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Noon Drops
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You spend time INTELLIGENCING with the old, dusty, untouched books.
After at least an hour of looking through TOMES and SCROLLS, you find one that you can, if barely, read. It's written in phonetics, it seems, rather than PROPER LETTERS.
But at least you're able to read some language, you're not sure which yet, as these are purely phonetic signs, as you have identified them.
It contains a collection of spells.
You decide to accrue it to your INVENTORY, namely, it fits into your single right-buttock coat-pocket.
Spending some time reading it, you INTELLIGENCE the following intelligencia out of it:
It's partially a diary.
Whoever wrote this was very sick, afflicted by some form of curse. He was also studying those OBELISKS over yonder as a means to distract himself of the pain he was experiencing.
But the two things were unrelated.
You don't really get all the gibberrish about theories and old civilizations and old man pants.
You however did glean something more important from the diary, directions to the nearest, backwater town, some four houses where he could occationally go to meet passing traders.
Additionally, spells!
You already tried one, but clumsy as you are, burned a finger in the process.
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