Postman 3

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dialogue:quests/postman/postman-3

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{
  "path": "dialogues/quests/postman/postman-3.dialogue",
  "text": "~ start bedbea7a-10ae-48f9-8748-c62e18410763\nif is_quest_accepted\n\tWren: The dead town northwest. That's where he went. Ground doesn't get any friendlier the longer you stand here. [#end]\nelse\n\tWren: He said he will be going to town ruins northwest. Said there's an old post office out there he wanted to walk.\n\t\tI told him nobody's run that town in years. Iron Wolves stripped it and stayed for what was left.\n\t\tHe said the mail doesn't care whose territory it is. Then he went to prove it.\n\tWren: [#quest_info=ba4344ec-e618-45a0-9d0d-87305c449471]\n\tif is_quest_accepted:\n\t\tWren: [quest: accepted] [#end]\n\t\t\tThen you'd better go find out if he was right. Watch the ridge.\n\telse:\n\t\tWren: [quest: declined] [#end]\n\t\t\t*She turns back to the radio.* \n\t\t\tSuit yourself.\n=> END\n\n~ start 80bd351b-707e-469d-b68f-274a3687c781\nif is_quest_accepted and are_quest_requirements_met\n\tNarrator: *The town is a row of blown-out shells and a name nobody's said in years. At the end of the main road the post office still stands, squat and stubborn, a pre-war box the desert never finished taking.*\n\t\t*The front door hangs off one hinge. Inside, the light comes in slats through a boarded window, and the air holds still the way it does in places that have learned to wait.*\n\t- Start investigation => investigation\nelse\n\tNarrator: *The place is quiet and it does not want you. Whatever business you had here, it isn't finished, or it hasn't started.* [#end]\n=> END\n\n~ investigation\nNarrator: *Somewhere out past the walls a coyote that is not a coyote makes a sound and stops. The room offers you three ways to look.*\n- Check the wall of mailboxes => boxes\n- The carrier's quarters behind the counter => quarters\n- Investigate loading dock at the back => dock\n- That's all for now\n\tWayne: Keep your radio on. [#end]\n=> END\n\n~ boxes\nNarrator: *The mailboxes cover the far wall floor to ceiling, brass doors green with age, most hanging open and empty. You work down the row out of habit more than hope.*\nNarrator: *One box near the bottom is still latched. The little number plate reads a name and a route that mean nothing now. Inside, a single postcard, face-down, the paper dry as a moth's wing. You turn it over. The picture is a sunny street in a town you're standing in the ruins of, painted brighter than it ever was. The message side is blank, stamped, and postmarked last Tuesday.*\nNarrator: *You put it back. You're not sure why you put it back.*\n- Look elsewhere => investigation\n=> END\n\n~ quarters\nNarrator: *Behind the counter, a narrow room someone had made a home. A cot with the blanket squared away. A cold stove. A tin cup, washed and set to dry beside a basin with no water in it. On the wall, a map of the territory drawn by hand, careful, every settlement marked, thin ink lines run between them like veins.*\nNarrator: *Newer lines branch off the old ones, out to camps too small to name, drawn in a steadier hand than the map underneath. Beside one of them, in the margin, a note: \"they wait by the road on Thursdays now.\" No year. No indication how many Thursdays.*\nNarrator: *The cup is bone dry. So is the basin. Whoever kept this place squared away has not squared it away in a long while.*\n- Look elsewhere => investigation\n=> END\n\n~ dock\nNarrator: *The loading dock at the back is where the quiet breaks. The big roll door is buckled inward, pried, not blown. Sorting racks lie tipped across the floor and torn envelopes drift ankle-deep, stirred by the draft.*\n\t*Someone tore through here fast and took their time about the mess.*\n- Sift through the scattered mail => dock_mail\n- Look at the stain by the door => dock_struggle\n=> END\n\n~ dock_mail\nNarrator: *You crouch and sort by feel. He'd been living back here, that much is plain - a second cot, a lamp burned dry, a mail sack propped against the wall like a man keeps his tools close. Then somebody came for him. Most of the paper on the floor is empty envelopes, flaps slit, contents gone, the work of hands looking for anything that folds or shines.*\nNarrator: *But they didn't get the sack. It's still half full, dragged and dropped and forgotten in a hurry. The letters inside are untouched, different hands, different ages of paper, all postmarked within the month. Crushed into the bottom, out of place among the paper, a fistful of crude iron tokens stamped with a running wolf. The men who tore this room apart signed it without meaning to.*\n- Look at the door => dock_struggle\n=> END\n\n~ dock_struggle\nNarrator: *The floor by the door tells the story, if you read floors. Iron Wolf boot prints, a lot of them, come in hard through the buckled roll door. They had him. And then something happened to them.*\nNarrator: *Two of the Wolves didn't leave on their feet. The blood pools where they fell, close together, fast.* [#complete_quest]\n\t*Between the pools, walked in clean over the top of the boot prints, a single paw print. Too big. The toes spaced wrong, spread wide, set deeper at the front.*\n\t*Whatever made it came in quiet, took what it wanted from the men who'd done the taking, and was gone before they understood the room had changed.*\nNarrator: *The Wolves that could still walk didn't stay to bury their own. There's a long smear leading out the door, the shape of a man dragged by the heels.* \n\t*But they took the postman with them. Nobody drags a corpse that far, and nobody drags a live man that gently. He is somewhere north of here, and the odds on him are not good.*\n- Eliza will need a closure\n\tNarrator: [#load_quest=03c5cce3-eaa1-4cd2-892e-66574d489112]\n=> END"
}