Sorry for the delay on this! Thank you so much for your patience; let us know if you have any follow up questions etc.

When the goo is activated on the night of DAY :021, Annie will perceive the following:

       CARPATHANS
--a small desk with a series of carefully arranged writing instruments, though there are no half written letters or notes to self to accompany them. Saridian Black's small portable desk is instead populated by a meager number of carefully organized and seemingly harmless objects that seem likely to be gifts from other diplomatic envoys: a plain black stone bangle, a book from a popular novelist of some minor planet whose presence on the Pilgrimage is nearly as minor a footnote as the Carbauschians, a matching pair of small brass bells.

The "room" has been artificially created in the Carpathan berth using a series of cream colored standing partitions and a steel blue fabric over the top: a miniature tent pitched inside the shred space of the ship. It's empty. Still. Quiet (mostly, besides the murmur of difficult to aprse conversation from the rest of the compartment).

Nothing to see here.

       MERADANS
--a low lit room featuring a single low table. A small wooden tokens clatters just in front of the goo filled jar. The token's been dropped by a single Meradan who is undressed even by their standards. There are four of them lounging on low cushions around the table, each with a handful of wooden tokens about half the size of playing cards with small carvings on them. The play - because that's what it is - is met with a low sound of amusment from the Meradan envoy opposite.

"If this is the way you handle pressure, I have to question how you're not ash scattered to the wind."

"Perhaps after this I will show you how I have survived," grumbles the player. The threat is met with more laughter, apparently not taken even slightly seriously as the token is taken up again by a different hand, another placed down in turn.

"Maybe you should quit now. I know you're prone to air-sickness."

"It's not air-sickeness. It's being trapped in a room with you. You reek like these Hyrypian field beasts," the words are said with a laugh and met with more laughter. The useless conversation - and the game - continues until the vision ends.

       DESCENDANTS
Nothing to see is taken to a new height. Blackness surrounds the jar and the sound which filters in is muffled. The rhythmic murmur of the ship's engines are almost impossible to detect from whatever container the jar has been insulated in, but the voices - bother of them - are audible even if they're whispering:

"--Do you think they were discovered?"

"What else could it be? Barbarians."

There's venom in the second voice, the kind reserved for stinging insects and messes on the soles of shoes. "The question is, who discovered them?"

"Who?"

"We don't know for certain that their intentions--" The sound of a door opening slices through the confident voice like a dagger. There are sounds of feet on the deck, then something being dropped.

"Is there a reason for your delay?" The newcomer's tone suggests they know the answer and are not pleased. The rushed responses in turn are impossible to catch, covered as they are by the hurried sound of two people getting to their feet and hurrying away. The thud of a door closing again. Silence.

       HYRYPIANS
A nearly empty cup is filled. The servant wears a lovely, embroidered fabric gorget at their neck; though they're pale and waxy from undeath, his hand is steady as he refills first one delicate black cup and then another.

"What a disaster," says Ysiddia Cabrielle, turning the steaming cup in her hands. "Thank the stars this trip is so short; I can only imagine the anarchy this would inspire if we were trapped of this fucking ship for a few days longer."

"Peace, Lady Cabrielle," says the aging male Hyrypian across the table. He's dressed in the colors of House Tyrisson, though he wears a heavy coat about the shoulders embroidered with a series of metal plates and faintly geometric patterns over top of it. A Second, in some sense, though comfortable to the point of idleness. "As you say, it's just for a day. The Tyrisson protectorate will do as they're pledged and the comfort of the Red Coast will soothe any remaining raw nerves."

"That's precisely what I'm worried about. If we were going into the hunt, I wouldn't be concerned - idle hands have a habit of snatching at trouble, Lorin."

"My," he says across the top of his cup, eyebrow quirked. "It sounds as if the Circle has its work cut out for it."

"Yes, thank you for your input," Yssidia mumurs, then straightens-- "Ah, here he is! For the love of all things, don't stand here in the dark Elyiad." She holds her hand out and a young Second heavily swathed in his acolyte robes moves carefully into sight. He takes a seat at the edge of the table, visibly uneasy and visibly attempting to conceal the fact. This near it's hard to mistake him: it's the same Second from Annie's first goo espionage, the same young acolyte from a distant Naerstone garden.

Ysiddia snaps her fingers. The undead servant produces a third cup and fills it. She says, "Lorin - you remember my son, don't you?"