"Where do you learn about this stuff, Burt?" asks a man with a dark brown shag hair cut. In plaid green pants, a green button up and awful, bright yellow ascot, he so immediately dates this memory to mid-1960s America as to be jarring. He is seated in a booth with red cloth upholstery, shuffling through stacks of papers. As Burt joins him, seated opposite, the rest of the room comes into focus.
It's a dive. Dark. A dim orange glow shines from red-shaded pendant lights, but it barely illuminates anything for the thick hazy layer of smoke hanging in the air. The walls are wood paneled, grimy and rank with cigarette tar, decorated with sports memorabilia and neon lights advertising various brands: BUDWEISER, PABST, SCHLITZ. The only smell stronger than the smoke is the cheap beer being served up in tall pint glasses. Burt Bland seats himself in front of a glass so light it looks like dirty water and a basket of overly salt peanuts.
"Can't say, Henry," Burt explains. "There's a whole world we can't even see out there. I know it sounds crazy, but — look at it."
"I don't know, man," replies Henry, shaking his head as he spreads the papers out on the table between them. Text documents, black and white and color photos of people in robes, waving wands, doing magic, one of the shots even moves. A picture of a teenage boy with sandy blonde hair laughs as he sits sidesaddle on a broom, waves at the camera, and then zips off into the air. Henry points at this photo, jabs his finger at it. "That's Carl, ain't it? Your, uh..."
MEMORY: Planting A Seed
[CRITERIA: Defeat the NPC]
[METAPLOT]
"Where do you learn about this stuff, Burt?" asks a man with a dark brown shag hair cut. In plaid green pants, a green button up and awful, bright yellow ascot, he so immediately dates this memory to mid-1960s America as to be jarring. He is seated in a booth with red cloth upholstery, shuffling through stacks of papers. As Burt joins him, seated opposite, the rest of the room comes into focus.
It's a dive. Dark. A dim orange glow shines from red-shaded pendant lights, but it barely illuminates anything for the thick hazy layer of smoke hanging in the air. The walls are wood paneled, grimy and rank with cigarette tar, decorated with sports memorabilia and neon lights advertising various brands: BUDWEISER, PABST, SCHLITZ. The only smell stronger than the smoke is the cheap beer being served up in tall pint glasses. Burt Bland seats himself in front of a glass so light it looks like dirty water and a basket of overly salt peanuts.
"Can't say, Henry," Burt explains. "There's a whole world we can't even see out there. I know it sounds crazy, but — look at it."
"I don't know, man," replies Henry, shaking his head as he spreads the papers out on the table between them. Text documents, black and white and color photos of people in robes, waving wands, doing magic, one of the shots even moves. A picture of a teenage boy with sandy blonde hair laughs as he sits sidesaddle on a broom, waves at the camera, and then zips off into the air. Henry points at this photo, jabs his finger at it. "That's Carl, ain't it? Your, uh..."
Everything freezes.
Except Burton Bland. He nods. "Nephew. Yes."