Search Results for 'mad'
-
Search Results
-
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“Lace, did you say?” asked Cerenise with interest. “I must have a look at it. Stench, you say? How very odd. But I want to see it. Fetch me the container while I look for my mask and rubber gloves.”
“I’m not going near it again, I’ll get Boothroyd to bring it,” Spirius replied making a hasty exit.
“I’d have thought you’d have wanted to bottle the smell, Spirius.”
In due course the gardener appeared holding a container at arms length with a pained expression on his face. “Stinks worse than keeg, this does, and I’ve smelled some manure and compost in my time, but never anything as disgusting as this. Where am I to put it?”
Cerenise cleared a space on a table piled with old books and catalogues. “Gosh, that is a pong, isn’t it! Reminds me of something,” she said twitching her nose. “There is a delicate note of ~ what is it?”
“Dead rats?” suggested Boothroyd helpfully, adding “Will that be all?” as he backed towards the door.
As Cerenise lifted the lid, the gardener turned and fled.
“Why, it’s a Nottingham lace Lambrequin window drape if I’m not mistaken!” exclaimed Cerenise, gently lifting the delicate fabric and holding it up to the light. “Probably 1912 or thereabouts, and in perfect condition.”
“Perfectly rancid,” said Yvoise, her voice muffled by the thick towel she had wrapped around her mouth and nose.
“Come and look, it’s a delightful specimen. Not terribly rare, but it wonderful condition. Oh look! There’s another piece underneath. Aha! seventeenth century bone lace!”
Yvoise crept closer. “What’s that other thing? Is that where the smell’s coming from?”
“By Georges, I think you’re right. It’s a bone bobbin. Bone lace, they used to call it, until they started making bobbins out of wood.” Cerenise was pleased. She could get Mrs Fennel to wash the lace and then she could add it to her collection. “Spirius can bottle the bone bobbin and bury it in Bobbington Woods.”
Duly summoned from the kitchen, the faithful daily woman appeared, drying her hands on her apron.
“Pooo eee!” exclaimed Mrs Fennel, “That’ll need a good boil in bleach, will that!”
“Good lord woman, no! A gentle soak in some soap should do it. It won’t smell half so bad as soon as this bone bobbin is removed.”
“Did you say BONE bobbin?” asked Helier from a relatively safe distance just outside the door. “WHOSE bone?”
“By Georges!” Cerenise said again. “Whose bone indeed! Therein lies the clue to the mystery, you know.”
“Can’t you just put it in a parcel and mail it to someone horrible?” suggested Mrs Fennel.
“A capital idea, Mrs Fennel, a politician. So many horrible ones to choose from though,” Yvoise was already making a mental list.
“We can mail the smelly empty box to the prime minister, but we must keep the bone bobbin safe,” said Helier. “And we must find out whose bones it was made from. Cerenise is right. It’s the clue.”
“An empty smelly box, even better. More fitting, if I do say so myself, for the prime minister,” said Mrs Fennel with some relief. At least she wasn’t going to be required to wash the bone and the box as well as the smelly lace.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
Phurt was starting to think something fishy was a play, each time he thought his short spider life had ended he was pulled back from Spiderheaven by some unknown force. Not that he minded this time, there were plenty of places to hide and cast his strong silk cables. He had developed a sense of adventure and the sheer height of some of the mounds made him dizzy. It also made him want to be the first spider in the history of this thread to climb on top of that Mount Wobbly of the Topperware Chain.
Phurt had also noticed a strange and strong smell that seemed to come from the top of Mount Wobbly. Not that he minded the hygiene of the place; it was, to the contrary, a rather promising smell. It was the smell that said swarms of flies would gather there like an endless supply of blessed food.
Seeing that other spiders were gathering at the bottom of Mount Wobbly, he contorted his butt and secured his first cable.
Spirius had been investigating the origin of a strong smell that had started not long after Austreberthe puffed out of existence and became part of the dust she had spent her life chasing away. Which gave him one more proof that his theory of the holy body influence upon the physical world was true. He looked for a pen but they were behind two piles of unopened parcels he had started collecting when he had noticed that the postmen were leaving the boxes unattended and unprotected from the elements on the front porch of houses. His intentions were pure, as any saintly intentions are, but when he saw what good addition to the other boxes they made, he felt a pang of regret each time he thought of giving back those boxes to their rightful recipients.
Alas, most of them were dead by now, so he felt his duty was to keep those boxes intact to honour the memory of the dead.
Yvoise came in just as Spirius saw an odd and colourful australian jumping spider cast a delicate silk thread to one of the bottom row of his Tupperware collection.
“You should really do something about that smell,” she said. “I remember a time when decorum required holy people to exude only fragrance and essential oils.”
“Well, you know, it’s Austreberthe,” he said as wobbly as his heaps of plastic boxes. He had them all. You could even say he started the whole trend of pyramid schemes when his friend Pearl Topper saw him buy boxes from antiques shops. She invented the first plastic box as…
“Well, I asked you a question,” said Yvoise, interrupting his wandering thoughts.
“Have you noticed the spiders,” said Spirius.
“What spiders?”
“I think they’re trying to go up there,” Spirius said. “Look!”
He pointed a proud finger at the top of the highest Topperware tower in the Guyness book of records. A swarm of flies was circling around one of the boxes.
“And that means the smell comes from there.”
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“Bless you,” Helier offered, instinctively sliding the half-chewed pencil stub under a pile of National Geographics from 1978. He felt a flush of guilt, as if he’d been caught trying to steal a kid’s toy.
Cerenise rolled into the room, looking like a sorry pile of laundry. She was wrapped in three different shawls—one Paisley, one Tartan, and one that looked like a doily from a medieval altar. She held a lace handkerchief to her nose, trumpeting into it with a force that rattled the nearby display of thimbles.
“It’s not the damp,” she croaked, her voice an octave lower than usual. “It’s the cleanliness. Since Spirius fixed that pipe, the air is too… sterile. My immune system is in shock. It misses the spores.”
She eyed the spot where Helier had hidden the pencil. “You were thinking about it, weren’t you?”
“Thinking about what?” Helier feigned innocence, picking up a ceramic frog.
“The Novena,” she whispered the word like a curse. “I saw the look in your eye. The ‘maybe I don’t need this’ look. It’s the fever talking, Helier. Don’t give in. I almost threw away a button yesterday. A bakelite toggle from a 1930s duffel coat. I held it over the bin for a full minute.” She shuddered, pulling the shawls tighter. “Madness.”
“Pure madness,” Helier agreed, quickly retrieving the pencil stub and placing it prominently on the desk to prove his loyalty to the hoard. “We must stay strong. Now, surely you didn’t brave the drafty hallway just to discuss my potential apostasy?”
“I didn’t,” Cerenise sniffed, tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve. “I found him. Or at least, I found the thread.”
She wheeled closer, dropping a printout onto Helier’s knees. It was a genealogy chart, annotated with her elegant, spider-scrawl handwriting.
“Pierre Wenceslas Varlet,” she announced. “Born 1824. Brother to a last of the famously named Austreberthes — mortal ones, unsaintly, of course. Her lineage didn’t die out, Helier.”
Helier squinted at the paper. “Varlet? Sounds like a villain in one of Liz Tattler’s bodice-rippers. ‘The Vengeful Varlet of Venice’.“
“Focus, Helier. Look at the modern branch.” She pointed to the bottom of the page. “The name changed in the 1950s. Anglicized. And I think, if my research into the local council tax records—hacked via that delightful ‘incognito mode’ you showed me—is correct, the current ‘Varlet’ is closer than we think.”
“How close?”
“Gloucester close,” Cerenise said, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt, momentarily forgetting her flu. “And you’ll never guess where he works.”
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
That last flu had been a sorry affliction. It must have come through the vents from the depths of the sewers, no doubt—like those permafrost organisms scientists find caught in time.
It had taken down the whole lot of them in sequence after Spirius had come back victorious from his chthonian feats. Or so he said; Boothroyd was suspiciously mum about what they did with the beast’s hide. In any case, the others gave them both the benefit of the doubt. Whatever had happened during that beast chase on the inflatable dinghy had managed to clear the clogged pipes, almost miraculously. It had also gifted them this pesky flu.
Austreberthe’s requests had become an afterthought, even for the most pig-headed of them. It wasn’t a contest, or they would all have won a prize anyway. After two days of cold, fever, and fog-headed manic ideations, Helier’s head had finally cleared.
He was left with a fond familiarity for all the stuff accumulated in his search for knowledge, yet, surprisingly, a sense of disconnection from what had made them so precious all that time. He wasn’t so far gone as to want to clear everything away—Lord forbid—but he was mildly tempted to make space somewhere. He almost shuddered at the thought.
What would he move to make space? A few precious stamps? Surely not.
They had all sorts of value: sentimental, historical, artistic—you name it.
What else? Vinyl records? They would fetch a small fortune now in some circles, but to part with them?…
A book? Most sacred!… A Liz Tattler book?… He paused… nah.There was a half-chewed pencil stub on the table. It could still have a good hundred pages worth of scribbles left in it. His heart started to race at the thought of getting rid of it. A voice in his head whispered, “Give it away! Give it away! You’ll be lighter for it.”
He didn’t want to feel lighter. But he was interested in the racing heart. It was a sign of getting back some action.
He heard the squeaking roll of Cerenise’s chair before he heard her copious sneezing.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
With a warm smile of approval, Cerenise tapped out the names and dates on her keyboard. So refreshing when people were original when naming the fruit of their loins, she thought. Some of the family trees she’d done for friends and clients had been a veritable cesspit of endlessly repeated Johns and Marys, Williams and Elizabeths. Despite suppressing a shudder when introduced to a modern human named River or Sky, or worse, the ridiculously creative spelling of a common name, some of the older examples of unusual names she found quite delightful. Especially, it had to be said, French ones.
Pierre Wenceslas Varlet born on the 28th of September, 1824 in Clenleu, Pas-de-Calais, brother of Austreberthe Varlet, born two years previously on the 8th of June. Wenceslas! What would you call Wenceslas for short? she mused. Wence?
“An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth”.
A cautious knock at the door interrupted Cerenise’s mental meanderings.
“Enter,” she called, and Laddie Bentry sidled in looking sheepish.
“Ah, it’s you, the veriest varlet of number 26. Well, what is it? You look as though you accidentally dropped Helier’s trashy novel in the water butt.”
Taken aback by Cernice’s perspicacity, Laddie recoiled slightly and then squared his shoulders. “How did you know?” he asked.
“Oh just a lucky guess,” Cerenise replied breezily, tapping the side of her nose. “I suppose you want me to order you another copy from Amaflob before he notices? I’ll arrange for an express delivery. Keep an eye out for the delivery man”
Waving away his thanks, she picked up the old document on her desk that Yvoise had kindly provided, albeit reluctantly, and squinted at it. She could make out the name Austreberthe, but what did the rest say?
Cerenise dozed off, dreaming of the Folies Bergere. The atmosphere was exciting and convivial at first, escalating into an eruption of approval when the new act came on the stage. Cerenise felt the energy of the crowd but her attention was drawn to the flamboyant figure of a man dressed as one of the three kings of the Magi, and he was making his way over to her. Why, it was Lazuli Galore! What on earth was he doing here? And who was that dumpy overly made up woman in the blue dress, Godfreda, who had tagged along with them?
Another knock on the door wakened her and she called out “Come in!” in an irritable tone. She’d been having such fun in the dream. “Oh it’s you, oh good, the book has arrived.”
Laddie shifted his feet and replied, “Well yes, a Liz Tattler novel has arrived.”
“Oh, good, well be off with you then so I can get on with my work.”
“But it’s not The Vampires of Varna. It’s The Valedictorian Vampires of Valley View High.”
“Jolly good, I expect you’ll enjoy it,” Cerenise said, picking up the old document again and peering at it. Perceiving that Laddie had not yet exited the room, she looked up. “Helier won’t notice, those books are all the same. Now get off with you.”
In reply to: Finder’s Keepers of the Hoard
A continuous, fast-moving FPV drone shot.
The Start: The camera zips through a sterile, white modern reception area with a sign reading ‘Sanctus Training Ltd.’ It flies over a bored receptionist’s desk and straight through a pair of unassuming double doors.
The Reveal: The moment the doors pass, the world expands impossible. We are now inside a massive, cathedral-like Grand Townhouse built of glowing golden Cotswold stone.
The Hoard: The drone dives into a ‘canyon’ of hoarded objects. It weaves perilously between towering stacks of yellowed newspapers, piles of 17th-century furniture, and a mountain of washing machines.
The Architecture: As the drone speeds up, we pass tall, elegant Georgian windows on the left (showing a blur of an overgrown orchard and stables outside). On the right, the architecture shifts to heavy, rough stone arches—the Medieval Norman wing.
The Details: The camera narrowly misses a hanging chandelier made of plastic coat hangers and crystal, zooms over a grand dining table buried in Roman pottery and taxidermy, and finally flies up towards the vaulted ceiling of a Norman Chapel, where a beam of purple stained-glass light catches dust motes dancing in the air.”
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“Quite fitting that I should get her sleeves,” Cerenise said with satisfaction. “And what a relief that she left the wolf to you, Spirius. I’d not have been able to manage a wolf.” Cerenise popped another cashew nut into her mouth.
Spirius looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “My guess is you’d have managed just fine,” he replied drily. He’d heard all the noise she made behind those locked doors. He’d seen her prancing around the orchard in the moonlight when she thought nobody was watching, naked as the day she was born all those centuries ago. He hadn’t lingered at the window, but he had put two and two together years ago, many years ago, just after the seige of Gloucester. If truth be told, Cerenise’s secret was known to them all, but they hadn’t interfered with her delusion.
“There’s going to come a point, and very soon, when we will have to deal with the water leak, you know,” Yvoise interrupted the inconsequential chatter. “Holy and healing as it may be, it will be the ruin of my collection if it reaches the upper floors.”
“And what do you propose?” asked Helier.
“I suggest we call a plumber!” snapped Yvoise. “This is the 21st century is it not? I know tradesmen are in short supply, and I know this isn’t an ordinary leak, but we should start with the obvious, and then adapt accordingly.”
“I must bottle as much of the holy water as possible before we stop the leak,” Spirius said, standing up abruptly in agitation.
Helier put a calming hand on the old boy’s shoulder. “There’s no rush, Spirius, there’s plenty of water in the cellars, it’s already waist deep down there.”
“And the saints only know what has floated into the cellars by now from the tunnels. Be careful down there, Spirius. Take Boothroyd the gardener with you,” Yvoise advised.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Gatacre Hall and The Old Book
In the early 1950s my uncle John and his friend, possibly John Clare, ventured into an abandoned old house while out walking in Shropshire. He (or his friend) saved an old book from the vandalised dereliction and took it home. Somehow my mother ended up with the book.
I remember that we had the book when we were living in USA, and that my mother said that John didn’t want the book in his house. He had said the abandoned hall had been spooky. The book was heavy and thick with a hard cover. I recall it was a “magazine” which seemed odd to me at the time; a compendium of information. I seem to recall the date 1553, but also recall that it was during the reign of Henry VIII. No doubt one of those recollections is wrong, probably the date. It was written in English, and had illustrations, presumably woodcuts.
I found out a few years ago that my mother had sold the book some years before. Had I known she was going to sell it, I’d have first asked her not to, and then at least made a note of the name of it, and taken photographs of it. It seems that she sold the book in Connecticut, USA, probably in the 1980’s.
My cousin and I were talking about the book and the story. We decided to try and find out which abandoned house it was although we didn’t have much to go on: it was in Shropshire, it was in a state of abandoned dereliction in the early 50s, and it contained antiquarian books.
I posted the story on a Shropshire History and Nostalgia facebook group, and almost immediately had a reply from someone whose husband remembered such a place with ancient books and manuscripts all over the floor, and the place was called Gatacre Hall in Claverley, near Bridgnorth. She also said that there was a story that the family had fled to Canada just after WWII, even leaving the dishes on the table.
The Gatacre family sailing to Canada in 1947:
When my cousin heard the name Gatacre Hall she remembered that was the name of the place where her father had found the book.
I looked into Gatacre Hall online, in the newspaper archives, the usual genealogy sites and google books searches and so on. The estate had been going downhill with debts for some years. The old squire died in 1911, and his eldest son died in 1916 at the Somme. Another son, Galfrey Gatacre, was already farming in BC, Canada. He was unable to sell Gatacre Hall because of an entail, so he closed the house up. Between 1945-1947 some important pieces of furniture were auctioned, and the rest appears to have been left in the empty house.
The family didn’t suddenly flee to Canada leaving the dishes on the table, although it was true that the family were living in Canada.
An interesting thing to note here is that not long after this book was found, my parents moved to BC Canada (where I was born), and a year later my uncle moved to Toronto (where he met his wife).
Captain Gatacre in 1918:
The Gatacre library was mentioned in the auction notes of a particular antiquarian book:
“Provenance: Contemporary ownership inscription and textual annotations of Thomas Gatacre (1533-1593). A younger son of William Gatacre of Gatacre Hall in Shropshire, he studied at the English college at the University of Leuven, where he rejected his Catholic roots and embraced evangelical Protestantism. He studied for eleven years at Oxford, and four years at Magdalene, Cambridge. In 1568 he was ordained deacon and priest by Bishop of London Edmund Grindal, and became domestic chaplain to Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester and was later collated to the rectory of St Edmund’s, Lombard Street. His scholarly annotations here reference other classical authors including Plato and Plutarch. His extensive library was mentioned in his will.”
There are thirty four pages in this 1662 book about Thomas Gatacre d 1654:
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.
He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.
For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.
It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.
He frantically searched for a different voice.
It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.
Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.
Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.
Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in
Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!
He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The hat was gone.
Kit stood blinking in the sun, the shape of his new self cooling around the edges like a half-written cookie losing form. Without the cowboy hat, the lasso made less sense. His accent wobbled, then vanished completely. The sunglasses stayed, but now just made everything too dark, even tinted pink.
Behind him, the gazebo creaked again. But no trapdoor this time—only a faint whirring, like a film projector syncing spools.
“It’s reloading,” said Thiram from the sidelines, tapping at something that looked oddly like a pressure-gauged Sabulmantium. “Every time someone hands off a narrative object—like a synch, a hat, a horse even—it updates roles. We’re being cast on the fly.”
Chico looked up from Tyrone, who had snatched one of the Memory Pies and was now attempting to hide the evidence behind a flowerpot. “So… Kit’s not Trevor anymore?”“No,” said Carob, arms crossed. “He’s Trevorless. That identity didn’t bake fully. We have to stabilize it.”
“But with what?” asked Godrick, who had returned carrying a second cocktail, coffee with a glass of water and a slight wry smirk.
Amy, now balancing the cowboy hat on her head as she crouched next to the still-disoriented Padre, called out without turning:
“Bring him another Synch. That’s how it works now, apparently. Hat or otherwise.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.
“I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”
Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”
“I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”
“Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.
“I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”
Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.
“Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”
“Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.
Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”
For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.
Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.
It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”
At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.
The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.
Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.
Is that how character building works?
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Still visibly shaken, Sir Humphrey blinked up at the canopy. “Is it… raining? Is it raining ants?”
“It’s not rain,” muttered Thiram, checking his gizmos. “Not this time. It’s like… gazebo fallout. I’d venture from dreams hardening midair.”
Kit shuffled closer to Amy, speaking barely above a whisper. “Aunt Amy, is it always like this?”
Amy sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and said, “No, sweetheart. Sometimes it’s worse.”
“Right then,” declared Carob, making frantic gestures in the air, as though she’d been sparring the weather. “We need to triangulate the trajectory of the gazebo, locate the Sabulmantium, and get Sir Humphrey a hat before his dignity leaks out his ears.”
“I feel like Garibaldi,” Sir Humphrey murmured, dazedly stroking his forehead.
“Do you remember who Garibaldi is?” Chico asked, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” the Padre confessed. “But I’m quite certain he’d never have let his gazebo just float off like that.”
Meanwhile, Madam Auringa had reappeared behind a curtain of mist smelling faintly of durian and burnt cinnamon.
“The Sabulmantium has been disturbed,” she intoned. “Intent without anchor will now spill into unintended things. Mice shall hold council. Socks will invert themselves. Lost loves shall write letters that burn before reading.”
“Typical,” muttered Thiram. “We poke one artifact and the entire logic stack collapses.”Kit raised a trembling hand. “Does that mean I’m allowed to choose my name again?”
“No,” said Amy, “But you might be able to remember your original one—depending on how many sand spirals the Sabulmantium spins.”
“I told you,” Chico interjected, gesturing vaguely at where the gazebo had vanished over the treetops. “It was no solar kettle. You were all too busy caffeinating to notice. But it was focusing something. That sand’s shifting intent like wind on a curtain.”
“And we’ve just blown it open,” said Carob.
“Yup,” said Amy. “Guess we’re going gazebo-chasing.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The wind picked up just as Thiram adjusted the gazebo’s solar kettle. At first, he blamed the rising draft on Carob’s sighing—but quickly figured out that this one had… velocity.
Then the scent came floating by: jasmine, hair spray, and over-steeped calamansi tea.
A gust of hot air blew through the plantation clearing, swirling snack wrappers and curling Amy’s page corners. From the vortex stepped a woman, sequins ablaze, eyeliner undefeated.
She wore a velvet shawl patterned like a satellite weather map.
“Did someone say Auringa?” she cooed, gliding forward as her three crystal balls rotated lazily around her hips like obedient moons.
“Madam Auringa?” Kit asked, wide-eyed.Thiram’s devices were starting to bip, checking for facts. “Madam Auringa claims to have been born during a literal typhoon in the Visayas, with a twin sister who “vanished into the eye.” She’s been forecasting mischief, breakups, and supernatural infestations ever since…”
Carob raised an eyebrow. “Source?”
Humphrey harrumphed: “We don’t usually invite atmospheric phenomena!”
“Doctor Madam Auringa, Psychic Climatologist and Typhoon Romantic,” the woman corrected, removing a laminated badge from her ample bosom. “Bachelor of Arts in Forecasted Love and Atmospheric Vibes. I am both the typhoon… and its early warning system.”
“Is she… floating?” Amy whispered.
“No,” said Chico solemnly, “She’s just wearing platform sandals on a bed of mulch.”
Auringa snapped her fingers. A steamy demitasse of kopi luwak materialized midair and plopped neatly into her hand. It wasn’t for drink, although the expensive brevage born of civet feces had an irrepressible appeal —it was for her only to be peered into.
“This coffee is trembling,” she murmured. “It fears a betrayal. A rendezvous gone sideways. A gazebo… compromised.”
Carob reached for her notes. “I knew the gazebo had a hidden floor hatch.”
Madam Auringa raised one bejeweled finger. “But I have come with warning and invitation. The skies have spoken: the Typhoon Auring approaches. And it brings… revelations. Some shall find passion. Others—ant infestations.”
“Did she just say passion or fashion?” Thiram mumbled.
“Both,” Madam Auringa confirmed, winking at him with terrifying precision.
She added ominously “May asim pa ako!”. Thiram’s looked at his translator with doubt : “You… still have a sour taste?”
She tittered, “don’t be silly”. “It means ‘I’ve still got zest’…” her sultry glance disturbing even the ants.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
One too many cups of coffee and I should know better by now, Amy realised after tossing and turning in her crumpled bed through the strange dark hours of the night, wondering if someone had spiked her wine with cocaine or if she was having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown. They all say to just breathe, she thought, But that is the last thing you should focus on when you’re hyperventilating. You should forget your breathing entirely when you can’t control it. After several hours of imagining herself in the death throes of some dire terminal physical malfunction, she fell asleep, only to be woken up by a strong need to piss like a racehorse. Don’t open your eyes more than you need to, don’t wake up too much, she told herself as she lurched blindly to the privy.
Latte! Fucking Latte! what a stupid word for coffee with milk. Amy hated the word latte, it was so pretentious and stupid. Revolting anyway, putting milk in coffee, made inexpressibly worse by calling the bloody thing JUST MILK in another language. Why not call it Milch or Leche or молоко or γάλα or 牛奶 or sữa or दूध….
Amy flushed the toilet, wide awake and irritated, but never the less grateful for the realisation that her discomfort was nothing more than an ooverdoose of cafoone.
In reply to: Liz Tattler – A Lifetime of Stories, in videos
Enter Liz’s Tipsy Waltz
[Verse]
Feathered quill meets parchment skin
Elizabeth writes where scandals begin
Pink champagne spills on the floor
Cougar’s grin says she’s ready for more[Verse 2]
Famed author weaves sly tales with fire
Slutty thoughts fuel Roberto’s desire
Finnley
The ghost
Hides in the night
Typewriter clicks
Dim candlelight[Chorus]
Ink and lust flow through this tale
Secrets whispered on parchment pale
Godfrey nuts
Edits the scene
In this wild world
What’s it all mean?[Verse 3]
In the cabinet where whispers creak
Roberto shows a sly technique
Finnley sighs
Unseen but clear
Through the shadows
His words appear[Bridge]
Elizabeth leads with a champagne toast
A cougar’s smirk
The fading ghost
Peanuts scatter
Chaos remains
A writer’s world drips ink and stains[Verse 4]
Pages flutter
They dance
They shout
Godfrey snickers
Edits play out
Roberto winks with knowing grace
In this madhouse
Who sets the pace?In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Thiram Izu
Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes
Explicit Description
-
Age: Mid-30s
-
Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian
-
Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.
-
Hair: Short, tousled dark hair
-
Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses
-
Clothing (standard look):
-
Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket
-
Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath
-
Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)
-
Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish
-
-
Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.
-
Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.
Inferred Personality & Manner
-
Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.
-
Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).
-
Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.
-
Habits:
-
Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.
-
Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.
-
Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.
-
-
Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.
-
Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.
Function in the Group
-
Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.
-
Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.
-
Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Chico Ray
Chico Ray
Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:
-
Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.
-
Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.
-
Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.
-
Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.
-
Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.
Inferred Traits:
-
A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.
-
Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.
-
Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.
-
Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.
What Remains Unclear:
-
Precise age or background.
-
His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Amy & Carob
☕ Amy Kawanhouse
Directly Stated Visual Traits:
-
Hair: Long, light brown
-
Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain
-
Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves
-
Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim
-
Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality
Inferred From Behavior:
-
Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.
-
Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.
-
Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.
☕ Carob Latte
Directly Stated Visual Traits:
-
Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)
-
Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture
-
General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)
Inferred From Behavior:
-
Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.
-
Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.
-
There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Well, this makes no sense,” Thiram opined flatly, squinting at the glitching news stream on his homemade device.
“What now,” Carob drawled, dropping the case and a mushroom onto the floor.
“Biopirates Ants. Thousands of queen ants. Smuggled by aunties out of Kenya.”Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”
“They’re calling them the ‘Anties Gang.’” Thiram scrolled. “One report says the queens were tagged with dream-frequency enhancers. You know, like the tech you banned from the greenhouse?”
Ricardo leaned forward, and whispered to himself almost too audibly for the rest of them “That… that… wasn’t on Miss Bossy’s radar yet. But I suspect it will be.”
A long silence. Then Amy prodded Carob — “You’re silent again. What do you think?”.
“Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.
Fanella let out a short bleat, as if offended. The rain fell harder.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.
So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.
“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind. “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility. We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”
“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps. “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book, draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”
“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.
Amy blushed. “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff. None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”
“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up. “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”
“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”
Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”
Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them? “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”
Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made that up. It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”
“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”
“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”
-
