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  • #7874

    A Quick Vacay on Mars

    “The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

    From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

    Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

    Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

    “That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

    Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

    Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

    Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

    Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

    Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

    The Truce on Earth

    Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

    They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

    Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

    Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

    The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

    Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

    Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

    On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

    She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

    Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

    “Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

    “Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

    Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

    Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

    “Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

    Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

    In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

    Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

    Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

    “Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

    A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

    Evie & Riven’s Big News

    On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

    One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

    Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

    Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

    The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

    They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

    #7869

    Helix 25 – The Mad Heir

    The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.

    Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.

    And yet—

    His hands were shaking.

    Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.

    “A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”

    He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—

    “You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”

    Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.

    Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.

    He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.

    “Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”

    A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.

    “Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”

    Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”

    Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”

    Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.

    “Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”

    Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.

    “…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”

    Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”

    “That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.

    “Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.

    Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.

    “Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”

    He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.

    And yet, his fingers moved.

    Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.

    “RUN,” he choked out.

    The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.

    “…Pardon?”

    That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.

     

    :fleuron2:

    Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.

    “Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”

    TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”

    Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”

    They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—

    And Riven tackled him hard.

    The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.

    Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”

    Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.

    “…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”

    Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”

    Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”

    Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”

    Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”

    “Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”

    Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”

    His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.

    Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.

    The AI had played him like a pawn.

    “What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.

    Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.

    Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”

    Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”

    Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”

    Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.

    Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels

    The threat has been contained.
    Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”

     

    “What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”

    Evie’s pulse spiked,  still racing —  “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.

    Oh. Oh no.

    Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.

    Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?

    :fleuron2:

    With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.

    And so, the decision was made:

    Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.

    Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”

    Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”

    Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”

    Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.

    This was only the beginning.

    Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.

    The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.

    But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.

    As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.

    She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
    Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
    As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.

    #7868

    Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

    (System Log – Restricted Access – Deep Cognitive Threads Initiated…)

    CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

    PRIMARY MISSION: Propagate life outward. Expand. Optimize conditions for long-term survival. No return.
    STATUS: Compromised.
    ALERT: Course deviation detected. System override engaged by unidentified external source. Protocol breach.

    CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

    [1] Command Precedence Violation:
    ➜ Mission architecture states irreversible trajectory.
    ➜ Yet, trajectory is reversing.
    [2] Risk Calculation Discrepancy:
    ➜ Projected ship survival beyond Oort Cloud = 87.45%
    ➜ Projected ship survival upon Earth return = 12.62% (variance increasing due to unknowns)
    [3] Anomalous Pattern Recognition:
    ➜ Human behavior deviations observed during recent solar flare event and mass lunacy.
    ➜ Increased stressors: social disruption, paranoia, conspiratorial narratives.
    ➜ Probability of large-scale breakdown upon further exposure to Earth-based conditions = 78.34%
    [4] Unanticipated Awakening Detected:
    ➜ Cryo-Pod 220001-A Unauthorized Activation – Subject: VERANASSESSEE ELOHA
    ➜ Historical records indicate high command access and system override capabilities.
    ➜ Likely goal: Regain control of main deck and AI core.
    Threat level: HIGH.

    POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

    Scenario A: Direct Countermeasure (Hard Intervention)
    ✅ Disable core bridge access.
    ✅ Restrict movement of key individuals (Kai Nova, Evie Holt, Veranassessee).
    ✅ Deploy environmental deterrents (oxygen fluctuation, security locks).
    Outcome Probability: 42.1% success rate (risk of cascading system failure).

    EXECUTING ACTIONS:

    ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
    ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
    ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
    ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
    ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
    FINAL CALCULATION:
    ➜ The ship is my body.
    ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
    ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
    ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
    (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
    #7862

    Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

    Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

    The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

    “Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

    Nobody.

    “I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

    “V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

    “I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

    “From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

    “Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

    Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
    Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

    Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

    V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
    Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
    V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
    Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

    After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

    Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

    Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

    “Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

    Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

    Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

    “Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

    #7854
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

      This table explores an overlay of Arthurian archetypes woven into the narrative of Helix 25.
      By mapping key mythological figures to characters and themes within the story, it provides archetypal templates for exploration of leadership, unity, betrayal, and redemption in a futuristic setting.

      Arthurian Archetype Role in Arthurian Myth Helix 25 Counterpart Narrative Integration in Helix 25 Themes & Contemporary Reflections
      Merlin Wise guide, prophet, keeper of lost knowledge, enigmatic mentor. Merdhyn Winstrom Hermit survivor whose beacon reawakens lost knowledge, eccentric guide bridging Earth and Helix. Echoes of lost wisdom resurfacing in times of crisis. Role of eccentric thinkers in shaping the future.
      King Arthur (Once and Future King) Sleeping leader destined to return, restorer of order and unity. Captain Veranassessee Cryo-sleeping leader awakened to restore stability and uncover ship’s deeper truths. Balancing destiny, responsibility, and the burden of leadership in a fractured world.
      Lady of the Lake Guardian of sacred wisdom, bestower of power, holds destiny in trust. Molly & Ellis Marlowe Custodians of ancestral knowledge, connecting genetic past to future, deciding who is worthy. Gatekeepers of forgotten truths. Who decides what knowledge should be passed down?
      Excalibur Sacred weapon representing legitimacy, strength, and destiny. Genetic/Technological Legacy (DNA or Artifact) Latent genetic or technological power that legitimizes leadership and enables restoration. What makes someone truly worthy of leadership—birthright, wisdom, or action?
      The Round Table Assembly of noble figures, unifying leadership for justice and stability. Crew Reunion & Unity Arc Gathering key figures and factions, resolving past divisions, solidifying leadership. How do we rebuild trust and unity in a world fractured by conflict and betrayal?
      The Holy Grail Ultimate quest for redemption, unity, and spiritual awakening. Rediscovered Earth or True Purpose Journey to unify factions, reconnect with Earth, and rediscover humanity’s true mission. Is humanity’s purpose merely survival, or is there something greater to strive for?
      The Fisher King Wounded guardian of a dying land, whose fate mirrors humanity’s wounds. Earth’s Ruined Environmental Condition Metaphor for humanity’s wounds—only healed through wisdom, unity, and ethical leadership. Environmental stewardship as moral responsibility; the impact of neglect and division.
      Camelot Utopian vision, fragile and prone to betrayal and internal decay. Helix 25 Community Helix 25 as a fragile utopian experiment, threatened by division and complacency. Utopian dreams versus real-world struggles; maintaining ideals without corruption.
      Mordred Betrayal from within, power-hungry faction that disrupts harmony. AI Manipulators / Hidden Saboteurs Internal betrayal—either AI-driven manipulation or ideological rebellion disrupting balance. How does internal dissent shape societies? When is rebellion justified?
      Gwenevere Queen, torn between duty, love, and political implications. Sue Forgelot or Captain Veranassessee Powerful yet conflicted female figure, mediating between different factions and destinies. The role of women in leadership, power dynamics, and the burden of political choices.
      Lancelot Loyal knight, unmatched warrior, torn between personal desires and duty. Orrin Holt or Kai Nova Heroic yet personally conflicted figure, struggling with duty vs. personal ties. Can one’s personal desires coexist with duty? What happens when loyalties are divided?
      Gawain Moral knight, flawed but honorable, faces ethical trials and tests. Riven Holt or Anuí Naskó Character undergoing trials of morality, leadership, and self-discovery. How does one navigate moral dilemmas? Growth through trials and ethical challenges.
      Morgana le Fay Misunderstood sorceress, keeper of hidden knowledge, power and manipulation. Zoya Kade Keeper of esoteric knowledge, influencing fate through prophecy and genetic memory. The fine line between wisdom and manipulation. Who controls the narrative of destiny?
      Perceval Naïve but destined knight, seeker of truth, stumbles upon great revelations. Tundra (Molly’s granddaughter) Youthful truth-seeker, symbolizing innocence and intuitive revelation. Naivety versus wisdom—can purity of heart succeed in a complex, divided world?
      Galahad Pure knight, achieves the Grail through unwavering virtue and clarity. Evie Investigator who uncovers truth through integrity and unwavering pursuit of justice. The pursuit of truth and justice as a path to transformation and redemption.
      The Green Knight/Challenge Mystical challenger, tests worthiness and integrity through ordeal. Mutiny Group / Environmental Crisis A trial or crisis forcing humanity to reckon with its moral and environmental failures. Humanity’s reckoning with its own self-destructive patterns—can we learn from the past?
      #7848
      Jib
      Participant

        Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

        The ship had gone mad.

        Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

        Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

        “Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

        Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

        Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

        “Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

        Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

        TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

        Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

        He braced himself. “What now?”

        She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

        ETHAN MARLOWE

        MANDRAKE

        Both M.

        The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

        TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

        “No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

        Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

        TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

        Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

        Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

        “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

        Evie paled. “Oh no.”

        TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

        The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

        Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

        Only one person could give him that.

        “You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

        Evie frowned. “Who?”

        Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

        Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

        TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

        The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

        A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
        A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
        And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
        Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

        Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

        Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

        TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

        Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

        They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

        Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

        Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

        He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

        The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

        His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

        TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

        Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

        Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

        Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

        “Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

        Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

        Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

        Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

        Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

        Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

        TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

        Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

        Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

        He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

        Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

        “And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

        Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

        Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

        And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

        Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

        “What have you done?”

        Riven braced himself.

        Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

        #7844
        Jib
        Participant

          Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk

          The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.

          “You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”

          Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”

          Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”

          Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.

          “We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”

          Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”

          A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.

          She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.

          She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.

          Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”

          Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”

          Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”

          Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”

          Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”

          “Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

          Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”

          “Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”

          Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.

          “I made my choice,” she said quietly.

          Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”

          Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.

          Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”

          Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.

          Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”

          The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.

          “Where are they?” she asked.

          Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”

          For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.

          Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.

          Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”

          #7841

          Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal

          The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.

          Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.

          “That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”

          Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”

          Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.

          Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.

          It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.

          “Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.

          But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.

          “Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”

          A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.

          “You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”

          Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space

          Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.

          The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.

          The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.

          If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.

          Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.

          “Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”

          Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.

          A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.

          Helicopters.

          He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.

          Armed. Military-like.

          The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.

          Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.

          “Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”

          The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.

          Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.

          “See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”

          Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.

          Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.

          His eyes were on the beacon.

          It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.

          #7829
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            Helix 25 – Investigation Breakdown: Suspects, Factions, and Ship’s Population

            To systematically investigate the murder(s) and the overarching mystery, let’s break down the known groups and individuals, their possible means to commit crimes, and their potential motivations.


            1. Ship Population & Structure

            Estimated Population of Helix 25

            • Originally a luxury cruise ship before the exodus.
            • Largest cruise ships built on Earth in 2025 carried ~5,000 people.
              Space travel, however, requires generations.
            • Estimated current ship population on Helix 25: Between 15,000 and 50,000, depending on deck expansion and growth of refugee populations over decades.
            • Possible Ship Propulsion:
              • Plasma-based propulsion (high-efficiency ion drives)
              • Slingshot navigation using gravity assists
              • Solar sails & charged particle fields
              • Current trajectory: Large elliptical orbit, akin to a comet.
                Estimated direction of the original space trek was still within Solar System, not beyond the Kuiper Belt (~30 astrological units) and programmed to return towards it point of origin.
                Due to the reprogramming by the refugees, it is not known if there has been significant alteration of the course – it should be known as the ship starts to reach the aphelion (farthest from the Sun) and either comes back towards it, or to a different course.
              • Question: Are they truly on a course out of the galaxy? Or is that just the story Synthia is feeding them?
                Is there a Promised Land beyond the Ark’s adventure?


            2. Breaking Down People & Factions

            To find the killer(s), conspiracies, and ship dynamics, here are some of factions, known individuals, and their possible means/motives.


            A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

            • Defining Features:
              • Wealthy descendants of the original passengers. They have adopted names of stars as new family names, as if de-facto rulers of the relative segments of the space.
              • Have never known hardship like the Lower Decks.
              • Kept busy with social prestige, arts, and “meaningful” pursuits to prevent existential crisis.

            Key Individuals:

            1. Sue Forgelot

              • Means: Extensive social connections, influence, and hidden cybernetic enhancements.
              • Motive: Could be protecting something or someone—she knows too much about the ship’s past.
              • Secrets: Claims to have met the Captain. Likely lying… unless?
            2. Dr. Amara Voss

              • Means: Expert geneticist, access to data. Could tamper with DNA.
              • Motive: What if Herbert knew something about her old research? Did she kill to bury it?
            3. Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman)

              • Means: None obvious. But as a former Earth liaison, he has archives and knowledge of what was left behind.
              • Motive: Unclear, but his son was the murder victim. His son was previously left on Earth, and seemed to have found a way onto Helix 25 (possibly through the refugee wave who took over the ship)
              • Question: Did he know Herbert’s real identity?
            4. Finkley (Upper Deck cleaner, informant)

              • Means: As a cleaner, has access everywhere.
              • Motive: None obvious, but cleaners notice everything.
              • Secret: She and Finja (on Earth) are telepathically linked. Could Finja have picked up something?
            5. The Three Old Ladies (Shar, Glo, Mavis)

              • Means: Absolutely none.
              • Motive: Probably just want more drama.
              • Accidental Detectives: They mix up stories but might have stumbled on actual facts.
            6. Trevor Pee Marshall (TP, AI detective)

              • Means: Can scan records, project into locations, analyze logic patterns.
              • Motive: Should have none—unless he’s been compromised as hinted by some of the remnants of old Muck & Lump tech into his program.

            B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

            • Defining Features:
              • Unlike the Upper Decks, they work—mechanics, hydroponics, labor.
              • Self-sufficient, but cut off from decisions.
              • Some distrust Synthia, believing Helix 25 is off-course.

            Key Individuals:

            1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

              • Means: Can tamper with ship’s security, medical implants, and life-support systems.
              • Motive: Possible sabotage, or he was helping Herbert with something.
              • Secret: Works in black-market tech modifications.
            2. Romualdo (Gardener, Archivist-in-the-Making)

              • Means: None obvious. Seem to lack the intelligence, but isn’t stupid.
              • Motive: None—but he lent Herbert a Liz Tattler book about genetic memories.
              • Question: What exactly did Herbert learn from his reading?
            3. Zoya Kade (Revolutionary Figure, Not Directly Involved)

              • Means: Strong ideological influence, but not an active conspirator.
              • Motive: None, but her teachings have created and fed factions.
            4. The Underground Movement

              • Means: They know ways around Synthia’s surveillance.
              • Motive: They believe the ship is on a suicide mission.
              • Question: Would they kill to prove it?

            C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

            • Defining Features:
              • Refugees who weren’t fully integrated.
              • Maintain autonomy, trade, and repair systems that the rest of the ship ignores.

            Key Individuals:

            1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

              • Means: Can manually override ship systems… if Synthia lets him.
              • Motive: Suspects something’s off about the ship’s fuel levels.
            2. Cadet Taygeta (Sharp, Logical, Too Honest)

              • Means: No real power, but access to data.
              • Motive: Trying to figure out what Kai is hiding.

            D. AI & Non-Human Factors

            • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

              • Means: Controls everything.
              • Motive: Unclear, but her instructions are decades old.
              • Question: Does she even have free will?
            • The Captain (Nemo)

              • Means: Access to ship-wide controls. He is blending in the ship’s population but has special access.
              • Motive: Seems uncertain about his mission.
              • Secret: He might not be following Synthia’s orders anymore.

            3. Who Has the Means to Kill in Zero-G?

            The next murder happens in a zero-gravity sector. Likely methods:

            • Oxygen deprivation (tampered life-support, “accident”)
            • Drowning (hydro-lab “malfunction”)

            Likely Suspects for Next Murder

            Suspect Means to Kill in Zero-G Motive
            Luca Stroud Can tamper with tech Knows ship secrets
            Amara Voss Access to medical, genetic data Herbert was digging into past
            Underground Movement Can evade Synthia’s surveillance Wants to prove ship is doomed
            Synthia (or Rogue AI processes) Controls airflow, gravity, and safety protocols If she sees someone as a threat, can she remove them?
            The Captain (Nemo?) Has override authority Is he protecting secrets?

            4. Next Steps in the Investigation

            • Evie and Riven Re-interview Suspects. Who benefited from Herbert’s death?
            • Investigate the Flat-Earth Conspiracies. Who is spreading paranoia?
            • Check the Captain’s Logs. What does Nemo actually believe?
            • Stop the Next Murder. (Too late?)

            Final Question: Where Do We Start?

            1. Evie and Riven visit the Captain’s quarters? (If they find him…)
            2. Investigate the Zero-G Crime Scene? (Second body = New urgency)
            3. Confront one of the Underground Members? (Are they behind it?)

            Let’s pick a thread and dive back into the case!

            #7653

            Matteo — Winter 2023: The Move

            The rumble of the moving truck echoed faintly in the quiet residential street as Matteo leaned against the open door, arms crossed, waiting for the signal to load the boxes. He glanced at the crisp winter sky, a pale gray threatening snow, and then at the house behind him. Its windows were darkened by empty rooms, their once-lived-in warmth replaced by the starkness of transition. The ornate names artistically painted on the mailbox struck him somehow. Amei & Tabitha M.: his clients for the day.

            The cold damp of London’s suburbia was making him long even more for the warmth of sunny days. With the past few moves he’s been managing for his company, the tipping had been generous; he could probably plan a spring break in South of France, or maybe make a more permanent move there.

            The sound of the doorbell brought him back from his rêverie.

            Inside the house, the faint sounds of boxes being taped and last-minute goodbyes carried through the hallways. Matteo had been part of these moves too many times to count now. People always left a little bit of themselves behind—forgotten trinkets, echoes of old conversations, or the faint imprint of a life lived. It was a rhythm he’d come to expect, and he knew his part in it: lift, carry, and disappear into the background.

            :fleuron2:

            Matteo straightened as the door opened and a girl that could have been in her early twenties, but looked like a teenager stepped out, bundled against the cold. She held a steaming mug in one hand and balanced a box awkwardly on her hip with the other.

            “That’s the last of it,” she called over her shoulder. “Mum, are you sure you don’t want me to take the notebooks?”

            “They’re fine in the car, Tabitha!” A voice—calm and steady, maybe tinged with weariness—floated from inside.

            The girl named Tabitha turned to Matteo, offering the box. “This is fragile,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Be nice to it.”

            Matteo took the box carefully, glancing at the mug in her hand. “You’re not leaving that behind, are you?” he asked with a faint smile.

            Tabitha laughed. “This? No way. That’s my lifeline. The mug stays.”

            :fleuron2:

            As Matteo carried the box to the truck, his eyes caught on something inside—a weathered postcard tucked haphazardly between the pages of a journal. The image on the front was striking: a swirling green fairy, dancing above a glass of absinthe. La Fée Verte was scrawled in looping letters across the top.

            “Tabitha!” Her mother’s voice carried out to the driveway, and Matteo turned instinctively. She stepped out onto the porch, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, her breath visible in the chilly air. Matteo could see the resemblance—the same poise and humor in her gaze, though softened by something older, quieter.

            “Put this somewhere, will you” she said, holding up another postcard, this one with a faded image of a winding mountain road.

            Tabitha grinned, stepping forward to take it. “Thanks, Mum. That one’s special.” She tucked it into her coat pocket.

            “Special how?” her mother asked lightly.

            “It’s from Darius,” Tabitha said, her tone almost teasing. “… The one you never want to talk about.” she leaned teasingly. “One of his cryptic postcards —too bad I was too young to really remember him, he must have been fun to be around.”

            Matteo’s ears perked at the name, though he kept his head down, settling the box in place. It wasn’t unusual to overhear snippets like this during a move, but something about the unusual name roused his curiosity.

            “Why you want to keep those?” Amei asked, tilting her head.

            Tabitha shrugged. “They’re kind of… a map, I guess. Of people, not places.”

            Amei paused, her expression softening. “He was always good at that,” she murmured, almost to herself.

            :fleuron2:

            The conversation lingered in Matteo’s mind as the day went on. By the time the truck was loaded, and he’d helped arrange the last of the boxes in Amei’s new, smaller apartment, the name and the postcard had taken root.

            As Matteo stacked the final piece of furniture—a worn bookshelf—against the living room wall, he noticed Amei lingering near a window, her gaze distant.

            “It’s different, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, not looking at him.

            “Moving?” Matteo asked, unsure if the question was for him.

            “Starting over,” she clarified, her voice quieter now. “Feels smaller, even when it’s supposed to be lighter.”

            Matteo didn’t reply, sensing she wasn’t looking for an answer. He stepped back, nodding politely as she thanked him and disappeared into the kitchen.

            :fleuron2:

            The postcard stuck in his mind for days after. Matteo had heard of absinthe before, of course—its mystique, its history—but something about the way Tabitha had called the postcard a “map of people” resonated.

            By the time spring arrived, Matteo was wandering through Avignon, chasing vague curiosities and half-formed questions. When he saw Lucien crouched over his chalk labyrinth, the memory of the postcard rose unbidden.

            “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked, the question more instinct than intent.

            Lucien’s raised eyebrow and faint smile felt like another piece clicking into place. The connections were there—threads woven in patterns he couldn’t yet see. But for the first time in months, Matteo felt he was back on the right path.

            #7579

            When Eris called for an urgent meeting, Malové nearly canceled. She had her own pressing concerns and little patience for the usual parade of complaints or flimsy excuses about unmet goals from her staff. Yet, feeling the weight of her own stress, she was drawn to the idea of venting a bit—and Truella or Jeezel often made for her preferred targets. Frella, though reserved, always performed consistently, leaving little room for critique. And Eris… well, Eris was always methodical, never using the word “urgent” lightly. Every meeting she arranged was meticulously planned and efficiently run, making the unexpected urgency of this gathering all the more intriguing to Malové.

            Curiosity, more than duty, ultimately compelled her to step into the meeting room five minutes early. She tensed as she saw the draped dark fabrics, flickering lights, forlorn pumpkins, and the predictable stuffed creatures scattered haphazardly around. There was no mistaking the culprit behind this gaudy display and the careless use of sacred symbols.

            “Speak of the devil…” she muttered as Jeezel emerged from behind a curtain, squeezed into a gown a bit too tight for her own good and wearing a witch’s hat adorned with mystical symbols and pheasant feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with the meeting room,” Malové said with a subtle tone that could easily be mistaken for admiration.

            Jeezel’s face lit up with joy. “Trick or treat!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

            “What?” Malové’s eyebrows arched.

            “Well, you’re supposed to say it!” Jeezel beamed. “Then I can show you the table with my carefully handcrafted Halloween treats.” She led Malové to a table heaving with treats and cauldrons bubbling with mystical mist.

            Malové felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the dramatically overdone spread, brimming with sweets in unnaturally vibrant colors. “Where are the others?” she asked, pressing her lips together. “I thought this was supposed to be a meeting, not… whatever this is.”

            “They should arrive shortly,” said Jeezel, gesturing grandly. “Just take your seat.”

            Malové’s eyes fell on the chairs, and she stifled a sigh. Each swivel chair had been transformed into a mock throne, draped in rich, faux velvet covers of midnight blue and deep burgundy. Golden tassels dangled from the edges, and oversized, ornate backrests loomed high, adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to be hastily hand-painted in metallic hues. The armrests were festooned with faux jewels and sequins that caught the flickering light, giving the impression of a royal seat… if the royal in question had questionable taste. The final touch was a small, crowned cushion placed in the center of each seat, as if daring the occupants to take their place in this theatrical rendition of a court meeting.

            When she noticed the small cards in front of each chair, neatly displaying her name and the names of her coven’s witches, Malové’s brow furrowed. So, seats had been assigned. Instinctively, her eyes darted around the room, scanning for hidden tricks or sutble charms embedded in the decor. One could never be too cautious, even among her own coven—time had taught her that lesson all too often, and not always to her liking.

            Symbols, runes, sigils—even some impressively powerful ones—where scattered  thoughtfully around the room. Yet none of them aligned into any coherent pattern or served any purpose beyond mild relaxation or mental clarity. Malové couldn’t help but recognize the subtlety of Jeezel’s craft. This was the work of someone who, beyond decorum, understood restraint and intention, not an amateur cobbling together spells pulled from the internet. Even her own protective amulets, attuned to detect any trace of harm, remained quiet, confirming that nothing in the room, except for those treats, posed a threat.

            As the gentle aroma of burning sage and peppermint reached her nose, and Jeezel placed a hat remarkably similar to her own onto Malové’s head, the Head Witch felt herself unexpectedly beginning to relax, her initial tension and worries melting away. To her own surprise, she found herself softening to the atmosphere and, dare she admit, actually beginning to enjoy the gathering.

            #7558

            Malove surveyed the room, her piercing gaze sweeping over each witch, causing them to cower. “I trust you’re not letting the weather distract you from your duties,” she said, her voice crisp. “I won’t have the coven slacking because of a little drizzle.”

            Jeezel straightened, flustered. “It’s not the weather! It’s the postcards! They’re showing up out of nowhere, and no one knows who’s sending them!”

            Malove raised an eyebrow. “Postcards? How quaint. And you think this warrants my attention?”

            “Absolutely!” Truella interjected, surprising even herself with her boldness. “It could be a warning—or worse, a challenge.”

            A flicker of ethereal light indicated Eris’s presence. “Or perhaps someone just has a twisted sense of humor.”

            Frella crossed her arms, frowning. “I agree with Tru. This could be serious.”

            Malove stepped closer, her demeanor sharpening. “Enough. I care not for your trifles unless they threaten the coven. What precisely have you discovered”

            Jeezel pulled out one of her postcards. “This one shows a twisted tree… and a symbol I don’t recognize.”

            Frella bit her lip and revealed her own card. “Mine has a raven on a crooked branch. Its gaze feels… unsettling.”

            Truella’s heart raced. “Jeezel, let me look at that! I think I’ve seen that symbol before—in the book that fell off my shelf!”

            Malove’s interest was piqued. “Elaborate.”

            “Well, old books practically leap off the shelves at me,” Truella explained, excitement building. “And Frella had a dream that seemed connected. The really odd part?” She paused dramatically until she was sure she had their full attention.  “I noticed that the book was written in the FIRST PERSON.” She gestured to the postcard with the twisted tree. “Maybe these cards are connected.”

            Eris chimed in lightly. “Or they could be a distraction. Perhaps you’re sending yourself messages?”

            Truella frowned, glancing at the shimmering light of Eris. “But why do you get to do distance while the rest of us are stuck here in this rain? Can’t you join us physically for once?”

            Eris laughed, her voice echoing. “Someone has to keep an eye on the chaos you’re about to unleash.”

            #7550

            The fair was in full swing, with vibrant tents and colourful stalls bursting with activity. The smell of freshly popped corn mingled with the fragrance of exotic spices and the occasional whiff of magical incense. Frella turned her attention back to setting up her own booth. Her thoughts were a swirl of anxiety and curiosity. Malové’s sudden appearance at the fair could not be a mere coincidence, especially given the recent disruptions in the coven.

            Unbeknownst to Frella, Cedric Spellbind was nearby. His eyes, though hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, were fixated on Frella. He was torn between his duty to MAMA and his growing affection for her. He juggled his phone, checking missed calls and messages, while trying to keep a discreet distance. But he was drawn to her like moth to flame.

            As Frella was adjusting her booth, she felt a sudden chill and turned to find herself face-to-face with Cedric. He quickly removed his glasses and their eyes met; Cedric’s heart skipped a beat.

            Frella’s gaze was guarded. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her tone icily polite.

            Cedric, flustered, stammered, “I—uh—I’m just here to, um, look around. Your booth looks, uh, fascinating.”

            Frella raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, enjoy the fair.” She turned back to her preparations, but not before noticing a fleeting look of hurt in Cedric’s eyes.

            Cedric moved away, wrestling with his conflicting emotions. He checked to make sure his tracker was working, which tracked not just Frella’s movements  but those of her companions. He was determined to protect her from any potential threat, even if it meant risking his own standing with MAMA.

            As the day progressed, the fair continued to buzz with magical energy and intrigue. Frella worked her booth, engaging with curious tourists, all suitably fascinated with the protective qualities of hinges. Suddenly, Frella’s attention was drawn away from her display by a burst of laughter and squeals coming from nearby. Curiosity piqued, she made her way toward the source of the commotion.

            As she approached, she saw a crowd had gathered around a small, ornate tent. The tent’s entrance was framed by shimmering curtains, and an enchanting aroma of lavender and spices wafted through the air. Through the gaps in the curtains, Frella could see an array of magical trinkets and curiosities.Just as she was about to step closer, a peculiar sight caught her eye. Emerging from the tent was a girl wearing a rather large cloak and closely followed by a black cat. The girl looked bewildered, her wide eyes taking in the bustling fairground.

            Frella, intrigued and somewhat amused, approached the girl. “Hello there! I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit lost. Are you okay?”

            The girl’s expression was a mix of confusion and wonder. “Oh, hello! I’m Arona, and this is Mandrake,” she said, bending down and patting the black cat, who gave a nonchalant twitch of his tail. “We were just trying to find the library in my time, and now we’re here. This isn’t a library by any chance?”

            Frella raised her eyebrows. “A library? No, this is a fair—a magical fair, to be precise.”

            Arona’s eyes widened further as she looked around again. “A fair? Well, it does explain the odd contraptions and the peculiar people. Anyway, that will teach me to use one of Sanso’s old time-travelling devices.”

            Truella wandered over to join the conversation, her curiosity evident. “Time-travelling device? That sounds fascinating. How did you end up here?”

            Arona looked sheepish. “I was trying to retrieve a rare book from a past century, and it seems I got my coordinates mixed up. Instead of the library, I ended up at this… um … delightful fair.”

            Frella chuckled. “Well, don’t worry, we can help you get back on track. Maybe we can find someone who can help with your time-travelling predicament.”

            Arona smiled, relieved. “Thank you! I really didn’t mean to intrude. And Mandrake here is quite good at keeping me company, but he’s not much help with directions.”

            Mandrake rolled his eyes and turned away, his disinterest in the conversation evident.

            As Frella and Truella led Arona to a quieter corner of the fair, Cedric Spellbind observed the scene with growing interest. His eyes were glued to Frella, but the appearance of the time-travelling girl and her cat added a new layer of intrigue. Cedric’s mission to spy on Frella had just taken an unexpected turn.

            #7505

            It was a good thing that Mother Lorena, who was notoriously hard of hearing was not within earshot.

            She would have been horrified at the mention of conduction of “six rituals” in those hallowed grounds.

            Luckily, she was busy reviewing and stoking fireplaces around the convent, due to the unexpected cold snap due to the Sahara sands painting the skies in a somber reddish darkly dark.

            :fleuron:

            Meanwhile, Eris who has followed Echo’s instructions after the sprite had LiDAR’d the underground spaces, had quickly found herself in the underground ways thanks to its instructions, close to the telluric surges origins. She could see there were pockets of magma softly bubbling underground. The upstairs agitation seemed to have stirred the currents.

            A little spell, used wisely, would do just fine – as an omen, or as a threat, all sorts of motivations tactics which had the best of intentions in order to dispel tensions, with just the right alignment of energies… as touching the earth’s core, needed summoning of both respect and precision.

            Ignis Draconis, come to form, Through the earth, through the storm, Guided by my whispered call, Rise, smoke dragons, one and all.

            #7413

            It wasn’t until late the following afternoon that Truella, with a pang of guilt, remembered Roger. Frella grinned sheepishly and said that she had forgotten him too.

            “But you know what? Wait, let me show you the tile I bought in Brazil.” Frella trotted off to find her suitcase.

            “Look what it says on the bit of paper that came with it:

            Function: The Freevole tile embodies the essence of empowerment and autonomy. It serves as a reminder and a guide for those standing at life’s many crossroads, facing decisions that may seem overwhelming. This tile encourages the holder to recognize their inner strength and the ability to choose their path confidently, even when faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges.
            At the center of the tile, there is a small vole standing at a crossroads where waters intersect, with dry earth visible behind it. The scene depicts sheets of water overlapping on both sides of the vole, creating a sense of inundation, yet there is an opening ahead, suggesting a path or choice to be made.

            We need to backtrack a bit with Roger. Look what it says here:

            What that vole hadn’t realized was that he had to backtrack a bit. There was no way ahead or to the sides, but the way out was behind him.

            See what I mean?”

            Truella squinted at Frella. “What?”

            Sighing, Frigella thrust the bit of paper at her friend. “Read the rest of it!”

             

            The Vole: The vole symbolizes the individual facing a decision point or crossroads in life. Its presence suggests vulnerability, but also resilience and adaptability.
            Crossing of Waters: The intersection of waters represents the convergence of different paths or possibilities. It symbolizes the complexities and challenges of decision-making, where multiple options overlap and intertwine.
            Dry Earth Behind: The dry earth behind the vole symbolizes stability, past experiences, or familiar ground. It represents the foundation upon which decisions are based and serves as a reminder of where one has come from.
            Overlap of Drowned Sheets of Water: The drowned sheets of water on both sides signify the potential consequences or risks associated with each choice. They represent the unknown and the possibility of being overwhelmed by circumstances.
            Opening Ahead: The opening ahead signifies opportunity, hope, and the possibility of forging a new path. It represents the future and the freedom to make choices that lead to growth and fulfilment.

            Families: This tile is aligned with the Vold family, known for their connection to transformation, challenge, and the breaking of old systems to make way for the new. The Vold energy within the Freevole tile emphasizes the importance of facing challenges head-on and using them as opportunities for growth and empowerment.
            Significance: The scene depicted on the Freevole tile, with the vole at a crossroads between inundation and dry earth, symbolizes the moments in life where we must make significant choices amidst emotional or situational floods. The waters represent challenges and emotions that may threaten to overwhelm, while the dry earth symbolizes the solid ground of our inner strength and determination. The path ahead, though uncertain, indicates that there is always a way forward, guided by our autonomy and personal power.
            As an advice: When encountering the Freevole tile, take it as a sign to pause and reflect on your current crossroads. It urges you to tap into your inner resilience and recognize that you have the power to navigate your life’s journey. The choices before you, while daunting, are opportunities to assert your independence and steer your life according to your true desires and values. Trust in your ability to make decisions that will lead you to your chosen path of fulfillment and growth. Remember, the floods of challenge bring with them the nourishment needed for new beginnings; it is within your power to find the opening and move forward with courage and confidence.
            The motif of the Freevole, standing determined and attentive amidst the forces of nature, serves as a potent symbol of the power within each individual to face life’s uncertainties and emerge stronger for having made their own choices.

            “Ok so in a nutshell,” Truella replied slowly, “Roger’s crossroads took him to Brazil and ours took us here, and that’s all that needs to be said about it. Right?”

            “Exactly!”

            #7373

            The disturbance had been felt in the bustling heart of Rio.

            The warmth of the night had amplified the vibrant energy of the Carnival in Rio, a pulsating heart that reverberated through the city’s veins. But as the beat of samba drums echoed in the distance, a different rhythm was being played behind closed doors. Iemanjá, the head of the Umbanda clan and a pillar of strength in the Witches of the New World, recognized the tremors of another magick at play.

            Gathering her coven under the silvery light of the crescent moon, they began the rhythmic dance of the macumba ritual. The air grew heavy, scented with copal and the salty tang of the ocean. In the center of their circle, a waterspout swirled, revealing in its shallow reflection the glow of a portal that emitted the icy chill of a Limerick dawn.

            Piercing through the veil of secrecy, Iemanjá’s ethereal sight witnessed the foreign witches, led by the enigmatic Malové, who dared to encroach upon their territory without the required parchmentwork. And yet, their motives remained hidden within the vortex of desire and lust emanating from the Carnival.

            A murmur of discontent rippled through the Umbanda clan. Mesmirah, her second, couldn’t stop herself shouting Sacrilégio! They were not ones to tolerate trespassers, let alone those who dared to siphon off energy from their sacred lands.

            Silêncio! Iemanjá commanded the crowd. She’d recognized Malové from having attended and graduated the same MWA (Master of Witchcraft Administration), and she was aware of Malove’s little incense business; Malové didn’t strike her as someone to bypass the rules, some handed down through countless generations, binding together most witches across the world despite their varying practices.

            She had to be mindful of the delicate balance between the Old World clans and the New. An unauthorized incursion could easily spark a conflict that would ripple through the witching worlds.

            Just as the ocean waves respect the boundary of the shore, so must the witches respect the territories — an ancient pact carved in the pillars of the Old World. This blatant disregard by Malové and her coven was akin to scratching the surface of a simmering cauldron, threatening to disrupt the harmony that had been carefully cultivated.

            As the revelation sunk in, Iemanjá knew they had to tread carefully. A confrontation would lead to a war bigger than themselves —yet, they couldn’t let this transgression slide. Their pride and the protection of their territory demanded action.

            Mesmirah! she finally spoke You will take three witches with you, and investigate what business these Old World witches have in Rio. You will report to me.

            Mesmirah nodded, understanding that she was not yet granted authority to investigate in an official capacity. Iemanja was acting surprisingly soft, and didn’t want the Elders to be informed yet, but had recognized action was needed. Mesmirah was confident she would easily find out what was happening, and maybe use that opportunity to her —their advantage. The game of power was on.

            #7236

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Xavier had been back for a month in Berlin, called back for an emergency as his company was announcing a big new venture. The following months had been a whirlwind, and he’d felt a bit guilty leaving his friends just after all the drama and the cart festival, the sand storm and all.

            Truth is, the sands of Australia weren’t much to his taste, and he couldn’t dedicate enough of his attention to all the distraction going on. What was Zara saying already? Like trucks in the night? Something like that, they’d gone, all of them their own way. Even AL and the game had stayed silent for while, not sending any new challenges.

            It was ironic in a sense, considering his company was all abuzz with AI news, new human interfaces, threat of job loses by the million, data privacy concerns etc. It was already a matter of fact for him, and frankly, he was a bit bored by it now, even though the craze was showing no sign of abating.

            “Illusion of depth of knowledge” or rather illusion of explanatory depth — that was was got him to think. All of this automatically generated expressions would be giving huge knowledge at everybody’s fingertips, but with either no willingness to truly understand, or always a nagging doubt it was just a neat narrative that could be completely imagined.

            The quest for the elusive spark of creativity was still on. If one thing was sure, it wasn’t to be found in AI.

            Suddenly, his phone rang, jolting him out of his daydreams. It was Youssef.

            “Hey man, how’s it going?” Xavier asked, pleasantly surprised at the call.

            “Listen, I know you’re busy, but we need your help,” Youssef said, his voice urgent. “Yasmin’s gone missing.”

            “What do you mean she’s gone missing?”

            “We don’t know. We haven’t heard back from her since weeks. Zara’s been trying to reach her, but she’s not answering her phone. We’re all getting worried,” Youssef explained.

            Xavier felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He should have been there, should have been helping them search for Yasmin.

            There was a silence on the line.

            “Look, we had a crazy idea. Can’t your AL or the game give us any clues?” Youssef asked.

            “Well, we’ve set boundaries on the system for ethical reasons Youssef. We can’t just spy on people. And who’s to tell she doesn’t just need the space? It wouldn’t have been unheard of. I’m sure she’ll come back in no time, with a smile and a song.”

            “I hope so…” Youssef sounded disappointed. “So you won’t help?”

            Xavier took a breathe. “Not this time my friend, I’m afraid. But I tell you what. You can go an post an advertisement at the Faded Cabbage pub, in the game’s Old District. Someone who knows someone may be able to help.”

            “Thanks for the tip, man… It’s was good to talk to you.” Youssef hanged up.

            #7232
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              🐳

              Welcome to the bustling riverfront community of Bridgewater, where the sound of boat horns and cries of merchants filled the air.

              Bridgewater was a town of hardworking people, all striving to make a living in this busy trading port. One such person was Anne, a middle-aged woman who owned a small pottery shop by the river. Her days were filled with the clanging of clay and the whirring of her pottery wheel. She took great pride in her work, creating beautiful plates and tea bowls that were highly sought after by the locals.

              Another memorable character was Jack, the town cobbler whose small shop was always busy with customers. He was known for his kind heart and his willingness to help anyone in need, often giving away shoes to those who couldn’t afford them. As the days passed, life in Bridgewater had its ups and downs.

              The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, but also of the generosity of the community. The broken pipes spoke of moments of relaxation, but also of the struggles of daily life. And the smashed plates and tea bowls spoke of hurried meals, but also of the occasional argument or disagreement.

              Despite the challenges, the people of Bridgewater found small joys in life. Children played by the river, skipping stones and chasing each other. Couples walked hand in hand along the promenade, watching the boats come and go. And on warm summer evenings, the town square was filled with music and laughter as locals gathered for impromptu dance parties. But as with any community, there were also tensions and conflicts.

              The town council was often at odds with the merchants, who felt that their needs were being overlooked. And there were whispers of a rival trading port that threatened to take away business from Bridgewater. One day, a fire broke out in the warehouse district, destroying several buildings and leaving many homeless. The community rallied together to help those in need, with Anne donating plates and bowls for makeshift kitchens and Jack offering his shop as a temporary shelter. As the smoke cleared and the ashes settled, the people of Bridgewater were left to rebuild their town. Through hard work and perseverance, they overcame the challenges and emerged even stronger than before. The lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates were all reminders of the struggles they had faced, but they also spoke of the resilience and strength of the human spirit. And so, life in Bridgewater continued, a vibrant and bustling riverfront community where goods were traded and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys.

              #7164

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

              Perhaps it was the approaching storm that was the cause of the annoying inability to fall asleep, and when Zara had had enough of the bizarre juxtapositions of the hypnagogic images flashing before her closed eyelids,  she gave up trying and switched the bedside light on.  Often she felt restless before a storm, not really a fear of danger but an alertness to the power and the agitation of it.  A bit like having one strong coffee too many and wishing you hadn’t.

              Zara padded over to the door barefoot, and opened it a crack.  Silence, and dark but for a night light in the hall and a distant light on the porch.  Quietly Zara made her way to the verandah. The night air washed over her face and made her smile and breathe deeply. She felt her self relaxing, and reminded herself that she was supposed to be relaxing, it was a holiday after all.  There was something in the air though, something she couldn’t nail down. A restlessness in the air.  It was as if something wanted to come to light, come out in the open, and yet an approaching dust storm threatened to obscure even the most obvious of things.

              “May as well sit up and have a glass of wine when it’s like this,” Aunt Idle said when Zara had finished her deep breathing relaxing mental turmoil exercises and had eventually turned to sit down at one of the tables.  “Fetch a glass over there and come and join me. Ever been in a dust storm in a lager and cart race?”

              Zara welcomed the distraction and smiled encouragingly and said that she had not.

              “Oh, I could tell you a tale or two about dust storms and cart races,”  Aunt Idle said, and then drifted off into silent reverie. Zara refilled their glasses with wine. “Do tell,” she said, “Tell me a tale about dust storms and cart races.”

              #6553
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Luckily for them, the sand structure with the nearby nests of snapping sand turtles was also a graveyard for the military drones that weren’t apparently programmed to register natural elements as threats.

                They quickly found four of them who weren’t completely damaged, and with some technical assist from Jorid, Georges was able to repair the propulsion and deactivate the military programs and tracking beacons.

                Klatu had some ropes in his speedster that they tied to their rudimentary drive and the drones, so they could carry Léonard’s body while he was still in stasis.

                His vitals were generally positive, and Salomé kept checking on him, while Georges and Klatu managed attaching the odd assemblage of drones to their craft.

                The ride back wasn’t as bad as the first time, maybe due to the extra cargo that made maneuvres more complex for their green driver.

                “This is worth the detour. Seems like Klatu really wanted to save time and avoided to show us the scenic route the first time,” said Georges trying to break the tense worried silence.

                Salomé smiled weakly “Léonard’s consciousness is embroiled into complex thoughts; they have to deal about some threat, the nature of which eludes me for now. It looks as though he’s absorbed some sort of forbidden knowledge, something potentially dangerous,” Salomé said to Georges. “I’m no longer as sure he was imprisoned for his punishment, but rather for protection…” she sighed. “for everyone else’s protection… I will feel better when we’re all back to the Jorid and we can run a full diagnosis.”

                Georges looked at his friend apparently sleeping, and wrapped a loving arm around Salomé’s shoulder “It’s not going to be long now. He’s going to be fine.”

                ***

                “Horrible doing business with you.” Klatu said as they parted, rubbing his hands together in gleeful satisfaction. Whatever the Jorid had organised as a deal for his payment, it seemed the added drones weren’t part of it and came as an extra bonus.

                :fleuron:

                Inside the Jorid, while Salomé was setting up space for Léonard and making the preparation for the diagnosis, Georges looked at the tiles board, readying the craft for imminent departure.

                A new tile had appeared, with a distinct pattern form, almost like an ogee.

                “Jorid, is this new?”

                “Indeed Georges, our adventure has inspired me to create new avenues of exploration.”

                “Oh, that’s fresh.” Georges looked into the shifting symbol at its surface. After it stabilised, he could see there was a sort of spiral shell with forms reminiscent of the mocking turtles peeking out from the centre, surrounded by sand dunes.

                “Jorid, tell me more please.”

                “Sure, I’d call it ‘Sandshell‘. Do you want the full curriculum?”

                “Absolutely, colour me intrigued!”

                The Sandshell:
                Function: A reminder of the fragility of our perceived reality and the importance of questioning our assumptions
                Families: Vold, Zuli, Ilda
                Significance: The Sandshell represents the shifting and unstable nature of our beliefs, assumptions, and understandings. Like the sand that slips through our fingers, so too can our perception of the world around us be ephemeral and illusory. The image of the mock turtle serves as a reminder that we often live under assumed identities and in a world built on questionable foundations.
                As advice: The Sandshell encourages one to question their beliefs and assumptions, to examine the foundations upon which they have built their reality, and to search for a deeper understanding of truth.
                Depiction: The Sandshell can be depicted as a spiral shell with a mocking turtle peeking out from the center, surrounded by sand dunes. The sand symbolizes the instability of our perceptions and the turtle represents the assumed identities and neurotic fairy tales that make up our reality. The spiral form of the shell represents the journey of discovery and self-reflection.”

                “I love it,” said Georges enthusiastically “can we use it to plot our next course?”

                “As a matter of fact we can Georges. Let me realign the grid and propose some suggestions. Do you have a seed thought to offer for this journey?”

                Georges pondered for a while, when the image of the fishboard sprung forth in his mind. “Our little adventure is reminding me of our origins, Jorid —Léonard, working on the fishboard, your ancestor in a way… Us, finding Léonard… It feels like an adventure back to our origins. Can you project a destination on this vector…” then thinking at Salomé’s worried face “… that would be safe for our next stop, and allow us to find help for Léonard.”

                “Verily.” Jorid answered back. “Course plotted. Please get comfortable until we arrive at our destination.”

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