This isn't the first time he's gotten it wrong.

Wake knows that much in his gut. The details might be hazy but he's aware of a wrongness rattling around in there like a marble clattering around the inside of a shaken glass. Too much of that, he thinks, and something is going to chip and shatter. Or maybe it's happened already and this is all just what he's dealing with in the aftermath. He'd taken a wrong turn. Gone too deep into the labyrinth. Written himself into a corner, and now finds himself stuck jumping through a few more outlandish hoops to get himself back on track.

Period fiction isn't really his go to. But fuck it. The themes fit: man from another place washes up into one where he doesn't belong, half amnesiac and three quarters drowned. He's lost. The only way through is forward. When the locals start talking in terms of gods, of blessings and offerings, it feels inevitable.

'This is the ritual to lead you on.'

Sure. He can work with this.

(There's something he's forgetting.)

Later, Wake will wonder how he didn't recognize the sound of his own voice screaming in his head or the sensation festering in him like fruit left to rot on its vine. Today, he's occupied.

"I need to get back the summoning pool. Can you point me in the right direction?" says the guy shoving a handaxe into his belt. So sue him, he hadn't really be in the right frame of mind to make note of cardinal directions before March bundled him into a carriage.

It's a dark and stormy night.

—Christ. Imagine if that's really how this started? What a load of bullshit.

Only it is. And it does.

Objectively, the sensible thing to do at this hour is to wait for daylight before making his way to the shrines of the Solvuun gods. Wake's spent all day gathering the right materials. At this point, he should just climb the stairs back to room laid aside for him, stoke the fire in the little hearth high, and pretend for a time that there's nothing to be afraid of in the wind and weather and the harrowing dark.

Subjectively? No time like the thematically ominous to set out on a quest.

So here Wake is, pale and rain sodden, armed with a lantern (flashlight? check) and that handaxe (gun? close enough). He's looking for a partner to make the trek to the shrines in the early hours of evening. If there's a public meeting house or a place where people seem to be congregating despite the storming, he tries there first. If not, he's not above tracking down fellow Summoned someone may have mentioned offhand in earlier interrogative conversation. The pitch is more or less the same regardless:

"I'm headed to the shrines. I think I'm supposed to have a partner when I go."

What, that isn't convincing?

From the little room in Solvunn, it feels natural to do. Easy. Like parting a curtain. Like slipping under the surface of still water. From the other side, in the Horizon, it's like coming awake with a hard jerk. His heart races. His blood runs cold. The pressure in his ears builds to an agonizing crescendo. Then pops.

In some dark corner of Horizon, a door with a spiral marking on it Becomes. Beyond the door is a too big attic room. Inside it is a desk. A typewriter. Maybe the Writer is there too.

If he isn't there, it's because Wake's gone wandering—poking into darker domains, and whatever strange corners of Horizon he can picture himself in. If he's drawn to exploring domains with spookier aesthetics, then we'll all agree to call it being genre savvy and not masochism.

[Wake can be found:
- In the library
- Being incredibly normal about trying to get information on the second settlement
- Asking other Summoned invasive questions about how they got here, what they remember from before they arrived, and what they know about current events
- whatever else; feel free to throw anything at me, or shoot me a PM if you want to make plans]