It was something like falling into a giant knick-knack store, with strange stone-faced wooden indians, but still somehow leering while looking at me. I continued to wander through the store's various diversions
, listening for the racket
of the others advancing their way through it all. I rounded a bend in the cobblestone
floor to find everyone gathered together. Everyone shimmered
madly--probably just a side effect
of the hideous lantern
gestured wildly, saying something with such passion
utterly oblivious Nate
. It looked like Chris
had their arms around each other, but were somehow shifting into each other, then back out again. Shaking my head, they stood next to each other, looking at me closely. Chris gave a high pitched laugh
I looked at Sally with great confusion. No real visual effects, but everything seemed to be altered on some sort of strange plane. I saw Cliff with the body and begin to have visions of an apocalyptic cult. High priest Ryan looked at Acolyte Scott with great care, showing him how Keeper 1st class Cliff kept the material safe from all intrusions. Temple guards of the crescent sun kept guard with huge woolly arms and mammoth hands.
The nubile young priestess glances over at the backwards peasant boy, who stands with a hunch, next to the bearded man of the North. He is outside of this all, looking inward with bored interest. The peasant boy looks frightened, and the priestess comforts him, hugging, and crooning some strange song with a high Himalayan whisper to them. He sits down.
The temple guards are lustily singing a song, and trying on strange head wear and eye-glasses from the store across the way. The one laughs at the other while he puts on a plastic scabbard, and begins to caper around the store gesturing wildly with the sword. The High Priest, Acolyte and Keeper ignore him. The Keeper opens the ice with vivid red letter across the side. Emblazoned in shifting color is the title "TherMos", a sigil which is known to all. The High Priest salutes us, and pushing the Acolyte down in front of him begins to weave a story. I have taken a seat on the wooden indian bench, watching intensely.
--Letters from a Savior; Offer for a few--