>>5987988>>5987904>>5987719>>5987699>>5987682>>5987661The green shirin is, of course, what you are here for. That it offers a tangible connection to the dimension of dreaming makes a lot of sense, given the epiphany it once granted you. ‘The Dreamlands’, this term is unfamiliar to you, but know it by others: ‘the Mindscape’ in older documents, or ‘The Collective Unconscious’, as more modern arcane and alchemical texts refer to it. Beings with a mind to speak of brush up against it in their sleep. More advanced mages can go wandering there, though they risk demons escaped from The Hellish Realms, and the Unseelie Fey, and still other dangers. Many who learn to send their spirit away and plumb the depths of that dimension never return, their bodies becoming catatonic, vegetative. But there are other avenues to glean knowledge from that space, too: on the moon, you heard of an ‘Akashic Record’ kept there, accessible tot hose properly attuned; stories told in documents old attest to the ability to pull revelation from the void of sleep through lucid dreaming; it is even said to be the medium through which prophecy is predicted, and such information flows!
“The green,” you say quickly, and then clear your throat. “And the white.”
White shirin is a straight stimulant, a drug for wakefulness and energy. Goblins are not a cerebral race, by and large—that’s what people say, but it’s also your impression of the breed, present company included. You care for Zith-Zi and even for her demoniac, intersex shadow-self, and they have their clever moments, but you wouldn’t characterize either of them as the sort of go searching the so-called Dreamlands for esoteric information. Rather, what they might desire most—or Zi’s fellow wasteland bandits—is a means to march longer, travel further and fight harder. White shirin could likely do that… For them, or for you and your friends, in a pinch.
“And how much?” Udarji asks, leaning forwards, the rumble in his voice deepening and eyes flashing. “You have brought coin, yes?”
“Down boy,” Zith-Zi growls, playing your body-guard. “You ain’t his kinda’ pussy.”
To you, she says: “Tips, don’t take that shit out here. Price’ll be whatever you got on you, as soon as they know what that is.”
“You wound me, little halfling,” Udarji says, not sounding particularly wounded.
“Ain’t a halfling,” Zi grunts, sounding more aggrieved.
“I only need enough for me and these two, and perhaps two or three others, to experience the effects,” you say, doing some quick calculations. “Four pouches of each? The little paper pouches, such as you provided Murray.”