The Old Man and the Me

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As you have so many times before, you swing by campus to make sure things aren't getting too raucous. It's unusually quiet there (for having a perpetual outdoor dance party), and you decide to wander further abroad. You find yourself in an older section of the town. Some strange compulsion drives you down countless side streets and alleyways until you find yourself in a long forgotten neighborhood.

Down a deserted street, at the end of the shadowy cul-de-sac, you find a small house. The yard is choked with weeds and littered with strange sculptures and ruined pieces of artwork. You have no idea what they represent, but they remind you of some of the strange things you've seen lately, and you suppress a shudder as you realize that whoever lives in this battered house just might be able to help you.

The gate squeals in pain as you open it, making you glance around, feeling eyes on you. Unable to see anything, you carefully make your way up the walk to the front door and rap gently on the weathered wood frame.

Just as you're about to turn and leave, the door creaks softly and opens ever so slightly. Before you can say anything, a wickedly sharp cutlass is thrust through the slight opening. Only your superhuman reflexes save you and you leap backwards, drawing your own weapon and readying for a fight.

Nothing happens for a few tense moments, and then you hear a hacking, wheezing laugh and the sword vanishes from the doorway, "I thought ye were one o' them thieves ... ye're much more it seems ... come in, <name> ..."

You hesitate, wondering how this crazy old man could possibly know your name. The daily paper doesn't seem likely as you doubt anyone's been here in years; decades, even. Still, you've faced plenty of nasty, hateful things during your adventures, so it's probably safe. Well, safe-ish.

The inside of the house is so dark, you can barely see anything. Your host leads you to a sitting room; the only source of light is a barely active fire in the fireplace, the feeble light glints off numerous strange bottles and the old man's jaundiced eyes. While he's hobbling over to his chair, you steal a quick look at one of the bottles. It's empty save for a lightly swaying pendulum. You have no idea the significance of it, but decide it's better to just not ask.

The old man peers at you intently for several moments before speaking quickly and softly, "I kin see ye're no simple punk ... p'haps ye're ready for something ... more ..." He pauses, glancing at one of the bottles next to him and then has a quick, whispered conversation with it. What the heck? He cuts off your thoughts by continuing, "There be a special item ye could use ... go north to the madhouse ... find the parts and build ..." He then turns his attention back to the feeble fire, and you get the distinct impression that he's done with you.

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