"Paper and ink works."

"He was a famous artist in his day, you know. Although no one's heard of him for decades."

"I have been utterly lost to history," Pickman says cheerfully.

“I’d love to see your work if you’d be willing!” Have some paper and pen. 

Pickman sets himself to sketching a landscape. 

"I think sometimes they put his work on... Tumbler? Or something like that."

"Huh. Good for him."

Randolph Carter wants to go talk to the teenagers. Unfortunately, subtlety is not his strong point. 

"So, how're you planning to do this war?"

"...Well, if they don't surrender by dawn tomorrow, we go in and try to kill them. And they try to kill us, presumably. We're better fighters, though, soooo." Shrug.

"I think I'm going to go talk to them."

“Alright. Do you need directions?”

"Directions help. Pickman, you good?"

"I'm not getting involved in any wars. I am a peaceful artist. --Do you think there will be bodies?"

“No. Well, probably not. Fundy was born here but he’s the only one.”

"Try to aim at Fundy."

"Rude."

"He's the one who started a war. He knows the risks he's taking."

Snort. “I’m not going to aim at Fundy. Their faction is straight that way on the path, and then make a left through the forest, there’s a brick wall around it.”

"See ya."

Randolph Carter is going to follow the directions.

The walls are made of a black brick, not like the red brick from Earth; there are crosses carved into them, either as windows or for shooting arrows through, and bits of bright yellow stone stuck on top. 

A voice calls out: “Stop! As president of this great nation, I order you to identify yourself at once.”

Does he have to give the speech again. 

"Randolph Carter, traveler, bearer of the silver key, friend of cats and ghouls, sworn brother of King Kuranes and soulmate of Richard Pickman, who knows the secrets of Iranon and rode a Ship-Self and stood face to face with the Crawling Chaos Itself. I request hospitality and guest-friendship."

There's a pause and then: "Yeah, okay."

Two people come out from the walls, both wearing a blue uniform with accents of red, white, and gold. One is a man in his early twenties with curly brown hair, the other a blond teenage boy.

The teenager is the first to speak up; his voice is definitely not the same one that had been speaking a moment ago. "Where are you from?"

"Providence, Rhode Island."