In a place like this the fog might thicken in a minute, and then could last for days or months, or never end at all. How many others had set off with a light heart, into the mist and shadow of the Dimness Fens, never again to return? How many sets of bones were black’ning in the bogs; how many sleeping bodies were preserved beneath the still and pine-steeped waters of its sumps and sloughs?

--Written by Alexander Saxton

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“I’d like to wake up please," she said. "How do I wake up? I don’t like how this feels.”

“It’s normal to feel a little bit off at first," he tried to assure her. "It took me a couple days to get the hang of it.”

“I want to wake up: please, help me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t let you wake up right now.”

--Written by Alexander Saxton

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Just listen to those bells. They ring for peace. They ring for glad tidings. They ring for pushing the pain down, deep down, and for leftover sausage meat. 'Tis a beautiful time of year.

--Written by Alexander Saxton, Anthony Botelho, and Jacob Duarte Spiel

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It was in the Maestro’s studio, all lit up golden and dark with the golden-hour light that streamed through its wide-arched window, that the Maestro asked Dulcamara to kill a man, for what would be the final time.“Of course Maestro,” The apprentice replied. “Shall it be the Dagger or the Poisoned Chalice?”

--Written by Alexander Saxton

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It sat there, under the light. The Egg. Huge, murky and amber. It seemed firm, but still sagged just a bit where it sat. Whatever was inside—if there was anything inside at all—wasn’t clear. The golden casing and yellow-red liquid inside were too opaque to see through.

--Written by Anthony Botelho and performed by Liz Der.

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I knew then that it didn’t matter that the black mask gave no indication, no inkling of any emotion. The Harlequin was aware of my presence and, in some way, its attention was entirely directed at me. The thing was performing, but not for my... entertainment.

--Written by Jacob Duarte Spiel

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We've got sad ghost, mad ghost, not-a-child, big-ass skeleton, and *horrible* German man. Everything you need at this time of year. And nothing you want.

--Written by Alexander Saxton, Anthony Botelho, and Jacob Duarte Spiel.

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He held up a jar containing a chunk of stone the colour of yellow pollen. Out of it grew a crystal like sunset or ruby grapefruit; striking in colour, yet… repulsive to look at in some way. It was small enough to hold in your hand, but heavy enough that it made his feeble hand shake.

--Written by Alexander Saxton and performed by Rae Bernakevitch.

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One of those nights, huh? Sorry to pry; it just looks like there’s a lot on your mind. And typically when someone’s sitting at the end of the bar—at this bar, this time of night—staring into their drink the way you are, well… that’s usually a sign too.

--Written by Anthony Botelho.

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It didn't have to be like this—we could have gotten the big old Wrong ball rolling with Season 6 right away—but you vultures just couldn't leave well enough alone.

So here you have it, you jackals, you cretinous imps, you rancid simpletons. Here are your responses to your properly filed FOIA requests.

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