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lucy is a different kind of eldritch
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"The Runt? Does this have something to do with the door with the scratched-out sigil?"

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Fires nods. "I suppose you wouldn't know..."

It switches smoothly into the Correspondence. Two lovers, one a great hunter and the other an aberration, a runt, a dreamer. That which conceals. That which lights the way. Servitude to one who promised that all would be well. Betrayal, of the form: a deal that was meant to be loaded in one direction, but turned out to be loaded in another. A messenger and its servants trapped for twelve centuries without recourse. The suspicion that one's lover was responsible for a previously referenced betrayal. Betrayal, of the form: convincing someone erroneously that something will only hurt a bit. Betrayal, of the form: butchering one's lover, feeding the flesh to animals, and sinking the bones into a well full of liquid sorrow. Apotheosis catalyzed by blinding fury. A being which exists in dreams, hating everything, spreading its hate through dreams of dark water.

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"That is fucked up enough to surprise me, wow, what the fuck." 

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"Veils felt that feeding Candles to the sellers of the next city was a parsimonious solution both to its supposed betrayal and to our lack of candidates for the next city. The Bazaar agreed. It has never valued us highly."

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"To the--sweet probably nonexistent Jesus, what happened to them?"

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"They became more than they had been. They're called the God-Eaters... a bit of a misnomer, but humans have never been very precise. They reside in the Tomb-Colony of Xibalba, and maintain their eternal lives by feasting on wayward travelers."

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"For crying out loud. Well. I'll have to add it to my to-do list. Oh, and something I've been meaning to bring up--what's the Bazaar's stake in the Rubbery Men continuing to be at the bottom of London's social ladder?"

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"The children of Axile failed to uphold their end of a bargain with the Bazaar. I was not privy to the details, but the Bazaar imposed harsh sanctions upon them and their kin: they are not permitted to love, and they are bound to their forms of shapeful disgrace."

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"The children of Axile - you would know them, if you know them, as the Flukes. I do not know how they failed the Bazaar exactly, but the Bazaar was not best pleased. It imposed sanctions. Some of the Flukes stayed below the Fallen Cities, haunting their caves, which grow deeper with each Fall; others defied the Bazaar and went out to the Unterzee, and grew vast and strong."

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"And the Rubbery Men are connected to the Flukes?"

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"Ah. Yes, they are the Flukes' creations, their tentacles in the Fallen Cities. Weak and pathetic things, but they have their uses."

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"Okay. Well, that's going to complicate some things. Like everything. Is this just what everything is like, where every time you try to accomplish something there are gratuitously complicated prerequisites? Because I guess I can see how that would drive one to cynicism or insanity, not that I plan to fall prey to either."

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"Yes, any worthy goal will have complicating factors, and if you wish to save everyone, they exponentiate. This is why my goal is only to save London."

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"I guess I'd better get used to it, then. Thanks for the information," she says, gives the ladder and the depth of the hole a measuring look, then crouches and jumps out of the hole. 

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The Clay Men startle when she appears, then return to impassively standing watch.

Fires flies up after her. "Jasper, Frank," it says as it lands, "retrieve the package you took from Poor Edward and bring it to the Pale Adventuress's home. Wastelander, you may go."

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"May," her shiny crustacean ass. 

Whatever. She heads back towards the Bazaar. 

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It stands where it has stood for thousands of years, and will likely stand for hundreds more.

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She flumfs against a wall. 

The inherent difficulty of social interaction. Annoyance with an agent who makes things more difficult than necessary, she sighs, snuggling against the wall as much as it is possible to do so. 

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Empathy. The constant, aching desire to return to the High Wilderness.

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Unfamiliarity with the High Wilderness. A hope to someday explore new horizons.

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An endless void, studded with the tiny pinpricks of distant stars. Soaring through nothingness at a terrific speed. Delivering messages. The infinite joy of fulfilling one's purpose.

The Bazaar seems even more depressed as it communicates the latter two concepts.

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The assurance that in time, this too shall pass. The observation that humans survive heartbreak on a regular basis; the hope that even if a particular mission fails, all is not lost.

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The knowledge that though not all is lost, something vital can never be regained.

A deal struck with beings low on the Chain. The Flukes of Axile, practitioners of the Shapeling Arts. The Cladent Lobe, the organ which ensures a messenger will carry out its mission. The suppression of a non-vital organ while its function is unnecessary.

Incompetent servants. The festering of a temporarily suppressed organ. Blinding pain. Surgery carried out by a human.

The fact that no Judgment would employ a messenger without a Cladent Lobe. The sickening, vertiginous realization that one no longer has a purpose.

Lashing out against the beings perceived to be responsible for one's downfall. Spending most of one's time in a drugged stupor, weeping seas of lacre into one's deepest vaults. A being made loathsome by self-loathing.

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Welp. She had meant to get around to asking about that. 

The observation that a topic one had been meaning to bring up at some point has now come up independently. Regret and sympathy at past pain and current sorrow. The desire for reconciliation between a group which has innocent members and a party with good reason to hold a grudge. 

The observation that damage worse than that which has been referred to has been mended. The resurrection of a human infant from nothing but bones and leathery scraps of soft tissue. The observation that brain damage is much lesser in magnitude of damage than death.

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