks ago bumped into the young boy, Kevin who worked there with his father, he told Silas that they had too much supply. The wood had to be going somewhere. But that was none of Silas’ concern. He had too much on his plate as it was. His thoughts were disrupted by a young woman with a grey coat and black hand bag who had approached the ticket booth.
“I wanted to find out what time the train to Ophelia leaves but it was not on the timetable yet. Can you please help?”
Silas gave her a smile, looked at his ledger and replied. “It’s scheduled to depart at four o’clock this morning. So chances are it will leave at five. I’m sorry, but it is going to be a long wait.”
“That’s okay,” said the lady in the grey coat and as she pulled out a thick book out of her handbag she continued “I have a book to read.” Silas looked at the cover of the book which had a picture of a train on it. He had read that book before. It’s was about smart people who felt that they were taken advantage of and had decided to go hide until people treated them a bit nicer. Silas found it a bit unrealistic how it painted people in very black and white terms. People were much more nuanced than that.
“I can offer you a ticket now if you’d like? I’m afraid that the restaurant is closed for the evening. A shame too as they were serving a very good apricot pie. You are welcome to sit on the platform and wait.”
“I’m not a fan of apricot, but I would have asked for peach cobbler if they were open. Yes I would like my ticket now so I don’t have to stop my reading to get it. I hate when something disrupts my reading, don’t you?”
“Very much so,” replied Silas who turned to glance at his own book. It was about a man in a mental facility trying to teach the patients how to enjoy life. Silas thought that that was not a bad idea. “I have only one ticket left in first class, five in second and three in third. If none of them take your fancy I can offer you a seat in stowaway, though you run the risk of being thrown off the train.
The lady gave a short chuckle and replied that second would be fine. She handed him a small pile of bank notes and Silas carefully counted them, putting the slip of paper she had sandwiched between them into the pocket of his slacks. He placed the bills in the brass cash register behind him and ripped of a ticket from a book and wrote on it. He passed the ticket back to the lady and wished her a pleasant journey. She thanked him in return and walked across the tiles to the right platform. Silas let out a small sigh and consulted his ledger. He put a small ‘X’ mark next to 23:00 on the screen page. He took another sip of his coffee and since it was almost on the verge of being stone cold, finished it with one big gulp. He looked across at the timetable and saw that the Paltryville train has been delayed by another hour.
Silas, who had worked at the station for very nearly nine years had no idea who updated the timetable. The little plastic numbers clicked and clacked away as if guided by some genie, far away whose job it was to update the train schedule to disgruntled passengers. It made no difference in the grand scheme of things to Silas. He worked the night shift, he was paid for the night shift and he got paid whether or not a train arrived during the night shift. But he wasn’t doing his job if no train arrived. So many things can go wrong in the world if things don’t go according to schedule.
The night continued into the early morn and a train from the city arrived, only half an hour late. A new personal best. Silas, who was on his third cup of milky coffee of the shift dealt with two passengers; one who wanted to go to Lake Lachrymose, who Silas had to explain in great detail for ten minutes that Lake Lachrymose was not reachable by train as there were no tracks for a train to go on. The other passenger, a tall man with a bowler hat and a brown suit wanted to make a complaint.
“I would like to make a complaint,” said the man and he slid his ticket under the glass window of the booth. As you can see the ticket said that you are open to complaints.
“Yes I see,” said Silas who looked at the fancy cursive script at the bottom of the ticket, underneath the town of departure. It read “Was our service not accommodating? Do you think you know how we can do our jobs better? Then talk to our friendly ticket staff who will be happy to hear your complaints!”
“To what would you like to complain about sir?”
“I went to the buffet car for a cup of tea and a piece of Bundt cake and the waiter had delivered my tea and there was already milk in it! Tea should be bitter as wormwood. And one should not presume one wants milk in their tea. Think of the poor cow or goat whose milk, though delicious was not appreciated.
Silas gave a grim smile and replied “In regards to the catering staff, I would volunteer to fire the department. But, alas I don’t have that in my power as a ticket booth attendant.”
“That would be quiet inhumane to society.” the man replied. “In any event I have written a note on correct tea preparation and I would be grateful if you could submit it to the head caterer.” The man took out a few pieces of loose leaf note paper and carefully slid it under the glass where Silas promptly picked it up. The man bade good morning to Silas as he walked to the entrance of the station.
Silas opened a draw under his desk. The draw was filled with used tickets, rubber bands, blunt pencils, ticket punches, thumbtacks, paper clips, sealing wax, string in different lengths, callipers, old timetables, wood shavings and one lone brown envelope where Silas had deposited the paper. He looked at the timetable. The next train was not due for another hour so he went back to his book.
Two hours later, a train from the city arrived and the station was filled to near emptiness of four passengers, three who made a beeline to the entrance. A man with a brown hat however approached the booth. “Hello. I found this brown leather attaché case in my carriage that was from the city but there was no one attached to it. I am being a good citizen and giving it to you to put in lost and found.” The man with the brown hat passed the case through the slot under the glass and Silas took it. “Would you like to leave a name?” Silas enquired as he began filling out a slip of paper. “I am sure that the person to whom this case belongs to would like to write you a letter of thanks”
“No that is alright.” said the man as he adjusted his hat. “Doing a good dead is a reward in itself. I just hope the person who lost it claims it soon. Good night. Or morning I suppose.” The man in the brown hat tipped his hat to Silas and walked away to the station entrance.
Silas reached into the pocket of his slacks and took out the small piece of paper that had been resting there and put it in the attaché case. He walked across the ticket booth to the lost and found and placed the case in the steel locker and returned to his book. A large man in blue overalls with “Stain’d Shipping” written in large, stern black letters on his chest was there waiting for him. He gave a strong cough in his fist that shook the glass of the booth; glass that Silas was glad was there.
“Morning,” the man began but another cough forced the man to double over. He waved him palm in acknowledgement to Silas, who began to gently push his chair with his feet back away from the glass. After the man finished coughing, he rose up and continued. “Sorry about that. I believe I caught the flu from the Tedia-Mortmain run last week. Had to load up crates upon crates of horseradish in the cold. Did nothing to help my sinuses.
“A pity,” Silas said. “How can I help?”
“Well,” the man said. We have a whole carriage of merchandise for Dicey’s Department Store, mainly replacement mannequin heads and piano wire but the delivery truck isn’t around. I don’t suppose you know when the truck is scheduled do you? I would hate to be enveloped with a complaint from the store.”
“Naturally,” said Silas and he opened his cluttered draw and took out the envelope. “I was told to give this envelope to whomever was meant to deliver Dicey’s merchandise. I know how expedient he likes his products. Expedient means quickly by the way”
“We at Stain’d Shipping aim to please” said the man, who took the envelope and walked to the cargo dock on the other side of the station.
Silas looked at the timetable and was unsurprised to see that the train from Paltryville was delayed by a further four hours. Light began pouring, albeit with some difficulty through the glass ceiling as morning arose. His shift was approaching its end and he did his job perfectly. He was looking forward to having breakfast at Hungry’s. He knew that five people would not be having breakfast this morning. Pancakes, toast, eggs and bacon for five people would go uneaten today. They would not have lunch or dinner either. Not even a midnight snack. They would never have a meal again and Silas aided in this. However four people would be having a very hearty breakfast this morning. They would also be having a quiet good lunch and a palatable dinner. They would be doing great things for great causes. And Silas had aided in this. His job was important and he had to do it. Plans were in motion.
Things could not be delayed. They had to be on schedule.
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rtech
Bewildered Beginner
What is Snicket's favorite game?
Posts: 9
Likes: 18
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Post by rtech on Jun 21, 2022 16:42:32 GMT -5
Wonderful piece of writing! I'm surprised how much characterization and backstory you were able to fit in. Thank you very much! I was inspired by everyone's lovely writing. I adore ATWQ, and the better part of the last few months has been spent pouring over the books, so it was fun to go into the past of Stain'd's history and imagine the town as it was growing, when it was in its prime. I typed most of this up at work so sorry for poor grammar, I have to sneak my typing in when I can. I think Snicket knows a lot more about the characters than he writes down, this is true in all of his work, and it's fun to create a whole plethora of connections and trivia behind the scenes that will never make it to the page. I think this allows the characters to feel more tangible and lived in, they're motivated by impulses and thoughts that we the reader don't know, but the author does. Tends to foster a lot of thought provoking questions, theories, hand-canon, which is always more fun.
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Post by the panopticountolaf on Jun 22, 2022 10:32:22 GMT -5
The Stain’d Witches Are Real!
FOR YOUR SAFETY, PLEASE DO NOT LISTEN TO THIS TAPE AFTER 11 PM OR BEFORE 6 AM. THANK YOU~ THE STAIN’D CRYPTIDS SOCIETY.
TRANSCRIPT IS INCLUDED BELOW FOR YOUR READING HORROR.This tape was found in the Clusterous Forest about five years ago. The date when this was recorded is unknown, but the birth certificate of a baby born in the Colophon Clinic three years ago has the “Blood Type” field left completely blank.
Read on. If you dare.WOMAN: The time is 11.30 pm. I am sitting in a tree, looking out into a clearing, where I am sure that the Stain’d Witches, my — I mean our only source of hope — are about to appear for their secret meeting. Who am I, you ask? Well, at least I’m pretty sure you ask it. Maybe you’re just not super curious about who I am. How I pity you. I’m Marilia Mollousque. My aunt worked at Ink Inc. She was the Head of Husbandry, and made sure that the octopi the company bred were only descended from the most productive and virile and easily frightened creatures that the sea once offered. Now she’s dead. The octopi are dying, too, without a nurturing hand to care for them. Our only hope is to — sorry, one moment. Some rustling of leaves.Don’t worry, everything’s fine. My butt just hurt from sitting in that tree for so long. Had to shift a little. Anyways, our only hope is to kill the legendary Stain’d Witches and take their inky blood to the market. This is not a permanent fix. My hopes are that the ink I can take, or, uh, obtain, from these witches will keep Ink Inc. afloat for long enough that I can pass the Octopus Husbandry exam they want me to ace before I can carry on my aunt’s legacy. All I gotta do is dispose of these witches, obtain the… ink, and drop it off outside of Ink Inc. anonymously. Easy stuff. I’ve got my machete, a couple of barrels to carry the ink in, a rolling cart to transport the barrels, my Siddur in case these witches try to hex me, a granola bar, and my old copy of “Octopus Husbandry: It’s Also A Career Option”. Nothing can possibly go wrong. I’m not gonna lie, I’m impressed with myself for getting these barrels up into the tree with me. I don’t want the witches to see them and think to themselves “Oh, my got! Zat Mareeeleeea ‘as come to obtain our eeenk! And carry eeet away eeen zose barrels!” The wind. Creaking.Those barrels sure are balanced perfectly. Footsteps. From the ground. It’s the witches.WOMAN: Fiddlesticks! It’s the Stain’d Witches! Quiet, everyone! Chitchat. Laughter. Evil laughter. Menacing laughter. Stay calm… Stay calm… what on earth do I say when I lunge down from this tree to attack them?! Uhm… “Hey, losers! Witch way is it to Hell?” Oh, I like that… Creaking. Groaning. Terrible sound. Crash. Rumble. Scream. Snap. Crunch. Fracture.
…That was close. How many of them did I catch…? That’s — let’s see — one two three four five… Six witches! I caught six witches! Given, this was kind of a… noisy way to do it, but hey, maybe this was the way to go! How do I lift the barrels off of them, though? I had trouble enough just dragging them up into the tree… And I have to do this quickly before they all bleed I mean ink out into the ground where their sacrifice will add up to nothing. I’ve gotta hurry. Sirens. Arguing. A flashlight.I’ve really gotta hurry. One, two, three, heave—! Heave—! The sirens get louder.Up ya go… The sound of a cart being wheeled away over uneven ground.
Gosh, these ladies are heavy. Sirens, sirens, sirens… fading away… Arguing still. Heavy breathing.I think I’ve made it. Phew. OH MY GOD. THE PAIN IT HURTS Ţ̵̩̪̬̠̱̙͆̑͆̌̅̆̀̆H̛̪͚͚̼̤̅͂͗̂̓Ḙ̵̡̝̣̥̅̍̉́́͘̚ W̸̢̼̩̦̗͓͊̽̇̉̈͗̾̕͢͞I̛̜̪̥̣͆̆͑̉̔̎̅͝ͅT̴̛̛̤̥͔̗͍̥̤̣̿̎̈C̷̗̤̦̼͕̊̓̽̆̇͝͡͝ͅH̞̩̞̠̦̐͊͛̄̀͘͠E̷͎̞̳̭̰̣̠̣͙̍͒̅̄̋̓̒̚͘͞S̷̡̗͕̩̃̐̔̎̾̐̈͜͝͠ Ą̵̼͈̹͖̯̓͘͝͞͡Ľ̢̨̼̘̬̑̿̃͒͛̂̚͘͡W̵̥̰̳͇̗̐͑̾́̌̏͠͝Ā̧̢͖̣̫̃̅̀̀̋̍̕̚͠Y̱͙̫͈͂͌̅͆̉̎̌͘̚͟Ş̷͕͍͔̏̉̓̃̋̐́̚͜ G̸̘̱̼̃̉̌̏̀͟͢͡͞Ȩ̶̰̻̝͔̂͊̄̀̋̋̎̄͢͝Ţ̶̗̺̤̬̓̂̌̈́̆̚͞ͅ B̡̡̧̢̺̝͚̱̞͓̓̒̆̓̄̈̕̚A̡̳̙̭̦̮̰̎͒̌́̊́̓͜͠ͅC̴̡̛͉̙̰̦͍͍̭͊̔̄̑̍K̷̡͖̤̞̘͔̤̻͌̾͗́͢͡͡ T̵̥̮͇̹͈̘̬͐̈́͐̎̚͜H̸̡̨͓͉̙̯̻̫̻̳̒̃̆̀̇̚͠E̵̳̟̳̙̰͊̀̓͒͠͡Y̸̧̧̦̫̤̭̠̠̦͒̍̋̅̐̑̈̐̚͜ Ą̛̖̩̳̲̐̑̓͐̽͘͢͠L̬͔̖̘͙͍̟̩̓͊̽̂̿͌́͘ͅW̻̮̮̹̳͚̯̟͍͊͆͒̌̾̆̐̄A̧̛̮̹̮͓̪̲̜̳̒́̐̐̃̄̆͡Y̢̧͔͔͕̬̬͌̔̅͊̑̐Ş̸̥͇̼̩̗̞͕̪̲̐̅́̿͝͡ Ģ̶̺̫̖̗͓͕̔̒̆͘͟͝Ë̥̯̯̣͔̫̻͔́͐͡͠Ṱ̭͎̭̰̪̗͔̜̉̊̌͂̈́͑̈́͟ ̤̙̜̺̥͕̔̓͌̔̃̚ ̵̨̭̠͈̱̀͆̎͌̂̌̏̾̓̕B͈̖̭̩͕͇̆͊̾͂͗͌̐͐͜͠ Ẫ̸̛̜͚̙̥̰̮̣̒̂͊́͘ C̙̣͍̜̠͍̺̤̣̒̋͂̋̌̌̂ K̴̛̮̤̞̫̘̆͒̓̂͐̽̃ B̧̧̤̳̬̜̗͉̻̀͗̊͒̎͗̓̎͋͜͡ Ą̶̛̦̬͍̟̃̽̾́̾̓͘ C̢̛̜̜̰̙̟͍̓̆̈́̈́͛͘̕͜͢ K̷̢͔͕̜̙̹̓̐̃̄̃̿̾͝ B̨͚͖̺̠̥͊͗̽̄̇͊̑͂ͅ A̢̧͓̼͚͈͎̋͗͛̀͝ C̢̧̳͖̯͐̂̀̓̀̆͊̂̚͞ Ķ̵̛̲̖̹̝͆̑̓̎̈̃̓͜͟ͅ B͙͍̗͚͈̲̊͌͗̔̃͐̀́͢ ͙̖̺̼̬̼̭͂̿̃̊́̾̓̀͝͡ͅ ̶̧͖͕͕̜̺̮͚̫̅͌́̅̂̀̈͐̚͝A͍̗͇̠͖̪͇̙̬̓̈̾͌̈̉̔͌̌ ̬̮̲͕͙̐̍́̽͜͠ ̡͉͖̫̰͇̣͙̟̀͆̑̀̍̉̕C̡̜͉̘̰̭̣̐̓̿̄̅́̾̏͟͠͞ ̹̗̥̫̙̔̀̐̀͛͢͞͞ ̵̢̺̪̣̼̳͊̿͊̃͛̄̆͟Ķ̷͉̬̜̤͌̈́̓͐̎̿͑͑̉͊ Ả̺̤̟͕͕̬͍͑̌̔͗̿̾ͅN̸̡̡̙̠̮͈̱̬̼͚͆̊̈́͋̍̈́͋͆D̯̭̟̰̹̰́̓͛̊͜͝ͅͅ Ś̷͓͈̘̼͎͆̉̽̕Ơ̵̲͈̜͖͒̏̒͛̑̽̕͜͠ T̨̩̜̬̥̼̦̯͚͊̌̈́̄̉̊͘͝H̸̨̖̤͎̣͇̘̰̐͌́̇͞E̬̬̜͎̠̻̫̣͓͗͌͆͢͞͠ W̶̨̦̫̗̭̍̽̓̑̓̎̔͘͞E̷̢̢̦͔̮͔͓͖̎͂̏̆̀̋͒̕̚À̷̢̮̙̪̻̮̒̊͐̑̓͝͡L̸̦̰͇̼͈͆̋̏̓̓͟T̶̘̣͉͇̹͖͔̺̮͇̄̍̆̒͑͂͆͊̒̾Ḧ̺̜̻͖̥̝̙̖̿̎͋͂́͆̃́̔Y̟͍͖̺̥̠͐̑̌̂̎̀̓͘͡ Á̵̢̛͚̜̞̻̭̬̤̖̺͒̓͌̈́̉͛̕̚Ṅ̷̢̮̼͖͖̬̼͍̺̆̓͆̉́D̵̬̜̟̥̱̼̹̙͆̔̂̿̎̀̆̐̕͘ Ţ̨͚̫̲͓͉͕̹͊̋̈̉́̐̅̓̚͘H̶̨̟̥͇̲̅̂̂̅̽̈́͋̄͝͠Ȩ̵̨͚̟͈͎̈́͂̃͂̄̈̀̐͑̍ P̷̨̜̳̱̆̒̉̀͆̓̆͘͟͞͝Ō̞̲̘̦͖͛͊̽͑͆̉͟W̴̨̡̛̯̻̮̊̒́̂͞Ĕ̦͉̬̱̟̯̠̻̻̪̌͗̇̎̆͞R̷̗̻̞̜̗̎̓̓̏͒̃͜F̨̻̖̬̝͎̐̇̉͌̐̃͒̚̕Ù̷̼͇̲̭͎́̀̓͜͝L̼͚̠̘͚̰͙̐̇̀͌̔̂͡͡͝͞ Ä̢̩̱͇͎̣͍̜͋͑͘͝͠T̶̩͖̟̺͌̀̋̆͐̾͘ͅT̟̥͓̯͍͋̃̎̀͐͡͠ͅE̡̡̤͖͉̫̜̥͋͆̈́͂͗͝͞M͇̼̪̠̻͕̗̾́͐̃̈́̏̿̓̓̓P̵̢̲̪̗̝͇̣͍̣̅̅̂͗̔̒́́͠͝T͇͚̰̣́́̐̊̒̃̋͐͜ Ṱ̛͉͓̟̭̻͑̿́̂ͅȮ̯͍̲̳̤̻̈̂̈̓͘̕͟ S̱̫̪̱̻̞̔̇̐̽̀̓̆͘͝T̴̡͕̥͚̞͆̈̀̅̎Ȩ̛̗̩̫͖͎͇̹͉̿́̈́̎̌͒̓͘Ā̶̢̗͚̺̥͗̌̍̓̉̕͡Ļ̬̣̬̀̎̀͒̑̏̚͟ Ŏ̶͙͕̮̣̰̖̂͌̀́U̵̡̖̗̗̲̤̞͎̳̬̽̄̀̉͌̿͒̕͘R̵̡̹̝̪̣͕̤͐̐͋̈́́̇̽͞ͅ L̴͙̦̝̤̺̆̆͆̅̇̚͝ͅͅͅI̶̛̻̹̣̞̗̔̑̒̾̕͠͡F̶̛̰͓̤͍͓̓̂͑͒͋̚͟͝ͅĒ̡̢͎̳͕̣̪̣̝̅̓̂͠B̨̨̲̫̬̗͔̊͆̃̎̽͘͜Ļ̵͕̯̖̆̅̃̎̔̄̚̚͜O̷̥̼̪̬͇͍̳͉̖͉͑̎͛̉͛͞Ö̸̢̘̹̩̲͐̍̉̕͡Ḑ̴̡̜̖̹̱͎̜͔̇͑̊͐̅̿͌͐͟͞ Ò̶̧̧̭̬͈͉͐͛̍̿N̵̢̨̺̰̜̦̞͚̂̆̓͊͌͐̽͢͢͡͞͡Ç͍̳̼̘͚̱̘̣͊̆̐̔͐̓͘͜Ȩ̵̝͎͉̳̝̭͚̱̾͌́̀̄ Ä̴̗̼̰̳͔́̿̒͛̊̈͘͢͝͡G̛̫̹̹̱̟͍͎͓̦̎̏́͂̾̀A̷̙̩̫̳͇͓̹͙̼̐͗͛̃̒̇͐̚̕͝Ī̶̝̮̦̩̼̦̀̊̇̉͟Ń̶̰̫͈̯̭͚͚̰̣̺͗̈͊̂̂̾̄͞,̶͇̜̯̇̓̈́͐̈́̚͜͜ Ą̵͓̦̜̱̍͋̾̄̔̐̊̆N̴̨̨̖͕̰̥̗̏̾́̔̑̒̓̚̚Ḋ̷͙̻̬̝͕̇̍̂̚ Ò̯̙̳̬̯̉̓̀̋́̓͂̊N̵̗̣̭͈̣̣͚̳͓͂̆̀̌̍͌͠͞͞ͅC̢̢̢̛̳͍̎̂͐̚͘̕ͅĘ̷̱̘̠̼̍̆̀́͠ Ạ̷̧̛̰͚̭̩͖͇̠̓̊͑͟͝G̴̺̱̖̬͈͙̞̳͛̈́̍̉̃͜ͅA̵͍͙̙̞̰̙̒̓̃̀̿́̈̚͝I̵̡̨̱̬̥̳̙͋̾̉͒̅̓͜N̶̛͙̮̤̙̤̯̦̘̓́̉̔̉̚͡ Ẁ̷̧̯̝̦̱̐͑͆̈͂͆̆͊Ȇ̹̻̟͍̬͈̍͒͊̕ F̸̝̯̹̣̪̺͕̥̐̅͋͂́͋́̉̕I̢̡̨̪̖͎̤͈̩̿̀͐̒̽̅̓͆͌̀Ḡ̷̨̤̥̼̙͙͍̞͋̔͑́ͅH̵͚̫̥͇͈̾̃́͑́̑̓͘͟Ţ̫̜̹͍̱͎̿̃́͋̉̈́͊͡ B̥̥̣͕̮͕͛́͒͛͐̂̓͡Á̷̢̩͓̰̝̬͎͚̬͒̅̉̂͐͑̄C͖͍̹̟̜͖̈́̒̽̀̇̀̆̊̐K̴̡̼̺̼̗͇͇̳͖̾͂̀̋̋͟ I̸̳͇̞͕͊͒͒̇̏͂̽̏̍͢͞N̨͎̖͓̙͑̈́̉͆͜͡ T̡̹̗͈̤̏̉͂̾̍̿̅̾H̶̭̩̭̮̝̣͔͖̲͚̀͐͛͊͛E̸̡̧̨͔̥̝̹͇̟͙̅̐̀͋̈́̂͂̕͞͞ O̧̧͚̩̹̘͕̩̿̉̄͘̚͟͜Ṋ̢̨̧̠͎͙̲̜̽̓̇́͆̍͢L̛͖̱͙̦͙̩͋̒̄̈́̀̇̔͌̚Ȳ̨͉̖̩̙͓̳̞̐͂̈̚̚͟ Ẁ̴̧̹͖̬̤̼̬̤͚̾͊̃̅̈̅͢A̭̺̥̹̩͚̍̓̆̀̽̓͋̎̈ͅY̨̻̳̤̝̲͉̟̑̏̓̂̌̀̐͘͜ W̵̧̖̖͎͖̞͚͊͋́͌͂̋͟͜Ę̲͓̜̝͈͍̩̝͉̈̂̍̀̊̄̈́ C̸̢̳̻̫̮͔̭̓́̈́̆̃̅̔͢͜A͍̹͙̪̮̳̲͔̔́̓̊͐̄̚͞N̶͙̤̫̝̿̄͛̊͆͘̚͘͢:̝̲̠͙͍̟̒̓͌̌͊̃̄͂͜͡ Ḁ̙̼̗͚̫̗̐̈̎̃̃͟͡N̶̛͇͍͓̱͍̫͔͔̗̈̋̓̅ É̷̝͖̭̖̤̳̳̅̀̊͢͠Ý̳͇̫̲̫̫͔̌͑̈̓̒̈́̚E̸̢̩̼̠̘̳͆̔̽̀͆̈́̆͐͐ͅ F̨̭͉̹̺͓̬̖̪̏͋̽̾̋̽̔͂̕̚O̵̡͙͓̳̰͊̅̀̄͗̚͡͞͝R̸̟̼͔̰͖̈͒̀̍̀̒͋̐̕ A̵̬͇͍̮̻̐͒̆͐̽̈̈́͛͞͝Ň̗̣͎̹̺̙̻́̍̽̉͐̏͢͜͟ E̶͕̳̫̦͇͙̋͂͑̉̾͑͞͞ͅY̧̬̲̹̟̋͊͑́̽̋̎͡͝͝Ȩ̶̺͙͍̞̾̈́̚͘͘͞͡,̵̡̧͕̹͈̜̫̖̫͛͊͐͛̚͘͠͝ Ả̷͎̲͚̥͔̼͉̗͐͌̀͘͞ T̨̯͖̖̹̬̦͉̽̎͌̉̈́̽͌̽̕͟Ȏ̗̣͕̩̙̀̓̚͟͜͡Ớ̶̢̧͔̗̘̓̚͜͠T̶͈̰͖̻͎́̓̓̃́̾̓̇͠H̵͉̼̳̖̣͉̞̪̫͌̒̃̂͌́͡ F̵͙̲͖̗̹̪̤͚̜̌̉̋͊̋̎̽͝O̧͙̤̟̹̜͔͊̀͛̉͐̉͘͜͡ͅͅŖ̸̰̳̮̺͓͔̒͂̂̀́̿̑͘͡ A̡͓̙̳̗̤͊͋̾̌͊̏͢͝ T͙̩̹̱̭̎̅͒̅͐O̴͎̠̭̖̻͇̩̿̒̍͂̈͋̌̋̄O̸̝̜͚̰̺̮͗̀̚̚͠T̨̞͈̦͖̩͊͊̔̃̚H͕̭̣͚̺͈͍͂̅̀̅͋̿͢ͅ,̶̡̨͙̣̗̱̞̲̳̻̿̾͗̚͝ Ȁ̷̲̝̤̪̬̭͒̆͊͘͠͞N̬͔̪͔̲̼̫̘̓̓̔̉̅ͅͅD̵̠̩̮̙̖̗̃͊̈́̍̾̈́̆̕͢͠͡ͅ A̢̯̖͖͉̯̐̉͛͋̋̍ Ḷ̢̲̮̥̭̱̣̏̏̉̊̔̓̾̏̕͜ͅI̛̖͔̤̗͎̞͑̀̾͛͋̍̌͞͝F̢̨̘͈̭̼̮̝̫̪̐̑͐̀̍͑̕͠E̛͉̝̬̲͔̹͈̣͛͆͋̄̊̆̚͟͝ Ḟ̫̘̻̺̟̊̓̏̀̽̏̊͘̕͟O̵̻̟̤͚̬͈̾̿͐̄̐̄͛̆̚ͅṞ̷̡̘͕͚͕̓̂̋̐͠ Ą̲̣̝͍̤͈̮̐̐̍̓̄͂̈̿̓͜͢͝ L̺̥̘͉͇̫̄̿̆̇̎͋̕I̷͚̻͔̼͇͋̔̆͐̽̕͝͝F̷̲̤̣̬̘̓̊̂̈́͐̚͘͢͞E̪̬̳͔͔͙͔͌̊̀̄̽̽͋̈̊.̭̮͉͕̥̠̿̑̋͂͗ͅ Ţ͎͈͍̠̟͇̖͐͒͌́͆͌̐̽̕͟͢H̶̹̳̤̖̮͍͂̀̽͗͂̃̔͡E̷̟̘͇̣̙̺̬̔̄̉̓̃̅̀́͝ S̛̻̠͉̞̬̹̔͐̈́̑̄͐͜͝T̛͕͙̖̼̥͓̥͊̿͒̎͋͘͟͝Ą̵̧͉̳͚͈͔̾̿̑͐̋̐I̸̘̻̜̺̭̯͐̋̑̍͊͜N̙̻͕̝̳̥͈̾͋͗̉̕̚͜͜ͅ'̴͚̬̣͑̃̏͊̒̓̃̌͂̕͜͜Ḑ͍̫̮̹̋̓̽͆͡ W̷̭̠̣͚͈͍̓̃̋͑̆̀̓Ï̡̢̤͕͖͓͓̫̻͑̆̇̓̃́̅́T̷̢̺͙̫̩̬̊͛̇̊͘͟͢͡C̴̝̫͇̤̘͂̋̒͊͊̚͡Ḥ̷̡̧͍͙͓̃̇̽͆̑͑͢͜E̵̢̛̻̪͇̞̮͊̌͐̀͒͜͡͡ͅS̥̪̫͙̏̓̊́͒̈́͗͌͆̚͜ S̸͎̮͓̪̖͔͕͂̒̎͋̄̓̔͋̕H̵̛̝̣͇̰̗̆̂̃̉͂̇̋̔̋A̶̧̞̖̳̟̬̞̞̻̫͊̊̍̒͛̃̔̆͑̌L̺͈̟͕̞̓̒͐̾͡L̷̡̛̙̖͎̲̤͌̽̇̐̌́̓ͅ N̞̗̗̑̋̄͗͊̔͢͟͡O̴̢̖̗̭͈̬̩̖͋͗̇̑̉̽̑̂̚͢T̛̗̗͔͔̖͕̭̳̗̪̐̈̀̊̒̈́̋̾ B̴̙̪͉̳̙̪̯͛̆̎͝͠E̫͔͔͕͓̞͒̈̉̒͆̈́̚͜ Ḑ̛̩̰̳͈̘̮͌̍̑͆̽Ȩ̴̯̲̩̣̯̫̈́̀̔́̐͜͞S̨̨͍̟͉̊̈̂͂̀͟͝Ṭ͈̥̗̠̗̒͂̊͗̓͗̎̅̀͡R͎̼̯̳̝͈͌̈́͂͂̀ͅÒ̧̳͉̰͖̥̽͊̆̀̔̿̇Y̵̛͚̮̳̥̺͓̤̓̎̏̒͋Ę̙͙̬̹̔̌̄̇́̄̄̓̀̒ͅD̴̮̩͎̣͉̬̂̓̀̂̃͢͝.̸̢̛̗̤͍̘͇̟̌̄̓̿͂̈́̆̓͠ Ą̶̛͓̯͍̖̪̫̎͂̀̔̆̎͆̏Ṅ̸̢͖͚̣̠̀̂̃̿̿͑̇͡Ḑ̭̞̞̾͐̿͐̿͜͜͝ Į̸̪̬̩̖̫̈͋̑͆̅͆̋̕̕Ň̴̡͍͕̜̟͑̒̔̋͒̈́̀̎̕͟͢ A͓͖̣͇̻̬̦̺̅͋̓̽̈̓̉̋͝ͅN̢̢͖͉̦͎̮̈́̈́̓͊̃͠ A̧̱͙̜̫̣̥͒̓̾̊̈́͢͜͞Ć̛̘̬͍̼̥͓̥̠̠̆̈̍̍̚͝͠T̥̜͕̩̀̄̒̓̆̿̒͟ O̦͍̭̪̦̭̝̲̾̇̅͘͘̚F͚̻͖̮̝̗͓́͌̓͛̌͟͟ G̢̞̤̘̱̤͊͛̆̾́̽̕͝͞͠Ŗ̧͇͍͚̆̓̽͆̌͒̂͢͠E͍͓̺̼͌͊̈́̎͛͐̂̾͜͠ͅÃ̶̡̘͙͍͈̯̓̿́͌̅́͑͜͟T̙̤̩̦̤̩͕̞̥̾̓̓̈́̕͜ G̨͖̠̩͖̻̯̔̓͂̾͗͒̔̀R̻̦͓̺̭̹̙̖̮͎̆̒̐̀͋̓͗̑͡Ą̡̤̬̹̻̈̐̒͛̉͘̚C̡̛͍̲̺͉͙̋͂̽͑͌͡I̖̟͍̯̞̬̼̖͒̌̈́̊̓̓̓̑͘͟͟͡O̶̧̡̬̩̽̑̐̄͂͢ͅƯ͙̙̞̤͔̈̌̍̎̕͞S͉̞̖̩̲͎͑͂͛́͛̓͐͢͞͡͡ͅN̨̻͇̪̝̻͆́̀̑̿͡ͅͅÈ̸͓͇̬̭͍̜̙̼͈̍̄͑̓͆̕ͅS̢̮͎̳͉̟̼̗͗̇͆́͐̈́͋̚S̢͉̩͈̜̤̗̻͆̉̏͐̃̋̊̉͘͘ W̵̨̝̟̦͚͈̲͓̆̋̐̔͌̂͟E̷̢̥͇̬̟̓̓͗̆̏̿͢͠͠͡ S̸̡̢̳͔̼̓̆̒̏̆̓̆͒̔͘Ḩ̸̛͎̝̥̟͙̫̫̏͗͗̄̓̃͊͜͟͠A̶̩̣̰̠̰̙̦̫̞͚̽͊̒̂́͂L̢̦̰̼͕̥̩̝̈̎̉̄͡L̠̠͉̭͖̤̀͗̄͆̀͟ S̴͇̝̯̫̤̲̲͇͗̊̈͆͘͡P̵̛͇̪̞̱̱͖͇̜̌͊͐̚Ą̴̧͕̭͓̜̞̭͈̰̑̽͋̍͝͝R̡̛̛̭̲̼̤͛̀̈́̊͆͐̏È̷̢͇̻͕̘̼̰͙̽̿̌͐̎̈̅͡͠ T̡̨͓͙̩̦͕̪̒̅̔̏͜͞H̢͔̹̪̟͙̱͋̇͐̐̿͐̓́̀I̴͓̹̹͙̪͍̐̈̆̌͡Ś͚͚͍̬̙͒̍̂̓͘̚͟ Ẉ̴̩͈̬̮̤̖̠̈̃̉͑̀̂̅̍O̵̧̬̭̤̭̱̹̬̎͊̒̀̾̈̊̀M̴̲̺̦̺͉̌̇̓̽̒̒͢͝͞Ȁ̡̗̪̺̝̤͈͗́̐̊̀͊Ñ̴̨̥̟͇̦̘̗͔̒͛̐̑̚͜͠͞,̷̢͕̫̰́̐͛̿̊̃͌͢ Ȧ̜͍̥͈̎̋̇̌͘͘̕̚ͅN̸̪̼̞̭̝̬̼̥̦̊̎́̀̐͐͘͠D̲͓̦͕̖̠̹̠̳̊̓̓̀͐͂̇͗̓̕ S̩̞̺͔͎͖̺͇̙͒̐̎͋̏͑Ḩ̛͙͕̞̱̜̖̊̏̏̈̾͟͞Ȃ̸̙͙̬͉̫̊͒͋͌̃̈͟͠ͅR̢̨͚̪͖̜͈͂͑̇̂̄̍̚͟͜E̢̜̜͖̯̩̾̔͒͋͂̚ Ȯ͍̰̻̳͍̰̈́̃͑̾Ű̝̼͖̫̜̥̺͂́̄͟͞R̸̲̰̜̳̗̦̖͈͈̓̇̊̐̔̽̃̕͢ G̡̣̫̠̹̻͖̮̫̰͑̃̄̌͘͠R̷̢̦͇͔̹̹͉̳̙͚̃́̑͋̌̓͘Ḙ̶̹͕̜͇͍̜̮́͋̓̀̌̄̏͟Ẩ̱̼̗̭̰̾̀͘̕T̷̪̹̣͙̜͇̩̲͓̉̃̋́̀́̍̒̚ͅ P͚̰͖̝̙̹̜̫̪͊̎͋̿͝Õ̵̡͉͇̪̰̮̫̣̃̂̂̐̈́͋̒͘W̟̫͍̩̜̳̳̿̒͌̂͜͞͞Ě̢̘͖̥̖̰̠̦̹͐͆̓̽̄͐̿̃͢͞Ṙ̨̪͚̰͎̦͍̠̈́̂͆̏̈͘͟͢͡ W̶̛̝̗͓̳͔̙͔̭̓́̕̚͠I̵̬͎̗͈͎͊̿̈̽͂͘͠͡T̷͙͈̩͓̣̲̤͌̃́̅͑͟͞ͅȞ̶̙̣͍͎͉̜̪̈́̄̑̍́͘͘͞ͅ H̨̘͉̥̙͎̯̫̤͐́̍͌͞E̯̳̺̦͓͔͂̍̂̒̐̕̚R̢̲̥̠̝̣̖̈́̈́̀̎̋̇̓͐͜ C̨͉̣̼̼̯̖̟̥̒̍͂͑̀͜H͍̹͍͈̟̗͚̩͋̌̊͊͛̐͊̕Ĭ̛̫̜͚̪̻̱̅̔̐̕͟Ḽ̴̫̪̫̪̤̑̋̀̂̃̚͟͡͞ͅD̵̨̹͙̦̪̽͌̔̚͘Ŗ̴̗̦̘̳͚̞͍͎̘̒̅̾͑̏̂̏É̜̜͖̦̩̐̏̾̓̀̽͞N̶̨̡̪͖͖͓̂̾̿͐͠ͅ.̢̤̰̜̪͇̓̅̆̆͂͛̿̏ T̴̜͕̩͍̪́̓̌̊̒͒͢͝Ḧ̤̥͓́͆̂̉̓̆̈́͛̃͟͟͞E̵̛̲͚͎͕̗̲̿̍͗̽̽͜ S̡̡͙̱̣̣̬͊̒̏̾̂̚͢͡T̴̛̹̖̩̹̜͉̒̆̅̓̓̎̈́̓̒Ă̶͔̘̖̳̬̣̼̓͊̄̂̇͗͐͐Ị͈͚̰͎̜̳̣̩̊͒̌̎̇̊͋͞N̨̥̗͕̜̙͕͇̦̝̂́͗͌͘͞'̷̠̰̼̰̽͋̊̌̀̽͠ͅD̷̢̡̰͕̬̝͈̟͌̽̂͢͡͝ W̨̞̩͎͚̳̹̬̒̈́́̎̏͐̕I̛̲̱̲͇͙̬̮͑͗̀̎́̿͊́̈ͅT̴͎̟̭̬̱̀̋͊̔̅͡C̢̺̱͎̮̩͕̀̓̅͗̓͞H̺̦̘̯͕̭̝̆̐̃͑̊̂̄̓͠͡E̷̞͖̙̻̞̋̔͒͂͆̕̕͠S̶̘̗̣͎̃͐͌͗̈́̆̿̅̿͜͡ Ṣ̶̺͚̝͍̔̒̈́̊͊͟͝͡H̴̞͍̫͉̞͙̤̉̑͂̿̒̂̒̀͗͜Ǎ̷̧̯̮̹̩͇̰̦͗̀̆̿͌͘͘L͓̬̲̙͚͙͆̎̇͑̈́̓͑̚͝ͅḶ̵̨̢̦̠̬̈́̊̎̒̂ N̡̳͖̗̲̝̉̄͑̒̽̒̓̐͘Ȏ̹̞̻̭̩͇̿̃̆̓̃̈́̋͟T̵̛̤̱͉̪͚̩͉͓̝̍͐͗̓͗͂͞ B̵̧̛͇͓̞̱̺̜̻̳̓͐̅͛͆͆́Ẹ͎̟̳̣͇̘͚̇̃͊͂͟͡ D̨͍̼̻̺̜̻̝̒͌̇́̍̏̚̚ͅE̵̢̻̻͓̟̽̾́̀͑̉͋͢͡S͖̤̜͉͔͙̪͗̎̑́̀͆͠T̡̧̼̺͙̤̋̈̂̃̎̏̀̚R̢̭͎̟̤̰̠͆̑̂̿͐͞ͅƠ̸̞͍̲͔͓̘͔̭͗̈́̾̃Y̤̥̲̫̲̫͉̜͉̲̾̓̉̈́͌Ę̛͉̳̳̞̰̋̈́̉͛̒̓̀͢͟D̵̦̥̼̮̤̬̳̹̻͂̔́̐̓͋͑̀̒͜͠.̨̹̘̩̫̯̮͇͈̔͆̀͗́̒̏͟͞ . . Gasp.WOMAN: Oh my God. I need to call my boyfriend. The recorder is dropped. Footsteps, running, running away, away, away…The recording ends here.BE KIND AND REWIND THIS TAPE BEFORE RETURNING IT TO THE STAIN’D CRYPTIDS SOCIETY! THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE~ THE STAIN’D CRYPTIDS SOCIETY.
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Post by Poe's Coats Host Toast on Jun 23, 2022 19:48:59 GMT -5
WRONG TRAIL
Stain'd-by-the-Sea was the last stop, so I had the conductor shake me awake from a deep nap. I was having a strange dream about a restaurant that served books to eat; I was a waiter asking a patron how they would like their Kenneth Grahame. It was a bit confusing to wake up to the face of a wide-eyed craggly old man shouting "Stain'd!" in my face.
I stepped out onto a fairly deserted station on a foggy evening. After the bustle of the train huffing and puffing to make its journey back to the City, I found myself enveloped not just by the fog but by an eerie quiet. I could hear the sound of my footsteps, the calm sea, and a lonely buoy clanging in the distance. There was barely anyone out in the streets. It was dark but not that late, I thought, and yet everything was deserted and closed up. I saw somebody run inside a house, and I ran after. Before they could close the door, I put my foot in the door frame, so I could inquire: "What's going on? Why is no one outside?"
"It's the beast! Didn't you hear the bell ring?" I felt a stomp on my foot, so I retracted, upon which the door slammed in my face. I didn't understand. I assumed he was just a loony. I passed by a storefront of what looked like a pharmacy. I was startled to see two figures in its storefront window. One was a life-sized statue with a sword in its hand, and the other a pudgy man standing still like a statue.
"Are you hiding from the beast as well?" I asked.
"Oh, I have Lady Mallahan to protect me from the beast," the man said in a high voice, and patted the statue next to him. "But you should probably find your way to wherever you're going. It is not advisable to be out at this time in the fog."
"I'm looking for The Lost Arms hotel, do you know it?" The man directed me, and I thanked him as I went on my way. As I was leaving, I thought I saw the man whispering something to the wooden statue of Lady Mallahan. I chuckled at the superstitious people of this town, but I enjoyed the silence that the town was sunk in. Living in the city, the world isn't quiet enough. You usually have to go to the library for that. That's why I was considering moving to the country with the missus.
The man's directions were accurate. At the hotel, a bald bespectacled man greeted me. "You must be tired after the long journey," he said.
"Yes, quite. The wife and I have twins who kept me up last night. Say, you don't happen to know a man around these parts with a bushy mustache, a cat allergy, and a tendency to have the hiccups?"
"Hm, I can't say I do. But I may have missed him if he is just passing through town."
"Yes, he couldn't have arrived long ago. He's a friend that I have some business with. I'll have to keep a lookout then. Could I use your telephone?"
The man directed me, and I called Ermengarde to let her know I arrived. I inquired about our little troublemaker twins. When I finished the call, the bald bespectacled man had stopped listening in on my conversation, and I quickly made my second call. I told the police chief I'd arrived in town, and would start my investigation tomorrow.
"Keep us posted, Inspector," said the voice on the other end of the line. I hung up. Mickey the Forger couldn't be far, I could feel it.
As I was about to go up to the Far East Suite to my room, a painting in the lobby caught my eye. It showed an oldtimey Royalist household in which some important looking men in hats sitting at a table seemed to be questioning a young boy dressed all in blue. Behind the boy were his mother and sisters, looking very concerned, and a royal guard standing next to them. I looked at the little plaque under the picture. It said, "And When Did You Last See Your Father? (1878), by W. F. Yeames. Reproduction." I looked some more at the picture, and was reminded of an argument I had with the missus about the organizaion her family was in.
It was a treat to be able to sleep by myself without the kids waking me up in the morning. But I was already missing them by the time I got up before noon. I was looking forward to taking time off work when the third child would arrive. We still hadn't decided on a name.
I went down to the hotel's breakfast room and had a slice of toast with cheese, a sliced pear, a boiled egg, and some tea. The missus liked her tea bitter as wormwood and sharp as a double-edged sword, as she liked to say, but I took mine with honey and lemon. The hotel had honey, but no lemons. The breakfast was fine, but I was reminded of the value that a few drops of lemon juice add to one's breakfast experience. I thought some more about possible names for our child.
Just when I was getting up to go into town to continue asking around for a mustachioed man with a cat allergy, and a tendency to have the hiccups, I was told there was a call for me.
"Jake," said my partner over the phone, "we've found and arrested Mickey. He wasn't in Stain'd after all, but hiding out in the Horseradish Factory. Get on the next train back to the city."
So much for that.
The painting in the lobby caught my eye again. My thoughts returned to my argument with Ermengarde, and how I thought it was not a good idea to send away one's children to a boarding school at an early age. Children need the anchor of a family, or else they'll be as lonely in their bewilderment as I, walking through the streets of Stain'd-by-the-Sea in the fog; Exposed to imaginary and real beasts alike, looking for answers in the wrong places.
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