The tall young woman seems to relax slightly as you all move down the hill towards her, though her welcoming smile does grow a little bit puzzled as she takes in the four of you and your... unique appearance. "I know that superpowers seem to be showing up against all odds, but isn't it a bit early to be dressing up like them for Halloween?" she begins in a musical voice, then shakes her head at herself, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, what a horrible way to introduce myself. You get used to saying whatever comes to mind working with kids. Hello there! Welcome to Camp Bubble Brook? I'm Sandy. Are you here to pick up a kid, or for something else? We'll get everything settled over at registration, but I figured I could help smooth things along. Go ahead and follow me; walking, hovering, or flying, it's your choice!" With a laugh, she turns back towards the camp itself. Curious small faces are poking out to look at you from around the cabins, but no one except for Sandy approaches you as of yet.

Spoiler: Expertise (Local) DC 20
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As you prepared to go to Camp Bubble Brook, you looked over the list of those gone missing in the Camp Bubble Brook Disaster. You found a list of names and pictures, both of campers and counselors who vanished that day. Sandra "Sandy" Stier, age 20, was one such name. The person greeting you here looks exactly like the picture next to her name, down to the hair length and style.


Spoiler: Nope
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Perhaps it's due to your profound (and unwanted) connection to the concept of negation, but a realization creeps over you as you approach the camp:

It's empty.

Your eyes tell you that campers are running around, interacting with the air and with other campers as they go. It's a lie: there is emptiness there. Your ears bring to you the sound of children at play, of oars hitting water, of balls being thrown back and forth. It's a lie; all is silence. Your nose catches the scent of wood smoke, of roasted marshmallows and hot dogs. It's a lie: the fire is cold and gone, and no food is found here. The camp is empty.

And yet that is not true either. Something--or some things--hide in the empty beyond the false facsimile of life before you. Your senses cannot penetrate their disguise, not yet, but you know that they are there. And since their disguise is active, they are almost certainly watching you.


Spoiler: Floral
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Besides a slight feeling as though you have to sneeze, there isn't anything that pops up out of the ordinary. The smell of individual humans, petty rivalries, fragile new friendships, exertion, enjoyment, and both over- and under-cooked food wafts out from the place before you; it's a summer camp, all right. Your other senses agree with this assesment.

Sandy doesn't seem to be lying to you. She's confused by your outfits and slightly amused by them, and she's torn between interest in people from outside of camp and worry that you're bringing bad news for one of her campers. Then she mentions registration, and even though all of your senses tell you that this is just a camp, even though she's telling you the truth and standing right in front of you, some unexplained quirk in Sandy's expression, or her tone, or something else, sends the dominoes dropping down.

It's all a sham. All of it. The "campers" are not human. The cabins are not whole. The campfire is not lit. There is no food, no laughter, nothing here that is alive. But that doesn't mean that there isn't something here.

You can't see or hear or even smell past the fake to see the reality, but you know it now for a fact. This entire charade before you is a play put on for your benefit. To borrow a turn of phrase from Ariadne, something--or some things--are pulling the strings, hidden within the image of a happy summer camp.


Spoiler: Helios
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This might be the most frustrating interaction you've had with your mystic sense since it awakened. It's like looking at one of those old magic eye pictures; when you focus directly on something, it slips away from you, but when you focus elsewhere, you can sense it on the edge of your perception. It might begin to give you a headache if it goes on too long.

Coming this close tells you two things for sure, however. In the first place, the very fact that you can't bring it into focus suggests a will or a consciousness of some kind. This isn't a natural effect, but a magical energy that is being imposed by something--or some things. That in and of itself is significant.

The second thing is that even if you can't focus on it directly, the constant maddening snatches of the sense give you information. Eventually, the fragmented bits of sensation shape themselves into a stench that you've 'smelled' before. Death magic is here; how much and for what purpose you cannot yet say, but it is present throughout this camp.


Spoiler: Ariadne
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With your Threadwork Sense active as you approach, you begin to pick out threads. Thousands of them. All gossamer-thin, connected to just about everything you see--the campers, the counselors, the cabins, the ground, with some even vanishing in mid-air. There are too many to count and parse, looming like a thick cloud of thin hair-like strands. You almost get the feeling like you're looking at a carpet under a microscope; all the tiny filaments exposed, revealing nothing to you of their true purpose or intent. Whatever this something--or some things--are that are holding the strings, they are doing a lot... or perhaps very little, all over the camp, all at once.