Nobody on the Middlewood road calls Dani Hinchcliffe by the name the molon-tor uses for her — Nibor-Ud — but then most of them haven't watched her drain a man of every formed memory using nothing but one palm and a moment's focused will. Seventh incarnation, or eighth, depending on which legend you trust: either way, she's already recruiting, and the first dozen who followed her to the copse at The Dun have already learned better than to ask twice.

Psycmask projection turns any broad flat surface into a venue — Gren demonstrated this in the copse at The Dun by throwing a full Otoboke Beaver set onto the girth of the largest beech tree, the sound filling the hollow like it had been designed for it. Otoboke Beaver are from east of the hicks, their lyrics apparently in an old Dark Peak dialect, although none of the youth seemed entirely certain they understood the words, and none of them admitted it.

Ming Shalom does not keep her wealth in coin: the ¢hit is not a physical object but a unit of murk-charged value, and her fortune sits suspended four metres above the vault floor of the Hellsborough Hole in a managed murk-field lattice — outer nodes smaller than you'd expect, total larger than you'd like. The vault's builders apparently intended that anyone who stayed long enough would start thinking about money when they hadn't been before, which I find either elegant or extremely sinister, and have not yet decided which.

Squall-longleg brought three murk advisories from the Nascenti Environmental Office — the third upgraded to a formal warning before all three were quietly retracted without explanation, filed under Atmospheric Conditions: Pending Review. Something has not gone wrong with your eyes. I mention this only because that is exactly what someone would say if something had.