text: [Themes: Fantasy, beach]
  
  > go downwards
  If you want to jump off the pier, you should say so. Otherwise, there is no way down.
  
  You let the brick hang lower, and it relieves the soreness in your arms a bit, but your lower back strains as it's forced to pick up the slack.
  
  The old man pulls a flask from his pocket and takes a hearty swig.
  
  > jump off the Pier
  The old man watches with flinty eyes as you set the brick on the railing and then climb over, coming to rest on the outside of the railing with your heels hanging over open air. Suddenly, you realize you won't be able to turn around while carrying the brick. You swallow and resign yourself to going off backwards. A trembling spasm flits through your calves as you raise the brick. You count three, take a deep breath, and... jump! You fall fast and hit the water, hard, with your face, throwing spray everywhere. The weight of the brick drags you down fast, faster. You fall down and down alongside an enormous dropping slope, and the water turns cold around you while the pressure pierces your ears with shards of glass. You throw back your head and howl in pain, losing most of your air in a glittering swarm of bubbles, and still you fall into darkness. But below you is a speck of light, and even as you fall from the sunlight, this new light gives you hope. It grows as the sun diminishes, and though it gives off no warmth, it cheers you slightly. The barbed pain in your ears subsides. You fall further and further, and finally, you hit bottom with a dull thud that raises a cloud of mud. When the mud clears you find you've somehow lost track of the brick.
  
  Underwater, (drifting)
  You're at the bottom of a long, precipitous slope. The cold and pressure are intense. Judging by the dim light, you must be many fathoms below the surface. It's astonishing that you made it this deep without any diving equipment. An enticing beam of light in these frigid, sub-arctic depths has resolved into... the huge staring eye of an enormous octopus!
  
  Your lungs are almost empty of air after your long descent. You can already feel burning tendrils of pain spreading through your chest.
  
  > look at the octopus
  You examine the 'octopus' more closely. You can see now that it's nothing more than a rusty old diving bell. But it really does look like an enormous octopus stretching up from the ocean floor. Its rusting, barnacle encrusted head is supported by four thin, stilted tentacles which disappear into the swirling sands. Completing the illusion are a pair of plate sized eyes, which stare at you with shining intensity while producing the light that lured you so deep.
  
  A few small bubbles escape your lips, glittering in the light as they rise towards the surface.
  
  The burning pain in your lungs grows stronger, triggering the first feelings of panic and setting your heart racing.
  
  > look through the porthole
  You glance out the porthole expecting to see little more than muck and murk. Instead, you're confronted with a breathtaking vision. The stygian depths have parted to permit a single powerful beam of sunlight, which illuminates a scene of startling beauty. The ocean floor beyond the portholes is grown over with a coral reef that swarms with a kaleidoscopic variety of life. Brain coral sprout like fungi, their convoluted folds home to tiny, salmon colored shrimp. Larger crustaceans are visible here and there, hiding in shadow as they wait for their unwary prey. Schools of fish swarm in great prismatic clouds, their pale bellies reflecting tiny bursts of light as they wheel and twirl. Fluted ivory branches climb surface ward, reaching like grasping fingers for the silver fish that dart among them. And presiding over all like the kings of yore are great purple sea fans, which wave majestically in the currents as if bestowing grace upon their radiant subjects.
  
  Discovering all this at such great depth and so far north is nothing short of miraculous. You'd almost forgotten the pleasant thrill of finding beauty in unexpected places. It starts you thinking about work again, in particular the way it dulls your interest in searching for wonder.
  
  You're feeling skittish. "Could I really do this?" is what you're asking yourself. You've unconsciously begun tallying your savings. You've even got the beginnings of a resignation letter going in the back of your mind. If only you had a couple more arguments to put your mind at rest.
  
  You notice that the mud beneath the coral seems oddly level. In fact, one patch in particular doesn't look like mud at all.
  
  > Search patch
  The patch of level surface is too far away.
  
  > examine patch
  You pier out through the scratched glass straining for more detail. Eyes squinting, tongue poking through teeth in concentration, you can just make out some sort of pattern hidden beneath the mud...
  
  > Go outside
  You fill your lungs to capacity and dive into the water.
  
  Underwater, (drifting)
  You're at the bottom of a long, precipitous slope. The cold and pressure are intense. Judging by the dim light, you must be many fathoms below the surface. It's astonishing that you made it this deep without any diving equipment. An enticing beam of light in these frigid, sub-arctic depths has resolved into the porthole of a long disused diving bell. The porthole only reflects the single, powerful ray of sunlight that has miraculously penetrated to this great depth. You can make out a partially obscured pattern in the fine mud of
  the ocean floor.
  
  > move the mud
  You can't move the mud.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > Search patch
  You find nothing of interest.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > examine the pattern
  Unfortunately, you can't make much out through the mud.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > Clean mud
  You have no way to secure yourself, which makes moving the mud a difficult process. But you scrape it away industriously, waving it off in large swathes. The mud rises, clouding the surrounding water, but the pattern becomes slightly clearer. You can just make out a single black footprint.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > look at the footprint
  You can just make out what appears to be a black footprint.
  
  The pressure turns into an itch, which quickly becomes a burning heat.
  
  > examine patch
  You pier out through the scratched glass straining for more detail. Eyes squinting, tongue poking through teeth in concentration, you can just make out some sort of pattern hidden beneath the mud...
  
  > Go outside
  You fill your lungs to capacity and dive into the water.
  
  Underwater, (drifting)
  You're at the bottom of a long, precipitous slope. The cold and pressure are intense. Judging by the dim light, you must be many fathoms below the surface. It's astonishing that you made it this deep without any diving equipment. An enticing beam of light in these frigid, sub-arctic depths has resolved into the porthole of a long disused diving bell. The porthole only reflects the single, powerful ray of sunlight that has miraculously penetrated to this great depth. You can make out a partially obscured pattern in the fine mud of
  the ocean floor.
  
  > examine footprint
  You can just make out what appears to be a black footprint.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > stand on the footprint
  I don't know how to stand on the obscured pattern.
  
  A few small bubbles escape your lips, glittering in the light as they rise towards the surface.
  
  The pressure turns into an itch, which quickly becomes a burning heat.
  
  > Leave
  You fill your lungs to capacity and dive into the water.
  
  Underwater, (drifting)
  You're at the bottom of a long, precipitous slope. The cold and pressure are intense. Judging by the dim light, you must be many fathoms below the surface. It's astonishing that you made it this deep without any diving equipment. An enticing beam of light in these frigid, sub-arctic depths has resolved into the porthole of a long disused diving bell. The porthole only reflects the single, powerful ray of sunlight that has miraculously penetrated to this great depth. You can make out a partially obscured pattern in the fine mud of
  the ocean floor.
  
  A few small bubbles escape your lips, glittering in the light as they rise towards the surface.
  
  > Clean pattern
  You continue waving mud from the pattern, further clouding the water. You manage to uncover a second footprint, and a curved line connecting them both.
  
  A large red fish darts by, just barely out of reach.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > Keep going
  At last you can make out the pattern. It's a dance diagram. There can be no doubt. Black footprints connected by swooping lines describe an intricate dance step. A sudden burst of recognition hits you. This flat surface must be a chunk of the original Tybrisa Pavilion! You wish you could tell what dance was being described here.
  
  A large red fish darts by, just barely out of reach.
  
  The pressure turns into an itch, which quickly becomes a burning heat.
  
  > examine the pattern
  It's a dance step diagram, inscribed on what must be a piece of the old Tybrisa pavilion dance floor.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > Dance
  You can't dance in the water, but you do manage a provocative wiggle.
  
  The pressure turns into an itch, which quickly becomes a burning heat.
  
  > leave the octopus
  Underwater, (drifting)
  You're at the bottom of a long, precipitous slope. The cold and pressure are intense. Judging by the dim light, you must be many fathoms below the surface. It's astonishing that you made it this deep without any diving equipment. An enticing beam of light in these frigid, sub-arctic depths has resolved into the porthole of a long disused diving bell. The porthole only reflects the single, powerful ray of sunlight that has miraculously penetrated to this great depth. You can make out a partially obscured pattern in the fine mud of
  the ocean floor.
  
  > go upwards
  Deep Water, Beneath Pier, (treading water)
  The long pier finally comes to an end, the last of its supporting pylons disappearing into the murky depths below. To the east lies nothing but endless ocean. The welcoming sands of the beach lie back to the west. Or you can strike off north or south, parallel to the shoreline.
  
  > Go west
  You kick back towards shore, skimming along for a few yards before coming to rest in shallower water.
  
  Shallow Water, Beneath Pier
  The knee-deep water here is cooled by the shadow of the pier, which here rises to almost three times your height. A pair of metal pipes run the length of it, presumably a part of the pavilion's plumbing. The avenue of supporting pylons leads west, on to the sand, and also continued into deeper water to the east. You can escape the pier's chilly shadow to the north or south.
  
  > go west
  You splash merrily out of the shallow water, on to the hard packed sand.
  
  Damp Sand, Beneath Pier
  You stand in the cool shadow of the long pier, among its supporting pylons. The pylons lead east like a subterranean avenue. A pair of pipes runs the length of the pier, presumably a part of the pavilion's plumbing. To the west, the dunes that surround the pavilion part to allow passage beneath it. You can escape the pier's chilly shadow to the north or south.
  A great crystalline castle dominates the area, rising nearly to the underside of the pier.
  
  > go south
  Damp Sand, South of Pier
  To the east, the shallow surf ebbs and flows up onto the cold, wet sand. The sand turns into powdery gold back to the west. To the north, you can pass among the pylons supporting the long pier that extends from the pavilion. The small castle you found here earlier has disappeared. The mites must have integrated its materials into the larger castle.
  
  > go west
  Cool wet sand gives way to warm dry sand as you climb up the beach.
  
  Dry Sand, South of Pier
  The cool early evening has left the beach nearly deserted but for a few joggers and unsupervised children. To the east, the dry, powdery sand goes hard as it rolls down toward the swelling tide. The boardwalk lies back to the west. To the north, tall dunes flank the base of the pavilion, blocking your way.
  Someone has scrawled a message and a simple diagram in the powdery sand.
  A heap of trash has been scattered into the sand by the squabbling flock of gulls. The shallow hole you dug here earlier is still visible.
  
  Hundreds of gulls are engaged in a fierce battle over the pile of refuse, squabbling and squawking at each other and filling the air with hungry shrieks.
  
  From somewhere among the flock you hear a raucous cry that sounds suspiciously like "Big Water!"
  
  > Go west
  You skip across the wooden boardwalk, passing over the scrub covered dunes.
  
  The brick beach path ends at the foot of a cement stairway that leads east to the Tybrisa Pavilion. To the northeast and southeast, twin boardwalks wrap around the pavilion towards the beach. By one of the boardwalks is a simple public shower, while a white diving bell stands near the entrance of a small building to the northwest. Your hotel towers back to the west, obscuring the sunset.
  A sign advertising boiled peanuts points east, into the pavilion. There's an ugly gap in the path.
  You see a sieve, a strapless pair of goggles, an antique bottle, a cork, a broken stave, a crowbar, a white rubber strap, a shrimp, and a length of rope here.
  The white rubber strap dangles limply from the crowbar.
  
  A slight gust of wind sends eddies of sand swirling over the brick path.
  
  > Go east
  You skip lightly up the concrete stairs to the pavilion.
  
  You're standing in the center of a colossal gazebo that provides shade for sunburned tourists like yourself. The octagonal floor is made of unbroken grey concrete, bordered on each face by a waist high railing. Tall beams support a sloping wooden canopy that rises over three times your height. A red brick enclosure squats in the southwest corner and a small snack bar nestles up against the enclosure to the south. To the east lies the foot of a seemingly endless pier.
  There are numerous wooden benches here. Right now, they're
  stacked, one on top of another, into a towering wooden column twice your height.
  You see a clam shell here.
  
  A fat, grey gull swoops past you, lands momentarily on the nearby railing, and then launches itself back into the air.
  
  > Dance
  You set your feet to the dance hall floor and follow the steps you learned from the old, sunken diagram. You begin with clumsy feet, but become more proficient as you rehearse. As you dance around the pavilion, a strange thing happens. Ghostly figures begin to join you - a small few at first, but growing in number. You can see them becoming more substantial as they spin and whirl in their gossamer wing tips and slippers. Petticoats twirl about you as the ladies wearing them prance and pirouette, lead by gentlemen in high collared, pin striped suits. You glance around at the revelers surrounding you, only to notice that the pavilion has undergone a transformation of its own. Where once everything was dull grey cement, you now find rough wooden planks painted with a variety of dance step diagrams. The pavilion has also shrunken considerably. Colorful banners light up the otherwise gloomy rafters. Your examination is interrupted when someone taps your shoulder. You whirl to find a partner inviting you to join in the revelry. Following your new partner's lead, you swing and sway to the spirited notes of a lively jazz band. The music plays on for what seems like hours, but you never tire, even when the sun descends in the west. As the sky grows dark, attendants set out paper lanterns which bring a fiery glow to the festivities. You continue to dance through song after song, frequently trading partners until you're giddy and slicked with sweat. Eventually, though, the ball begins to wind down. The musicians belt out one final, powerful number. Afterwards, they pack away their instruments. The lights dim as the attendants blow out the paper lanterns one by one and the dancers slowly crowd toward the exit. As they leave the pavilion, the ethereal dancers fade back into the past. The musicians go too, soon followed by the attendants with their paper lanterns.
  
  In a few bare moments everyone is gone, and you notice that the pavilion has reverted back to grey cement. Though hours seemed to have passed while you danced, the sun is still just where you recall seeing it prior to this latest vision.
  
  You feel like beating your chest in wild excitement. Ahh! What an incredible reminder of the joy of expression! In fact, it gets you to thinking about work again, particularly the way it crushes all your creative output and turns it into predigested pap for unintelligent clients.
  
  You're feeling excited. "Yes, I could really do this!" you exclaim. You've got plenty of money in the bank. And to heck with your employers! What have they ever really done for you? You're teetering right on the brink of decision. If only you had one more argument to set your resolve.
  
  A young, auburn haired woman wearing nothing more than sneakers and an incredibly revealing thong bikini jogs past. Jogging alongside her is a darkly-tanned, slim-hipped young man, similarly dressed.
  
  > Go west
  The brick beach path ends at the foot of a cement stairway that leads east to the Tybrisa Pavilion. To the northeast and southeast, twin boardwalks wrap around the pavilion towards the beach. By one of the boardwalks is a simple public shower, while a white diving bell stands near the entrance of a small building to the northwest. Your hotel towers back to the west, obscuring the sunset.
  A sign advertising boiled peanuts points east, into the pavilion. There's an ugly gap in the path.
  You see a sieve, a strapless pair of goggles, an antique bottle, a cork, a broken stave, a crowbar, a white rubber strap, a shrimp, and a length of rope here.
  The white rubber strap dangles limply from the crowbar.
  
  > Crowbar
  The shrimp: Taken.
  The crowbar: You take the white rubber strap and the crowbar.
  
  > Go east
  The light of the setting sun warms your back as you exit the shade of the pavilion and begin the long stroll down the pier.
  
  The pier is even longer than it looked. It stretches back west to the great pavilion and continues still further east towards the sea. A small shelter rests at the far end. From below, you can hear the fizzle and hiss of the shallow surf.
  
  A bunch of young children run past, slowing only long enough to point at you and giggle.
  
  > Go east
  It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the shade beneath the small shelter.
  
  The pier ends here in a small rectangular shelter with a low wooden roof. You imagine that, seen from overhead, it would look like a pendulum hung from the face of the pavilion. The railing surrounds you on all sides but to the west, where you can follow the pier back towards the pavilion. A water fountain is tucked in one corner.
  
  An old man is fishing off the pier with a great, heavy rod. Resting on the railing beside him is an open tackle box, while at his feet sit a bucket full of freshly caught fish and an empty burlap sack.
  
  The old man reels in a tiny fish, grunts in disgust, and tosses it back.
  
  > examine the fountain
  It's a waist high silver cabinet with a metal basin on top, just like all the other fountains you've ever seen.
  
  The old man stares out to sea, and solemnly salutes a far away tanker.
  
  > look in the basin
  There's nothing in the drinking fountain.
  
  The old man pulls back hard on his rod, pulling the line taut.
  
  > turn on the fountain
  You turn the handle, but nothing happens. Perhaps the water main has been shut off for the night.
  
  A small child bobbles into the area and tries to sneak up behind the old man, only to break out laughing. The old man jerks in surprise and throws the child a long, harsh glare.
  
  > Go west
  The light of the setting sun stabs into your eyes as you exit the shade of the small shelter. You wait a moment for your eyes to adjust and then begin the long stroll down the pier.
  
  The pier is even longer than it looked. It stretches back west to the great pavilion and continues still further east towards the sea. A small shelter rests at the far end. From below, you can hear the fizzle and hiss of the shallow surf.
  
  An early evening breeze fills your nose with the tangy scent of brine.
  
  > Go west
  It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the shade beneath the greater pavilion.
  
  You're standing in the center of a colossal gazebo that provides shade for sunburned tourists like yourself. The octagonal floor is made of unbroken grey concrete, bordered on each face by a waist high railing. Tall beams support a sloping wooden canopy that rises over three times your height. A red brick enclosure squats in the southwest corner and a small snack bar nestles up against the enclosure to the south. To the east lies the foot of a seemingly endless pier.
  There are numerous wooden benches here. Right now, they're
  stacked, one on top of another, into a towering wooden column twice your height.
  You see a clam shell here.
  
  Grains of sand on the concrete floor twinkle as the light of the setting sun streaks through them at just the right angle.
  
  > go to the south
  A quaint little snack bar nestles beside the brick enclosure, while the rest of the pavilion sprawls out to the north. A hand-painted sign above the counter advertises boiled peanuts. The vendor has gone home for the night.
  Behind the counter is an industrial boiler.
  
  Grains of sand on the concrete floor twinkle as the light of the setting sun streaks through them at just the right angle.
  
  > look at the boiler
  The metal appliance is an industrial sized boiler, which looks rather similar to a deep fryer. Basically, it consists of a deep metal pan resting on a foundation of electric heating coils. Handles on either side of the pan suggest that it can be detached from the base. A thin metal bar girdles the lip of the tray, reinforcing the frame, and a hinged lid lies flat on top, anchored to the metal bar with a sturdy clamp which the vendor attached before leaving for the night.
  
  > examine the counter
  The snack bar carries the usual variety of foods and beverages, though none of these are in evidence. Apparently, the vendor has locked up for the night. Empty shelves line the wall behind the counter, and presumably there are more shelves beneath the counter. A prominently placed sign advertises boiled peanuts, something you've come to think of as a particularly southern delicacy. Just behind the counter is a closed metal boiler, its metal lid held firmly in place by a strong metal clamp.
  
  > look under the counter
  The narrow space beneath the counter is deep in shadow. You can't make out anything of interest, and it's unlikely that you could retrieve anything anyway.
  
  A speck of sunlight glints off a ship lying far off on the eastern horizon.
  
  > Search counter
  You find nothing of interest.
  
  The breeze carries the sound of a calypso drum from somewhere far down the beach.
  
  > look behind the counter
  The only thing of obvious interest is the industrial boiler.
  
  A young boy wearing a bright blue bathing suit and matching flip-flops runs by.
  
  > open the boiler
  You try to pull the clamp off with your bare hands, but it's anchored too securely. There must be some trick to getting it off.
  
  Several gulls land nearby, briefly tussle over some invisible morsel, and fly off shrieking.
  
  > pry the clamp with the crowbar
  You put the other stuff you were carrying on the counter to free your hands. Then you slide the metal bar beneath the clamp and apply pressure. Getting no immediate results, you push harder on the bar. It bites into the soft flesh of your palms as you strain to force the clamp. Suddenly, instead of the clamp giving way, the lid's hinges shear off with a violent wrenching sound. Free of the lid's resistance, you go lunging forward and almost fall from your feet.
  The clamp pops off with a metallic twang and clatters to the floor where it disappears beneath the counter. Simultaneously, the lid flies off and goes sailing away over the railing like a big, square, metallic frisbee.
  
  > look in the boiler
  It appears to be empty.
  
  A speck of sunlight glints off a ship lying far off on the eastern horizon.
  
  > look under the counter
  The narrow space beneath the counter is deep in shadow. You can't make out anything of interest, and it's unlikely that you could retrieve anything anyway.
  
  A fat, grey gull swoops past you, lands momentarily on the nearby railing, and then launches itself back into the air.