My hand touches a piece of paper in my pocket. I don't remember having placed it there, but one knows what they say about stranger thing, especially in Sang Sacre.

The handwriting is my own, the message is not.

I will need meat by Monday. And I always need the exercise. I don't think any of the wildlife has been shot before. I hope they don't decide to retaliate.

Hmmm. I don't recall buying an answering machine, but there it is, blinking away. Still no phone, though.

Yay, ita! Although her tone is a bit ominous. I think I'll bring my bow and snares, just in case the woods object to anything noisy.

Memo to self: Buy a spit.

So, now...what next?

Ah, yes. That "Penny B." evidently had need of a wizard. This doesn't feel like "Yoiks, dear sir, I'm being haunted by interdimensional undead Amway salesmen with a taste for human bile" or whatnot. I relax a bit before I sit before my scrying mirror. Probably no gibbons.

Someone, presumably this "Penny B." appears to be preparing for mayhem. Hm. Maybe it's gibbons after all.

I'll do the old flaming-letters-on-the-wall trick, I guess, to find out what she wants.

I watch in the black mirror as "What can Miracleman do for you today?" appears in livid infernal letters on her wall.

Firey letters appear on my wall. "What can Miracleman do for you today?"

Since I didn't ask for his help- and when I needed it, I went for fainting into his arms- I guess that he's got a crossed ley-line somewhere. I pull a small mirror out of my pocket, and do a quick scry. Penny B. Now where does she live?

Oh- they are appearing on her wall- but they're on mine as well. Tricky wizard is using my house as an intermediate point! He's sending his message along the ley lines (as one normally does) but then he's using my wall to change the direction!

I might have to do something about that. Stealing bandwidth isn't nice.

When I go out for that hotdog, I'll ask around. See if there's anyone else around who's looking to take over the world and crush wizard-kind in the process.

Oh, heck. You go out for a few days and the messages back up. This one is on my wall in fiery letters. The letters vanish upon reading. Cool. Fortunately, I'm ready. Field testing went well in dry, rushing water and even snow conditions.

I grab a piece of hand made paper from the big table and scrawl a note. "Dear Miracleman,

I would like to meet with you Tuesday afternoon at your quarters, if that is convenient. I shouldn't need more than 20 minutes of your time, and I think our meeting will be mutually beneficial. Don't worry about direction - I will find you."

I fold the note into a paper airplane and fling it out the window. It glides down the block rather purposefully and disappears around a corner.

Satisfied with business for the time being, I haul in my new spit. It needs seasoning, but should be ready for a turkey or any other medium-sized beast by Monday.

Gauntlets, check Weapons, check Ritual sacrifice paraphernalia, check Boots, ropes, snares, check.

Okay, now all I have to do is grab the wine and the cold lunch, and I'm outta here. I hope ita hasn't been waiting long.

"Ow! Godsdamnit, what the fu--?"

Oh. It's a paper airplane. Probably a message. Fine, fine.

Paper airplanes are a time-honored and accepted method for delivering messages in magical areas. There was a brief time when owls were fashionable, but the drawback of scraping owl crap off your latest treatise on, say, Koboldean creation mythos or manticore anatomy made that method unpopular rather quickly.

I unfold the message and read. Tuesday. I check my schedule. Yeah, I'm clear Tuesday. I scrawl as much at the bottom of the letter and re-fold it into a plane. I launch it out the window and watch it zip away with a miniature jet-like noise.

I only half hope it beans Penny B. mildly painfully in the ear. I'm trying to be less crotchety.

I pat myself down for weapons, and am pleased. Strap on a couple more knives (silent velcro is a gift from gods), and a bow, and I'm ready to meet Penny.

Hmmm. Bit chilly here - maybe I should open the wine? Although it wouldn't do to meet ita half sloshed, and I am such a lightweight these days.

Aha! There she is, absolutely covered in silver jewelry. No, my mistake, covered in knives. I clean my glasses and beckon her to the rather nice shrubbery where I've been waiting for turkeys.

Trying to get to the bar is absolutely murder. Literally. I'm starting to have second thoughts about The Prancing Pony - bloody theme bars riding the zeitgeist but the mead is good and the karaoke's disarmingly old fashioned. A preternaturally pretty little person with hairy bare feet is standing on one of the tables doing a wobbly dance and singing about the man in the moon. He's cute, but he's surrounded by adoring friends and one of them has the look of a person who will quite assuredly kill you if you try anything. Fair enough.

I've never really got the hang of this getting-served business. The big chaps in black cloaks have a very effective method of getting to the front of the queue, but I'm really not that ruthless. (Besides, it's the devil's own work getting blood out of this dress, claret coloured or no.)

I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword in a manner more optimistic than capable, but the fact that I apologise automatically every time one of these oafs stands on my foot or pushes in front of me isn't really helping. Huh.

That's about enough Little Miss Nice Englishwoman, I think. Time to open the cloak and use the cleavage.

....getting served was remarkably easy after that. Unfortunately the sweaty gentleman behind the bar seemed determined that I needed his services, and I'm not entirely sure that it was prompt delivery of peanuts that he had in mind. I smile and bob and weave the hell out of the way and go looking for a space to sit.

Eventually I end up by the Juke Box. Our hairy-footed friend has finished his rendition (apparently the Dish and the Spoon ran off together in the end, and they did manage to return the man-in-the-moon to the moon) and it seems to me that what this place needs is a little more music.

Iva Bittova. Crazy Czech lady singing about a Vampires' Ball. Sounds good to me. I rummage through my purse, withdraw a couple of euros and a handful of knuts, and feed them into the machine.

Somewhat to my surprise, it starts to play David Bowie instead. Something from the Labyrinth soudtrack. Huh. Cool. Unexpected, but cool. Evidently this is a Juke Box with decided opinions on what it will play. Very Sang Sacre.

I pick up my mead and turn to survey the room, and at this point the floor begins to shake.