She's behind you, holding you up. You get back your footing and turn around to face her. She grabs your hands and starts to dance, forcing you along. Her long black hair is pulled up into a ridiculous hairdo, nearly making you laugh, but her intense face stops you.

You open your mouth to ask the question, but she places one finger over her red lips.

She turns her head and looks at you.

You look around. The women have all stripped to down to their shifts and the men down to breeches or hose.
> You keep quiet for now
Considering you have no idea what in the hell is happening, you decide to take her silent advice. You nod to let her know you understood her message. Her large lucious lips briefly show a tiny smile.

She leads as you slowly dance. She tries to bring you up to speed, but you've no talent for this.

Suddenly, you hear it. A cacophony of bells and whistles, flutes and drums. The horrible sound is quiet at first, messy and brutal, but as the volume grows it becomes cleaner. The cruelty of the sound is transformed into music by the strings that fade in.

And then your feet will themselves along. They know every move, exactly what to do, exactly when to do it. You hands are placed at just the right place on your partners body. You search for the source of the sweet sound, seeing the man sprinting and springing all around the room, screaming. The music is so loud you can only hear his roars of laughter as he passes by you.

The choir starts in and the sound feels like honey. The men at first, low basses, then the women join in, their high sopranos filling the air with such lovely wisps of beauty. You lean your head back and open your mouth to drink in the sounds.

Your partner leans against you closely as dance, right against your chest, but the music is the only thought in your head and heart. Your body almost don't care.
> You quiet
And then it stops without notice. You nearly fall down, and would have, if it weren't for the support of your partner.

The strange man has stopped dancing, his laughter the only sound now. "Stop! Stop stop stop! Everyone!"

The people had continued dancing without the music, but now at his word they halt their movements.

The man looks around at them all. He squints his eyes and angles his head with a hand cupped around his ear.

"What? Time already? It can't be. Oh yes it is, is can be, because it is and therefore must be and can be. Oh well, next time, same time. And you, find some proper trousers . Here, you can have mine." He hands you his black pants. You reach out to take them, in shock.

"On second thought, no." He quickly grabs it back. He walks through the wall behind his throne, disappearing, all the while laughing.

The room breathes a collective sigh and everyone is searching the floor for their clothing.

Your partner is putting on her clothes, and you avert your gaze.

People all around are talking now, and she finally says something.

"Relax. I bet you have many questions. Come. We'll find you something to wear."

You open your eyes and she's wearing a simple grey outfit, probably something that went under the ridiculous dress she's carrying now. Her hair is down now, and you can't help but appreciate her stunning beauty.

You take a breath. You'll listen to her and keep quiet for now, at least until you have an inkling of what's going on. This feeling of tension inside you isn't just because you're mostly naked... But it probably would be better if you were wearing something proper. You blush.
> You she guides you out of the room
She takes your arm and pulls you towards a corner of the great hall.

"The man you just met is Zaren. He's... Complicated. All you need to know right now is that he's God here. If he asks you to do something, it's not a question. You obey him. Without hesitation."

She pulls you through the stone blocks of the wall before you know what's happening. It's chilly on your naked skin and tickles slightly.

"A few decades ago Zaren had an argument with... with a door. Apparently, the door won, so he decreed that all doors be hung and then burned." She looks straight at you, not even blinking. "It was a few years before he got sick of that and decided to introduce these fake walls." She pulls you through a narrow hallway, past tapesties of Zaren eating breakfast. In every single one he's moving. You can hear whispers coming from them, most of them asking if it's on. A few people pass you, guards and servants by their look. None of them gives you a second glance. You look in awe at the beautiful artwork on the walls.

"Oh my, I'm forgeting my manners. It's good Zaren isn't here. We must be quiet. He hears much of what is not meant for him. My name is Ophelia." She pulls you through a series of walls, all made of gorgeous stone with artwork carved into the individual blocks. "It's been a long time since one has joined the upper ranks. Maybe you'll even last. Although I've never heard of someone... Well, just appearing out of thin air. Something that Zaren would do certainly, but I think he went through that phase a few hundred years ago. It's hard to remember all the things he does... You will be joining the upper rank, won't you? You must be, Zaren did not request your absence, as he calls it, or an execution, as we call it. So, why are you here?"

She pulls you into a room full of mannequins and fabric, with colourful carpet on the floors, walls, and ceiling. "I'm sure the Tailor will find something for you. So why you are here?"
> You where is here, exactly?
"Oh my. Now that is a very good question. But here comes the Tailor." She turns around and curtsies towards the door.

"What -" You stand there speechless.

A man walks into the room and bows, a spotless fine black coat shimmering around his white furry torso, four furry little limbs poking out of the coat. They are end in three long, delicate fingers with little hairs at the base and bare human-like tips. His hairy legs have the same pattern, with his feet looking almost normal. Large wings are folded at his back, trailing on the floor.

His large black eyes poke out from his white fur and his human jaw opens to speak in a slightly buzzing voice.

"Hello, good lord. I am the tailor. I must say, your eyes are a wonderful colour. Such a light but intense brown. They will be a challenge to match correctly, but I will enjoy creating your outfits for you."

"What..." You take a step back, bumping into a mannequin and accidently knocking it over.

"You will have to work on your coordination if you plan to be part of The Court. Dancing is quite popular here. But even if you fall or some such thing, you will look wonderful. Still, that is not my job. Now come over here, I must measure you. Take a look around at the outfits. You may find one you like."

 Ophelia stares at you and gestures. You timidly take a few steps forward.

The tailor places his finger tips on your arms, mummering to himself. "Don't you need measuring tape for this?" You ask.

"Measuring tape? Bah, I am better then the tailors you have known. A true master can look at a man for a second and make him a god within minutes."

"I've never known any tailors."

"Well then trust me, I am the best. Now lift your arms please?" As he slides his hands around your arms and chest you look away, uncomfortable.
> You look at the strange carpeted walls
Colourful fine carpets cover all the walls, some more rugs hanging over them in turn.

The carpets are like a dark, dull rainbow. The carpet itself is black, with colours seeming floating over it like a reflection in water. The colours swirl and mix and seperate so slowly you have to careful look before you see the emerging patterns of dancing colours.. You watch a batch of a grey blue twirl around with concentrated yellow and green drops, absorbing them.

The rugs draped over them like curtains over imaginary windows are stationary pictures of outfits, each in a different pose. They continue from down the walls onto the floor and a few hang from the ceiling. You recognize a few outfits, but what really catches your eye is the one hidden on the far left, the one that looks just like Zaren's black finery. It's the only one with a person in the clothes.

Zaren's in it, posed elegantly in his black and gold coat. His arms are raised as if to greet you, but his face perfectly shows his comtempt at your very existance. All but his eyes, which are laughing. You do not know if the contempt is the joke.

There is a man behind that insanity, you are sure of it. Whether the insanity is a cover or not, you do not know.

You look back at the swirling patterns. They are starting to resemble pictures now, just barely, but the proper shades are coming in...
> You an Arena
Your heart beats.

You stand in an great amphitheatre, on shifting sands. It's quiet for but a moment, and then the clashes of weapons rings out in great echoes, with cheery yells of murder providing a bass quality. Smiles flash all around as people hack or are hacked about and nothing but snorts of laughter without the barest hint of pain accompany the carnage.

Sprays of blood float on the air. Spilled guts and limbs sink deep into the sands. Heads laughing are choking on sand and sweet blood spills out of their lifeless bodies.

You smell gore in the air and it clouds your thoughts. Little droplets rain down in your vision. You count each as they pass. Some spray in the corner of your eye hits your cheek and you can taste the liquid life.

Liquid life.

Life.

You're alive.

Where is your weapon?
> A claymore on the ground to your right
The heavy blade is laying on the ground.

Your heart beats.

You survey the fight.

It's a giant mass of men screaming in a variety of different emotions. Joy here, fear there. You can see spectres spectating, watchers watching, and shadows spectating as well, because what else would they do? Be serious.

With all the chaos, if you crouched you could conceivably have more cover. A lower center of gravity would also be a benefit. A quick roll would provide more cover and speed, but lack the same control. The ground, while littered with weapons and bodies, has a clear path to your weapon. You could try to crawl there. This would provide the most cover, but you risk being stepped on, and what you gain in cover you give up in speed.

Beat.

Move now, or risk danger for another look around.
> You crouch
You shift and fall, knees bent, head low. An arrow whistles in the air.

Beat.

You senses collaspe in on this one thing. The arrow shines brightly as the sun catches it and then wades in and out of bloody bodies.

Your toes curl in the sand, trying to the draw the rest of your body in. Your arms follow your slowly moving torso as it curls as well. You blink and lose the arrow. When your eye open your head to low to see it. You can only hope. You push foward with one foot.

Beat.

The arrow catches your left shoulder blade and tears through the top layer of muscle and skin but leaves your body mostly intact.

Beat.

You grit your teeth and swallow a gurgle of pain. You've had worse. You lie.

Beat.

Beat. Beat.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

You reach the sword and grab it with your right hand, using all your strength to swing it up and around so your weak hand to hold it.

The man in front of you laughs as back is penetrated by the blade. The combination of the unbalancing swing and the collision shock your hands and they tingle. Oh wait, that's because someone cut them off. Now who would do such a thing.

A laugh swirls around in your mouth and tastes great. You let it out and the fear and terror and pain all disappear.

A pommel strike to the face later and you're laying on the ground as the battle rages on, spitting out sand and blood and teethe as you laugh.
> Back in the room
You blink. The world is... well, not really "normal", but... it's better. You bring a hand to your head, fine, but tears are falling down your face. Colours spin in your eyes. The madness of the walls creeps and lurks in your head and it's shrieks and whispers make your ears bleed.

"You looked at the walls, didn't you? Where did you go? Nevermind, it's not important. It's not frequently a pleasent place anyway. Now look at me. Hmm, the barber will have to take a look at you. Fuzzy face, tangled hair. Still, not my job. Now please stand still and um, please do not touch anything. You don't seem graceful. No offense meant, my good sir." The Tailor lets go of your arm and waddles off on his strange legs. He walks straight through a carpeted wall.

You carefully sit down on the floor. This isn't real.

But it is.

This can't be real.

But it is.

It was a dream then. But you're --  you're awake now. It was a dream. Just a dream.

No, no, no, NO, NO, NO! This can't be happening. The world is spinning now, and you feel faint and dizzy. There's a sour taste in the back of your dry mouth. Don't open your eyes. Don't look up. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't happening. Your heart pounds. Your fists close and your arms tense.

No, no, no, NO, NO, NO!

Something touches your head -- NO! "Get away! Get away! Take your bug men and crazy kings and doors and dreams and shove it!" You fling yourself backwards and push off the attacking nightmares.
> You ophelia
You hit the nightmares and they gasp. You open your eyes.

It's just Ophelia. Just Ophelia. She's holding her wrist in her other hand.

"I..." Your mouth closes. This is it. This is all happening too fast, too fast, too much. You didn't mean to hit her but the world is just spinning now.

"I'm sorry. It's been so long since any of us have seen someone new to The Court, let alone to this world. Most people -- well, besides you, everyone -- come to this realm through the slums and move up. I'm afraid you'll have to forgive them. This place changes people... Some for the better, like the Tailor. Or at least he would say so. Most... Well, you'll see soon. Please, just calm down, and I'll answer all your questions. Zaren will forgive us this."

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean---"

"I know. Just hold on a moment. We'll get you some clothes and then I'll take you to your rooms. I'll explain there. Just hold on."

You take a deep breath. You're under control now. Those walls... They play with your mind. But you're back now.

The Tailor walks back through the wall.

"Now sir, please take a look around the room. The mannequins have some samples, the carpets others, although you probably would like to stay away from them now. Small changes can be made quite easily to the design, or even after if you are disappointed with my work, although I doubt that will happen. Anything custom will have to come later I'm afraid. You have much work to do my friend."
> The black outfit
You point out the tapestry in the corner, the one with Zaren in his shining black clothes. There's something about it that intrigues you. Something that just draws you in.

Ophelia and the Tailor give each other a look.

"I'm... I'm afraid you'll have to choose another my friend. I don't believe Zaren would be... happy. Wait. I think I have something in a similar style. Take a look at this. You may request changes if you wish." The Tailor pulls out a tapestry and peels it apart. You did not notice before, but they're made of different layers stuck together. Each layer contains one piece of the outfit.

The pants are the same thin fit, but looser at the ankles. The belt has two buckles of polished gold and beautiful leather. "The tanner can make you such a belt. It is only cloth that I may create." The Tailor buzzes. A tight but long shirt with slightly ruffled sleeves is next. It's tight around the torso and hugs the waist with large shoulders. Over that comes a waist coat with shining gold buttons.

"It is designed with a similar cloth in mind and the same colours. Colour, that is. The shirt is long sleeved and with a waist coat, but I will keep your wishes in mind. You may take these rags for now. It will be completed soon. I suggest you visit the barber, cobbler, and tanner. Oh, and all gentlemen of The Court are expected to have their own sword. Something about duels. I never saw the point of it, but it's been a long time since I was... different. That reminds me. You should have been here before. The style now is very fond of vibrant colours, not this... Monotone thing you have chosen. That must have been at least decades ago... Off, now."

You don't particularly feel like hanging around, so you accept his choice and the Tailor fills you hands with fine shirts and breeches, simple but elegant. Only he would call them rags. He then turns you around and pushes you along and out. You nearly panic when he shoves you into the wall, only to remember that it is in fact a door.

Ophelia walks down the hall. "Coming?"
> You follow her
"One second." You call out.

You'd prefer to be clothed at this point.

You slip on a pair of pants and a shirt before running, trying to catch up to her without dropping any of the things you're carrying.

She looks at you. You feel self conscious suddenly, despite your newly clothed appearance. You look straight ahead, trying to keep even steps and the same pace as Ophelia, who walks fast.

"Zaren didn't tell me where you'd stay. I suppose the guest quarters --  no, that's no good. They're too far, for one, and I don't believe Zaren considers you a guest. He is very fond of order and organization. Or at least the order and organization of others. We'll drop these off in my room for now. We have others to visit. Please wait just a little bit longer."

You and Ophelia walk in silence. The stoned passage gives way into large rooms with bustling people. Ophelia leads you past a great fountain spitting out clear water and up stairs. Putting on pants was probably a good decision.

On the second level people jostle and bump into your and it takes great skill not to drop anything.

After a few minutes of twisting turns Ophelia stops in the middle of a hall. "This is my humble abode. Please just dump those off on my desk." Ophelia then pulls you through the wall. You doubt you'll ever.... get.... used.... to that?
> You ophelia's room
This isn't a room. It's a damn mansion. This is just one room and it's huge.

Expensive carpets cover over parts of the floor. The high quality marble shows through in other parts. The walls are the same stones from the halls, but large paintings with golden frames cover parts of it. A giant golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Giant golden stairs are placed on both sides of the room.

Before the stairs stands a bronze statue of... Something. It looks like a regular man, naked but for a cloth that hangs from one shoulder, but something feels off about it. His face is turned down and his eyes closed, one mouth corner lifted in a sneer. He's kneeling almost in a pleading position, as if he dare not look up.

"Zaren's work. I suppose he thinks it a gift and why he's right of course. It's very lovely. Every so often when one disagrees with him death is not always the suitable punishment. I'm sure Tunc agrees with me, though he may not express it well." Ophelia grabs your hand and leads you quickly to a small, bare room behind the statue. Her face is ashen.

"Check the walls!" She hisses at you, then brushes her fingers along the walls. You follow her example, even if you cannot fathom why. She and you check the whole wall and she takes a deep breath.

"Zaren has a habit of popping up when he isn't wanted. We can never be sure we are safe, but vigilance is the only option if we wish to survive. We must go soon, but if you have any questions that must be answered, ask now. We must be very careful what we say outside this room, even inside it."
> You tunc
"Oh... Tunc. Yes. Tunc was a friend of mine... A very, very long time ago." Ophelia leans against a wall. "You can drop those clothes off right here." She gestures towards the spotless floor. "Tunc. He... Disagreed with Zaren a very long time ago. Zaren is unpredictable at best, and the king of chaos at worst. The power he wields is not a good combination with his nature. Tunc took a great risk. He thought he could challenge Zaren's rule. He... Failed. Listen closely. I don't care to relive the experience, so I will not be sharing any details, and I'd doubt you'd really want to hear them once you understand his fate." Ophelia looks down, unsure. "I tried to warn him...." She pauses and closes her eyes.

The memory is obviously a painful one for her. You are unsure of what to do, so you just stand there, dumbly.

She takes a few seconds to collect her thoughts and then continues in a monotone voice.

"Zaren is a creative.... Man. He didn't kill Tunc, exactly. He decided to create an example of him. He was feeling particularly... Well, something. It's hard to tell what goes on in his mind, though it gets easier after time. That's what scares me the most, I suppose. Anyway, Zaren is a powerful man. He has abilities that the rest of us cannot comprehend. He's kept Tunc alive even as he is now." She looks straight up at you. "I suppose there's no easy way about this.  That statue out there is Tunc. Zaren did something with him. I used to cry, talk to him, anything, but there's a time when you just have to let go. Especially here. I'm not even sure if it was meant to be a punishment, reward, or just some twisted form of art. Zaren is confusing, misleading, childish, and any other number of unpleasant things."

"You said Zaren keeps him alive... Does that mean?" You ask, afraid of the answer.

"Yes. He moves, ever so slowly. Once in a very great while he cries. That's where the "art" comes in." She sighs. "Do you have any other questions?"
> You zaren
"Zaren? You mean besides his seeming complete and utter insanity? Well, I told you. He's a god here. The god here. There's not much else to him. I could tell you about all the things he's done over the years. All the times I nearly laughed at him. All the times others did laugh at him, and paid for it. All the times he laughed along with them. He's unpredictable. Don't forget it, ever. If you remember nothing else, remember that. I've seen him kill people for following his instructions to the word. He's done things... Things that are worse than death. Tunc's fate is far from the worst."

"Then why? Why do you let him do it? Why not do something about it? Surely he couldn't stop you all?"

"Look at Tunc. As bad as things are, they could be worse. Zaren's powerful in ways even the strongest of us can't imagine. Tunc used to say that reality is Zaren's bitch. He was frank like that. Everyone here has at least the smallest ability for magic, and some are very talented, but Zaren's in a class of his own. Besides, most have adapted. They've learned to live with it. It doesn't matter how awful something is. If you live with something for a long time it becomes the norm. You can only be in sheer terror for so long before it bores you."

You can see it in her eyes. The fear that has long given way to numbness.

She attempts to smile. "Better the devil you know."
> You where am I
"Now that's a good question. The short answer is: I don't know. Nobody does as far as I know. Except, perhaps, for Zaren, but I don't think he's likely to share that information, do you? You really never went through the slums?" Ophelia narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"I don't know what you mean." You answer truthfully.

"The slums are what they are. A broken down place infested with poverty and suffering. Everyone, nobility and peasants alike, appears in the slums. People don't really have children here. Pregnancy is extremely rare among the population, even over large periods of time. Most women will go their whole life without a child. Most pregnancies will end in miscarriages. Almost all of those carried to term will be stillborn. Of the handful of people over our whole history to be born here... I've never met one. I've heard that they turn out strangely, even compared to the average citizen. Nothing specific, just strange. There are rumours that Zaren is one, but I doubt a thing like him was even born, even in another place. To my knowledge there is no one older than Zaren alive today so I guess we'll never know. Anyway, people will simply "arrive" here instead. From somewhere else. Always... Well, you're the exception, but always in the slums. They're not a pleasant place. The slums are filled with screams and the raving of the mad. The "upper ranks" to which you now belong are comprised of the completely sane, or at least the sanest. Zaren... I don't think he's insane. I've known him too long. No, I think he just likes to watch us suffer in our own filth."

"So you can't tell me anything about where I am."

"No, I can tell you much about where we are. I just don't know where where we are is. I can't tell you anything about where any of us came from. Most people don't remember anything and even if they do it's after a long time of searching. But it just tears them apart. It's best to forget if you start remembering."

"But I... I remember.... Something." You're not sure. It's that faint form of memory, but vivid in strange places. More like a story that you've visualized.

"Forget it. Or if you can't forget it, ignore it. At the very least leave it alone. Do not go any further into that abyss."

But this memory is to real to forget. Ophelia looks at you, rolls her eyes, and sighs. "Okay. Tell me about it, but then that's it. Don't ever think you can make it farther into your own mind. It won't end well."

"I remember. I remember... " Words roll of your tongue as you look through the past towards the only memory you can find.
> You white
It's white. Some of it is powder and some is thicker and clear. Some of it sticks together.

Snow. It's snow. And it's falling.

You look up. The sky is dark with little flecks coming into existance as they get close enough for you to see them.

Snow crunchs under you.

You open your mouth and catch a flake on your tongue and then laugh. You look at one closely. It's pretty with its twirls and patterns and designs.

You dance, dance in the snow, falling, rolling, screaming with laughter and fun.

Each flake unique but nothing without its friends.

Then it's gone. You have it here in your head now, fixed and alive, something you'll remember. There's more...

But that's gone, at least for now.
> You memories
Ophelia is speechless for a minute."Wow. That's a lot, well, compared to me. You, you like... Liked nature, didn't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It's all I remember anyw--"

"No. No. I'm sure you have more in there. Don't try to remember... But if you do... I don't know if we come from the same place, but maybe, just maybe, we do. If you remember enough it might trigger my memories too." Ophelia looks hopeful. Happy. You don't think she'll ever remember if she hasn't by now, but it's not in your heart to crush her new found hope. She smiles for a brief moment, caught up in a memory that isn't hers yet is still her only link to her potential past, even if it's faint at best.

Then she remembers where she is right now and shakes her head to rid her of her folly. "Anymore questions? We don't have much time."
> You doors
"Oh yes. I told you about the "fight" Zaren had. He got rid of all the doors in The Court, except for the large front doors to the palace. Apparently they "took his side". Without doors we lacked privacy, but Zaren didn't care. Probably didn't eve occur to him. But after a few years he had his brilliant idea; fake walls. No one had any idea he could do something like that, but I don't think it surprised anyone. That's why we check the walls. He can build them anywhere he wants, so we must be vigilant, vigilant always. It's tiring at first but you build up a habit eventually."

"Doesn't it... Freak you out?"

"At first it was a little strange, but after a year or two you don't even think about it anymore. You start to forget what doors look like."
> The Court
"This is The Court. It's part of this realm. It, the slums, the markets, and a few other districts make up about half of it, with wildness making up the other half. Zaren keeps meticulous records of nearly everything, including maps. I'm not sure why, he's a very chaotic person, but I guess even chaos is ordered from time to time -- otherwise it would have an order to it. We should visit his libraries some time. Just one of them would take a very long time to read through. Every so often he'll change the realm so much that previous records need to be updated, so he purges almost everything and everyone starts again. He always keeps a very accurate record of the books he's had though, even the purged ones. There are rumours he keeps copies of them somewhere after he destroys the others. I wouldn't put it past him, but there are many things only Zaren knows, and this is one of them. But that doesn't really answer your question, does it?

"Tell me about The Court." You ask.

"Well, it's composed of servants, guards, and merchants and the like that look after us from the upper ranks. You've met the Tailor and seen a few of the guards and servants. You'll also meet the Tanner, the Shoemaker, the Barber, the Blacksmith, the Jeweler, and various teachers and instructors. Probably a few more I'm forgetting. Almost all necessities and wants are provided for us. We are the only sane ones left in this forsaken realm. We are basically Zaren's playthings. Let's see, what else...."

She stops to think for a moment.

"We're in the west wing right now. It's devoted mostly to private residences. Zaren will assign you one soon. For the most part he'll let you decorate it as you wish -- oh, that reminds me, the Framer, the Painter, the Carpenter, the Mason, and a few others. Anyway, he may give you some "gifts", akin to housewarming gifts. He would be "offended" if you did not accept them. He's given me things: paintings, statues, furniture. A lot of it is weird and out of style, but surprising none of the chairs will break... or strangle you, or something else Zaren would find funny. Let's see... There's the south wing which houses the servants quarters and the kitchens and other such things, and the south tower, which is primarily for the craftsmen. What is literally called The Court is in the northern end and is filled with Zaren's gardens, libraries, mess halls, and other areas for social gatherings. Oh, the gymnasium  as well. The east wing holds more craftsman and merchants. Some of the market district blends in with this area. The west wing also includes the entrance to this palace and the long hall, as we call it. Zaren's throne room really, but he also has thrones in other rooms."
> You events
"We also have many events, like the dance you saw. The Tailor mentioned duels; all the men learn how to fight, as well as quite a few of the women. Zaren finds it amusing, although he doesn't allow anyone to die. Most of the time. We have feasts every few days and a hunt the next day. Lets see. There's contests and tournaments. You must participate in at least one event. That's where those teachers and instructors are useful. What else... I think that's all. If not, well, you'll figure out the rest as you go. You seem like you already know how to dance, so that's one less thing."

"But I don't."

"Then what was that back in the dance hall?"

"Didn't you hear the music? It was so loud."

Ophelia's eyes narrow. "What music?"

Curious.
> You it's time
"It's time. No more questions. That reminds me; one more thing you should know. Time functions strangely here. Nothing grows or changes unless Zaren wills it. Every so often he'll change The Court - usually not to a noticeable extent but once in a while there are some great changes. But back to the point; time is strange. We don't quite... Age. But that's a discussion for later. We still have to visit the Shoemaker, the Blacksmith, the Tanner, the Jeweler..."

The list feels nearly endless, though it's actually short. Ophelia goes through them as she leads out of the empty room, back into the halls, and towards the south tower, leading you through winding halls, large decorative rooms, up and down stairs, out onto a blooming courtyard and finally in front of the south tower.

"We didn't go this way before." You ask, curious.

"You were naked before. I didn't think you'd want to."

 "Fair enough."

The tower itself is huge, made of tiny white stones grinded and polished to create a perfect cylinder. The entrance is a pair of huge and heavy stone slab doors that are currently open. The tower is a hub and dozens of people are walking in and out at any one moment, mostly guards, servants, and nobles. You and Ophelia are out of place in your plain clothing as the guards are wearing armour, the servants the uniforms of their specific job, and the nobles in outlandish outfits.

"We have much to do and little time to do it. After the formal dances Zaren will do "realm maintenance". I mentioned it before; this is when he plays around with the fabric of reality. That's why it's so busy. Everyone wants to get their work done before Zaren changes anything. It will be busy after too. The tower is frequently full, especially at these times, but I have seen it nearly empty a few times."
> The lift
"Follow me." Ophelia walks past the guards and weaves through the throng of people with grace. You follow carefully, not wanting the heavy armoured feet of the guard to crush yours. She leads you up a spiraling staircase to a small platform reaching over the center. As soon as you step on it floats upwards. Ophelia grabs your arm to keep you from falling or freaking out.

"Be calm. If you stand still it is surprisingly safe. The Tailor's rooms are on the third floor, so it was unnecessary to take the lift. The others reside near the top though, so unless you would like to go up all those stairs we're taking the lift." Ophelia holds your arm tightly.

You force yourself to take a breath and try not to look down. Ophelia senses this is not the time to talk and so you just stand there, jaw clenched. Finally Ophelia takes a breath and talks.

"Who shall we visit first? As a new member of our lovely "family" you have priority, so don't fret about lines or some such nonsense. After we visit them all we should go back to the Tailor and pick up the beginning of what will, trust me, become a very large wardrobe ."
> The Blacksmith (this will continue the story)
Ophelia smiles. "He's a friend of mine. Please don't let his appearence frighten you, he is at heart a gentle man, but he can be a bit sensitive. I mentioned... Changes. Some, like the Tailor, are happy with their new existence. The Blacksmith is good at his job and enjoys it, but I believe he misses some things about his previous life."

The lift slows down and moves towards a space that it then attaches to. Ophelia walks straight off. "Come on. Don't hesitate. It gets better with practice."

 You step off the lift. It leaves your feet and lowers again, leaving you with a nearly falling sensation. Your heart pounds and you don't care to look down, even though you're on a stable floor now. Ophelia holds your arm and pulls you forward, not even looking back at that horrible open space.

"It's a little way from here." Ophelia walks beside you, much more steady than you could be. With perfect posture and graceful movements she looks almost regal. "Do you have any combat experience? The Blacksmith will have to make you many weapons of all kinds, especially if you are fan of the dueling, so you should be familar with them all and with more than one style."

"No... Well, I don't really remember." You can smell the fires and you know you are close.

"Oh... Yes. My apologies. We're getting closer. Zaren created these spaces to minimize the smells. They're particularly bad at the tanery; though we are beyond many of the more unhygenic and barbaric practices, it smells nearly as foul as it would if we used the original "recipes. Here we are." Ophelia stops and pulls you into a searing steam filled room.
> You meeting the Blacksmith
The steam that flies in your face and shocks you quickly dissapates. Beyond it there is a large forge filled to the brim with tools that line shelves and walls, with all kinds of hammers, chisels, tongs, and other things you don't recognize of all different sizes; and works, both completed weapons that are displayed and those still to be finished. There is a regular anvil as well as other large metal pieces for shaping metal. There are buckets of water, ingots of different metals, and even polishing materials thrown around the large yet somehow still full room.

There the sound of a hammer striking metal, a steady, heavy ting ting ting. A man grunts with each sound. He turns around and you gasp. That is not a man.

He's tall, easily another half of a man. Horns curve out of his large furred head and a bull's nose move as he smells the steam; above those large and surprisingly deep blue eyes. His neck is thick and his arms bulge with muscles as he grips the hammer. He wears a thick leather apron to keep his skin safe, but still litle burn marks line his arms. As he steps forward you hear the clip clop of his hooves. He turns to look at Ophelia and his scowl turns into a smile. "Ophelia! So nice to see you. It's been too long since you visiting me in Tartarus. I almost thought Hades had got you." His voice is baritone, regular but higher than one would expect, and softer. "And this is?"

"He's new. He... Doesn't have a name yet. That reminds me, we must discuss that as well. Anyway, he requires some weapons." Ophelia smiles at the Blacksmith and goes forward to hug him.

"Always business with you. Does he have any experience? Preferences? You will definitely need a polearm, sword, and dagger, but anything else will be your choice. You look like you can handle the heavier weapons. What would you prefer for a sword, first of all? One or two handed? Any specific type? We have something of almost everything. Take a look along the walls. Pick out anything you like. Feel free to try it." He speaks so fast you can't respond before he starts onto something else.

You look at the wall the Blacksmith points to, scanning the swords, but something catches your eye. It's in the corner up higher than the rest. You walk over and look over it. It's an arming sword of a regular length, with a plain black covered hilt and  pommel. The cross guard is a thin long diamond shape and the blade is double edged but dull.

"This one. This is the one." You barely hear yourself say it. Yoo careful pick the blade off of the wall and hold it; it's perfectly balanced and its weight compliments you well.

"Now that's an old one. Before my time even. It doesn't look much like my predecessor's work either. It's amazing it's lasted this long. Alright, hand it over to me. I'll make you one." The Blacksmith walks over to you.

"Can't I have this one?" There's something about it. Something about the way your hand fits on it, something about the cool feeling of the leather over the hilt, something about the plain ridge in the middle that just draws you into it.

"I don't see why, but I don't see why not. Are you sure you'd not rather have a new one? I won't sharpen or polish it - that's not my job. Oh well. You must still pick out a dagger and polearm. Other weapons will come later. The Court is a game of time."
> The polearm and the dagger
"You can use the grindstone and I'll give you some whetstones and polishing cloth. Still, you will need a dagger and a polearm of some kind. You look like you would fancy a heavier weapon. Take a look at the wall. I've got a poleaxe that I've recently finished; it's the perfect length for you. Let me get it."

You stare at the walls again, this time at one filled with pole weapons, some leaning against the wall, some packed on shelves, some in actual weapon holders. There are the long pikes that take down calvary lined on shelves at the top. Other weapons have spikes, tongs, flat ends for hammering, large and small points, curved blades, and any combination thereof. The choice between weapon types is dizzying, and even among the individual types there are more variables; weight, length, thickness, curve, even the way the shaft and tip are joined.

You carefully pick up a weapon or two and try them out, a swing, a thrust, a step and a turn. They are unsurprisingly heavy, much heavier than your smaller sword. You place them back, making sure they are not going to fall and cause an avalanche of weapons. You look around a bit. You manage to pick out a few weapons that look good.

The Blacksmith walks back in carrying one of the heavy weapons in one hand like it's nothing and places it on a weapon rack.

Including the weapon the Blacksmith just brought in you've narrowed it down to three: a halberd about your height, with an end that has a long spike at the tip, a small axe on one side and a hook on the opposite, all mounted on a thick and sturdy wood pole; a slightly smaller warhammer with small but brutal looking spike on one side and the flat end for crushing, all on a mix of metal of wood; and the Blacksmith's weapon, a longer glaive, with a long curved blade on the tip and a small hook, on heavy dark wood.
> You halberd
You pick up the halberd and inspect it. It's heavy of course, but you're strong enough for it. The blade is engraved with long intricate lines and designs that circle around the point, connecting to rays from the ax blade and a hatching pattern on the hook.

"The halberd? A good weapon. It looks well suited to you as well, just the right height." The Blacksmith stands beside you, picks up the weapon he brought in, and places it in a rack. "It's a complicated pattern, but a beautiful weapon."
> The dagger
You place your weapons on a table and stare at yet another wall. Again, there's a wide selection but you're getting better at scanning them. The shorter weapons are packed in much tighter in than the others, nearly making you dizzy. You feel a few; the short weapons are light and nimble with sharp edges and points. Though there are many different kinds and variations between all those you decide to narrow it down to just a few of different kinds.

You look along the choices and pick out three again; a cinquedea about a foot long, with a very wide blade that is decorative and an even longer cross guard with a short handle and pommel; a stiletto at the opposite end of the spectrum, with a very thin blade and handle that can easily pierce or find a way through armour; and a baselard, with a thicker blade, thin handle, and no cross guard or pommel to speak of.

> The cinquedea
You reach out and lightly touch the blade of the cinquedea, running your hand over the tip to the fullers and the cross-guard. It softly nips your fingers when you run them over the sharp blade, drawing the tiniest drop of blood. You wipe your hand on your shirt and pick up the dagger. It's light and strangely balanced because of the abnormally wide blade where it connects to the hilt, but already you're getting used to it. You give it a practice thrust, twist it, and pull back.

"That one?" asks the Blacksmith. "Very well. You have great taste, I can tell. It seems just the right one for you. Well, we're done here for now. Armour will wait until later, because we'll have to measure you for each piece, and even then it'll take a while to make. Still, you're set up enough for now. It was nice seeing you Ophelia, and nice to meet you as well."
> Back to the lift
Well that's everything done so far. Not much really.

Overall I'm not very happy with this in any way that counts. The story and characters aren't great so far, there's little to no real choices, and it sort of jumps from one part to another. The only reason I'm submitting it is because it's the most work I've ever done on a story, and I guess that's something to be proud of at least. At the best it's... rambling I guess.

Please tell me what you think.


You place your weapons on a table and stare at yet another wall. Again, there's a wide selection but you're getting better at scanning them. The shorter weapons are packed in much tighter in than the others, nearly making you dizzy. You feel a few; the short weapons are light and nimble with sharp edges and points. Though there are many different kinds and variations between all those you decide to narrow it down to just a few of different kinds.

You look along the choices and pick out three again; a cinquedea about a foot long, with a very wide blade that is decorative and an even longer cross guard with a short handle and pommel; a stiletto at the opposite end of the spectrum, with a very thin blade and handle that can easily pierce or find a way through armour; and a baselard, with a thicker blade, thin handle, and no cross guard or pommel to speak of.

> The baselard
"That one?" asks the Blacksmith. "Very well. It seems you have good taste, though all my weapons are high quality. It seems just the right one for you though. Well, we're done here for now. Armour will wait until later, because we'll have to measure you for each piece, and even then it'll take a while to make. Still, you're set up enough for now. It was nice seeing you Ophelia, and nice to meet you as well."

With your right hand you hold out your arm to press against the baselard. The cool metal cuts your skin lightly, drawing less than even an entire drop of blood on your finger tip. You pick up the blade, smearing that crimson speck on the hilt. It's light as a feather in your grasp, perhaps too light after holding other weapons. With a practice slash from high and then to the left you sense the way the dagger reacts to force, gaining an understanding of its balance.

"Interesting choice." remarks the Blacksmith. "Okay then. All done here I suppose. Armour will come later -- we've little enough time now, and it requires much measuring. But you've got everything you need for the moment. I'll be seeing you Ophelia, and you as well I suppose."


You place your weapons on a table and stare at yet another wall. Again, there's a wide selection but you're getting better at scanning them. The shorter weapons are packed in much tighter in than the others, nearly making you dizzy. You feel a few; the short weapons are light and nimble with sharp edges and points. Though there are many different kinds and variations between all those you decide to narrow it down to just a few of different kinds.

You look along the choices and pick out three again; a cinquedea about a foot long, with a very wide blade that is decorative and an even longer cross guard with a short handle and pommel; a stiletto at the opposite end of the spectrum, with a very thin blade and handle that can easily pierce or find a way through armour; and a baselard, with a thicker blade, thin handle, and no cross guard or pommel to speak of.

> The stiletto
You pick up the blade by its handle and feel the guard over to the tip, where the sharp edge bites into your finger and draws a small drop of blood. You wipe the blood off your hand and hold the knife in the light to look over it. Light as any knife or dagger is, it glides though the air easy, almost requiring no effort. You sweep at and the air, listening to it cry out in that distinctive whistle.

The Blacksmith looks over you and the blade before speaking "You choose that one? Good. Well I suppose that's everything. You'll need armour as well, but you'll need to be measured before and then it'll take a while for me to make all of it. But regardless, we're done here for now. Good to see you Ophelia. Wealth and health to you both.


"You can use the grindstone and I'll give you some whetstones and polishing cloth. Still, you will need a dagger and a polearm of some kind. You look like you would fancy a heavier weapon. Take a look at the wall. I've got a poleaxe that I've recently finished; it's the perfect length for you. Let me get it."

You stare at the walls again, this time at one filled with pole weapons, some leaning against the wall, some packed on shelves, some in actual weapon holders. There are the long pikes that take down calvary lined on shelves at the top. Other weapons have spikes, tongs, flat ends for hammering, large and small points, curved blades, and any combination thereof. The choice between weapon types is dizzying, and even among the individual types there are more variables; weight, length, thickness, curve, even the way the shaft and tip are joined.

You carefully pick up a weapon or two and try them out, a swing, a thrust, a step and a turn. They are unsurprisingly heavy, much heavier than your smaller sword. You place them back, making sure they are not going to fall and cause an avalanche of weapons. You look around a bit. You manage to pick out a few weapons that look good.

The Blacksmith walks back in carrying one of the heavy weapons in one hand like it's nothing and places it on a weapon rack.

Including the weapon the Blacksmith just brought in you've narrowed it down to three: a halberd about your height, with an end that has a long spike at the tip, a small axe on one side and a hook on the opposite, all mounted on a thick and sturdy wood pole; a slightly smaller warhammer with small but brutal looking spike on one side and the flat end for crushing, all on a mix of metal of wood; and the Blacksmith's weapon, a longer glaive, with a long curved blade on the tip and a small hook, on heavy dark wood.
> You warhammer
You hold the war hammer in your holds and turn it over. Heavy, but that's the point. The hammer itself is completely flat and even, smaller than you'd imagine, but that only concentrates the damage you'd guess. There's a metal grip on it, with a pattern to make it easier to hold.

"Ah, the hammer. Brutal thing, that is. Just around the right size for you though." After placing the glaive he brought in on a rack the Blacksmith points to the hammer. "It doesn't matter if someone's wearing armour. With this, a single whack and it'll smash through a helmet, and even if it doesn't, it can still break bones, cause concussions, and at the very least give a very nasty bruise. The hook can rip through armour too, though usually a good set of platemail can block it. It's good for taking down calvary. The hook can tear at the legs of a horse, get the man off his mount, and the hammer can crush the horse's legs."


"You can use the grindstone and I'll give you some whetstones and polishing cloth. Still, you will need a dagger and a polearm of some kind. You look like you would fancy a heavier weapon. Take a look at the wall. I've got a poleaxe that I've recently finished; it's the perfect length for you. Let me get it."

You stare at the walls again, this time at one filled with pole weapons, some leaning against the wall, some packed on shelves, some in actual weapon holders. There are the long pikes that take down calvary lined on shelves at the top. Other weapons have spikes, tongs, flat ends for hammering, large and small points, curved blades, and any combination thereof. The choice between weapon types is dizzying, and even among the individual types there are more variables; weight, length, thickness, curve, even the way the shaft and tip are joined.

You carefully pick up a weapon or two and try them out, a swing, a thrust, a step and a turn. They are unsurprisingly heavy, much heavier than your smaller sword. You place them back, making sure they are not going to fall and cause an avalanche of weapons. You look around a bit. You manage to pick out a few weapons that look good.

The Blacksmith walks back in carrying one of the heavy weapons in one hand like it's nothing and places it on a weapon rack.

Including the weapon the Blacksmith just brought in you've narrowed it down to three: a halberd about your height, with an end that has a long spike at the tip, a small axe on one side and a hook on the opposite, all mounted on a thick and sturdy wood pole; a slightly smaller warhammer with small but brutal looking spike on one side and the flat end for crushing, all on a mix of metal of wood; and the Blacksmith's weapon, a longer glaive, with a long curved blade on the tip and a small hook, on heavy dark wood.
> You glaive
You look at the glaive that the Blacksmith brought in. The wood is smooth, balanced and strong, and the blade looks like it craves blood. You pick it up and its just as heavy as you expected. It's simple compared to the other weapons; no intricate patterns or designs, but it's lovely nonetheless.

"The glaive? Ah, a good choice. I knew it'd be the weapon for you, just the right size." The Blacksmith stands beside you. "It may seem simple, but I made it with the care all my weapons deserve. Of course, the wood work isn't mine, but all metal has been forged by my hands."


"Follow me." Ophelia walks past the guards and weaves through the throng of people with grace. You follow carefully, not wanting the heavy armoured feet of the guard to crush yours. She leads you up a spiraling staircase to a small platform reaching over the center. As soon as you step on it floats upwards. Ophelia grabs your arm to keep you from falling or freaking out.

"Be calm. If you stand still it is surprisingly safe. The Tailor's rooms are on the third floor, so it was unnecessary to take the lift. The others reside near the top though, so unless you would like to go up all those stairs we're taking the lift." Ophelia holds your arm tightly.

You force yourself to take a breath and try not to look down. Ophelia senses this is not the time to talk and so you just stand there, jaw clenched. Finally Ophelia takes a breath and talks.

"Who shall we visit first? As a new member of our lovely "family" you have priority, so don't fret about lines or some such nonsense. After we visit them all we should go back to the Tailor and pick up the beginning of what will, trust me, become a very large wardrobe ."
> The Tanner
"I see. Get the worst out of the way first? I must say, the stench is worst I've ever smelled. He's not a... Nice man. Not mean, but wild. Feral, even. I've heard talk that he was born here, but he's one of the oldest I know of, so again, another thing we never may know. As you know, Zaren plays around with... the world. So don't let his appearence frighten you. If anything is terrifying, it's the stink. He's harmless really."

You slow your upward motion and the lift reachs another floor, where it attaches to a opening.  Ophelia walks off. "Don't let the height scare you. It's quite safe as long as you don't linger."

One foot off and it feels stable enough. But as soon as your other leg leaves the platfrom descends. You go falling forward as your body compensates for the motion. Ophelia catches you and steadies you. "Let's go. The walk is long, to keep the smell from the lift."

Ophelia leads you through a maze of halls and small rooms, as the smell gradually builds up and pains throb in your head. Just as you're about to pass out she pulls you into the tannery. There's a look of digust on her face. "Let us meet the Tanner."
> You meeting the Tanner
The smell hits your face; fresh rather than the stagnant air outside, but just as bad. Your eyes water and you blink again and again just to see. You nose and mouth curls up in disgust. There are furs everywhere, not just pelts but entire animals. "He prefers to skin them himself." Ophelia simply says. Tools for skinning and shaping litter the ground and little buckets of what you hope is water but is more foul smelling are sprinkled about the room. Larger vats are filled with the same foul odorous liquid, some of them colourless, but more black, brown, gray, or other dull colours. There are piles of furs, rags, and leather everywhere, some drying, being shaped, or otherwise in progress to becoming whatever they will be.

A particularly large and dirty pile moves and -- oh dear, that's not a pile. It's a wereanimal, foul and feral, loudly poking around in dog corpse, picking out internal organs and placing them aside, sorting them. He pulls out bones and bits, and is covered in blood. Every so often he licks clawed hands with a slurping sound. He starts to peel off the skin with tools and surprising care when he lifts his head up and sniffs at the head. Turning around, he spots you and his mouth turns into a disgusting smile. "Ophelia? Why hellos! Goodness, goodness, I ams filthy." Emphasizing and adding an S to some words he speaks to you. He grabs a rag and attempts to clean his hands, then wipes drool and blood from his face with them. He's covered in spotted, dirty, clumped fur, especially along his legs and shoulders, with a longer patch on top of his leading down his back on his spine. The hair is shorter on his face and snout, except for a few long whiskers that poke out of his lips and along his chin. The shaggy fur recedes along his hands, leaving nearly thin fingers for precision in his trade. He wears only a pair of shorts and bones on a string on his thick and long neck. His ears are pierced, the left is tattered and they flap about independent of his head. His eyes are large and green and watch Ophelia with a sense of sincerity. He seems more like a dog than anything else.

 Then, as if suddenly seeing you, "I knows you! The Tailors said you were coming. Yesh, yesh. I have here somewhere... I cuts and cures it long time ago, ready for yous. Just waits, waits." He walks around in circles on his large paws and sniffs at the air. "Yesh, yesh, I see its!" He stretches up and pulls something off a shelf. "They gives me nice shiny buckles for belts. I use the yellow ones this time. People like the yellow ones." He sounds like a child, a filthy terrifying child. "You reminds me. You reminds me of hims. You gots the smell. He goods man, you know. Others they think he crazy, but he nice, he nice to mes. Used to be hads to thinks. All the times. Hard. Now I just do these things and I gets all I wants. He nice man. Waits, first I gots to cleans." He dips the belt in some sort of oily liquid and then hands it to you. "He says to use the oils because somes don't like the smell. But yous get used to it. I thinks it smells good now. Also these. The Tailors said yous might like." He hands you a pair of leather arm bands.
> Back to the lift
You take the black belt and bands out of his hands and try to hold as little of them as possible, with a forced smile. The Tanner smiles back at you, oblivious of your disgust.

Ophelia takes your arm. "We have to go now."

The Tanner smiles at you. "Come backs to visit. And if yous wants armours, I cans make it. But laters." His tail wags and he waves at Ophelia.

Ophelia pulls you out of the room and walks off quickly, then runs after reaching the corner.

"I'm sorry. I just can't stand it. He's just so pitiful. I want to hate him, I really do, but I also feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow for him." Her face is white and her hold is gripping your arm so hard it hurts. Her face says not to talk about it anymore, but you have a feeling there's something that she's not telling you.

The smell diminishes as you get farther from the tannery. Once you reach the lift again you put on the belt and bracers, if just to buy some time before you have to step back on it. To your surprise the solution that the Tanner used actually seems to have worked. In fact, they have a slight leather smell, but otherwise are devoid of any discernible smell.

You're about to step back on the lift. If you want to ask Ophelia about the Tanner, now is the time.
> You ask Ophelia about the Tanner

For a second, you're not sure she heard your question. She just holds your arm and pulls you onto the lift. Just when you're about to ask again she answers in a quiet voice, holding her necklace in a tight fist.

"The Tanner is an animal. A nice, good-natured, even gentle thing, despite his appearance and the whispers of some, but an animal nonetheless. He isn't a man -- or maybe isn't one anymore. He can't make the decision to lie or even mislead. If you ask him a question he will answer to the best of his ability. He said you were like Zaren." She trails off.

You want to know why this scares her so much. Maybe you smell like Zaren or something. Ophelia seems to be afraid of him, but why would this bother her so much? You're about to ask when her nails dig into your arm deep enough to cause marks, but not blood.

"I don't want to talk about it. At least not now. Please." And that's all she'll say for now. A forced smile covers her anxious face. "Where to now?" She says, deftly changing the topic. "We've still got things to do yet." She lets go of your arm and lightly touches the mark. "I... Sorry."

The discussion seems to be over. You doubt she'll even respond if you ask again, so you respect the silence, though you are still confused.

The lift starts to move. "So, what's our next destination?"


You take the black belt and bands out of his hands and try to hold as little of them as possible, with a forced smile. The Tanner smiles back at you, oblivious of your disgust.

Ophelia takes your arm. "We have to go now."

The Tanner smiles at you. "Come backs to visit. And if yous wants armours, I cans make it. But laters." His tail wags and he waves at Ophelia.

Ophelia pulls you out of the room and walks off quickly, then runs after reaching the corner.

"I'm sorry. I just can't stand it. He's just so pitiful. I want to hate him, I really do, but I also feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow for him." Her face is white and her hold is gripping your arm so hard it hurts. Her face says not to talk about it anymore, but you have a feeling there's something that she's not telling you.

The smell diminishes as you get farther from the tannery. Once you reach the lift again you put on the belt and bracers, if just to buy some time before you have to step back on it. To your surprise the solution that the Tanner used actually seems to have worked. In fact, they have a slight leather smell, but otherwise are devoid of any discernible smell.

You're about to step back on the lift. If you want to ask Ophelia about the Tanner, now is the time.
> You keep quiet
You close your mouth. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it and you still have things to do before Zaren... Does whatever Zaren does.

You play with the folds of your belt and you and Ophelia stand in silence for a moment.

"Thank you... I just... I'll explain it later. We've things to do now. I understand that things must be confusing for you -- it was for me, and even I had some experience with The Court before I joined it. It just... I've never done this before." Ophelia is quiet with this last sentence. "Zaren has people for this. I don't understand why he told me to help you. Then again, I don't understand why he does anything he does."

The lift starts to move again.

"Where to next?"


"Oh yes. I told you about the "fight" Zaren had. He got rid of all the doors in The Court, except for the large front doors to the palace. Apparently they "took his side". Without doors we lacked privacy, but Zaren didn't care. Probably didn't eve occur to him. But after a few years he had his brilliant idea; fake walls. No one had any idea he could do something like that, but I don't think it surprised anyone. That's why we check the walls. He can build them anywhere he wants, so we must be vigilant, vigilant always. It's tiring at first but you build up a habit eventually."

"Doesn't it... Freak you out?"

"At first it was a little strange, but after a year or two you don't even think about it anymore. You start to forget what doors look like."
> You tailor
"The Tailor? He's been here a very long time, longer than me, longer than most.... He used to be like us. I just barely remember it. He had another name too, but it's so far off I don't have an inkling what it could have been. Anyway he always had a talent for clothing, but he's had a lot of time to perfect his craft as well. Zaren decided he wanted to change The Court to something more like what you see now. He made the Tailor into what he is now so that he could... Well, so that he could be the Tailor. Zaren rubs off on people. He places the seeds of madness in our minds. The Tailor's soul was more fertile than most, but he still retained the appearance of reason. So he gladly accepted his changes and new role. He's happy with it, I think. One of few, but he has a long history here, and a possibly longer future."

"What... Is he?"

"Oh... That's your question. He's a silk worm. Part silk worm at least. At least he used to be a silk worm. I guess he's a moth now."

You don't really want to think about him anymore.


"Now that's a good question. The short answer is: I don't know. Nobody does as far as I know. Except, perhaps, for Zaren, but I don't think he's likely to share that information, do you? You really never went through the slums?" Ophelia narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"I don't know what you mean." You answer truthfully.

"The slums are what they are. A broken down place infested with poverty and suffering. Everyone, nobility and peasants alike, appears in the slums. People don't really have children here. Pregnancy is extremely rare among the population, even over large periods of time. Most women will go their whole life without a child. Most pregnancies will end in miscarriages. Almost all of those carried to term will be stillborn. Of the handful of people over our whole history to be born here... I've never met one. I've heard that they turn out strangely, even compared to the average citizen. Nothing specific, just strange. There are rumours that Zaren is one, but I doubt a thing like him was even born, even in another place. To my knowledge there is no one older than Zaren alive today so I guess we'll never know. Anyway, people will simply "arrive" here instead. From somewhere else. Always... Well, you're the exception, but always in the slums. They're not a pleasant place. The slums are filled with screams and the raving of the mad. The "upper ranks" to which you now belong are comprised of the completely sane, or at least the sanest. Zaren... I don't think he's insane. I've known him too long. No, I think he just likes to watch us suffer in our own filth."

"So you can't tell me anything about where I am."

"No, I can tell you much about where we are. I just don't know where where we are is. I can't tell you anything about where any of us came from. Most people don't remember anything and even if they do it's after a long time of searching. But it just tears them apart. It's best to forget if you start remembering."

"But I... I remember.... Something." You're not sure. It's that faint form of memory, but vivid in strange places. More like a story that you've visualized.

"Forget it. Or if you can't forget it, ignore it. At the very least leave it alone. Do not go any further into that abyss."

But this memory is to real to forget. Ophelia looks at you, rolls her eyes, and sighs. "Okay. Tell me about it, but then that's it. Don't ever think you can make it farther into your own mind. It won't end well."

"I remember. I remember... " Words roll of your tongue as you look through the past towards the only memory you can find.
> You gray
It's soft. It's got pieces branching off of it. It's small and blandly coloured. The colours continue along tiny pieces, like somebody just cut some of it out. This one is small, but you know there are bigger ones.

It's a feather.

You hold it close and peer at it. It looked solid at first, but now you see the little bits of fluff.

The sky is blue and clear and you can see all the birds flying through the skies. Ravens flap in the wind and caw far off. Little songbirds sit on tree branches and tweet songs. Rabbit bolt through every so often.

It's an orchestra of the wild.

There's a slight breeze and the smell of trees. Green is everywhere. Long pieces of grass feel soft under your feet. Leaves and flower buds cover trees. This is it. This is life.

Then it's gone. You have it here in your head now, fixed and alive, something you'll remember. There's more...

But that's gone, at least for now.


The heavy blade is laying on the ground.

Your heart beats.

You survey the fight.

It's a giant mass of men screaming in a variety of different emotions. Joy here, fear there. You can see spectres spectating, watchers watching, and shadows spectating as well, because what else would they do? Be serious.

With all the chaos, if you crouched you could conceivably have more cover. A lower center of gravity would also be a benefit. A quick roll would provide more cover and speed, but lack the same control. The ground, while littered with weapons and bodies, has a clear path to your weapon. You could try to crawl there. This would provide the most cover, but you risk being stepped on, and what you gain in cover you give up in speed.

Beat.

Move now, or risk danger for another look around.
> You crawl
The muscles holding you up loosen and you fall down.

Beat.

Your knees hit the sand and throw up little flecks. You hear a whistling sound.

Beat.

The rest of you falls forward, hands moving in position to cushion your fall.

Beat.

An arrow, bright and deadly, glides over you.

Beat.

You catch the ground and embrace it, pushing forward with your legs.

Beat. Beat.

The battle rages. Hand and elbow crawl forward as you make your way slowly to your weapon. Someone steps backwards into your path. You punch their leg and they fall out of the way. There is no mercy in this moment. Someone else tries to step backwards, but trips over you and falls. Almost there. Your hand is on your weapon now.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

You jump up and swing the blade around. You catch someone just barely on the back of their arm; you run them through and cleanly pull out the blade. In this small space no one can respect the length of the sword, so you kick a few people to clear a space. Something catches you in the side of your head and you fall down and... is that.... bloood.....


The heavy blade is laying on the ground.

Your heart beats.

You survey the fight.

It's a giant mass of men screaming in a variety of different emotions. Joy here, fear there. You can see spectres spectating, watchers watching, and shadows spectating as well, because what else would they do? Be serious.

With all the chaos, if you crouched you could conceivably have more cover. A lower center of gravity would also be a benefit. A quick roll would provide more cover and speed, but lack the same control. The ground, while littered with weapons and bodies, has a clear path to your weapon. You could try to crawl there. This would provide the most cover, but you risk being stepped on, and what you gain in cover you give up in speed.

Beat.

Move now, or risk danger for another look around.
> You roll
Your arms start the long journey up. Your head lowers to meet them.

Beat.

An arrow shines between the blood and the laughter, then disappears.

One leg contracts to bring your body in and the other pushes to give you your momentum. Your heel leaves the sand, then just your toes make contact with the ground, then you're in the air..

Beat.

Your arms cover your head and you bring up one leg. The other pushes as you lean forward and bring your body low and ready for contact with the ground.

Beat.

Something rips through the skin in your left arm, leaving a relatively shallow wound.

Beat.

Beat. Beat.

Your body falls and hits the ground, and with a little effort, the roll is completed.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

You reach the sword and grab it as your legs push you up. You bring the sword up and around to stand between you and the man in front of you.

Another man with a smaller blade tries to stab your side. Your larger blade leaves little time to parry it and even less to regain balance, so you side step instead and let your movement swing the heavy sword around in his direction. He jumps back and knocks your blade just enough to leave him unscathed. Now that you're out of his range, you thrust foward and neatly catch his arm as he tries to avoid the attack. You push foward further and to the right, catching his torso. As you pull back the blade, he collaspes, eyes shut in pain at first, then open as he roars in laughter.

All around you people are dying. Bodies litter the ground and few are left. Such a waste of life. The violent ones are dead, leaving the survivors to look across at each other in both suspicision and dread.

Silence comes across the arena.

The shades gather at the edges and stare at you. One sits alone, on a throne of burning night. It opens its mouth....

"NO! NO! NO NO NO NO! Please, stop! I beg of you!" You plead and cover your ears, but that doesn't alleviate the shattering misery the shade spouts.

You writhe, you writhe, on the ground, tears streaming and blood leaking from your nose and the shades scream and scream and it hurts your heart so close to bursting you thrash and cry and pray but the anthem continues as others join in and they file into the sands as you see through blurry bloody eyes and surround you and rip you apart rip you apart rip you apart fingers and limbs and organs and blood so much blood and the shadows the shadows they scream and scream and scream and...


The heavy blade is laying on the ground.

Your heart beats.

You survey the fight.

It's a giant mass of men screaming in a variety of different emotions. Joy here, fear there. You can see spectres spectating, watchers watching, and shadows spectating as well, because what else would they do? Be serious.

With all the chaos, if you crouched you could conceivably have more cover. A lower center of gravity would also be a benefit. A quick roll would provide more cover and speed, but lack the same control. The ground, while littered with weapons and bodies, has a clear path to your weapon. You could try to crawl there. This would provide the most cover, but you risk being stepped on, and what you gain in cover you give up in speed.

Beat.

Move now, or risk danger for another look around.
> You look

Your eyes flicker and see everything on the battlefield.

Beat. Beat.

Recognition flashes for but a brief moment, as you see the sun shining on the arrow that procedes to catch your throat and rip through flesh to find sweet death. Blood spurts out and you drift into blackness. It feels like an eternity but some part of you knows it's only a beat or two before you die.

Beat. Beat.

Now death is all that is left in your eyes as all traces of you meld into the sands and you are swept away from existence.


Your heart beats.

You stand in an great amphitheatre, on shifting sands. It's quiet for but a moment, and then the clashes of weapons rings out in great echoes, with cheery yells of murder providing a bass quality. Smiles flash all around as people hack or are hacked about and nothing but snorts of laughter without the barest hint of pain accompany the carnage.

Sprays of blood float on the air. Spilled guts and limbs sink deep into the sands. Heads laughing are choking on sand and sweet blood spills out of their lifeless bodies.

You smell gore in the air and it clouds your thoughts. Little droplets rain down in your vision. You count each as they pass. Some spray in the corner of your eye hits your cheek and you can taste the liquid life.

Liquid life.

Life.

You're alive.

Where is your weapon?
> You an axe in the hands of the man to your left
The man next to you screams and whacks a corpse on the ground with your simple battle axe. He smiles and pulls himself up to grip the weapon with two hands and bring it down over the head of another distracted man.

Your heart beats.

You spare a quick glance over the rest of the battlefield.

Men fight all around you, clanging metal and shrieking warriors ringing in your ears. There's laughter, joy, fear, and hatred in those screams. Shadows stand all around the raised edge of the arena, perfectly still.

You need a weapon in your hands, something to defend yourself against this writhing mass of life and death. You need your axe; it's yours. It fits perfectly in your hand and bites at the flesh of your enemies like a loyal dog. There is no question: you must get it back.

Beat.

The man is chopping here and there and everywhere. He's not even holding your axe right.

Beat.

Attack him now and rely on your skills, or sneak up behind him?
> You attack now!
You rush, hoping to catch him unaware. He swings the axe around to his right and slashes another man.

Beat.

Your feet both push you forward and you put your hands into the perfect position to attack himand grab the handle of the axe. Both feet leave the ground and propel you into the man.

Beat.

Your right hand curls to give him a brutal punch with all your weight in his throat. Your left hand opens to grab the axe before he can swing it around to you.

Beat.

Beat. Beat.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Your fist makes contact with him and he falls back a bit, his face twisting in pain. You grab the handle of the axe and wrench it from his grasp as he's weak. Your fist only glances his neck and he recovers quickly to tug back at the axe and kick your shins. You quickly push him off and bring the axe down while he's still weak, but he blocks his face with one arm. There's a sickening thud as you bury it into his shoulder. He tries to pull it out and push you away as adrenaline covers his pain, but you elbow him in the face and kick him to the ground as you pull out the axe.

Laughter takes him and he thrashes about on the ground. You sink the axe into his back and he stops moving, but that laughter continues. You're just about to end his pathetic life when an arrow catches your leg and tears open a huge gash. You collapse onto one knee and drop the axe as someone stabs you with a sword. The end sticks out of your left side and blood flows as the sword is pulled back. You lie on the ground and something bubbles inside of you.

Well now, isn't that funny. You didn't get it before , but now...

It's too much and you giggle until you can't breathe, but even when you try to stop and take a breath all you can feel is that hole in your torso. The other man grabs your hand and lets out a shriek, squeezes, and then his smile is stuck on his dead face. You can't help it. You smile too. And laugh. And laugh and laugh until a sword somehow finds its way into your eye. Woopsy daisy. How'd that get in there?


The man next to you screams and whacks a corpse on the ground with your simple battle axe. He smiles and pulls himself up to grip the weapon with two hands and bring it down over the head of another distracted man.

Your heart beats.

You spare a quick glance over the rest of the battlefield.

Men fight all around you, clanging metal and shrieking warriors ringing in your ears. There's laughter, joy, fear, and hatred in those screams. Shadows stand all around the raised edge of the arena, perfectly still.

You need a weapon in your hands, something to defend yourself against this writhing mass of life and death. You need your axe; it's yours. It fits perfectly in your hand and bites at the flesh of your enemies like a loyal dog. There is no question: you must get it back.

Beat.

The man is chopping here and there and everywhere. He's not even holding your axe right.

Beat.

Attack him now and rely on your skills, or sneak up behind him?
> You sneak up on him
You quickly move around a few fights and dodge a few weak attacks, making your way to the man.

Beat.

He's still whacking into a corpse, though a different one now. His back is to you... It's the perfect time to strike.

Beat.

You lift your hands and go flying into his body, slamming him forward.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Before he can respond your arms are wrapped around his neck from behind. The fool drops your axe on his foot so he can claw at your arms. Chokes and screams are stuck in his throat and there's a wheezing sound; the only air he can get out, and none of it goes back in. You give another squeeze. He beats against your body with one hand, but lacks to strength to do any damage, already fading.

Suddenly, something hits you in the leg. You collaspe onto the man and look to it. An arrow is sprouting from your leg like a plant in the dirt. At the sudden shock of it you let go of the man and he tries to turn around. Before either of you realize what's happening your hand is on the axe and the axe flying to towards his head... And then his head is flying off by itself. The warm blood hits you like a geyser. You roll around and sit up.

Another arrow grows in your shoulder. You aren't sure when that happened. You can barely feel it now, barely feel anything. A gurgle and a giggle are swallowed by blood in your mouth, when you realize there's another arrow there. You fall back, trying to laugh and just barely managed to make a sound. You're drowning now... Drowning in your own blood... And losing to much of it... And...

It's... Funny. Funny. Haha funny. And then it's nothing, nothing but black.


Colourful fine carpets cover all the walls, some more rugs hanging over them in turn.

The carpets are like a dark, dull rainbow. The carpet itself is black, with colours seeming floating over it like a reflection in water. The colours swirl and mix and seperate so slowly you have to careful look before you see the emerging patterns of dancing colours.. You watch a batch of a grey blue twirl around with concentrated yellow and green drops, absorbing them.

The rugs draped over them like curtains over imaginary windows are stationary pictures of outfits, each in a different pose. They continue from down the walls onto the floor and a few hang from the ceiling. You recognize a few outfits, but what really catches your eye is the one hidden on the far left, the one that looks just like Zaren's black finery. It's the only one with a person in the clothes.

Zaren's in it, posed elegantly in his black and gold coat. His arms are raised as if to greet you, but his face perfectly shows his comtempt at your very existance. All but his eyes, which are laughing. You do not know if the contempt is the joke.

There is a man behind that insanity, you are sure of it. Whether the insanity is a cover or not, you do not know.

You look back at the swirling patterns. They are starting to resemble pictures now, just barely, but the proper shades are coming in...
> A library
Hundreds of volumes of large tomes cover shelves that reach up to the very high ceiling. You are in narrow crack between two long shelves. You walk through the space between the shelves, trailing your hands on the book. The shelves are so close you can't help but bump into a book here and there. The shelves are so large and heavy they don't make even the slighest movement when you fall against one accidently.

You've tripped over a ladder. It's laid along the ground, edges from shelf to shelf, the same kind as there is in every other row. They were used to reach the books once, but no one reads these records anymore. Now they just keep the space between the shelves uniform. Those maps hate being in the same place as the other non fiction and always try to push the shelves apart.

The books are all a dull green, faded from dust and time. They are larger than usual. Each one is about as wide as your palm and the same length as your arms. They are stuffed in very tightly, leaving not one inch of space. You wouldn't want to have the job of putting them into the shelves.

You reach one end of the row. There's next to no room between the wall and the shelf, but you manage to squeeze through. The rows of shelves seem to go on forever in this direction. You use the next row to turn around and face the other way. The shelves end a few rows up, so you head that direction. You come out into a small space between a shelf and the grey stone wall.

There's a door here you could try it but it's locked. Oh. There's also another small shelf here at the end of the row. You look at the small selection it has. Most are records of the books in this library. They include just a topic and a number. There are too many books to even list the names in this tiny shelf.

Three books that are not records draw your attention.
> You pick up the small brown book
You pick up the small brown book. Its wretched condition is something compared to even the oldest and worst kept tomes you've seen.You take out a sheet of paper to record its name.

The ratty cover nearly comes off when you lift it to turn to the first page. There's no title or author listed, just a strange star design in the center of the page. You copy onto another piece of paper with your fountain pen the design as best you can and place it beside you so you can request another copy of whatever this book is.

You turn the page as carefully as you can. The thin paper seems almost as if to look at it would shred it.

It's another design. With your vast experience what? in many different languages and the writing of many different authors, in the books prior to the invention of the printing press of course, you can easily see that the symbols were of the same hand. You turn the pages, seeing nothing but strange symbols belonging to no language you can recognize. Even then, it should have repeated characters, but each design is different, leading you to believe it is no language, simply meaningless symbols.

The next page is torn in the center where the symbol would be. Through the hole you can the next page is blank.

You check the torn page; it's a violent rip but does not look in danger of growing and the rest of the page is blank anyway.

But there's something about that blank page...

You look at it carefully. There! A shape! A rip! A tear! That wasn't you, you're careful. You haven't ripped a page in... Well, it's been so long you've forgotten.

That's not a rip though... It's growing, like a burn. You set the book down away from the others to keep the fire from spreading but... It's not hot. It's not smoking. Still, the pages burn through.

Fiery shapes grow... Why, it's almost moving... It's beautiful. You can't.... You can't look away.

The ash blows up through the windless air and the sparks bloom into flowers of fire. It's an inferno bubble around you. Your skin burns and blackens and crackles. You can see through the fire now.... In the fire now... It's...


Hundreds of volumes of large tomes cover shelves that reach up to the very high ceiling. You are in narrow crack between two long shelves. You walk through the space between the shelves, trailing your hands on the book. The shelves are so close you can't help but bump into a book here and there. The shelves are so large and heavy they don't make even the slighest movement when you fall against one accidently.

You've tripped over a ladder. It's laid along the ground, edges from shelf to shelf, the same kind as there is in every other row. They were used to reach the books once, but no one reads these records anymore. Now they just keep the space between the shelves uniform. Those maps hate being in the same place as the other non fiction and always try to push the shelves apart.

The books are all a dull green, faded from dust and time. They are larger than usual. Each one is about as wide as your palm and the same length as your arms. They are stuffed in very tightly, leaving not one inch of space. You wouldn't want to have the job of putting them into the shelves.

You reach one end of the row. There's next to no room between the wall and the shelf, but you manage to squeeze through. The rows of shelves seem to go on forever in this direction. You use the next row to turn around and face the other way. The shelves end a few rows up, so you head that direction. You come out into a small space between a shelf and the grey stone wall.

There's a door here you could try it but it's locked. Oh. There's also another small shelf here at the end of the row. You look at the small selection it has. Most are records of the books in this library. They include just a topic and a number. There are too many books to even list the names in this tiny shelf.

Three books that are not records draw your attention.
> You pick up the grey book
You pick up the grey book. With just that slight movement a huge cloud appears. As you discover through the huge dust cloud and your tears, it's actually a very old blue book, not grey.

You walk through the cloud, past the door, and sit down where the air is clearer. You open up the blue book to the first page. In large flowery letters the title is written, "The Journals of Pip: Volume 8". Below that, "His Search For the History of the Colour Blue".

You turn the page to read tiny block letters.

"In his first year of journal writing, three years before his first published novel, "Theories on the Disappearance of Gravity During the Great Regression" (since which it has been discovered that spontaneously reverting the universe to a previous state may cause gravity to turn into small quantities of gravy, one of the outlined theories connecting the disappearance with the large increase in gravy mining during the years affected), Pip completed a few journals. One of these was a detailed plan and record of his three month long search for the nature and history of the colour blue. In the following pages you will see his journey as he discovers blue."

"I have tracked it to a cave near the Grinning Stones. At first their wide mouths and the little giggles unnerved me, but I have grown used to their strange habits now. It has been nearly a week since I have seen it enter the cave, but I know it is in there. I hear the little snores before I sleep, "blu-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.... blu-o-o-o-o-o-o-o..." it calls. At dawn it will wake me up with a "Cocklebluedoblue!"

You close the book. You just can't read through this radical nonsense. You've read through Pip's research; it's very good. But the man obviously has some trouble telling reality from fiction in his everyday life. You've been to the Grinning Stones; there are no caves anywhere near that region. It's too bad, he was a smart man. A little jerky and obsessive, but smart nonetheless.

But you have to admit, those stones are creepy, especially at night.

You pick it up and start on the... long, long journey, to row J786.


Hundreds of volumes of large tomes cover shelves that reach up to the very high ceiling. You are in narrow crack between two long shelves. You walk through the space between the shelves, trailing your hands on the book. The shelves are so close you can't help but bump into a book here and there. The shelves are so large and heavy they don't make even the slighest movement when you fall against one accidently.

You've tripped over a ladder. It's laid along the ground, edges from shelf to shelf, the same kind as there is in every other row. They were used to reach the books once, but no one reads these records anymore. Now they just keep the space between the shelves uniform. Those maps hate being in the same place as the other non fiction and always try to push the shelves apart.

The books are all a dull green, faded from dust and time. They are larger than usual. Each one is about as wide as your palm and the same length as your arms. They are stuffed in very tightly, leaving not one inch of space. You wouldn't want to have the job of putting them into the shelves.

You reach one end of the row. There's next to no room between the wall and the shelf, but you manage to squeeze through. The rows of shelves seem to go on forever in this direction. You use the next row to turn around and face the other way. The shelves end a few rows up, so you head that direction. You come out into a small space between a shelf and the grey stone wall.

There's a door here you could try it but it's locked. Oh. There's also another small shelf here at the end of the row. You look at the small selection it has. Most are records of the books in this library. They include just a topic and a number. There are too many books to even list the names in this tiny shelf.

Three books that are not records draw your attention.
> You pick up the gigantic green and gold book
You place your hands over the gigantic book. It has a smooth and soft cover. Hands on the sides of it you strain to lift the thing, but settle for sliding it out instead. You sit down by the door so you can place the thing on your lap

You turn it around and lift the cover. Inside is written I can't understand this language "Sinful Lake" in large, golden letters on a black page. It's written in the formal language of birds that are red. You'd think that birds, even just red birds, would only need a single language to communicate, but you must admit, you like the formal language over the everyday filth they will typically squak in. It's a good thing both languages are part of their education system.

You turn the page. There is a diagram of a regular looking oak tree in white and more golden writing.

"Quercus miaxia, also known as the Sinful Oak, is a species of oak tree that exists solely in the region of Sinful Lake. It is the only thing that will grow anywhere within a mile of the stagnant, murky waters. They often grow much denser and taller than other oak trees, but besides that, their diet, and their peculiar taste in soil, they are nearly indistinguishable from Quercus prinus. The Sinful Line is the tree line beyond which they cannot survive. It creates a very noticable change between thick forestation and bare plains.

Boring

You flip ahead a few pages.

However, there has been some controversy over their diet. They have been known to trap smaller prey with the use of a sap that first traps them and with an oxydizing process begins to digest in a very slow manner. The tree will then grow around the trapped prey, which is often still alive through most of the  process. After the prey is absorbed the tree will shrink down around the space the prey has left, with only the bones of the prey remaining. Certain logs found with the bones of what is agreed to be a extinct canine species with a bone structure remarkably similar to humans in the center is the cause of some very unfortunate rumours for us who study these awe inspiring trees.

These rumours that they can trap and eat humans are completely unfounded. The numerous expeditions that into the Sinful Lake region that have disappeared are agreed to have traveled through the Lake into a little known bed and breakfast that exists on the other side. Numerous letters and records are listed in volume 2 and 3 of this series to prove this.

You flip back to the beginning. "Sinful Lake". Under that in very tiny letters it reads "A study by Quercus miaxia Bob".

You pick up the book with some effort and make your way to row A139 to replace it.