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Sanity is not statistical.

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Me 3.
Interest is also piqued!
Happy Christmas!
The Pole of the Nords, near the Inuit island of Qeqertaat, where all directions are south. :)
I do wonder if the No' Po' is still ready for the Big Dance tonight.
9 more days!

Love and light to all!
Not sure.

Happy Turkey Day, Americanos!
Hope you feel better, sooner than later.

Added a graphic to Iota on Characters Page. Savourez, s'il vous plait!
Posted. More than happy to roll for Performance and/or Insight, if needed.

Happy Cat-urday!


In the thrombus of a university where ancient and modern worlds coagulate, the water genasi, her cognizance a symphony of the ocean's chuchotement and its wavy undulating endearment, coasted, with an Ungoliant hunger, through the blueprint of the once esteemed archaeologist. Cloaked in the future guises of aficionados of bygone stories, her true intent, as fluid and enigmatic as her aquatic lineage, authenticated solely by an uncensored, but resurrected author. The midnight gala, a likely tapestry of glittering soirees and historical revelries, loomed near, its secrets cradled in the velvet shroud of eventide. If they were to masquerade as Lufthansan guests intoxicated with the heady perfume of relics and the libations of reverie, their Ptolemaic conversations would have to weave through the crowds, akin to expertly thrown silk of an Anansi, a dance of Kunsthal espionage set to the tune of clinking glasses and hushed admiration.

Jesters adorned with the shadowy luster of societal gems, cosmetic visages glinting with the maquillage of a spelunker's fervor.

Her sapphire eyes, reflecting the depth of Mariana's trench and the clarity of a sunlit lagoon, perused the map with the meticulous care of an Ortelius charting unexplored territories. Within her mind, a maelstrom of strategies and subterfuges swirled, each thought a ripple on the circumscribed moat of her cunning. The Murkmire Stone beckoned her memory palace with its siren song. This gem, ensconced on the second level of its sanctum, resided in an abode of liminality, just beyond the mundane refuge of restrooms, beneath an attic's forgotten spoils, and hoisted above the cerebral landscape of administrative toil.

Summoning the arcane gifts of her phylogeny, the Marid-brood magically transformed the guide for all to see, into a hovering hallucinatory topography. This ethereal hologram evolved, unfolding like a Raskolnikov lotus in bloom, with each contortion and correction to the shammy semblance of constellations, revealing the intricate anatomy of a narcissan daffodil. Hallways stretched like sinews of ancient titans, labyrinthine rooms opened like the desperate petals of a Middlemist's Red. Every alcove and avenue stood in phantasmal relief, an architect's dream woven into the fabric of apparitions.

As the sorceress navigated through the latest revision of her spectral cartography, her inquiries were as precise as the jeweler's loupe scrutinizing a diamond's heart.

"Guards and alarms?"

She sought knowledge of the sentinels of this fortress, the guardians garbed in the uniform of modern vigilance. Her inquiries about surveillance, emoted an intellectual paternoster, climbing and deciphering a Sator Square, seeking to unlock the language of impregnability that assuredly haunted these cryptic walls.

"Patrons of interest?"

Her feet began to encircle the warlock's table, slowly, like a trepid naiad snaking through the river of time, her questions lapping gently at the shores of knowledge. She asked the doctor about figures of import, those beings whose presence might shape the destiny of their nocturnal quest. With Argus pupils, she awaited descriptions of benefactors whose wealth rivalled Croesus, and of any scholarly guests whose understanding of the archives were as deep as the Abyssal planes. With the stars about to bear witness, they would need to move through this throng of history's children, hearts beating in unison to the rhythm of adventurous ambition --- for the jewel, born from the womb of excavated dust, awaited them, an unhatched prize shrouded in the shell of an Eldritch horror.
Mechanics: Iota memorizes and matches the names on the contract with the faces in the room as they commit fealty. She then employs multiple instances of Minor Illusion, flickering a myriad of drafts before settling on a version. She then makes her rounds, hoping to gain any insight on parole, security and persons.
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