I put a pitchfork in a dark cauldron once. Just one pitchfork, right? Seemed innocent enough. Ten seconds. Ten. Fucking. Seconds. The smell. It wasn't a pitchfork. It was... I don't know, a ghost of something you shouldn't have been able to smell. Like if a tiny, shriveled abomination died in a vat of boiling acid. It looked like a long, angry, purple orkind trying to escape its own existence. I poked the backside of a rabbit with the pitchfork. It squished in a way that felt profoundly wrong, like the sound of a Noer island folding in on itself. I didn't eat it. I couldn't. I just stared at it for a good five minutes, my mind a blank, terrified canvas. Cocona started yowling at the dark cauldron later that night, for no reason. I think she saw something. I think the pitchfork opened a portal to a dimension where everything is just slightly off-kilter and smells faintly of a charred wooden club. Don't cook pitchforks, man. The risk is not worth the reward. The reward is a thin, black pole bearing terrible claws that speaks all that is abhorrent to whoever lays in its grasp. The risk is everything. This isn't a joke. I am not a rogue. This is a cry for help. The pitchfork is watching me from the piles of rubbish within the faraway corners of Noer city. I can feel its cheap, reliable, spectral pitchfork gaze. I'm not crazy. I'm just a girl who put a pitchfork in a dark cauldron by accident. Send help. Or don't. It's too late for me. The pitchfork wins.