here now you can meet some
moon people and maybe you'll like them and maybe they'll like you
- Cordelia drifts horizontal and swaying, like a beautiful gigantic girl laying down, too drunk to take another shot, or a child whose crying sounds exactly like the squeak of the brand new cradle she's rocking in. her cradle is her long red wings, which, here and there, are marked with little signs and scribblings, the doodles and tags and notations of small beasts and big people who have left their mark on her. if you climb up onto her you can sleep warm and dry on her stomach, sheltered by her big big wings, though 2:6 chance you wake up at the same time as a random encounter who has also been sleeping there.
- Presto has just come from somewhere exciting and it's hanging off of them in streamers and sheets of tinsel and sleeping people and ticket rolls and silk curtains. their nose is like an arrow pointed to a far city burning on the horizon; you can see it in their eyes. you can hang onto them to be dragged off somewhere incredibly quickly, and if you can impress them by doing something outrageous they are the only one of the Moon People who'd sneak you into the party around where the Moon is being born, though they'll probably forget they've met you before.
- Lumbrellium is like a huge stone and a mother bear moping in the shadow of that stone. she's breaking things open to reveal the little machines of wood and stone and cellulose and bone inside of them, things you couldn't ever see even if you smashed everything in the world to pieces. her hands are too clumsy to put them back together and it makes her sad, but her curiosity is insatiable. if you hold two things she's broken together overnight, they will work and live as one new thing.
- The Finical Hound's head is a dogs head, long and noble and nervous. his body is that of a glowing man with a skirt of many more, and each of those men with a long gun and a bayonet glowing even brighter. his skirt is doing rifle drills while he fastidiously dusts them off with a long floppy feather. if you busy yourself polishing the boots of his skirt, he will, without paying much mind, dust you clean of any witching you are under. The witching will come apart into 2d6 Small Beasts made of witch-dust and lint, who will try to crawl inside whatever is closest to them and witch them with a small piece of the original witching.
- Pendulamour swings to and fro through the air by her ankle, turning young, then old, then young again as she flies. She's wearing a white skirt and has to hold it in place so you don't see her underwear! Her eyes are covered by a black bandit mask, and she's getting ready to sing; little trills and hums fall out of her mouth and onto the ground. When she finally does (1:6) everyone is going to wake up all over the place, and they'll all be mad at her and she finds that really exciting. You can give her something to hold, and it will age or grow young with her, but taking back might be harder; it's rude to try and un-give a gift.
- Judderjack is shaking inside his blankets and clouds and reels of film. Wherever he is sitting is where the train runs through, and it'll be here in 1d10 minutes, a blur of steel and stop-motion speed far too fast to catch, obliterating anything it runs though in a straight line across the map. In its wake come the dogs of summer, tongues dragging on the ground behind them. Judderjack runs, and they chase him. If they ever catch him, suddenly they are policemen and they beat him into 1d6+1 separate shaking images that scatter across the map and start waiting for the train. In the place where he was scattered, there is a perfect diamond left behind for each image that fled.
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