Salt Weasels And Weaponized Literature

• You find yourself inside the house of the Capricious Poet, conversing with its owner, a well-regarded Correspondent. The Poet bears an eccentric posture, much like his abode; the fine black suit and well-groomed features are unable to mask his correspondence-crazed eyes. As the conversation turns to pets, they gain a manic gleam, and with a wild laugh, he begins to speak excitedly.*

I have a pet salt weasel. His name is Felix. Felix is an utter darling, he positively adores chin scritches and head scratchies by the fire. Felix also enjoys eating Ratus Fabber Bandit Chiefs and Rubbery Lumps... Don't ask how I learned that, suffice to say, long-tailed weasels hunt rats and Felix is a proud bearer of his ancestral instincts...

• You comment on the danger of a weasel hunting rat gangs. The Capricious Poet’s left hand begins shaking and he opens his mouth to deliver a sharp rebuke.*

What do you mean dangerous?! Felix wouldn't hurt a fly! unless it had a rat tail! But flies only have tails in the Starved-Men’s stalactite fortresses. Just because Felix has consistently spat up rat pups after he found the local LB-Warrens doesn't make him a menace! It simply puts his honorable yet playful nature on full display. Why, ever since my Emerine Assassin, Fritz met him, Felix has learned how to safely play with his food.

I remember one time when Felix was tarred and feathered by the time I got him out. My urchin had to spend 12 Echos buying Jones’ Salt Weasel Shampoo and another two on some gloves for bathing Felix. Nowadays, however, he and Fritz can clear a warren in just two minutes and 14 seconds. Felix doesn't even get hit by LB muskets. Truly a talented weasel.

• A loud crash is heard from the direction of the kitchen. Shocked, you watch as the Capraciosu Poet turns towards it and begins shouting,*

No! No! Fritz! Not the cupboard! What

• Turning back to you, he bears an apologetic expression and starts speaking at a rapid pace.*

My dearest apologies good sir, where was I? Ah yes, salt weasels. I would fervently recommend acquiring one. They are delightful creatures, especially when sitting on your lap by the fire, or resting by your head at night. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must deal with whatever Fritz just found. TALLY HO!

• The Capracipus Poet draws a sword from the mantlepiece above his fireplace–a silvery saber, blade inscribed with a dozen Correspondence Sigils that gleam in an intense, almost painful light.

The Sigils are Weeping Violant Ink. They hurt to look at. You can't take your eyes off of them. Their unforgettable violant gleam draws you in deeper…

A repeating, repetitive mechanical motion.

Knowledge unable to be un-knownt.

Preparations for a murder.

Turning away from the victim’s corpse.

The last breath of a dying friend.

Merciless, unceasing advancement of entropy.

Dea–

The blade is out of sight. Your mind still burns but you are no longer wholly consumed. The runes... The light...

Shaking your head harshly, you leave the Poet’s house as hurriedly as you can. A small part of you wonders what the effects of Violant ink are on human flesh and if it makes the sigils more effective. The rest of you resolves to never find out what that d*mn*d blade does to people.

Finally outside, you call a cab. That bottled oblivion can’t come soon enough.*

Fin~