- Caissa. Patrons and Portraits
- Witch Season
- Random Thought Bin
- The Black Gallery - WL
- Disenfranchised Pagans
- The 4652nd Annual Wanderer's Library Short Fiction Competition's Rejection Pile
- Floating Playgrounds
- A Smattering of Smut
CAISSA: Patrons and Portraits.
PICTURE TO GO HERE!!!!
Notes from the Artist:
So, I suppose I better put up some background to go with the picture then. Okay, so I first met Caissa on my first? Second? Maybe second trip to the Library, yeah. And she wasn't the weirdest thing I'd seen there, not by a long shot! I mean, I've seen talking animals and stuff, people made from other elements and at least a few other gods. But she was a bit different. It was probably the hair what I first noticed, and then her eyes. Or at least what I could perceive where her eyes. You see, I only found out recently that gods and stuff can't be seen as they properly are? You know like, our brains interpret the info we're getting about them in a way we can process it? So what I saw was what you see here. Shiny black hair, pure white skin. Her eyes were cool though. One black on white, 'tother white on black. So what with all that I decided to do a drawing!
Then she saw me with my sketchbook…
Dave slowly and sheepishly looked up from his sketchbook. "Um…"
The woman looked over across the table at him, black nails drumming impatiently. Dave's eyes darted back and forth, desperately searching for some sort of response, although they kept getting drawn back to the elegant brace around her right arm. The black and white chessboard pattern covering it while faint golden lines seperated the squares.
"That's a nice bracelet-thing…" He said, pointing. "I was just admiring it…"
"Is that all you were doing?"
"Yes." Then, "No…" He tried hopelessly to go back to focussing on the page, praying that the blank space might absorb him.
"Are you drawing me?" She said, smiling at the idea.
"Yes…" He was practically pressing his head against the paper, quietly urging it to do something to get him out of here. Too late, she was already moving around. "Crap…" He muttered.
"No, come on, I want to see this!" She said, sitting next to him. "Show me!"
Defeated, he placed the sketchbook on the table with a sigh that earned him a stern 'SSH!' from the nearby Archivist. There was the start of something. A figure, behind a table, with an open book. There were also small studies of various features of the woman, trying to capture the essence or at least a similar look to the subject matter. A nose here, an eyebrow and cheekbone there. There were a few trying to get the eyes looking right, but they weren't very good.
"You often draw goddesses?"
"You what?" Dave's pencil snapped with that realisation. He looked over, concerned for his current existence as a four-limbed, bipedal art-mage.
Caissa laughed, "Okay, I may have exaggerated slightly!" She put her hands up in admission. "I'm only a minor one…"
"A Minor one? Is that like an assistant manager or something?"
Caissa stared, 'Assistant Manager' didn't really register as a thing to her.
"No, more like a minor goddess. Of strategies!" She beamed. "And Chess…" she added quietly.
"And chess!" She conceded, punctuating the answer by dropping her head in her hands and her elbows on the table.
"How do you manage that then? Was there a school and that was your best qualification?"
"No. And the school came decades after I became me…"
"There's an actual school for gods?!"
MAY 18, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
I think the season's come in early this year. The sun rose this morning and looked a bit green. Also Sybil Flanders had a black cat following her around the school yard. I hope it's not as bad as last year, I don't think I want to try learning my letters from a talking scarecrow again. He got straw everywhere and the crow turd stains are still on my board.
MAY 21, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
Well, it's definitely here now. Every woman in the village has a black cat now. Where do they all come from? One day there's not a cat in sight, the next they're everywhere! Mum had a cauldron in the kitchen, I don't know where she got it from. After last year, Dad scrapped it and made it into some new hooks and brackets and things, they're still there. And Maggie Shepard has a broomstick now, soon we won't able to move for witches.
JUNE 1, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
I'm surprised, honestly I am. It's been about 12 days since the season started proper and we've only today, just had our first proper casualty. Yes, there has been some little things, like Jonah Maguire being cursed with some sort of singing foot-rot for saying his wife couldn't cook to save her life. Earlier today, William Foreman was turned into a goat. No idea why.
JUNE 2, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
It turns out William the Goat was laying with the school mistress. His missus found out after he was muttering her name in his sleep. Talking of sleep, I found it easier to actually get some this year. The past few years, I've been kept awake by the sounds of the women in the night. The wind rustling through broomstick straw, the cats calling and the cackling. The constant cackling.
JUNE 16, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
Elsie Meadows tried to do some good yesterday. She started small, having her cat clear the whole village of rats and mice. Although, I heard a girl did the same thing last year and as soon as the season ended, they came back. So did she, Elsie then turned the rats into worms which the chickens found. She said she was going to make everything better.
JUNE 25, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
Elsie's plan was a bit daft. At first I don't think anyone complained about the improved crop-growth so far. Then they kept growing. And growing. And eventually some corn about 30 feet tall collapsed under it's own weight and crashed on John Baler's cow shed. Which spooked his cows.
JUNE 30, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
Elsie friend, Mary, tried to solve the cow thing after about five days of giant vegetables and scared everything else's. She thought it'd be good to have the cows feel safer and more relaxed. Why she thought floating ghost hands would work I'll never know. Probably the way the season makes them think.
JULY 5, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
We've got some new entertainment going about the village! Those ghostly hands of Mary's? Well, they're not just going after the cows… Everything on four legs is getting unwanted attention. The sheep, my neighbour's pet dog, somehow even the cats! And the entertainment? Well, it seems the hands are trying to milk William the Goat too…
JULY 7, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
And now things are no longer amusing. The hands are going after everyone. Being goosed by a pair of cold clammy hands is funny once. I'm pretty sure everyone in the village has been molested by Mary's hands.
JULY 12, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
The hands are gone. Mary's mum did it. Only thing I think she has done, although I can't be sure. Red smoke was rising from her chimney and I once saw one of the windows try to escape! No, hang on, that was our house. Mum tried making the windows clean themselves, I don't think they liked it.
JULY 19, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
So, after about, I don't know, a week? We managed to get all the windows back. Dad also threw out the cauldron after they escaped. It somehow came back too. Some good news came too, John Baler rebuilt his barn from a giant loaf of bread. No idea where it came from but hopefully it should be fine when it goes hard!
JULY 20, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
The front door ran away today.
AUGUST 1, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
John Baler's barn collapsed. The sad part is everyone saw it coming. Stale bread and a chicken pen attached to one of the load bearing walls. I heard a rumour the cows were also eating it.
AUGUST 9, I think, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
I think the oddness has just about peaked, there are people-sized talking hedgehogs demanding equal rights, the hands have all been tied up in Mary's back garden and are fighting so much it's a never-ending sea of thumb-wars and rude gestures, no one is sure whether it's night or day thanks to the crops now over-shadowing the entire village, and Tom Proctor's tongue is now longer than him. I still can't understand him.
AUGUST 14, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
The season's ending! Mum woke up this morning and couldn't understand why she thought bringing the windows to life to clean themselves was a good idea. So she's begun undoing all her spells. And she's not wearing the hat any more!
AUGUST 22, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
The hedgehogs are all gone, the crops are back to normal size and I heard the last few hands of Mary's are vanishing into thin air. We've begun the final preparations too. All the hats and cloaks and broomsticks are being collected for the final night.
AUGUST 24, The Year of Our Lord 1788-
Purging Night is upon us! All the women are back to normal and the cats have left. Gone to who knows where. All that's left is the celebration. The great bonfire is ready, all the hats, brooms and cloaks have been built in with the remains of John's first barn. In fact, it even looks like a giant pointed hat. The tables for the feast is being laid and the harvest has been plentiful again. The Season is over and like everyone else, I pray it never happens again.
William hasn't been seen for a while though, I wonder if he ever got turned back?
The National Association of Mages and Magical Beings.
From the High Chancellor:
Ladies, Gentlemen and beings of indeterminable gender, it is with great pleasure to announce that once again, our Mid Summer Sabbatical has been a resounding success. I would like to thank Robert Ulwin and Grulthax, Master of Shapes for their helpful pamphlet on maintaining transformations for a long period of time, and again, I can only apologise for any mistreatment you may have received from your hosts during this time. I would also like to thank Alice Courtier for helping to make our transfers safer, not one combustion this year!
I am proud to say that since implementing this scheme, we have not had one incident of megalomania or rampant malign intentions. May you achieve great deeds for the next year and may they help our nation rise proudly.
High Chancellor Jim Green
-WRITE A TALE INVOLVING BEARDS!!-
Disenfranchised pagans discussing what to do next.
Elrichian Hookers This was a Roget idea, blame him, not me (or a drunk you… Whatever…)
Weirdness Magnet tale Scientific document-type thing detailing why the trope Weirdness Magnet is a thing. Possible grumpy quote from Dave at the end?
Floating Playgrounds Some sort of tale about Cityfolk Children playing on building sites?
Interviews with an Imaginary Friend What it says on the tin, an interview with an old imaginary friend. All about where they come from, what they can do, and what they're protecting us from…
Dave learns about the Black Gallery as a thing! Spookyish SCP Foundation crossover-y thing…
The Gallery's origins lie with the first people to discover <anart>. <Anart> being the physical effect of art and artwork upon the reality of the user. First discovered as a genuine effect on the world in <1870> by noted Renaissance artist <whoever>, who used it within his painting, <lesser-known piece>.
Overall page: Silent, apart from the odd speech bubble from Dave represented as an image. Dave is in the Library.
Panel 1: Dave is at the desk. He talks to an Archivist. Looking all dark, mysterious and moody.
Pane 2: The Archivist pointing of in a random direction.
Panel 3: Dave looking through the stacks, there's one or two other patrons in the background.
DAVE: <Image of a book>?
Panel 4: Dave sees the book, high up in the stacks. There is a climbing harness and a ladder nearby.
DAVE: <Image of a book>!
Panel 5: Dave starts to climb.
Panel 6: Dave grabs the book he's after.
DAVE: <Image of the book>!!
A HISTORY OF THAUMATISM.
Galleries and Exhibitions
As well as the Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques? gathering of recent group Are We Cool Yet?, the only other major exhibition of Thaumatism and pre-to-early Modern Art is the Gallery. Created in the early 1900's, the Gallery contains some of the finest pieces of early Thaumatist work from around the world. Pieces such as The Harpist of Calais (1760) can be heard playing softly throughout its wing, Birds In Flight Over A Morning In Elysium can be witness floating free of supports, casting a calming beautiful field beneath them. The building containing the Gallery itself is also a work of art in itself. Possessing near-sentience and self-awareness, the Gallery is mercurial in its appearances. Choosing to sneak into major cities or towns while simultaneously creeping into potential patrons minds.
However, there is a flip side to the Gallery's existence. A similar idea, only this one contains the dark-side of Thaumatism. No one is sure of the origin of The Black Gallery, as it came to be known. Some believe it was made spitefully by artists whose work would not be displayed, others think that it is the result of a wing of the Gallery suffering from Sick Building Syndrome and splitting off. Growing into a rival and a dark reflection of its twin. But, whether it be created by intent or by accident, it can be agreed that the Black Gallery is something to be avoided at all costs.
Whereas the Gallery is a place of positive inspiration, the Black Gallery actively seeks sustenance, enticing unsuspecting victims to visit and add to its collection. It thrives on fear and death, vanishing as quickly as it came, growing fatter and larger.
Dave looked up, or down, as he was still hanging from the stacks. There were a pair of patrons looking up at him. One of them was a man who seemed to be made of string and wire. Thick brown ropes for hands and frayed black wired hair. The woman, the one who shouted, had purple skin and hair. "Dave, what are you doing up there?"
Dave sighed, closed the book and began to rappel down. He stretched out when he landed and handed it over to the woman, Violet.
"Page 176" Dave said, untangling himself from the harness. "If it is what I think it is."
Violet scanned the page, "You know you could have got one of the Docents to fetch this… What's the rush?"
"Panic and not-thinkingness."
"What ya panicking about, mon?" The ropeman, Barrington, spoke with a thick Jamaican accent Dave wasn't sure was authentic.
"The Black Gallery." Dave replied. "Old art legend which is said to house the biggest collection of pre-modern killer magic art in the world. And some contemporary crap."
"What's the matter?"
"I think it's settled in London…"
The trio were gathered around a table, the book and a couple of newspapers on them.
"I thought it was a coincidence at first, you know, a non-magic gallery which just happened to be big enough. Only there were other things, a couple of wind sculptures in the North-East began to work against the wind, a class of children's paintings were all facing the wrong way and So I decided to go and wreck it, before it becomes a national thing and the disappearances start happening again."
"Not like you to be proactive. You're normally quite passive regarding things like this!"
Dave sat back and sighed. "Well, I don't know! Maybe I was bored, maybe I still felt itching to do something after that run-in I had with some of those Are We Hipster Bell-ends!" He was silent for a moment. "Maybe I don't like lethal uses of Thaumatism as a thing…"
Violet looked at the top paper for a second. "…You know, you could have asked us to look into it…"
"What, the Hand? I thought you lot were like the RSPCA of magical stuff? Why would you want something like The Black Gallery, if this is that, out?"
"It's more complicated than that. And we're not the RSPCA. Just because we want equal rights for… Unusual beings, doesn't mean all of them deserve it! The Jailers have a town in their control where Gods went to war and died. I don't think anyone is stupid enough to expose that!"
"Except maybe Goldman." interjected Barrington.
"Goldman would liberate a stone statue from a rockery if he could! Besides, he's a c**t1!"
Violet continued, "The point is, Dave, if you think this thing's dangerous. You need to tell people who know how to deal with it…"
Dave shook his head, "No. Not worth it. All that'll do is cause a panic and get more people hurt. You two want to help? Fine."
He scribbled an address on a sheet from his pocket moleskin. He tossed it to Violet. "Meet me there and bring supplies! We're off vandalising!"
"Order! Order! Come on now, I know this is a big place and it's all new and exciting. But we have to get down to business!"
Father Barrett, former High Priest of the religion formerly known as Quig Worshippers (or possibly Kwigg, no one's sure of the spelling.), banged the gavel again. Calling silence to the assembled congregation.
They weren't the entire following, that would be impossible to organise. No, instead the gathering consisted of the high heads of the various priesthoods and other important individuals like widely-regarded soothsayer, Geoff The Mad and Queenie Murket, who wasn't a soothsayer or a priest, but knew her way around places and found the Library. Where she arranged for the gathering to take place in one of the meeting rooms it provided.
"Thank you. " Father Barrett continued as the gathering shut up. "Now, first of all, it's nice to see so many people have managed to make the trip to discuss the future of Quig (or was it Kwigg?)!"
"All praise Quig and His wisdom!"
"Now now! Stop it! I shouldn't have to remind you the entire reason for this meeting is to find a new deity to worship after the Romans decided they wanted the good bits of ours to appeal to the majority. Now I don't know about you, but I really don't fancy compromising my beliefs to please the people who looked at our formerly Quig-blessed green land and decided: "Hmm, I want some of that!"."
Muttered grumblings and grumbled mutterings echoed through the crowd.
"So, I would like to open the floor to your suggestions. Do we continue to worship Quig in our own way, find someone new or go completely in the opposite direction and become Born Again Athiests? I would also like to thank Queenie Murket for finding this place and its vast resources for new ideas!"
Mild applause rose as Queenie gave a shy little wave. Another voice from the crowd shouted out.
"How about following Fawsit, God of the Bathtub? He seems alright. Also much less messy sacrifices, he prefers drowned ones!"
"I saw it in a book while we were looking for the room!"
"No no, what's a bathtub?"
More voices added their confusion to the mix.
"Oh!" The enquirer paused for a moment. "Haven't the foggiest…"
"Well, that's that idea out the window."
"How about a pantheon? That way we could pick and choose which gods we worship!"
"Quig by a different name!"
The voices grew louder in argument, everyone having their own idea of how to continue. Father Barrett banged on the table (he would have used his shoe, but the worshippers formerly of the god known as Quig could not wear hard soled shoes because Quig wore them once and he got bunions, so the floppy, sack-y sandal-y shoes he wore would have done bugger all.), "ORDER! Order, I say!"
The volume ceased.
"Now, it's all well and good suggesting these ideas. But we need to decide soonish. If the Romans carry on, we can say goodbye to having nice things like Bacon Weekends or the Winter Celebration Where We All Get Hammered And Have A Go On The Congregation Bike!"
"The Super Sloppy Winter Solstice?"
"The very same!"
A gasp came from the crowd. All except from former Priest Gordon and his wife, their daughter had the unfortunate title of Congregation Bike. They were not proud parents that day, let me tell you.
Some time later, Father Barrett was at home (formerly a church, now it was just a big church-y looking building with all the appropriate spires and steeples and what-have-you). In a chair in the back of the house ( NOT a church) moping. He was fed up of the leaflets being pushed through his letterbox and stuffed in the house's (definitely not the church's) suggestion box. Ever since leaving the Library, he been harassed by various religious groups and even some disenfranchised Gods begging for him and his to join their religion.
"Become a quacker!" A man in a live duck jacket had suggested as they made their way to an exit. "Come on, it's great! Discover the joys of paddling and eating bread like our lady, The Great Mallard!"
"I HEAR YOU NEED A NEW GOD! PICK ME! PICK ME!"
The leaflets and adverts were just as bad, if not worse:
'THE WISDOM OF WARSHAN WANTS YOU! Two fatted calves a month sacrifice! (And by calves, what Warshan really wanted was big ladies calf muscles. Or even cankles! Warshan loved cankles…)'
'See the light of the beauty of Gullaina. Goddess of the shoreline Eat all the rubbish and food you can scrounge or steal! Seriously, stealing's justified to us!'
Join the Clockwork Orthodoxy.2
'The Righteous Order of Barry may be right for you! The true holy leader, Barry, is always looking for new followers. Do what's right, listen to Barry and donate to the cause3! Sponsored by Cillit Bang - BANG and the evil be gone!'
'Become a Spaceologist! This is not a scam, honest!'
And so on… Father Barrett couldn't take it anymore. The Romans could keep Quig (while they were gone, it was decided that Quig was spelt Quig and not Kwigg, or Koowig, or any variation thereof.). He'd face whatever judgement, or lack of, after tea that night. When he would hang himself.
As he got the noose all tied up properly and was looking for a good place to hang it. He heard Queenie at the door.
"Father Barrett! Father Barrett! I've just had the most wonderful idea!"
She let herself in, not noticing the noose or Father Barrett's expression.
"It's wonderful, Father, just wonderful! Nice tie by the way, Father, why don't we worship the Library?"
"Well, we already have Quig's stories written down and you always said how the stories were more like parables and we could in theory apply the teachings of any tale to real life. So, why not cut out the middle man and simply worship the written word? And I thought, since the Library has the biggest collection of written words…"
Father Barrett was dumbfounded, Queenie was right! How had he not realised? He grinned ecstatically, "Of course!" He threw his noose to one side and grabbed Queenie in a bear hug! "Why didn't I think of it! Queenie, you're brilliant!"
"Oh, I only suggested it…" She said through slightly squashed ribs. "Father, I'm having trouble breathing…."
A few weeks later, the church (because it was a church again) was renovated, refurbished and re-branded (Is re-branded the right term? Re-christened? Re-ordained? Sod it, re-branded it is!)! Father Barrett and Queenie Murket were overjoyed with the positive response from the congregation. They could more or less worship who they liked, as long as they had a book to prove their worship was real (Sadly, this meant Glen Argus couldn't pray to his personal god, Glennator, which was just how Glen thought of himself)! Father Barrett didn't have to worry about leaflets or door-to-door preachers anymore, the people no longer felt disenfranchised or lost and the number of people who could read rose so dramatically, it practically took off into orbit! Everything was more or less, perfect.
Two days later, the Romans burnt the church to the ground for heresy and fed any survivors to the lions.
But the joke was on them, because since Father Barrett's flock could choose their afterlife, they all got it great. The Romans got stick with Quig's afterlife of massaging His bunions for eternity. And that's the reward!
Here are this year's rejection of short story entries from the Library's Short Fiction Competition. As always, our judges have left notes on why they were rejected. Whether it be content, writing style or plain and simple bias.
Dave and the Hipster Conspiracy
A True Story by Dave S. Crawley
Dave ran down the street as fast as he could. Following him closely were a pair of sword-wielding guys in some crap, fake-retro shirts probably bought from Primark or one of those fucking trendy "Indie" shops which flog the same stuff. As the chase occurred, Dave wondered how they could keep up what with wearing jeans so skinny they may have been cutting of circulation to their legs.
Ducking down an alley, he turned to face his assailants. "Come on, you arseholes! Do your worst!" Dave had faced Hipster Assassins before, usually sent by some elite or whatever for being there. This time, however, it was apparently personal.
"You have insulted our brethren one too many times Crawley!" Said one, "Now you must face the full wrath of the Pre-Cool Underground…
This reads far too much like a computer game, or a terrible film. The writing is too personal in this case and a true story? Really? While I know the author has… issues with this particular subculture, I doubt there is an entire conspiracy based around them.
1001111 1101110 1100011 1100101 0100000 1110101 1110000 1101111 1101110 0100000 1100001 0100000 1110100 1101001 1101101 1100101 0100000 1110100 1101000 1100101 1110010 1101000 0100000 1110111 1100001 1110011 0100000 1100001 0100000
No Binary or ASCII this year please, ZX-14Thompson. It always takes far too long to translate and it's never worth it…
Once there was a full stop and it was at the end.
I'm sure this is someone's idea of a joke but it failed miserably…
Evryfin ws bad cz da aliens came n did bad stuf lik blowin up bldings n abducting ppl 4 der brains n tings. So wot happnd ws my m8 Ronnie? Whoz got a fkn mazda…
Disqualified because we don't accept entries by text. Shame really, this was one of the better ones…
Stream of Concious Poem-style thing. (Think Grant Morrison dialogue)
Machine Based Entry written by a computer. (Everything is technical)
Another machine based entry (Everything is in Binary)
Some more bad entries (On response is very hipster-ish,)
An Essay by Heidi Boarslane.
I remember lots from my childhood. Hunting with foxes and with pidgeons pigeons, being able to actually see stars through smog and lights. But the one thing I truly remember was floating playgrounds. Most ordinary people can't see them, even though they're right in front of their faces. They still can't, I don't think.
Floating playgrounds were great. You could spend days finding new things to do and you sometimes did, they never lasted long. You could play there for a few months at best, sometimes a year sometimes longer. But once they were gone, they were gone forever. I still liked the feeling on finding a new one and getting the first exploration, it was exciting! All those unclimbed bars, unused ropes and things, all fresh and waiting for someone to clamber on them. And being first there meant I could show everyone else what there was. And what other men there were to avoid.
The other men, that was a fun part too. They were in the playground everyday it was there. Always in their white tough hats and bright yellow jackets. They were always there. I know what they do now, but back then? I thought they were breaking the playground to move it somewhere else. The men would be busy minding their own business, and we'd hide from them. They couldn't really see us anyway and if they did it just became a great game of Hide and Seek! They'd run, shout and chase us away, but we'd always come back.
Sometimes the playgrounds would rise, as the weeks went on they'd get higher in the air and we'd still climb up all the way. Just to play with the bricks laying about or in the sand that was there, it'd be worth it no matter how high. Especially at it's highest. When the playgrounds got high, that usually meant it was going to disappear. But you could still play for days at a time. Sometimes you'd be exploring and find wide open spaces inside the playground and you could play endless games of tig. There was sometimes a slide made of segments where you could try chase a load of sand and dirt into a big pit at the bottom, or even chasing sparks which fell from above. All the while, poles would clang, things would scrape and crash and men would shout. There was life everywhere and it was wonderful.
Which made their disappearing all the better. They were always temporary, that's the first thing we all learned. But each time a new one appeared it was always different. Sometimes it was longer, sometimes it was fatter, all different and every time there was something new to explore. I'm older now, I don't see the playgrounds any more. Not in the way I did as a kid. They're still there, however some things don't look the same after a few years. Although, that doesn't stop me from sometimes having a go when no one's looking…
(Elrichian Hookers thing.)
GIRLS! GIRLS! GRILLS! ALL NIGHT ENTERTAINMENT! SEE LUSCIOUS LADIES RUBBING UP AMOROUSLY AGAINST HOT GRILLS WE COOKED ON THEN HELP THEM GET ALL BETTER! (Ointments provided. Do not bring your own ointments. Anyone caught bringing their own ointments will be remanded into the traders guild's custody.)
LADY GOATS OF ELRICH! DO YOU REQUIRE THE STRONG MASTERFUL HANDS OF A HANDSOME FARMER TO HOLD YOU AND SQUEEZE YOU AND DO ALL THOSE OTHER THINGS IT TAKES TO GET MILK? VISIT BOBBY'S RANCH AND GET SOME QUALITY TIME WITH OUR LOVELY FARMHANDS! (Paying goat customers only. No males will be welcomed. Really randy lady goats will be sent into trader's guild custody.)
WE DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS BUT IT'LL DEFINITELY FLOAT SOMEONE'S BOAT! DO YOU LIKE STRANGE CREATURES? DOES SEEING WEIRD THINGS DO WEIRD THINGS IN YOUR PANTS? YES? WELL, HAVE A GANDER AT THIS! IT'S GOT ARMS! IT'S GOT A LANTERN FOR A HAND! COR, IT'S NOT GOT A MOUTH! HOW DOES THAT WORK? 200 COINS AND THIS LOVELY LADY OR LAD (We've not checked and quite frankly we're too scared to) CAN BE YOURS FOR THE EVENING! (Anyone trying to nab this thing off us will answer to the trader's guild.)
WANTED: Lonely farm employee seeking companion to make nights more entertaining. Must have own Postman uniform and monochromatic cat called Jess. Contact McGrummitt's Farm, Back Field, on the big stick.