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So they do!

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It's pretty great!

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Yaaaaay.

Aurin does not attempt to entice Zeke home to the Crypt Of Four Objects. Eventually he goes back to said crypt and sleeps in it.
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When he wakes up, Sherlock is sitting in the corner with the kettle, drinking a cup of tea! All four of his objects have practical purposes!

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"Morning," yawns Aurin.

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"Good morning. You encountered some nightlife, I see."

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"Danced, got hit on by a vampire," yawns Aurin, "vampire things happened, apparently they can do Sexy Biting when they are too spooked to try Eight Year Prison Term In A Civilized Country Biting."

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"Yes, that's true," says Sherlock.

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"'S nice, worth taking off a couple scales." He makes sure they haven't fallen out of his pocket in the night. Yay, there they are. "Even if the scales weren't probably saleable. Any notions where I ought to be going for that, by the way, whenever my care package arrives?"

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"I could find you several demons who'd be interested, without question. Human businesses, on the other hand, tend to operate during daylight hours, which are closed to me. But I'm sure I could point you in the right direction."

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Several objects appear in the middle of the room!

There is a smallish suitcase next to the chair with the wobbly leg from Mial's living room, and a smallish drawstring pouch full of silver scales on top of the chair, and a folded note under the pouch.

This problem is looking increasingly obscure, says the note. Might be a while. Have a chair. You seem to need one.
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Aurin pockets the pouch, reads the note, mutters "Mial shares my opinion of your decor," and investigates his luggage. "Mm, he let Mother pick things. I s'pose that's better than trying to do it himself but he ought to have asked Finnah..."

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"What did he say about my decor?"

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"He said we seem to need a chair." Aurin writes on the back of the note: Thank you for the chair. It lends a certain quantity to the room. You should have let Finnah go through my closet instead of Mother but I won't complain. Thank you also for the scales. "Vampires" here are weird. How long is a while??? Wave note. Wave wave.

And then Aurin's stomach growls because he hasn't eaten anything since local midafternoon.
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"You should probably go buy food," says Sherlock. "The sun's up, so I'll be no help. Make a token effort to pretend to be human and you probably won't alarm anyone too badly."

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The note vanishes.

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"Sure. Directions? Basic purchase-making protocol? Pointers to finding somebody who'll buy the gold and silver?"

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Sherlock gives him directions to a grocery store and instructions on how to turn a twenty-dollar bill into some groceries. He suggests checking the town library for information on local jewelers and similar, if any exist.

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Armed with this assistive information, Aurin sets out. Groceries first.

Everything, except the loose produce and the bread that is sold in paper bags, looks weird, and the grocery basket won't follow him on its own, and this packaging material they have that looks like glass paper but isn't - among other materials - is very strange. Stranger than that time he went for a walk in a refugee-town Little Pridetaal in Esmaar and everything was slightly schizophrenic about its location and provenance.

After systematically prowling the supermarket, reading a lot of labels, and doing arithmetic in his head, Aurin fills up his basket with a banana from the marked-down section, two rolls of a kind that doesn't seem likely to be difficult to tear in half without a knife and some inexpensive deli sausage, and a pasta item the instructions for which claim that it can be prepared hot with the addition of boiling water in its weirdly foamy bowl (Sherlock has a kettle). He gets a taste of a kind of cheese from the cheese area for free, which is tasty but whets his appetite; he gets in line, double-checking his mental arithmetic and finding that it does all come in under ten bucks unless they've got absurd sales tax.

He deliberately got in a longish line, but the people ahead of him move along briskly. Paper or plastic? Okay, so that stuff is called plastic, which seems to be an awfully all-encompassing term, doesn't it. No wonder he was getting really specific words that had less typical-use wear and tear to them. He's going to take paper anyway. He knows what paper is.

It's sort of hard to hear people over the large quantity of people in the store and their devices. He sticks with Sherlock's accent. "Paper, thank you."
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"Oh," says the person standing behind him in line, "are you from London?"

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Blink. Blink.

"Have I got the wrong - no, I'm not, I -" Aurin listens closely to a couple of people talking about what in the world they're going to do with a jicama this size, then groans and continues in a perfectly Californian pronunciation: "Is that not the local accent? What are the odds that it is both exotic enough to remark upon and the first three people I'd hear clearly enough to identify accents for all speak it or near enough? Grand."
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"I certainly couldn't tell you," says the person.

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"Ugh," repeats Aurin. "Thank you," he says to the cashier, and pays her, and gets his change, and puts it in the kangaroo pocket of his oddly exotic shirt. He collects his paper bag.

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The mystery Brit proceeds to buy his groceries.

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Aurin departs the store, finds a place to sit, and assembles himself a sandwich with the sausage and a roll. Then he eats his banana. The rest of it can wait. He nips into a secluded location to pick up the entire shebang as an eagle and tuck it so he doesn't have to carry his paper bag. He starts hunting for a place that will buy his gold. He finds a place that says WE BUY GOLD in large letters but they won't take the silver and the price seems suspiciously low compared to what twenty dollars would get him at the grocery store, so he notes its location in case he's in a hurry and moves on. Eventually he stops in a park to people-watch and give his feet a break.

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