Nevermore
Nate Cull
adaptation alchemy basic difficulty built-in hints drugs Edgar Allan Poe homage horror IF Competition 2000 IFComp Game Lovecraftian male protagonist multiple endings short length walkthrough Xyzzy Awards 2000
A short tale of mystery and madness inspired by Poe's "The Raven".
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Study (on the velvet couch)
Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.

NEVERMORE is a work of Interactive Fiction by Nate Cull (culln@xtra.co.nz), written for the 2000 IF Competition, and based very loosely on the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe. All box quotes are from the www.eserver.org text of the poem. Everything else is original, bears no relation to any known literary work or historical fact, and is quite probably indicative of some deep unresolved psychological trauma in the author's childhood.

For help at any time, type HINT. To see if the game is still winnable, type WINNABLE.

Thanks to: the ifMUD gang at http://ifmud.port4000.com for support with Inform coding lore and a constant supply of monkey jokes; Admiral Jota and the Emily who is not called Emily, for help with Latin; and various betatesters including Peter Berman, Doug Jones and Nick Montfort. Also, to L. Ross Raszewski for his wonderful Hints.h hint library.

You are granted unconditional right to freely copy and distribute this game, in any form, as long as it remains unaltered. This includes the right to commercial redistribution. If you obtained this game on a CD-ROM, or as part of any other commercial distribution, you should be aware that you do not owe the author or any other entity anything for playing or copying it.

If you have difficulty finding the latest version, or you would simply like to talk to a human about this game, post a message on the Usenet newsgroup rec.games.int-fiction, or failing that, feel free to email the author.

Dedicated to: Alex. Want corknut! Awwk!
You look at the desk
A relic from Byzantine days, perhaps. It was the first piece of furniture you touched as a child, and the oldest you have seen in all your travels. Simply a slab of polished oak, with four curiously carved legs, and nothing more. On the desk are a paper sachet, an oil-lamp and Concerning Immortality.

You hear the tapping sound again.
You check what you're carrying
You are carrying:
a gold ring (being worn)

A staccato rap echoes through the room.
You examine the sachet
A thin paper envelope, of the kind in which exotic substances are stored. The sachet is closed.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
You open the sachet
You open the paper sachet, revealing coca powder.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
You examine the Immortality
"Some Thoughts Concerning Immortality and The Means Thereof", by Ambrosius of Cyrene (a copy, not the original, as the pages of this slim volume date no earlier than the fifteenth century). A most difficult book, but you have returned to its pages many times; surely, the key to the whole process must be here, if only you could read its meaning.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.
You look at the coca
A white powder consisting of an extract of the South American coca leaf, which an acquaintance in Mexico has found a new process of refining.
You sniff the coca
You inhale a quantity of coca powder.

A sense of raw alertness rushes through your nerves, setting them all on edge.
About yourself
You look like a gentleman of ease, but that is not how you feel.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.

The coca rush fades, but the sense of alertness remains.
You open the window
You swing wide the shutters, letting the cold night air gust into the room.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
You examine the curtains
Purple silken curtains hang down each side of the window, and extend around the room to soften the harsh stonework. A cold draft from the window is billowing the curtains outward into the room, leaving a slight gap between them and the wall.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
You look at lamp
An oil-lamp of copper and glass, warm to the touch and old as time. Like the desk it is a family heirloom, predating perhaps even the tower itself. It burns with a soft, subtle light, casting strange shadows in all directions.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
You look in the gap
You find nothing of interest.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
Close window
You pull the shutters closed, sealing out the cold night air.
You look behind the curtains
The curtains are flush against the stone walls, concealing whatever might be there.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
You take the lamp
Taken.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
You look behind the curtains
You swing wide the shutters, letting the cold night air gust into the room.

The gentle tapping sounds again.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
There seems to be a substantial gap between the curtains and the stone wall, into which with a little effort you could insinuate yourself.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
You listen
It is hard to pinpoint the sound; it seems to shift as you listen.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
You touch the curtains
You feel nothing unexpected.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.
You stand
Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.
You look at Pallas
The eyes of Pallas, Greek goddess of Wisdom, stare back at you from white unblinking marble, under locks of pale sculpted hair. She of all the Classical pantheon was your patron; though now after the horror your studies have wrought, it is hard to look her in the face.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
You take Pallas
That's hardly portable.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
You touch the couch
You feel nothing unexpected.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
Kiss pallas
You can only do that to something animate.
You get the hair
That's hardly portable.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
You move the hair
You tip back the goddess' sculpted hair, revealing a hollow space inside the bust, inside which you can see a peyote button, an opium pipe and opium resin.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
You look at the peyote
A small round button of dried peyote cactus, obtained from a South American shaman.

The gentle tapping sounds again.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You take all from Pallas
peyote button: Removed.
opium pipe: Removed.
opium resin: Removed.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You eat the peyote
You chew a little of the bitter cactus slowly. Most of the button remains intact.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.

An odd, visionary feeling stabs at your eyelids.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You open the window
That's already open.

Your surroundings shift weirdly; a vision forms itself before your eyes.

The room is much larger; or you are much younger. Your father sits at the writing desk, poring over obscure books. His hair is grey, his face lined with care. The purple curtains, vast and shadowy, billow above you in a draft from the window; the gap between them and the floor seems cavernous. You toddle toward the gap. Somewhere, a raven caws...

The visionary sense fades, and normal sight returns.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You put the resin in the pipe
You put opium resin into the opium pipe.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You examine the curtains
Purple silken curtains hang down each side of the window, and extend around the room to soften the harsh stonework. A cold draft from the window is billowing the curtains outward into the room, leaving a slight gap between them and the wall.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You put the resin in the pipe
You need to be holding opium resin before you can put it into something else.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.

The sense of awful weariness grows stronger and heavier every moment.
You enter the gap
You step cautiously behind the curtains...

Here behind the curtains, you have discovered a tiny alcove of stonework, hidden from the rest of your study. The purple silk billows out around you, dim firelight casting strange disturbing shadows onto the ancient masonry. Old memories rise, of hiding here as a child while your father worked at his books. Those days are long gone, but something urges you to stay and watch the play of light and colour.

The sense of awful weariness grows stronger and heavier every moment.
You get the resin
You remove the opium resin from the pipe.

The gentle tapping sounds again.

The sense of dreadful weariness has nearly overpowered you. You must revive yourself, urgently.
You sniff the coca
You can't see any such thing.

You can't see any such thing.
Go outside
Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.

A staccato rap echoes through the room.

A bone-deep weariness seizes you, and you are unable to take another step. Your eyes close, you slump against the stone, and darkness overwhelms your mind.

Slowly, the dream begins to darken. There are screams, echoes, footsteps running down nameless corridors. Your feet are cold on haunted stone, forever following Lenore's distant echo, forever pursued...

The dream fades to reality. A confusion of images; a precipice, falling... and then your head strikes stone, and reality ends.

It is a dangerous place, this tower, to dream alone.

Please give one of the answers above.
You stand
You get off the velvet couch.

Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.

You hear the tapping sound again.
You examine the couch
A velvet-inlaid couch -- what the Italians call a loveseat -- from the early Renaissance period, a souvenir of your travels in Rome. You bought it to please Lenore, and it was a wise choice.
About yourself
You look like a gentleman of ease, but that is not how you feel.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
You look at the desk
A relic from Byzantine days, perhaps. It was the first piece of furniture you touched as a child, and the oldest you have seen in all your travels. Simply a slab of polished oak, with four curiously carved legs, and nothing more. On the desk are a paper sachet, an oil-lamp and Concerning Immortality.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
Xyzzy
The name of old, lost magic briefly echoes, then is gone.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
You take all from the desk
paper sachet: Removed.
oil-lamp: Removed.
Concerning Immortality: Removed.
You say lenore
(to yourself)
There is no reply.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.
You take all from Pallas
You tip back the goddess' sculpted hair, revealing a hollow space inside the bust, inside which you can see a peyote button, an opium pipe and opium resin.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
peyote button: Removed.
opium pipe: Removed.
opium resin: Removed.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You open the sachet
You open the paper sachet, revealing coca powder.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.

Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.

There is silence for a moment; then the soft rapping returns.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You go southeast
Stone columns, either side of the northwest arch to your study, brace the ceiling, whose upper reaches are lost in darkness that your lamp cannot pierce. The hallway winds deeper into the tower to the northeast; but a faint wisp of draft seeps in from the south.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You sniff the coca
You inhale a quantity of coca powder.

The gentle tapping sounds again.

A sense of raw alertness rushes through your nerves, setting them all on edge.
South
The great iron gate to the south, black as time, stands here to seal the tower's entrance. A dark corridor, worn by countless centuries of forgotten feet, leads back north into the cryptic maze which you -- and in those brief, happy, vanished days, Lenore -- once called a home.

There is a sudden scratching and scrabbling beyond the iron gate, as of some creature seeking admittance. Then the sound is gone as quickly as it came.

The coca rush fades, but the sense of alertness remains.
You open gate
You unbolt the great iron gate and swing it slowly open, revealing the night outside.

The gentle tapping sounds again.
You go south
Here at the tower's brink, a sheer staircase carved into the living rock falls down the cliff into blackness. Behind you, to the north, stands the great iron gate. The tower rises above you, shapeless and gaunt; the night is bleak, windy, with all moon and stars fled, leaving only the unfathomable emptiness of the distant plain, invisible far below.

A small bright object glitters halfway down the cliff, well out of reach.

Out of the silence comes a quiet sense of motion, as if some creature were circling further around the tower, searching for a more subtle approach. The lamp gutters erratically for a moment. The sound retreats; perhaps it was simply your fevered imagination.
Down
Even with a lamp, you would not chance these stairs in the darkness. The merest slip would send you plummeting.
You look at the opium
Which do you mean, opium resin or the opium pipe?
Resin
A black wad of opium resin for smoking, prepared to a closely-guarded Tong formula for maximum potency and speed.
You examine the coca
A white powder consisting of an extract of the South American coca leaf, which an acquaintance in Mexico has found a new process of refining.

Lightning forks the sky overhead, followed immediately by clamouring thunder.
You look at the peyote
A small round button of dried peyote cactus, obtained from a South American shaman.

You try to read, but the strange words blear and swirl in the lamplight. Perhaps in your study you will be able to make more sense of them.
Go down
Even with a lamp, you would not chance these stairs in the darkness. The merest slip would send you plummeting.

The coca rush fades, but the sense of alertness remains.
You jump
The cold night beckons seductively, but you resist. There is work you must be about.

Lightning forks the sky overhead, followed immediately by clamouring thunder.
You go north
The great iron gate to the south, black as time, stands here to seal the tower's entrance. A dark corridor, worn by countless centuries of forgotten feet, leads back north into the cryptic maze which you -- and in those brief, happy, vanished days, Lenore -- once called a home.
You go north
You pause. The wind is cold, and a storm is brewing. It would not be prudent to leave the gate ajar, on such a night as this.
You close the gate
You pull the great iron gate to and bolt it carefully.
Go north
Stone columns, either side of the northwest arch to your study, brace the ceiling, whose upper reaches are lost in darkness that your lamp cannot pierce. The hallway winds deeper into the tower to the northeast; but a faint wisp of draft seeps in from the south.
Go northwest
Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.

The room is still for a moment, and then the gentle rapping continues.
You open window
You swing wide the shutters, letting the cold night air gust into the room.

In a sudden flurry of wings, a night-black raven flits through the lattice and into the room. It circles silently, fixing you with a baleful stare, then folds its wings and roosts on the bust of Pallas, above the archway. Her marble hair moves with a slight 'chink' as it lands.
You examine Raven
A bird of night-black plumage, stern and lordly in its bearing, the raven returns your stare with an unwinking eye, and gives no hint of what it might signify.

The raven preens its feathers.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
You ask Raven about Lenore
There is no reply.

The raven watches you silently from the bust of Pallas.

The curtains billow gently in the draft.
You give the peyote to Raven
The raven doesn't seem interested.

The raven shifts slightly on the bust of Pallas, with a soft 'chink'.
You ask Raven about the key
There is no reply.

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
Go south
Cold stone blocks your way.

The raven eyes you balefully.
You go to the southeast
Stone columns, either side of the northwest arch to your study, brace the ceiling, whose upper reaches are lost in darkness that your lamp cannot pierce. The hallway winds deeper into the tower to the northeast; but a faint wisp of draft seeps in from the south.

The raven flutters after you.
You go south
The great iron gate to the south, black as time, stands here to seal the tower's entrance. A dark corridor, worn by countless centuries of forgotten feet, leads back north into the cryptic maze which you -- and in those brief, happy, vanished days, Lenore -- once called a home.

The raven flutters after you.
You open gate
You unbolt the great iron gate and swing it slowly open, revealing the night outside.
You go to the south
Here at the tower's brink, a sheer staircase carved into the living rock falls down the cliff into blackness. Behind you, to the north, stands the great iron gate. The tower rises above you, shapeless and gaunt; the night is bleak, windy, with all moon and stars fled, leaving only the unfathomable emptiness of the distant plain, invisible far below.

A small bright object glitters halfway down the cliff, well out of reach.

The raven flutters after you.
You get the object
The raven has better things to do.

The raven flutters into the air, circling the rock stairs, then dives for the tiny glittering object. It rises, circles, and with a self-satisfied flurry returns to your side, dropping a small silver key at your feet.
You get the key
Taken.

Lightning forks the sky overhead, followed immediately by clamouring thunder.
You look at the key
It is the small silver key to your laboratory, that you threw away last night in a fit of terror and now has been recovered by the raven. Perhaps that grim bird is an omen of good, after all. Perhaps you now have a chance to reverse the disaster you caused.

The raven preens its feathers.

The great iron gate to the south, black as time, stands here to seal the tower's entrance. A dark corridor, worn by countless centuries of forgotten feet, leads back north into the cryptic maze which you -- and in those brief, happy, vanished days, Lenore -- once called a home.

The raven flutters after you.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You sniff the coca
You inhale a quantity of coca powder.

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"

A sense of raw alertness rushes through your nerves, setting them all on edge.
Go north
You pause. The wind is cold, and a storm is brewing. It would not be prudent to leave the gate ajar, on such a night as this.

The raven preens its feathers.

The coca rush fades, but the sense of alertness remains.
You close the gate
You pull the great iron gate to and bolt it carefully.

The raven screeches discordantly.
You go northeast
The dust of ages -- and of your family for so many generations -- clings to crooked stone walls, here in this gallery that twists from southwest to east as it winds through the tower and ends at a stout wooden door. Wider archways open to the north and southeast.

A portrait of Lenore, radiant on your wedding day, adorns the wall.

The raven flutters after you, and perches on the portrait.
You look at the portrait
It is Lenore as she was and as you always wish to remember her -- and though memory is cruel, it is all that now remains of the most joyous time in your life. The portrait was painted by a master in Venice on finest canvas,  and it is worth a princely sum, though you care little for its value in gold.

Tears flow unbidden from your eyes, at the sight of what -- if tonight you fail -- you have lost forever.

The raven screeches discordantly.
Go north
The stacks of obscure volumes tower to the vaulted ceiling. Your father had eclectic tastes in literature, and you have extended his collection with your own research. Many of these manuscripts are originals, costly in both getting and reading. A dark archway to the south leads back out to the gallery.

The raven swoops into the room, and perches on the stacks.

Your tears continue to flow.
Examine books
The stacks of books fill the spaces all around you. Your eye is drawn chiefly to Ex Sanguine Vita, Adams' Pharmacopia, Inhumanities, Principia Caelestium Mysteriorum and Arts of the Chaldean Magi.

The raven screeches discordantly.

Your tears run dry, but the grief remains.
You examine the pharmacopia
"Pharmacopia", a recent monogram by the Reverend Doctor Charles Fitzworth Adams of Oxford, is a brief scholarly investigation of the reputed properties of certain notable herbal and chemical substances, and their association with religious rituals. It is useful mainly as a general guide to the field; you have found practical experience to be a more enlightening path of research.

The raven screeches discordantly.
You look up the peyote in the pharmacopia
You discover nothing of interest in Adams' Pharmacopia.

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"
You read the pharmacopia
You try to read, but the strange words blear and swirl in the lamplight. Perhaps in your study you will be able to make more sense of them.

The raven preens its feathers.
You take the books
There are far too many books to remove them all. You should select a volume by name.

The raven stares down from the stacks.
You take all from the shelves
Ex Sanguine Vita: Removed.
Adams' Pharmacopia: Removed.
Inhumanities: Removed.
Principia Caelestium Mysteriorum: Removed.
Arts of the Chaldean Magi: Removed.

The raven pecks at a dusty volume.
Go south
The dust of ages -- and of your family for so many generations -- clings to crooked stone walls, here in this gallery that twists from southwest to east as it winds through the tower and ends at a stout wooden door. Wider archways open to the north and southeast.

A portrait of Lenore, radiant on your wedding day, adorns the wall.

The raven flutters after you, and perches on the portrait.
You go east
The wooden door is closed, and bars your way.

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"
You open the door
It seems to be locked.

The raven preens its feathers.
You unlock the door with the key
You unlock the wooden door.

The raven shifts its grip on the portrait.
Go east
The wooden door is closed, and bars your way.

The raven eyes you balefully.
You open the door
You open the wooden door.

The raven screeches discordantly.
Go east
The place of your secret labor and craft, where even Lenore did not lightly enter -- oh, if only she had not! -- and no other friends have ever been invited. The room is small, though not cramped, for all the elements and reagents are precisely in their places on the low wooden table. A space extends a little beyond, to the southeast, and there the darkness is complete. The wooden door is to the west.

The raven swoops into the room, perching on the table.

A dull, dark weariness drifts over you.
You sniff the coca
You inhale a quantity of coca powder.

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"

A sense of raw alertness rushes through your nerves, setting them all on edge.
You examine table
The wooden table is simple, hewn from a single slab of living oak, representing the unity of all things and the constant striving for growth and knowledge in the craft. It is also old, an artifact from a certain French metaphysical society whose roots, some scholars believe, go back to Solomon the Wise.

On the table are a skull mortar, a glass retort, a cask of aqua vitae, a bottle of aqua regis, a flask of quicksilver, a vial of brimstone, a porcelain platter and a lightning cage.

The raven preens its feathers.

A faint tingling runs down your spine.

The coca rush fades, but the sense of alertness remains.
You read pharmacopia
You try to read, but the strange words blear and swirl in the lamplight. Perhaps in your study you will be able to make more sense of them.

The raven leers at you from the table.

The lightning-cage sparks faintly for a moment. A storm must be gathering outside; but either it is too distant, or the lightning-trap is too ineffectual, to capture more than a ghost of its power.
You go to the north-west
Stone walls, wreathed in shadows and velvet curtains, rise into the gloom overhead. The old oak writing desk -- once your father's, now your own -- is wedged beneath the window lattice, with a velvet couch before it. A low fire smoulders in its ancient hearth. To the southeast, a bust of Pallas sits atop an arch with darkness beyond.

The raven follows you through the archway, and roosts on the bust of Pallas.
Inventory
You are carrying:
Arts of the Chaldean Magi
Principia Caelestium Mysteriorum
Inhumanities
Adams' Pharmacopia
Ex Sanguine Vita
a silver key
opium resin
an opium pipe
a peyote button
Concerning Immortality
an oil-lamp (providing light)
a paper sachet (which is open)
coca powder
a gold ring (being worn)

The raven watches you silently from the bust of Pallas.
You read the inhumanities
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Inhumanities, and discover:

"The Death of the Messenger: this is how it came to be. The Bright Messenger did travel to the Temple in search of Living Water, but he found neither King nor Queen. When the Weight of the World did press upon him sorely, and after three days and nights he fell into the Pit. This is the Death of the Messenger."

The raven screeches discordantly.

The curtains billow gently in the draft.
You read the Arts
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Arts of the Chaldean Magi, and discover:

"Concerning Signs, Seals and Sigils: let the Scholar of these Arts be Warned most Sorely that he Obey all the Law as Instructed, with no Shade of Turning nor Repentance. For the Spirit be Strong, and the Flesh Weak. This is the Greatest Error in the Art."

The raven preens its feathers.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
You read principia
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Principia Caelestium Mysteriorum, and discover:

"Water of the King; most rare, most deadly. Tears, and Grief, and Ruin of Great Houses are its part. Yet may it Move the Highest to Compassion."

The raven eyes you balefully.
You read the pharmacopia
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Adams' Pharmacopia, and discover:

"The properties of the cola nut are as yet unknown, although some personal research in the South Seas suggests that when combined with coca leaf and the juice of the sugar cane, it may make for a potent and greatly addictive tonic, whose use could rival alcohol in the future. This, however, is merely the author's speculation and has no basis in scientific prediction."

The raven screeches discordantly.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
You read the pharmacopia
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Adams' Pharmacopia, and discover:

"The leaves of the hasheesh or hemp, when dried and smoked, may produce a sensation of relaxation and general suggestibility. In combination with certain rhythmical musical ceremonies such as the drumming rituals of Africa or the dances of Jamaica, these leaves have been long associated with the sprit world."

The raven watches you silently from the bust of Pallas.

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
You read the pharmacopia
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Adams' Pharmacopia, and discover:

"Peyote, a cactus found on the American continent, when dried in "button" form has remarkable properties of provoking visionary states of mind and has been used extensively by native shamans in magical rituals, where it is said to provide great wisdom and insight. It does not induce sleep, however, which makes its use all the more controversial."

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"
You continue
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Adams' Pharmacopia, and discover:

"The leaf of the coca plant is a mild stimulant and is most effective when prepared as a herbal tonic for the refreshment of body and mind during times of great fatigue. However, excessive use without pause for recuperation of stamina may cause mental or bodily collapse."

The raven eyes you balefully.
You keep going
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Adams' Pharmacopia, and discover:

"Opium is beneficial generally as an hypnotic and sedative; it induces a state of sleepfulness and promotes vivid and imaginative dreams. It has few side effects beyond the occasional tendency toward hallucinations and sleepwalking, though care should be taken not to prescribe it for long periods. In times of extreme stress and panic it can be an essential restorative to calm the mind."

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"

The curtains billow gently in the draft.
You keep going
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Adams' Pharmacopia, and discover:

"The leaf of the coca plant is a mild stimulant and is most effective when prepared as a herbal tonic for the refreshment of body and mind during times of great fatigue. However, excessive use without pause for recuperation of stamina may cause mental or bodily collapse."

The raven eyes you balefully.

The curtains move softly, caressed by the breeze.
You read vita
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Ex Sanguine Vita, and discover:

"That "the Life is in the Blood" is no idle saying; it is the Foundation of all that the Art seeks to work on Earth, under the Heavens."

The raven preens its feathers.
Continue
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Ex Sanguine Vita, and discover:

"Blood of the Sacrifice, being a most Efficacious Remedy for the Restitution of things Lost and the means of their Return; it is Substance of Absence, Substance of Presence, Water of the Heart, and the Beloved Ash, all upon Desire."

(This entire paragraph has been heavily underlined.)

The raven preens its feathers.
You continue
You hunt feverishly through the pages of Ex Sanguine Vita, and discover:

"The Elements of the Earth, that is, of the Life, are not to be mixed with those of Heaven; they are to remain Apart, in a Vessel called and chosen for themselves. That is their place and portion."

The raven caws. "Nevermore!"

An icy gust from the window sends the curtains reeling.
Hint
N = next subject                                        P = previous RETURN = read subject                                Q = resume game

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