C-TWT-013
Barista: Jericho Myerscough
Date: Feb-4-2020
Receipt: C-TWT-013
Subject: Witches
████ handed it to us like it was nothing. Just a little silver flame, caged in stone. No explanation. No warning. Just—"This'll do 'ya." Told us it would be accepted in trade for passage aboard an "███████ ship." Or maybe she expects us to sail the damn thing ourselves. No further instruction from the Goddess of speaking in bloody riddles.
And maybe it will. But I’ve seen flames that shimmer and whisper before. I’ve danced too close to fires that sing in languages older than ash. Wicked fucking fires. So I took first watch of it, cracked my fingers, and gave it the old once-over, choice?
The flame isn’t fire. Not exactly. It doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t burn. It folds inward. Tight. Over and over. Like an █████████ made of █████ and █████████. Whatever's inside that stone isn’t burning. It’s alive. It’s breathing. Like a little silver heartbeat.
If I were to hazard a guess I’d say this is ██████, crystallized. What else could ███ want to trade and barter? It looks almost like the same flames that burst out of little Morningstar’s arm at the funeral. Makes me wonder if we could find a way “inside” this flame we’d see some truth ████ holds within her.
'Course I tried.
Couldn’t not.
Like a siren’s song. The call of the unknown. Forbidden knowledge.
Burned like shit.
It’s enough of a flame in that way, at least.
Gave the 8-Ball a shake. Asked it what the hell this thing was. The die inside the ball spun and shook and almost dared not to surface. But it did. And with it came only one word, scrawled in that slow, lazy ink-glide of reluctance. Of truth. Of truly forbidden knowledge.
So. There’s that.
Not a flame. Not a key. ███████████████████ Of what? Of who? Dunno. ████. █████. ████. Something old. Something that wants to grow. All █████ do, don’t they? But we can trade 'er for a ship and that'll do, I suppose. It'll have to.
Decaffeinate Receipt
"16 + ((2 - 1) × II) + (105 - 5)."
Cipher | Lateral Logic | 1 Word