"The morning's post brings you a surprise: a tangle of vivid green leaves with three large white buds above them on the point of blossoming, and bare roots clambering out over the pot's edge. "Orchids," the accompanying note begins, in an elegant, practised script, "are extraordinary creatures. Their hardiness and will to survive are hardly matched but in our own race -- cut one back to a tiny nub of itself, and, given sufficient time and an appropriate environment, it will regrow into a specimen as assertive as the one before you now. Her parentage includes a slew of New World species bred with stock from the Elder Continent, a project not only poetic in its ambitions, but necessary to ensure she thrives in our tenebrous conditions. I've applied to the RHS for the appellation Lc. Bright Messenger, pending their acceptance of my paper arguing for the placement of Neath orchids within alliance Cattleya. Care for her with curiosity and joy." A card -- dove-gray paper and deep, indigo-violet ink -- gives an address just this side of the Forgotten Quarter. That night, a flickering glow awakes you. Your new companion has bloomed, white petals shaded with the barest blue-purple, and a huge, rippled lip painted with indigo. Bloomed and caught fire, that is, or, more properly, caught your curtains on fire, because the plant itself remains unharmed within a sheath of pale, white-blue flame. Once you've beaten out the conflagration, a wary inspection confirms your immediate suspicions: the blossoms are marked with Correspondence sigils. Of course they are. "A shroud knit of night and day." "Ravenous secrecy." "The sky will open to you." The University really will sign off on any hare-brained endeavor masquerading as research these days, however eccentric. Or inflammatory."

"A tortoise arrives at your door bearing a heavy stock card, smudged with odd blue-voilet stains and smelling of molten correspondence plaques. It bears only a name and address. The tortoise cocks her head at you with a hopeful expression." Forgot who sent me this lovely message, Had it on my clipboard for too long.

I felt this exquisite passage should be preserved:
Miss Perative wrote:

"Ohhh, *that* one. Look at her sending off calling cards just because her social circle's able to get a bit larger

Thank you I sent the cards out last night and forgot to paste in the message consistently so some of them went out blank. Glad you liked it!

--
I've removed my profile link for the time being as I don't play often enough these days to engage in social actions.

The Incorrigible Raconteur's Calling Card

Apart from my copy of Silas' letter, I received this lovely little missive in the post:

"The box appears at your lodgings in the arms of an errand-urchin. You reach in your pocket for a bit of rostygold for him, but he puts up his hands and shakes his head. "No need! The missus took care of me." He cannot wait to run away. You aren't expecting a gift, but a scholar of your standing is accustomed to surprise deliveries. You unwrap the paper around the box and find a note in ornate penmanship. "A token of admiration in honor of your most recent research into the Correspondence. It brought to mind the tale of Fenella Racine and her Handlebar-Moustachioed Balladeer, the two lovers who killed each other over a rumored third party. Their ribbons found their way into my possession. I do believe they are drenched in each other's blood. Profoundly romantic, don't you agree?" You open the box; the soft sheen of Surface-Silk slips into your hands, and you unfold it gingerly. The two Black Ribbons have been entwined together, gorgeously and heavily, into very nearly the shape of the sigil you have just deciphered, 'Unthinkable mutual harm as a foundation for intimacy.' The Perative woman is known for black-market trading, but even you could not have expected that she would forward these two Ribbons to you. It's her way of saying that your status as the third party in question will go no farther than this box. You examine the knotted black silk strips, adjust the angle of a serif, and the ribbons catch fire. Your lodgings smell of old blood."

Thanks, Miss Perative!