[ The streets are dark, barren, and spooky as hell. There's little to hear except the wind in the leaves and the ever-present whispering. If anyone lingers out here, it's probably in the name of mushroom-hunting, to save the Patrons' lives.

So anyone who knows John's take on the Pthumerians might be startled to find him out tonight. He stands before an overgrown tree, a pale mushroom catching moonlight in the crook of its branches. His hands aren't on the mushroom: he's examining the dark and veinlike vines embedded in the bark.

The wind rises, a little, and the whispers too. John reels back with an unhappy hah, taps the side of his head like he means to get water out of his ear, and turns to you with a good-humored complaint: ]

Seems a bit on the nose, right?

[ He seems to take this all as normal. ]

[ As you rifle through old and decaying texts, you might be startled by sudden movement: there is a man in the stacks, a stack of books in the crook of his arm, busy jotting notes in a leatherbound journal. When he looks up, he quirks his brows at you in mild interest. His eyes are glossy oil-black from edge to edge. ]

Finding anything interesting?

[ In his arms are books about Pthumerians, and effigies, and sickness. The means to kill a god. ]

[ The door in the back throbs with red light, malevolent and inviting. Behind you, someone whistles lowly. ]

They really go in on the aesthetic. You have to respect it.