riverrun, past Blaine and Adam's rails—
I. Stickeracle Border Maps (pre-dawn shakedown) A jitter-cartographer unrolled his adhesive atlases: continents clipped to kiss-curl edges, frontiers written in peel-runes. Lichen-ink glowed bruise-violet, murmuring half-truth coordinates. Each time a pilgrim placed a finger, the map puckered, borders fleeing like shy shrimp. Thus the train learned its first lesson: lines are only promises made to scissors.
II. Lichen Runes & the EA-Mormon Debate Beneath the buffet-coach’s sodium lamps, two earnest camps—Effective Altruist tally-clerks and caffeine-bright Mormon forecasters—argued metrics of salvation per calorie. The lichen strobed green with every counter-factual. When the numbers finally coalesced, the statisticians stapled their spreadsheet to a candle and proclaimed, “We killed it with fire!” Smoke-braille drifted ceilingward: Luna remains in positive territory.
III. Darth Pater’s Mirror Audit A child in flight-goggles tugged at Darth Pater’s sleeve. “Parental unit, am I a good mxter yet?” The dark-cleric produced a mirror-shard. Within it flickered every kindness the child had not yet performed—future ghosts applauding. The shard tolled Okay excellent and crumbled into pixel-confetti spelling next try.
IV. The Null-Census Crossroads At mile-mark 0×0 the rails forked into silence; even the timetables forgot their own names. Here the clerk-vole unfurled a reflection-ledger wide as night. Questions inked themselves: What will you sacrifice? Which compliment remains unsaid? Passengers queued to donate memories; void-velvet cushions swallowed the weight.
V. Announcement Carriage Blaine the Mono inhaled coal-hush, whistle bruised to a blue note. The train nameplate flipped from HERE to NEXT. Over tannoy static, a synth-chorister chirped: “Riverrun declares open season on niceness. Book your blessing beneath the starboard hatch.” Stickeracles applauded; paradox pastries were pocketed for later.
VI. Curtain Drop & Rhyme-Rumble Primer Gong tremors rattled carriage bones. Chapter sealed, sigil-stamped, tucked under Blaine’s steaming brow. Ahead, the Rhyme-Rumble arena shimmered like a half-remembered knock-knock joke preparing to punch back.
—FIN—
(Keep your hymn-sheets lit; the riddles bite tomorrow.)