DROPBOX

[peckishmods]

DROPBOX

This page is a quick way to get in touch with the mod team. If you have a suggestion for a future event, would like to request NPC interaction, need clarification on something, or have questions about anything Peckenpaugh-related, you can post that here. All comments on this page are screened initially, but threads with valuable information may be made public. You can also contact us via email at peckishmods@gmail.com. We will try to address all questions and requests in a timely manner. If it has been seven days and you have not received a response, we encourage you to bump your comment with an edit or reply.

What sorts of things can I ask about here?

• Questions about the setting at large.
• Questions about NPCs.
• Questions about the application or the character roster.
• If you need clarification of the rules, IC or OOC.
• If you would like mod assistance, permission or input on an event you'd like to run.
• If you want your character to do something, but aren't sure if it's okay to do, or if you'd like to know potential IC consequences before you do something.
• Suggestions for pcal slots, events or anything of that nature.
• Requests for NPC interactions with staff, townies and any other mod controlled characters roaming the hills.
• Requests for a roll if you're out late at night or otherwise doing something that might get you in trouble. What does the roll net you? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
• Once a month you may request an RNG roll to see if you find anything cool at Spellunking or are successful in acquiring spirits from Elflock Liquor.
• If you need to drop a character or leave the game. :(
• And, honestly, anything game related!

Comments

[peckishmods]

There's no immediate change when Eddy buries his shell, but the others stayed there for hours, so he might as well go have fun in the gardens and the graveyard while it rests. In the morning, he heads to the spot where it was buried, and a fresh clump of moss has grown over the little mound of wet earth. As Eddy steps closer, that tiny pile of dirt and moss shifts. From a glance, it’s as though the earth is breathing.

When he bends down to dig the stone up, Eddy finds that the bug is already on its way to meet him, burrowing up. As it surfaces it wails, a loud, buzzing cry, then spreads its wings and takes flight. Aside from the stony gleam and glint of gold, for all intents and purposes, this seems to be a living cicada. It bobs upward, zooming high and dipping low, a little drunk ⁠— that’s just how cicadas fly ⁠— and though for a moment it looks like it might fly away, it returns to Eddy, perching in the palm of his hand.

The bug is warm and weighty, and Eddy finds himself reclining back in the dirt, overcome with a memory…

He is in a long tunnel, concrete walls, ceiling and floors cracked and ruined. Acrid smoke fills the narrow space, choking him and burning his lungs. Fluorescent lights hanging above flicker and spark while curtains of vines hang over his head. It is hot. Very hot. His wand arm is out but the wand in his hand isn’t his. The hand isn’t his. “Confringo!” Eddy shouts in a voice that isn’t his own. No sooner has a great burst of light erupted from his wand that he’s firing off more spells. “Expelliarmus! Diffindo!”

Something is approaching him, but he can’t make out what it is, hidden by ivy and the light of duelling magic. “Give him back you bastard!” Eddy...no, not Eddy? Ms. Gunzenhauser? Still not exactly right. Zelda, shuts her eyes tight, focusing everything she has on a warm feeling. A game of nothing but gutterballs, mugs of cold root beer on a hot summer night, laughing so hard at Percy’s (who’s Percy?) jokes that she gave herself an asthma attack. “Expecto Patronum!”

A silvery white light bursts from her wand so large it fills the cramped hall. Zelda takes a step back and stumbles, falling hard and when the light of her patronus finally fades, Pocket is standing before her. The Party Bug’s expression is more resolute than Eddy has ever seen it. “I’ll get him back. I promise. Get Wybie and go, Z.” Pocket points back, down the hall, where a teenage boy lies slouched against the wall, unconscious. “Don’t look back.”

“But, Tink,” Zelda protests, “You’re the last⁠—”

Eddy startles, like waking from a falling dream, but that was no dream. It was a memory, so vivid as to have happened minutes ago, so real that his lungs still burn. This memory is his, but it’s not. The sense that he has something that does not belong to him is pervasive, dreadful at first but fading fast. He gets the sense that this is something that should be returned to its original owner.

In his open palm is a shed cicada shell, split open and empty, sparkling gold.