CCVV-5009: Difference between revisions
(Created page with "{{Template:CCVV Header}} ==The Wrong Kind of Perfect== 40px The baskets are the wrong kind of perfect. Nothing blooms that long without help, nothing stays that watered without someone carrying water, and no flower in the world declines to drop a single petal on a clean floor for the convenience of the person sweeping it. Somebody is tending this place. Not the town, whatever the town believes. You can feel the shape of the arrangement the way you...") |
No edit summary |
||
| Line 5: | Line 5: | ||
Somebody is tending this place. Not the town, whatever the town believes. You can feel the shape of the arrangement the way you would feel a knot in thread, and you have a choice about what to do with that. | Somebody is tending this place. Not the town, whatever the town believes. You can feel the shape of the arrangement the way you would feel a knot in thread, and you have a choice about what to do with that. | ||
'''If you tend the baskets:''' You do the round properly, the way it should be done, deadheading and turning and settling the moss back over the roots. In the third basket from the east post, worked down into the moss where a human hand would never think to check, is a small folded thing left as payment for exactly this. It is worth | '''If you tend the baskets:''' You do the round properly, the way it should be done, deadheading and turning and settling the moss back over the roots. In the third basket from the east post, worked down into the moss where a human hand would never think to check, is a small folded thing left as payment for exactly this, folded the way only your people fold things. It is worth 25 (rc), and whoever tends this place clearly expected fae hands to be the ones to find it. | ||
'''If you sit and listen:''' You take the bench and you wait, and eventually the basket at the north eave begins its slow swing with no breeze behind it. This time you do not look directly at it, and so it does not stop, and it keeps going long enough to tell you something in a rhythm you half remember from childhood. Gain | '''If you sit and listen:''' You take the bench and you wait, and eventually the basket at the north eave begins its slow swing with no breeze behind it. This time you do not look directly at it, and so it does not stop, and it keeps going long enough to tell you something in a rhythm you half remember from childhood, a rhythm that settles into a pinch of dust in your open palm once the swinging finally stops. Gain one {{Template:ComboItem |Element = |Material = |Attribute = [[Thought]] |Base = [[Fairy Dust]] |Spell = }} at no cost. | ||
{{Template:Back}} | {{Template:Back}} | ||
Latest revision as of 00:25, 29 July 2026
| Dicey Dangers, The Creepy Creature of Vulture's Vineyard | Game by Joel Hills |
The Wrong Kind of Perfect
The baskets are the wrong kind of perfect. Nothing blooms that long without help, nothing stays that watered without someone carrying water, and no flower in the world declines to drop a single petal on a clean floor for the convenience of the person sweeping it.
Somebody is tending this place. Not the town, whatever the town believes. You can feel the shape of the arrangement the way you would feel a knot in thread, and you have a choice about what to do with that.
If you tend the baskets: You do the round properly, the way it should be done, deadheading and turning and settling the moss back over the roots. In the third basket from the east post, worked down into the moss where a human hand would never think to check, is a small folded thing left as payment for exactly this, folded the way only your people fold things. It is worth 25 (rc), and whoever tends this place clearly expected fae hands to be the ones to find it.
If you sit and listen: You take the bench and you wait, and eventually the basket at the north eave begins its slow swing with no breeze behind it. This time you do not look directly at it, and so it does not stop, and it keeps going long enough to tell you something in a rhythm you half remember from childhood, a rhythm that settles into a pinch of dust in your open palm once the swinging finally stops. Gain one Thought Fairy Dust at no cost.
Return to the Previous Table
|
The Creepy Creature of Vulture's Vineyard | ******************************************************************************************************************************************** |