So much mystery beyond our awareness. We can’t go anywhere or do anything without the approval of the mead-swilling Archivist. If he is so fond of his mead, why isn’t he in here drinking with us?
We have these tremendous powers, yet our lives are completely defined by the mysterious, god-like Messana.
This I accept.
But I thought the first listing of the quickenings was presented by “guest_account_7” – and then changed. Did I hallucinate that? what is a “guest_account” anyway? What am I missing?
Are we all pawns in someone else’s game?
I think I’ll need another Sherry, if you please, dear bartender.
[Unnoticed behind an ornate latticework partition in a darkened corner, The Archivist quietly sits and carefully studies the motes of dust hanging in the sunlight as he nurses his mead]
Technically he fell on his own weapon, but I told the tale.
~goes back to hiding behind the jukebox before anyone notices she still has her head attempting to either yank the jukebox plug out of the wall or pry it open to put in some decent music bands besides ABBA~
Evelyn Wolff counted coup and deserves any credit. The ridiculous foulard vendor I encountered in Amsterdam claiming to be him may have been a descendant or simply an imposter.
Some have speculated that he was in fact immortal, either by nature or by sorcery, but I don’t find that credible. If by nature, I have left his head in the street (the tidy Dutch were appalled) and so he is gone. If by sorcery, who knows whether he will return?
growls, or at least makes a growling face while ichor sputters from neck-hole, throws head at Evelyn
Stomps over to pick up head and put more ducats in the jukebox, mashes play
People everywhere A sense of expectation hanging in the air Giving out a spark Across the room your eyes are glowing in the dark And here we go again, we know the start, we know the end Masters of the scene We’ve done it all before and now we’re back to get some more You know what I mean
