The one who would become Mr Cards had not, at the time, realized that becoming the newest Master of the Bazaar meant becoming a giant, predatory, hermaphroditic, alien space bat. But by the time they had realized exactly where their physical transformation was taking them, their mental transformation was well under way, and whatever disquiet remained had given way to anticipation, even excitement. Ah, the memory of that brief, wondrous glimpse through the Gate, to see a proper Curator in their full glory! Admittedly, this also brought with it certain obsessive and predatory impulses that their old self would not quite have understood, but they had made their peace with those new parts of their psyche. Whatever gaps remained, they patched with what was not quite charity, salving their wounded conscience as they moved forwards, slowly becoming more.

Admittedly, even as a man, they'd always been at least a little obsessive in their studies, but as Mr Cards, their affinity for certain sciences had grown far sharper. How easily the purported randomness of shuffled cards gave way to the uncertain but predictable laws of probability! Of course, those laws were violated regularly, but in ways that could be straightforwardly detected, if not easily predicted. Carefully mapped and recorded, each violation hinted at its cause; the Seven Treacheries of the Neath. And with further study, one might look beyond the Treacheries, to those principles that made them possible: the Red Science, built from the Correspondence. To sum all that up as "Cards" was perhaps a bit disingenuous, but they had admittedly won their title in a card game. Perhaps they'd claim a different title next city, when that time finally came.

Nothing to do with trains, though. Entirely aside from that territory potentially being taken by the youngest Master, should it return; the Great Hellbound Railway was a grand achievement, and they'd learned much in building it, but it was not truly their passion. It was merely a convenient tool to advance their studies, and one that had earned them an interesting opportunity to strike against Hell! That had indeed been proper vengeance for their wasted years, setting the scales aright between themselves and Hell... though as it had happened in a way that Hell was unable to remember, they had been careful never to gloat about it. However they had felt about it originally, and whatever misgivings they'd had along the way, they had ultimately been correct to pursue Power.

With a loud and annoyed sigh, Mr Cards pulled themselves a little freer of the tangling vines of Apocyan reminiscence, disentangling the bulk of their Robe from the clinging memories. Parabola was tricky that way, and the incautious dreamer could easily lose themselves indefinitely in whatever dreams might snare them, even careless daydreams of their own past. No, it was not their academic obsessions that had called them here; it was their growing predatory instincts. Oh, they'd dabbled at Knife-and-Candle even before selling their soul, but it had merely been an interesting and not-entirely-avoidable diversion at the time; it hadn't truly called to them. Now, even in their partial and incomplete state, they were finally starting to understand just what it was that Mr Iron got out of Knife-and-Candle, and they'd thrown themselves into Hearts' Game much more deeply. And when stalking and poisoning willing prey didn't quite sate their need to express those instincts, they came here, to Parabola. Where the beasts of nightmare roamed freely, but could be fought and subdued, even 'killed', and their bodies hauled out of the Is-Not back into physical reality, as impossible trophies.

In short, Mr Cards had come here to hunt down a giant nightmare shark that swam through the air as though through water. The beasts were three times their size, but that was less important than it seemed, here; they'd managed to kill a Pinewood Shark before. It was certainly a difficult and dangerous exercise, but by no means impossible; some early aggression, a handful of shallow blows to vital spots with the Honest Butcher's Tool, some careful persistence as the thing flagged and faltered, a watchful eye for openings as the thing faltered... and then the deathstroke, followed by the rather less exciting work of butchering the carcass. What remained could be rendered down into a rather tasty soup, provided one was sensible enough to discard the stiff and acrid flesh in favour of the unassuming cartilage, which would dissolve rather excellently if simmered for long enough.

With a frown, Mr Cards brushed aside another tangling Apocyan vine, freeing themselves from a somewhat more relevant memory, and in the process stepping out into a somewhat clearer portion of Parabola. Alas, there wasn't a b____y pine tree in sight, implying that their hunt had gone rather badly awry; instead, there were merely rolling hills... almost visibly ambulatory, and menacing with savagely-sharp grasses. Indeed, the only creature nearby was their 'pet' Minotaur. The nightmarish beast had made its way into Parabola shortly after hatching from a carefully-augmented Whitsun egg... but it seemed content to guard their dreams, keeping a great deal of mischief at bay with its imposing presence. Despite its usual fearsome expression, they could tell that their 'pet' was bored. Time to get a move on, then...

With a moment's concentration, Mr Cards looked down at their hand, seeing first the long fingernails that weren't quite talons (yet). With a practised mental motion, they turned their hand palm upright, then squinted at it until they managed to imagine a dream-compass properly. It didn't come quite as easily as usual; it took what seemed like a half minute for the appropriate dream-logic of Parabolan navigation to assert itself, only to tell them what they had already known. They truly had become lost in that jungle of reminiscences, and were now further into the wilds of Parabola than they'd been in... hmm, perhaps ever? Well, they'd been here now, and a natural grove full of tangling Apocyan vines was an interesting find in its own right. Perhaps they'd remember this route later, and return on purpose?

Well, since they were here in any event, and nowhere near the Pinewood, perhaps they ought to find something else to hunt. With a nod to their silent companion, Mr Cards turned, and began to circle the jungle of memories. Perhaps they'd find interesting prey on the fringes, half-trapped in their own minds? The hills shifted between steps as the unlikely pair wandered a little further, and soon happened upon something like what they'd been thinking of; the long, long body of an extremely large snake, tail end coiling off into the hills, head unseen in the jungle of memories. An interesting possibility, but unlikely to be a profitable one; even in their native domain of Parabola, the Fingerkings could be defeated, but not at all easily slain, and certainly not taken as hunting trophies! An individual Fingerking might be tempted into a fight under the right circumstances, but was far more likely to offer conversation. Alas, with a Fingerking as old and powerful as this one seemed to be, the conversation could well be far more perilous than any fight would be. Still, one ought to be polite in such cases. The Fingerkings had very long memories, and their own sort of honour. Outside of declared war, it would be rather rude to simply ambush the serpent while it was distracted with its own memories.

Mr Cards stood a little taller, every inch a robed and mysterious Master of the Bazaar as they waved their silent companion aside and cleared their throat. Their true voice had yet to develop the high shrillness of their fellow Masters, but it was getting there, and a feature of their Robe made it reasonably effortless to imitate the remaining gap.

"Hail, Fingerking," they said, the semi-formal greeting coming easily, "It's a lovely day for a hunt, isn't it?"

Naturally, Mr Cards was expecting the enormous snake to turn from the jungle at their words. That it did so immediately was not a surprise, despite the way it moved with alarming speed and wide-open mouth. No, the surprising part was the way the snake's gaping mouth was a perfectly flat mirror. Automatically, three competing thoughts battled for their attention: 'did it get stuck partway through a mirror?' and 'why isn't that mirror fixed in place like all other Parabolan mirrors are?' and 'hang on, it looks like it's getting ready to lunge at me'.

Really, that third thought deserved a great deal more of their attention than it actually got. Despite the distraction, they almost managed to dodge the serpent's lunge.

Almost.

The Fingerking had reason to move with quickness. A master had recently toyed with them. They didn't really care if this one was the same or just similar.

As the lunge hits, there is no bite to feel. Only the effect a parabolan mirror has when collided with. Which is now, as it often, but not always, is: instant transportation.

Mr. Cards can hear the snake slithering away. Their location suddenly feels less Parabolan and more concrete. More real.

The mirror behind Cards is large. The room seems like a bedroom, regally furnished. Floors and walls are of dark stone. 

The air is chilly. No more noise can be heard.

A window shows an inner courtyard. The building could be a mansion of sorts. Or a fort. Alarmingly there is also bright light coming in through the window. With no visible roof at the outside.

THE SUN!

They haven't seen it directly, but the panic reaction is immediate; flinching away from the tempting glimmer of light, turning their back to the window. It's been... a long time since Mr Cards has seen real sunlight, except in the tiniest of stored and measured doses. The gnawing desire to look closer is firmly screamed down; even the tiny stored reflection of sunlight could pose a terrible risk, and an indirect exposure such as this could be far more deadly! Neathy things lose their power and special properties when exposed to the light of the Judgments; what the Red Science can do can yet be undone by the light of Law. But not instantly. They would not ordinarily wish to test their Robe against such light, but it will fail far more slowly than anything else they possess, giving slightly more time to plan.

Within the sheltered shadows of their Robe, Mr Cards awkwardly pries open their luggage, white-gloved hands steady despite the danger behind them. Luckily, the gloves they usually wear to Parabola have already been tested against the light of the Judgments... assuming that their Drownie seller spoke truly of their provenance! Even so, it's still too bright, so their first priority has to be eye protection! Reaching into the appropriate section of their bag with practised haste, the most broadly-applicable protection from visual hazards they possess leaps to hand, and then to face; thick goggles with irrigo-tinted lenses. Intended to dull the memory of anything they truly would not wish to see, they won't last long in direct sunlight, but might save their eyes for another minute or two.

Next priority is blocking the light, of course; whatever scrap of fabric comes most quickly to hand will do... wait, no; nothing alive! Much of the young Master's wardrobe has been too influenced by Polythreme to meekly hold still and be destroyed. and any time wasted trying to fight it could well be lethal! Nevertheless, their rough handling sends an assortment of their more independent-minded gloves, hats, stockings, and scarves spilling out of the bag, where they begin exploring the room of their own accord. Alas, they're far too busy to rescue any such rebellious items as they continue their search, spilling several dozen assorted handkerchiefs onto the floor as they mentally add 'and of appropriate size to cover the hole' to their requirements; moments later, a questing hand seizes upon an expensive set of surface-silk sheets! Unfortunately thin, but ideally resistant; it'll do for a first layer! Add to that any sort of sharp metal; a far easier search, as they still have some leftover Nevercold Brass screws in a side pocket from their last job. Ordinarily, the infernal alloy would be serious overkill for a patch job, but needs must when the Devil drives...

A couple quick folds have the sheets folded down into a reasonable patching size, which they hold up before their face like a ward with their left hand, while the right clutches a single screw. Lacking a third hand to hold a screwdriver, they'd need to drive it through the sheets and into the window's frame with their hands alone... but that feat of strength seemed less a problem than further delay would be.

Having only taken a handful of seconds planning and preparing, Mr Cards charges across the room towards the window, face hidden under sheets, Robe, goggles, making out the distinction of the window frame only by what slight change in brightness penetrates their protective layers. It's the work of long moments to get the first screw partly in, and they start a second as soon as it seems embedded solidly enough to support the weight of cloth. A third and a fourth follow it, each seeming to take more effort than it ought to, but soon their left arm is free to hold a proper tool... and in the moment that they begin to turn away to search their pockets for their Nevercold Screwdriver, a passing glance shows two problems with their plan.

The first problem is that the windows are adorned with thick red curtains; far more suitable and sensible protection than their madly improvised scheme! It takes less time to draw them shut than it did to drive a single screw in partway, and for good reason, since the second problem is that there was no wooden window frame; they'd been driving the Hell-forged screws into smooth stone with pure brute strength! Oops?

Well... silly as the mistake seemed in hindsight, it probably wouldn't matter that much. They didn't dare stay here long! The curtains don't perfectly block the sunlight, but with the room now mostly dark, it ought to be possible to reenter Parabola, and then... then, Mr Cards finally has enough time to question how they were able to emerge from a mirror in a sunlit room in the first place. They were no Silverer, but that ought to be impossible, actually. Even by the standards of that impossible place. Perhaps, at best, a dream-passage between the Neath and a dark Surface basement at nighttime, containing an imported mirror that had never seen the Sun's light? For that matter... despite their concerns, they didn't feel at all burned by their exposure, and the escaped stocking crawling under the bed didn't seem any worse for the wear either.

Hmm... perhaps, with the initial threat mitigated, they could bear to stay a minute or two investigating this mystery?

The stocking can be collected, and the assesment that no sunlight-related damage managed to happen seems to hold true.

Nothing as urgent as the sunlight appears within a few minutes. If the building is inhabited it seems the inhabitants are elsewhere, or very very silent. Or the room is soundproof.

There's definitely something strange going on here, since this apparent sunlight isn't behaving as they'd feared. It had looked and even felt like their faded memories of sunlight, but it had not burned like their more recent experiences had warned them. Naturally, a confusing phenomenon like this just begs to be properly investigated!

It is the work of moments for Mr Cards to change into an outfit better suited to more detailed study. This is not their laboratory, but the Smock of Four Thousand Three Hundred and Eight pockets has enough tools to suffice for a preliminary study (and those pockets are convenient enough to access even when it's worn under their Robe). Their Vigilant Chitin-Fur Boots are alive enough to keep an eye of their own out, as is the Avid Glove currently attempting to infiltrate this bedroom's chest of drawers. Their seemingly endless Pot of Violant Ink will provide a convenient medium for drawing any Correspondence sigils useful in analyzing the unknown light, while the Hungry Little Snuffbox (purchased at ruinous expense!), will permit the instant disposal of any dangerous and undesirable results.

But most significant of all is their mask, The Violant Demon; once a simple Hallowmas mask, infused with the ink of their profession into an item of power. Its creation was their first truly significant exercise of their art as a Correspondent, and its sinister features have come to feel almost more like their true face than any other disguise they've donned over the years... especially as their flesh face began to change.

Suitably attired, Mr Cards begins to assemble the bare bones of a basic transcription experiment; Mirrorcatch Boxes for taking samples, crystalline prisms and lesser gems to split the raw sunlight into various components, Neath-silk thread to carefully suspend those optical instruments in their proper places, fireproof paper for note taking, lead plaques to record any truly important results. All told, it'll take them a good half hour of preparation before they're ready to open a thin slit in the curtains.

The door opens. There is a person, presumably a woman, in what seems like it could be servant clothing. They were entering, but they stop and start staring at Mr Cards.

Cards' well honed watchfulness could help them react before the person has time to act. Will they?

At the moment the door opens, Mr Cards has rigged up an assortment of crysalline prisms on strings between the curtain rail, the wardrobe, and the bedposts (atop one of which sits a fanged top hat, which glares menacingly at the newcomer). Strange mirrored contraptions sit open on the floor, notepaper and heavy lead plaques inscribed with strange arcane symbols are scattered around the room and cluttering a desk, (alongside the preexisting pile of handkerchiefs). Mr Cards themselves is busy painting burning sigils onto the stone wall in an impossible colour of ink.

Stealth is clearly not an option.

Violence may work for a time, but seems impolite; Mr Cards is a trespasser here, and has very much made themselves at home in a manor that seems less unoccupied than they had originally assumed. No, this is a time for diplomacy. Well... persuasion, at least.

Under their Robe, the looming figure of Mr Cards stands at over eight feet tall, and returns the maidservant's stare with glowing eyes beneath a light-obscuring hood.

"I am not to be disturbed for the next two hours," proclaims the youngest Master of the Bazaar imperiously, quite effectively imitating the high shrill tones of their fellow Masters, "I shall be engaged with my current experiment for that length of time, and this room will be hazardous to observers for the duration. Once I am finished my work, I will be willing to meet with the owner of this estate to discuss compensation for the trespass, and any incidental damages."

There is a brief response. It does not sound like any language that Cards has ever heard. The tone might be accusatory but not outright hostile.

One who understands Taldane could decrypt the speech to say: "Stay put. You are trespassing on Chelish property. I will fetch an authority and someone with translation magic."

The maid takes a step back, shouts something to the hall, and takes her leave.

Hmm, that's not one of the languages that Mr Cards knows, which is interesting in and of itself. Not English, certainly, nor Latin (nor any related Romance language, for that matter), nor Hudum. One of the languages of the Presbyterate, perhaps? Possible, but more in a "the Presbyterate has too many languages" sense than in the sense of being able to relate the phonology to Varcheesi or Clinese. More to the point, that light outside had felt like sunlight, not the light of Stone (they could certainly tell that difference, with the light that bright), so they are probably not on the Elder Continent.

No, they don't even have a good guess as to whatever language that was. Well, perhaps they'd share a language with the master of this estate.

Lacking any good way to follow up on that little mystery, Mr Cards gets back to their experimental preparations. If nothing else, they have been left to their work, and they remain quite curious as to the propeties of whatever Sun-like light had so spooked them upon their arrival.

After a few minutes somebody who looks like a guard in dark armor comes through the door. Then enters a person of completely different make.

It's a humanoid woman. With almost alabaster complexion. Angular and sharp facial features are complemented by white hair, red makeup and meticulously shaped eybrows. 

A glance at her clothing and equipment makes it quite clear she is the wealthiest local in this room. Altough, just like the guards', there is a weirdly outdated or even historical flavor to the style of her armor. The color scheme is of black and deep red, reminiscent of the furnishings.

The feature that might most catch Cards' attention would be eyes reminiscent of shining amber that contribute a piercing gaze in their direction. And the horns.

"What is the meaning of this incursion?"

There is something going on with the language. It's certainly English, but it's more neutral of any sort of accent or other features than one would usually hear spoken.

Mr Cards puts their inkpot aside as the new arrivals enter, having mostly finished their work on the sigil array they were painting. The fanged hat hisses a warning at the guard, but seems to think better of threatening the horned woman.

Once the group has properly entered, Mr Cards gives a the woman a polite, but not obsequious bow; she is clearly the superior among their group. Being addressed in English is a surprise, especially with the strange accent, but it's hardly the oddest thing about what has happened so far today. Such bright amber eyes would ordinarily bring to mind a Devil, but they seldom go for horns (that's more of a Demon thing), and their speech entirely lacks the slight buzz of a Devilish accent. But there are other shapes and pathways that the human form might adopt, and horns such as hers are far from the strangest thing they've seen.

"That is unclear even to me as of yet," admits Mr Cards, "I had not intended to depart Parabola so suddenly, and to arrive in an apparently sunlit room had seemed impossible."

"I expect to have a clearer idea of why this has happened shortly," they add, gesturing at their makeshift experimental setup, "But as I had attempted to explain to what I assume was your servant, this room will be hazardous to observers for the duration of my investigation."

There is a tiny hint of surprise at the hissing hat.

A nod acknowledges the bow from Cards. Then comes a rapid flurry of questions.

"So you are claiming that you have trespassed a secured Worldwound fortress by accident?"

"What is this Parabola you speak of? How does it relate to your transit method? How do you depart from such a place?"

"Do we have any reason to believe it would be beneficial to let you commit your research?"

"The normal procedure for trespassers is to forcibly confine them and ask questions later. I would much appreciate answers that could make for a more beneficial solution for all sides of the matter." There is a threatening, but negotational undertone at this part. 

She wonders about the weird pose and manner of being of this possibly humanoid creature. They seem to wear a mask that seems to resemble the likeliness of a devil, but in intentionally or unintentionally caricaturish ways.

Mordessa activates detect thoughts to check the consistency of Cards' answers. (The detect thoughts requires a medium difficulty will save to block. Or another method of making ones mind resistant to reading.) They also have a True Seeing up, which lets them see through illusions, transmutations and the like.

(True Seeing is sufficient to see past the illusory darkness produced by the Robe of Mr Cards, and is sufficient to reveal the masked face beneath. The glowing eyes are also illusory; the face beneath the mask seems humanoid, though amber-eyed. The large and vaguely hunchbacked shape of their body is not an illusion; there is something physical maintaining that shape, and not a transmutation. The mask itself, though it does depict a devilish caricature, is nonetheless of exceptional craftsmanship, and is painted in an impossible colour, which stands quite apart from those ordinarily seen in Golarion. This colour property is not an illusion, and indeed it is the same colour that the sigils painted on the walls are. Having closely examined the mask, it would be quite difficult for even a Devil to forget it.)

(Mr Cards can easily pass a moderate DC will save. They briefly experience a vaguely unusual sensation, but lack the context to notice the significance of that mental event.)

A 'secured' fortress with an unguarded mirror? Mr Cards is unable to entirely contain their incredulity at this glaring deficiency, though they are able to limit that reaction to a slight widening of their eyes. The woman's follow-up question about Parabola is at least a partial explanation of their ignorance.

"I understand that my passage into your fortress and subsequent actions are a sort of trespass," Mr Cards admits with a nod, "But I am willing to discuss some reasonable compensation for whatever damages and inconvenience that I was directly responsible for. Given your surprise at my manner of arrival, I am willing to provide a basic explanation of the phenomenon in question as a portion of that compensation. As to why you might find it beneficial to allow me to continue my research, I will note that I did not expect to be able to arrive under these conditions. After a brief study, which may be hazardous to observers unfamiliar with the Correspondence*, I may be able to describe both why I was able to arrive here instead of in a more typical exit point, and how you might prevent future incursions of this sort."

"Should you be unwilling to allow this," they add, "I note that I would ordinarily expect to be able to enter or leave a facility such as this without great difficulty, and have yet to be impressed by your security precautions. My interest in completing this research without interruption is significant, but not infinite."

*: literally just long-distance communication, as by letters or other time-delayed messages, but also conveys the implications of 'communications between stars' or 'the language spoken by gods'.

The mask and its colour is most fascinating. And the being wearing it. Mordessa has not ever seen anything quite like it. Or heard about anything like it. A watchful observer would notice that a look is being taken.

An eyebrow is raised at the mention of Correspondence. "I have not heard of the way in which gods communicate being described in this way before. Neither have I heard communication between stars being a concept that makes sense."

The expression of capability and lack of being impressed by the security are acknowledged by a serious look, but not commented on. 

"Establishing a shared understanding of the facts seems necessary for evaluating much of anything about the situation. As such explanations of phenomena seem suitable as part of the compensation here. Do engage your interest if you still feel so inspired. Will the research safety perimeter be this room? How much time would be sufficient?"

(In expectation of the safety perimeter, the staff who had entered the room or were close to it are ordered away, in the unfamiliar non-English language that Cards couldn't recognise earlier.)

Another subject of ignorance, but a less surprising one; the Correspondence is not widely known, and details of its working are at least somewhat suppressed. But the dismissal of the more human-looking servants is a reasonable precaution.

"Your ignorance of my primary field of study is understandable," comments Mr Cards without much heat, "The Correspondence is a somewhat obscure subject, and one that is quite hazardous to study; amateurs dabbling in the topic commonly burst into flames or go mad. Nonetheless, since this is a stone room, and thus unlikely to accidentally catch on fire, I expect any hazard posed by my work to be contained to this room, and would further anticipate the work to be finished within two hours, after which I will remove all objects and symbols which are hazardous to untrained observers."

They give Mordessa a contemplative look, before adding, "As this is your own territory, I would not presume to expel you while I work, providing that you do not interfere. If you do choose to remain, know that I shall not trouble myself to rescue you, should you prove unable to handle the aforementioned dangers."

The door to the room is now closed. At the mention of objects catching fire a short evaluative look from Mordessa at the various objects in the room can be noticed.

"Two hours does seem quite acceptable. With these details I would stay; I do prefer to not be damaged but observation seems highly likely to provide new information." There's a short contemplative look, "I also presume you have not yet gone mad with this 'Correspondence', are there tools for checking that? Should I apply some to myself after the experiment?"

"In any case feel free to move forward with the experiment."

"Any worthy mind has a degree of inherent resilience," assures Mr Cards with a hint of amusement, "Should one have the luxury to spend days engaged in nothing more strenuous than idle relaxation, lesser damage will heal on its own. Should one be too busy for that, a variety of methods have been recommended to accelerate such healing; though the specifics depend to some degree upon one's personality. Teas and potions, theological and esoteric meditations, romantic companionship, or simply strenuous exercise are all recommended by various experts. If you wish to observe, but have concerns about lasting damage, I am willing to offer a sample of a potion I sometimes use for this purpose, as an additional payment against what compensation is owed."

Unless rebuffed, Mr Cards reaches into their Robe and produces three bottles of a clear liquid, labelled F. F. GEBRANT'S SUPERIOR LAUDANUM: FOR PAINS, NIGHTMARES AND DISLOYAL THOUGHTS. As they hand the bottles over, they add a word of advice, "I consider three bottles on three subsequent nights to be the maximum safe dose; beyond which one ought to wait at least a month before taking more."

"As for my own mind, I passed in and out of madness on my way to mastery," they admit, "Fortunately, in my home city of London, there dwells an ancient being, many thousands of years old, who maintains a great Hotel in which he 'freely' hosts the mad, until such a time as they may recover. I found myself in need of their services at various times over the course of my studies, to the point that we came to a more permanent arrangement than that offered to the masses. It was not until much later that I came to understand the true nature of the payment for their services."

Without further explanation, Mr Cards returns to their work, taking a minute or so to double-check the array of painted sigils, the precise positions of the hanging prisms, and (with a slight hint of embarrassment) gathers up the pile of accidentally discarded handkerchiefs.

While they do so, Mordessa has the opportunity to investigate some of the items Mr Cards is not busy with. The apparently animated hat seems to be trying to avoid her notice, scurrying to hide from her gaze. There's a handful of mirror-filled boxes of unclear purpose, since it ought to be completely dark inside such a box once it is closed. Additionally, there are a variety of lead plaques, some unmarked, some bearing mysterious sigils.

"That is a most curious description of insanity. My best understanding is that even if it sometimes starts as mild, many forms of insanity are permanent." after a short contemplation, "That description sounds a lot like how some mortal literature would describe stress and cures for it. But you seem to be talking of a more concrete insanity."

"We are gracious for the sample. It seems useful, and the warning is noted. I have to admit a hint of confusion; in many countries here on Avistan, the usual solution for disloyal thoughts often is pain, in the form of painful punishment for disloyalty. This potion does something else to solve disloyalty?"

"I can confess, I have also passed through something one might consider a period lf madness. When I, being a Devil, was built in Hell, I went through various periods of the process, some measured in decades, where I had no capability of thought at all, or capability of sane thought was seriously impaired. Altough in another sense, as a perspective after the process, often thought considered 'normal' by mortals is not particularly sane. Altough the church tries to do it's best with what it has."

"I have never heard of a city of London, and one with such a hotel sounds like a most notable place. Which continent and country is London located in? For context we are currently located in the continent of Avistan. We are quite close to the Worldwound, which is a huge landmark."

If Mordessa had some more bits of her mortal self left, she would feel most curious about the present opportunity. What she feels now, is an urge to prioritize extracting maximal information in minimal time and inducing minimal suspicion in Cards.

Since there was talk of a highly significant language, the sigils are a point of investigation. Mordessa tries to avoid touching any items, but both the lead sigils and sigils on the walls get good looks. (The color of these sigils is mystifying. How and why could someone just create new colors, without magic? That's not how colors are supposed to work.) 

The animated hat also seems at least worth a good look with True Seeing. Does it's liveliness seem illusory or transmutic in nature, or is it truly a living being, that just happens to be in the form of a hat?

She does also glance at the boxes, but presumes that if there is a trick to them it's some spell that will be cast on them or such to make them do something.

Mr Cards continues to work while they speak, their voice taking on an almost lecturing quality, as if used to educating a student while they work.

"Regarding madness, many people in London are chiefly concerned with nightmares, and of sleeping free from them. Personally, I consider the quality of one's sleep to be a mere symptom of disruptions to the integrity of the mind," opines Mr Cards, "Such disruption is difficult to quantify, but when one has passed from sanity to madness and back again sufficiently, it becomes easier to estimate how close one is to the breaking point, how much damage any harmful incident does to one's mental integrity, and how helpful various means of recovery are. Certainly, stress is a contributing factor, and many things which ease stress also aid the mind's recovery, but there is a distinct point in which sanity breaks, and the afflicted are no longer in meaningful control of themselves. Recovery is not guaranteed beyond that point without significant external intervention, and even with the best of help, some never recover."

"As regards 'disloyal thoughts', that is a particular problem in London, owing largely to certain... hm... persistent and dangerous influences. To give an example," their voice becomes slightly lower here, with a vaguely distasteful air, "In the last year, there has not been a single week that I have not encountered those who have become convinced that sinister voices cry out to them from wells, compelling them to consume unwholesome substances, wander north into the wilderness, or hurl themselves into a well to drown. Even respected and otherwise sensible nobles sometimes fall prey to such impulses. Potions such as that one are of some use in suppressing such thoughts, should the treatment be applied before the compulsion has truly taken root."

When Mordessa speaks of being a Devil, this both confirms a certain suspicion, and yet provides cause for confusion, which they do not entirely bother to conceal, "Ah, yes. I have met and worked with a fair number of Devils before. By treaty, Hell maintains a permanent embassy in London. Although... in my experience, Devils have a rather distinctive accent, which you lack entirely. Are you perhaps employing an unusual communications technique?"

Mordessa's description of continents is clearly more of a surprise, but they recover quickly, "That likely explains much of my confusion; the continent of Avistan is unfamiliar to me. I haven't previously heard of a route through Parabola that leads between worlds... but different world, different Judgements*, different rules. No matter, it should be straightforward to determine the differences, and I shall soon be ready to begin."

The hat's appearance is certainly a true form, and is no illusion or transmutation. Any animated construct might appear similarly, though the teeth and eyes suggest that something stranger is going on.

The moment Mordessa gives a Correspondence sigil more than a cursory glance, her mind is assaulted with the definition of a symbol that needs no translation:

<The Pain Experienced At Apogee>

There is a moment of crushing loneliness, as that pain conveys itself directly, only to leave her with the beginnings of a lingering headache. If Mordessa has ever had the (mis)fortune of receiving direct orders from Asmodeus or another Archdevil, there is something of that feeling in the way the sigil's meaning imposes itself upon her mind.

*: Judgements also wants to translate as both 'stars' and 'gods'.

Mordessa does not seem to mind the lecturing.

"Nightmares being a symptom rather than the problem itself does seem a most sensible interpreation. I wonder if perhaps it is easier to come across things that highly danger ones mind in London, than it is here. There seem to be people who go insane due to the normal tolls of peace, war, and living, but going insane and back again is not usual. There are also persons of great discovery, powerful Wizards being a common category, where a growing amount of weirdness and detachment from normal mortal life is often observed with their knowledge and power growing. But most would still claim they are in control of themselves, and at least to the manner that they can keep themselves alive and cast magic that is quite often true."

"That intensity of disloyal thoughts to ones own planning is quite rare here. It could be met in places with monsters or curses. Often cults of Old Ones, the ones behind the tapestry and away from the stars, are often adjacent to such effects. Either by being founded by the effects or causing such effects." Mordessa lowers her tone here to match Cards, "Especially sinister voices compelling one to dangerous action, not being centered to one location but more to one concept, would here most often be effect of such a terror. These sorts of cults rarely hang around for long in civilized societies."

"In any case, that was an useful description for what the potion is supposed to do."

The mention of a treaty with Hell, and of working with Devils, does get an interested look. "We are using translation magic here. The language that you spoke to my servant is unknown here. I am not aware what accent I would speak with if I were to talk in your language without such magic."

"It is basically unheard of here for transit methods that work within a world to work cross-worlds. The intensity of the magic* required is quite different.", then with a curious look, "Also, I would like to clarify; are your worlds' Gods stars?

The hat is interesting but perhaps investigated enough for now.

The pain does truly hurt. Asmodeus finds it aesthetical to have His servants, even ones who could have combat relevant pain resistances, to be maximally hurt by commands from Him or His own. She does not (yet) lose functionality due to the pain in the way a mortal might, but it does definitely contribute to taking the sigils seriously. Taking seriously does mean that she will investigate another sigil, if she can notice at a glance that there is a different one available.

*: topological complexity (in case topology does not translate, it would be something like "advanced mathematics, abstractly adjacent to geometry")

Mr Cards nods agreeably at the explanation. Translation 'magic', as an application of some mathematical concept, seems no stranger than many of their other skills.

"A useful ability," they conclude, "And one which seems quite convenient for casual conversation, if not for more formal agreements."

They have finished their work on the impossibly coloured sigils; something about the colour they are painted in makes them seem more memorable, and more active, than the symbols engraved in lead.

<A Place Between Spheres Of Influence>

<Unmoved By Gravity>

<The Destruction Of Momentum>

Each sigil is a separate blow, conveying the concepts of a delicate balance between great and opposing forces, a constant force applied to allow an object to resist the pull of a greater mass, and an object held firmly in place as it's relative kinetic energy is drained away. There is clearly some principle by which the component parts join into a greater whole, though the mechanism is more obscure... minor symbols between the larger ones which seem more like punctuation?

Still, there is some obvious effect from the sigils, as the makeshift array of prisms and thread seems to be held unnaturally still by the crude setup.

Mr Cards notes Mordessa's reactions as she looks over their work, before pulling out a thin knife and stepping to the window.

"I expect what comes next will be significantly more intense," they remark in mild warning, "This is your last chance to withdraw, before I truly begin."