Ten of Masks walks into the new office of the Halftropes and Squirrels Banking Corporation. The masked figure in a trenchcoat standing behind the desk bows slightly in greeting. Bits of stray hair poke through the seams and buttonholes of the coat.

“I'd like to redeem these, please”, Ten says, showing six Halftrope notes. The cashier takes them, sniffs them, and puts them away before handing over the Tropes from under the counter.

“Are these… nibbled? The Mysterious Egg isn't even a real Trope! It's just a card. Do you know who I am? I'm not the sort of person you want to be not paying properly if you like staying in one piece.”

Ten leans over the desk intimidatingly and pulls off the cashier's mask. A squirrel's face is revealed.

“Squeak! T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t! Squeak-squeak. Aaaaaxaaa. Squeak!”

“What?”

The squirrel, or, given how short squirrel arms are, probably a different squirrel further down the coat, pulls out a contract and points at it.

“…it will give one Rank I Trope (selected at the Bank's discretion), in exchange for the set of notes.”

It taps “at the Bank's discretion” repeatedly.

“It still has to be an actual Trope though, which this one isn't, and this one is only most of a Trope at best.”

The squirrel raises a section of face that would contain an eyebrow if it were human (there is fur there, it's just not distinct from the rest of the fur), and slowly slides over a 0.1 Trope note.

“That's not what the contract actually says though.”

The squirrel remains silent. Ten adopts a fighting stance. The squirrel reveals a surprisingly impressive looking bladed weapon and continues staring back.

𐎳𐎾𐎢𐎳𐎡𐎭𐎠𐎡𐎴𐎠𐎷𐎡𐎣𐎿 𐎷𐎡𐎿𐎫𐎠𐏐𐎿𐎡𐎼 𐏋𐎠𐎼𐎳𐎢𐎼 𐎯𐎧𐏁𐎨𐎣𐏀𐏐​𐎥𐎵𐎭𐎴𐏀𐎼𐎳𐏐​𐏂𐎺𐎭𐎺𐏐​𐎡𐎡𐎢𐎼𐏐​𐎻𐎼𐎦𐎦𐎣𐏐​𐎩𐎪𐎨𐏀𐏐​𐎮𐎻𐎪𐏐​𐎾𐎦𐎬𐎶𐎿𐎨𐎼𐏐​𐎹𐎮𐎶𐏐​𐎣𐎳𐎬𐎮𐏐​𐎾𐏂𐏐​𐎴𐎰𐎻𐏐​𐎥𐎡𐎧𐏐​𐎲𐎹𐏐​𐎡𐎲𐏃𐏀𐏐​𐎮𐎾𐏃𐏁𐏁𐎫𐎤𐏐​𐎤𐎠𐎿𐎵𐎴𐎹𐎣𐏐​𐏂𐎻𐏂𐎡𐏂𐏐​𐎮𐎧𐏐​𐏀𐎶𐎮𐎳𐎳𐎪𐏐​𐏀𐎼𐏃𐏐​𐎪𐎭𐎥𐎭𐎮𐎯𐏐​𐎽𐎽𐎻𐏐​𐎧𐎧𐎥𐎷𐎽𐏐​𐎻𐎹𐎱𐎰𐎸𐏁𐎥𐎮𐏐​𐎪𐏀𐎡𐎣𐏐​𐎼𐎮𐏐​𐎷𐎬𐏐​𐏃𐎣𐎳𐏀𐎽𐏐​𐏀𐎺𐏐​𐎪𐎦𐎳𐏐​𐎾𐎮𐎯𐏂𐎴𐏐​𐎿𐎪𐏐​𐎠𐎸𐎩𐎿𐏐​𐎮𐎽𐎻𐏐​𐎥𐎭𐏐​𐎮𐎩𐎹𐏐​𐏁𐎴𐎾𐎤𐏐​𐎪𐎻𐎥𐎾𐎡𐎬𐏂𐏀𐎯𐎶𐏐​𐎾𐎶𐏐​𐎣𐎩𐎼𐎷𐎯𐎻𐏐​𐎸𐎩𐏂𐏐​𐎬𐎧𐎪𐏐​𐎹𐏃𐏂𐏐​𐎣𐎧𐎯𐎰𐎦𐎼𐎵𐏁𐎩𐏐​𐏂𐎻𐏐​𐏀𐎷𐎤𐎭𐎶𐏐​𐎬𐎪𐏀𐎪𐏐​𐎫𐎿𐏐​𐎨𐎺𐏐​𐏂𐎿𐏐​𐎤𐎬𐏐​𐎡𐎸𐏀𐎾𐏐​𐎱𐎡𐏐​𐎣𐎠𐎱𐏀𐎣𐏐​𐎾𐎦𐏀𐏀𐏐​𐏂𐎽𐏐​𐎱𐎯𐎵𐏐​𐏁𐎻𐎧𐎧𐎯𐏐​𐎾𐎻𐏐​𐎺𐎥𐎦𐎯𐎹𐏐​𐎣𐎳𐎴𐎯𐏐​𐎼𐏁𐏐​𐎭𐎹𐎹𐏁𐎹𐎡𐎼𐎺𐏂𐎠𐏐​𐎳𐎦𐏐​𐎻𐎢𐎳𐏐​𐎮𐎠𐎵𐏐​𐎱𐎶𐎦𐎰𐏐​𐎸𐎻𐎧𐎯𐎰𐏐​𐎸𐎬𐏁𐏐​𐎣𐎭𐎠𐏐​𐎵𐎳𐎶𐏃𐏐​𐎻𐎱𐏐​𐎥𐏁𐎭𐎭𐏐​𐎪𐎯𐎦𐎡𐏐​𐏁𐎵𐎺𐎨𐏂𐏐​𐎩𐎽𐎫𐏐​𐎰𐎺𐎸𐎠𐎾𐏐​𐎲𐎺𐎰𐎩𐎮𐎥𐎾𐏐​𐎽𐎥𐎣𐎦𐏐​𐎨𐎠𐎨𐏀𐎷𐎬𐎪𐏐​𐏂𐎿𐎻𐎾𐎪𐎪𐎼𐏃𐏐​𐎪𐎸𐎤𐎤𐏐​𐎸𐎸𐏐​𐎱𐏁𐎺𐎱𐎣𐎴𐏁𐎱𐏐​𐎲𐎢𐏐​𐎬𐎥𐎸𐎧𐏐​𐎡𐎮𐎦𐏁𐎩𐎩𐎿𐎳𐏂𐎰𐎠𐎫𐎲𐏐​𐎨𐎣𐎪𐎩𐏐​𐎮𐎻𐏃𐎿𐎣𐏐​𐎴𐎴𐏐​𐎭𐎬𐎣𐏐​𐎴𐎡𐎢𐏐​𐎵𐎰𐏐​𐎧𐏂𐏂𐎣𐎡𐎸𐎹𐎽𐎱𐎲𐎻𐏐​𐎲𐎻𐎨𐎪𐎻𐎠𐎸𐏐​𐏂𐎺𐎿𐎼𐏐​𐎳𐎨𐎤𐎡𐎻𐎡𐎤𐏐​𐎮𐎾𐎾𐏐​𐎻𐎩𐏀𐎮𐏐​𐎤𐎹𐏐​𐎠𐎸𐎮𐎸𐏐​𐎧𐎼𐏐​𐎥𐎭𐎬𐎠𐎮𐏐​𐏂𐎬𐏐​𐎴𐎶𐎼𐎤𐎱𐏐​𐎵𐎢𐏐​𐎿𐏂𐎥𐏐​𐎢𐏃𐎨𐎧𐎺𐏐​𐎧𐎩𐎨𐎾𐎥𐎭𐎰𐎺𐎩𐎵𐏐​𐎱𐎲𐏐​𐏁𐎴𐏃𐎻𐎢𐎨𐎲𐎻𐎰𐏐​𐎫𐎱𐏁𐎵𐎥𐎼𐏀𐏐​𐏁𐎰𐎸𐏐​𐎧𐎧𐏐​𐎠𐏀𐏐​𐎫𐎾𐏐​𐎼𐎪𐎪𐏐​𐎴𐎹𐏐​𐎳𐎩𐎵𐎭𐏃𐏀𐎦𐎾𐎫𐎿𐏐​𐎧𐎨𐎱𐎠𐎱𐎣𐎽𐎹𐏐​𐎧𐎲𐏐​𐎬𐎸𐎰𐎿𐏐​𐎥𐎴𐏐​𐎣𐎪𐎻𐎼𐏂𐎥𐎭𐎽𐎼𐏐​𐎫𐎦𐎳𐎩𐎤𐎣𐎺𐎢𐎦𐎻𐏐​𐎠𐎹𐎽𐎱𐎦𐎺𐎭𐏐​𐎵𐎵𐎤𐎾𐎠𐎡𐎵𐎡𐎻𐏐​𐎦𐎢𐎮𐏐​𐎤𐎲𐏁𐏐​𐎥𐎧𐎥𐎵𐏁𐏐​𐎵𐎶𐏐​𐎿𐎺𐏐​𐏀𐎶𐎩𐏐​𐎮𐎫𐎴𐎼𐎶𐏃𐏐​𐎴𐎦𐏐​𐎣𐎲𐏐​𐎻𐎥𐏐​𐎥𐎢𐏐​𐏁𐎫𐏀𐎾𐏐​𐎤𐎫𐏐​𐏂𐎨𐎸𐎵𐏃𐎠𐏐​𐏂𐎲𐎳𐎹𐏐​𐎴𐎱𐎦𐏐​𐎫𐎫𐎠𐏐​𐎷𐎩𐎴𐏐​𐎤𐎺𐎼𐎬𐏐​𐎽𐎠𐎲𐏐​𐎶𐏀𐎦𐎾𐏐​𐎳𐎸𐎧𐏀𐎸𐎶𐏐​𐏀𐎪𐎴𐎮𐏐​𐎷𐎡𐎠𐏐​𐎨𐎪𐏐​𐎻𐎻𐎠𐎬𐏐​𐏃𐎣𐏐​𐎰𐎡𐎸𐎭𐏐​𐎬𐎫𐎻𐏐​𐎰𐎽𐎸𐎸𐏐​𐏂𐎠𐎵𐏐​𐎴𐎨𐏐​𐎼𐎣𐏐​𐎮𐎡𐏐​𐎠𐎿𐏐​𐎿𐎭𐎻𐎰𐎱𐏐​𐎹𐎻𐎸𐎷𐎿𐏐​𐎠𐎱𐎶𐎷𐎾𐎦𐏐​𐎪𐎩𐎪𐎵𐎲𐎱𐏁𐎧𐏐​𐏃𐎥𐏐​𐎢𐏃𐎡𐏂𐏐​𐎰𐎳𐎾𐏐​𐎳𐏁𐎵𐎹𐎹𐎩𐏐​𐎺𐎾𐎹𐎺𐏐​𐎿𐎳𐏐​𐎭𐎵𐎦𐎿𐏐​𐎠𐎵𐏀𐎱𐎼𐏂𐏐​𐎸𐎭𐎱𐎩𐏐​𐎾𐎵𐎼𐎾𐎢𐏐​𐎧𐎣𐎻𐎵𐏐​𐎨𐎤𐏐​𐎪𐎦𐏐​𐏂𐏂𐎠𐎺𐏐​𐎿𐎸𐏐​𐎿𐎤𐎶𐎰𐎧𐏐​𐏂𐏃𐎬𐎠𐏐​𐎢𐎤𐏐​𐎤𐎫𐏐​𐎰𐏀𐏐​𐎳𐎹𐏐​𐏃𐎬𐎠𐏐​𐏃𐎦𐎫𐎳𐏐​𐎰𐎦𐎶𐏂𐎡𐏀𐏃𐏐​𐎥𐎦𐎱𐏐​𐎽𐏁𐎥𐏃𐏐​𐎦𐎱𐎴𐏀𐎣𐏐​𐎾𐎮𐏐​𐎦𐎭𐎪𐏐​𐎬𐎶𐏐​𐏁𐎳𐎵𐎿𐎿𐏐​𐎽𐎸𐏐​𐎺𐎭𐏀𐎦𐏐​𐎸𐎥𐏐​𐎳𐏁𐎥𐎮𐏐​𐎩𐎪𐏐​𐏀𐎿𐎥𐎪𐏐​𐎡𐎶𐎲𐎮𐎣𐏐​𐏂𐎳𐎱𐏐​𐎫𐎡𐏐​𐎡𐎲𐎳𐏐​𐎶𐎹𐏐​𐏂𐎹𐏐​𐎽𐎧𐎰𐎫𐏐​𐎽𐎫𐎽𐏂𐏐​𐎤𐎵𐎠𐎱𐎿𐎬𐏂𐏐​𐏃𐎥𐎣𐎷𐏐​𐎼𐎦𐏃𐎪𐎫𐏐​𐎾𐏁𐎴𐎨𐎲𐏐​𐎶𐎸𐏐​𐎫𐎨𐎱𐎴𐎿𐎩𐏐​𐎤𐎼𐏐​𐎹𐎩𐎽𐏐​𐎣𐏁𐎥𐎶𐎸𐎸𐏐​𐎲𐎽𐎶𐏂𐎩𐏐​𐎴𐎯𐎦𐏐​𐎱𐏀𐏐​𐎨𐎢𐏐​𐎻𐎸𐎾𐎹𐎦𐎹𐎷𐎿𐎿𐎷𐎫𐎣𐎿𐏐​𐎦𐏂𐎬𐏐​𐏁𐎺𐏐​𐎿𐎧𐏐​𐎷𐎢𐎧𐎩𐎵𐎼𐎲𐎵𐎯𐏐​𐎳𐎲𐎩𐎮𐎼𐏁𐏐​𐎽𐎡𐎾𐏐​𐎣𐎹𐏐​𐎳𐎼𐏐​𐎫𐎣𐎡𐎭𐏀𐏁𐏐​𐎵𐎻𐏐​𐎡𐎤𐎶𐎳𐏐​𐎵𐎵𐏁𐎳𐎹𐎭𐏐​𐎸𐏂𐎴𐎨𐎡𐏁𐎳𐎴𐎥𐏐​𐎲𐎿𐏐​𐎿𐎲𐏐​𐎤𐎼𐎷𐏐​𐎱𐎲𐏐​𐎸𐎥𐏀𐎴𐎦𐏐​𐎺𐎤𐎫𐎡𐏐​𐎪𐎽𐏂𐎨𐎴𐎥𐎯𐎶𐎵𐎾𐎱𐏐​𐏀𐎥𐎺𐏐​𐎼𐎨𐎮𐏁𐏁𐎢𐎳𐎧𐏐​𐎱𐎪𐎾𐎡𐏐​𐎺𐎾𐏐​𐎢𐎶𐏐​𐏀𐎩𐎹𐎱𐎩𐏐​𐎽𐎭𐎥𐎨𐎣𐏐​𐎹𐎢𐏐​𐎾𐎺𐎱𐏐​𐎼𐎻𐏁𐎸𐏃𐎧𐎠𐎿𐏐​𐎷𐎧𐏐​𐎮𐎹𐎥𐏐​𐎾𐎵𐎼𐏐​𐎿𐎻𐎩𐎹𐏐​𐎫𐎳𐎷𐎯𐎪𐎵𐏁𐎮𐏐​𐎤𐎹𐎪𐎯𐎵𐎸𐎩𐎯𐏁𐎱𐎲𐏃𐏂𐏐​𐎫𐎾𐎣𐏃𐏐​𐎯𐎯𐏐​𐎡𐏂𐎥𐎥𐎠𐏃𐏂𐎴𐎺𐎹𐎬𐎲𐎣𐎠𐎬𐎴𐎭𐎿𐎲𐏀𐎨𐎱𐎶𐏂𐎼𐎻𐎹𐎭𐏐​𐎫𐎩𐏂𐏐​𐎱𐎽𐏐​𐎣𐎲𐎰𐎱𐎥𐏐​𐎿𐎶𐎠𐎰𐏐​𐏃𐎧𐎧𐎼𐏐​𐎩𐎠𐎥𐎥𐎵𐏐​𐎳𐎷𐎧𐎶𐎿𐎯𐎻𐏐​𐎧𐎾𐎥𐎿𐎪𐏐​𐎯𐎾𐎦𐎱𐎨𐎸𐏐​𐎾𐎼𐏂𐎴𐏐​𐎫𐎿𐏐​𐎳𐎢𐏐​𐎰𐎸𐏁𐏐​𐎤𐎣𐎹𐎰𐏐​𐎺𐎹𐏐​𐎡𐎺𐎡𐏃𐎬𐎺𐎷𐏂𐏐​𐎻𐎽𐏐​𐎹𐎥𐎾𐎪𐏐​𐏀𐎸𐏐​𐎴𐎤𐎣𐏐​𐎼𐎰𐎼𐎤𐏐​𐏃𐎵𐎠𐏐​𐎶𐎨𐎸𐏁𐎩𐏐​𐎥𐎪𐏐​𐎱𐎢𐎣𐏐​𐏃𐏃𐎲𐎸𐎶𐏐​𐎷𐎮𐏐​𐎽𐏁𐏐​𐎠𐏂𐏐​𐎾𐎷𐎺𐏐​𐎦𐎵𐎾𐎹𐎠𐏐​𐎨𐎫𐎺𐎣𐎩𐏂𐏐​𐎵𐎳𐏐​𐎺𐎦𐎠𐏁𐎧𐎼𐎮𐎡𐎴𐎡𐎲𐎹𐎽𐎻𐎣𐎸𐎮𐎨𐏐​𐎤𐎷𐎨𐎿𐎻𐎣𐏁𐎴𐎢𐏐​𐎣𐎩𐏐​𐎤𐎿𐎴𐏐​𐎣𐏀𐏐​𐎯𐎡𐏀𐎬𐏁𐏐​𐏂𐎴𐏐​𐏁𐎨𐏐​𐎤𐎳𐏐​𐎽𐎼𐎥𐎡𐎧𐏐​𐎼𐎩𐏂𐎿𐏐​𐎩𐎻𐏐​𐎢𐎠𐏐​𐎥𐎱𐎦𐎯𐏐​𐎴𐎬𐏐​𐎻𐎫𐎫𐏀𐎢𐏐​𐎧𐏃𐎪𐏐​𐎱𐎺𐏐​𐎵𐎹𐎳𐎪𐎳𐏂𐏐​𐎥𐏂𐎡𐎪𐎲𐎳𐎰𐎦𐎦𐏐​𐎿𐎶𐏐​𐎢𐎸𐎸𐏐​𐎭𐏁𐏀𐏐​𐎭𐏃𐎴𐎿𐎨𐎲𐎦𐏐​𐎽𐎳𐎷𐎱𐎤𐏐​𐎣𐎮𐎯𐎷𐏐​𐎶𐎬𐎲𐎲𐎺𐎪𐎸𐎱𐎥𐎻𐏐​𐎨𐏂𐎷𐏐​𐎩𐎾𐎶𐏐​𐎸𐎲𐏐​𐎲𐎲𐏐​𐎢𐎫𐎺𐏐​𐎶𐎭𐎬𐏐​𐎳𐎸𐎡𐏐​𐎦𐎨𐎻𐏐​𐎪𐎢𐎯𐎫𐎵𐎳𐏐​𐎰𐎾𐏐​𐎥𐎻𐎻𐏐​𐎫𐎴𐎰𐎪𐎻𐎴𐏂𐏐​𐎶𐎱𐎤𐎽𐎿𐏐​𐎫𐎱𐏂𐎹𐎸𐏐​𐎶𐎯𐎶𐏐​𐏁𐎰𐏐​𐎼𐎹𐏐​𐏁𐎾𐎡𐎵𐏁𐎺𐎸𐎢𐏐​𐎿𐏂𐎥𐎾𐏐​𐎶𐎾𐎿𐏁𐏐​𐎾𐎵𐏐​𐎯𐎫𐎭𐏐​𐎮𐏁𐎽𐎽𐏀𐎪𐎢𐎠𐎦𐎫𐎶𐏐​𐎥𐎸𐎳𐏁𐎶𐎵𐎸𐏂𐏐​𐎧𐎿𐎬𐎧𐏐​𐎺𐎱𐎡𐎭𐎪𐏐​𐎨𐎾𐎺𐎲𐎴𐎬𐎱𐏐​𐎺𐎳𐎧𐎧𐏐​𐎰𐎹𐏁𐏐​𐎲𐎼𐎴𐏐​𐎧𐎵𐎯𐎪𐎹𐎸𐎻𐏐​𐎻𐎸𐎼𐎤𐎭𐎼𐏐​𐎲𐎥𐎫𐎵𐏀𐏃𐎬𐎸𐏐​𐏀𐏁𐏐​𐎣𐎮𐏐​𐏂𐎪𐏐​𐎱𐎽𐏐​𐎱𐎳𐎤𐎨𐏂𐎬𐏀𐎼𐏐​𐎹𐎷𐎱𐎪𐏃𐎭𐏐​𐎭𐎡𐏐​𐎵𐎵𐎶𐎶𐏐​𐎯𐎲𐎢𐎼𐏂𐏐​𐎯𐎻𐎨𐏐​𐎰𐎣𐏁𐎤𐎿𐏐​𐎹𐎮𐎴𐎼𐏐​𐎯𐎤𐎳𐏀𐎢𐏐​𐎪𐏀𐎤𐎩𐎺𐎷𐎡𐎹𐎴𐏐​𐎺𐎣𐎼𐏐​𐎩𐎯𐎽𐏐​𐎤𐎾𐎵𐎼𐎻𐏐​𐎹𐎵𐏐​𐎪𐎠𐎳𐏁𐎲𐎯𐏐​𐎥𐎰𐏀𐎢𐎠𐎣𐏐​𐎳𐎧𐎬𐎺𐏐​𐎥𐏂𐎧𐎰𐏃𐎿𐏐​𐏀𐎥𐎢𐎭𐎨𐎩𐎭𐎪𐎧𐎮𐏁𐎱𐎥𐎼𐎻𐏐​𐎸𐎸𐎰𐎽𐎽𐎠𐎸𐎽𐏐​𐏁𐎿𐏀𐎥𐎩𐎾𐏐​𐎩𐎬𐏐​𐎳𐎩𐎯𐏐​𐎦𐎱𐏐​𐎵𐎥𐏐​𐎡𐎻𐎭𐎳𐎲𐏃𐎾𐎥𐎩𐎸𐎮𐎡𐎦𐏐​𐎥𐎴𐏐​𐎱𐎡𐎤𐎹𐎷𐏁𐏐​𐎴𐎣𐎲𐎼𐎴𐏐​𐎽𐎹𐏃𐎡𐎨𐏐​𐎭𐎶𐎡𐎺𐎮𐎴𐎱𐎻𐏐​𐎾𐏁𐏃𐏂𐏐​𐎠𐎵𐏐​𐏁𐎿𐎥𐎲𐏐​𐎮𐎲𐏐​𐎪𐎥𐏐​𐎩𐎨𐎡𐏐​𐎷𐎲𐏃𐎨𐎭𐎿𐎶𐎠𐎭𐎴𐎭𐎪𐏐​𐎩𐎯𐏐​𐎾𐎵𐎷𐎩𐏐​𐎱𐎺𐎦𐏐​𐎨𐎹𐏐​𐎿𐎷𐎫𐏐​𐎧𐎲𐎽𐏂𐎢𐎧𐎠𐏐​𐎨𐏁𐎩𐎬𐎿𐎮𐏐​𐏀𐎺𐎫𐏐​𐎯𐎸𐏐​𐎸𐎥𐏐​𐎢𐎳𐏐​𐎩𐎢𐎧𐎰𐏐​𐏃𐏁𐎻𐎻𐏐​𐎹𐎢𐎦𐎡𐎶𐏃𐏐​𐎦𐎵𐎷𐏂𐎬𐎧𐎯𐎪𐏐​𐎫𐎳𐎮𐎫𐎽𐎷𐎵𐎹𐏐​𐎩𐏀𐏐​𐎵𐎴𐎤𐎥𐎿𐏐​𐏃𐎫𐎨𐎭𐎤𐎲𐎽𐏂𐏁𐎸𐏐​𐎨𐎶𐎤𐏐​𐎿𐎴𐏐​𐎺𐎿𐎾𐎺𐎯𐏃𐏐​𐎺𐏁𐏐​𐎳𐎫𐎬𐎿𐎬𐎲𐎨𐎪𐏐​𐎠𐎧𐎮𐎱𐏐​𐎹𐏀𐎽𐏐​𐏁𐎩𐎹𐏐​𐎵𐎫𐏐​𐎤𐏃𐏐​𐏀𐎹𐏐​𐎮𐎣𐎳𐎼𐎪𐎫𐎪𐏃𐏐​𐎭𐎰𐎮𐎶𐎦𐎢𐏐​𐎳𐎿𐎾𐏐​𐎠𐎹𐎾𐏁𐎵𐎸𐎻𐏐​𐎨𐎧𐏐​𐎸𐎬𐎸𐎥𐏃𐎶𐏐​𐎵𐎳𐎶𐎲𐎳𐎳𐎪𐎴𐎳𐏐​𐎻𐏀𐎬𐎡𐎮𐎦𐎵𐏐​𐎫𐎹𐏐​𐏃𐎡𐎽𐎴𐏐​𐎻𐎺𐎼𐏐​𐎣𐎨𐎭𐎴𐏐​𐎼𐎨𐎿𐏁𐎥𐏀𐏀𐏐​𐎶𐎭𐎶𐏐​𐎥𐎹𐏐​𐎺𐎪𐎱𐏐​𐎾𐎬𐎶𐎲𐏐​𐎧𐎳𐎢𐎾𐏐​𐎣𐎬𐎲𐎴𐏐​𐎶𐎴𐏐​𐎩𐏁𐎨𐏐​𐎽𐎵𐎼𐎹𐎻𐎤𐎻𐎩𐎻𐎼𐏐​𐎥𐎷𐎨𐎮𐎳𐎹𐎦𐏐​𐎪𐎰𐏐​𐎶𐎱𐎦𐎳𐏐​𐎧𐎺𐎸𐎵𐎥𐎽𐎥𐎦𐎪𐏐​𐎸𐎮𐎿𐎰𐎸𐎳𐏐​𐎩𐏃𐏐​𐎰𐎫𐏐​𐎵𐎡𐎧𐎠𐎧𐎵𐏂𐎳𐏁𐎯𐎮𐎫𐎧𐏂𐏐​𐎹𐎶𐎵𐏐​𐎥𐏂𐎥𐎨𐎸𐎾𐎩𐎯𐎶𐏐​𐎣𐎩𐎠𐏐​𐎲𐎱𐎻𐏐​𐎵𐎻𐏐​𐎩𐎸𐎡𐏐​𐎭𐎻𐎦𐏐​𐎭𐎿𐎿𐏐​𐏂𐎿𐎬𐏐​𐎸𐎪𐎾𐎰𐏐​𐎡𐎫𐎦𐎫𐏐​𐎪𐎧𐎫𐏐​𐎻𐎸𐏐​𐎲𐏁𐎶𐎼𐎰𐏁𐎱𐎹𐎴𐏐​𐎥𐎤𐏐​𐎠𐎻𐎹𐎰𐎸𐎶𐎣𐎨𐎭𐎾𐎺𐏐​𐎩𐎻𐏐​𐎧𐎹𐏃𐎴𐎦𐏐​𐎦𐎧𐏀𐎷𐏁𐎼𐏐​𐎵𐎢𐎶𐎭𐏐​𐎱𐎶𐎿𐎻𐏐​𐎮𐎬𐎭𐎹𐏐​𐎦𐎸𐎢𐏐​𐏃𐎯𐎺𐎰𐎵𐏐​𐎻𐏂𐏐​𐎫𐎸𐏐​𐎮𐎱𐏐​𐎿𐎸𐎩𐎭𐎭𐏐​𐎪𐎰𐏀𐎦𐎮𐎣𐎵𐎱𐎺𐏐​𐏀𐎢𐎵𐎳𐏐​𐎩𐎽𐎰𐎬𐎬𐎵𐎬𐎢𐎯𐎹𐏐​𐎷𐎰𐎯𐏐​𐎶𐏁𐎱𐎫𐎡𐏐​𐎵𐎯𐏐​𐎽𐎤𐏐​𐏃𐎾𐎹𐏐​𐎴𐎳𐎮𐎩𐏐​𐎪𐎰𐎻𐏐​𐎭𐎽𐏐​𐎶𐏃𐎠𐏀𐎲

—A sheet posted on a NFWS noticeboard

(OC note: The main text here is not decipherable, so don't waste too much time trying to decipher it.)

Two pairs of hands, one small, bony and covered in fur, the other larger, humanoid and covered in cloud, knead dough side by side in peaceful silence. They tease it off of hair floof and cloud floof alike, and set it aside, watching it rise. Growing dough is easy—you could make it a mountain with little effort—but the old-fashioned way, with yeast and time, has a certain charm. Time to relax, and reminisce with Mister Squirrel about past adventures.

From above the bakery, you hear the sound of wings flapping and… barking? The sound is a halfway between a dog bark and a cat meow. Beside you, Mister Squirrel appears alarmed at first, but then he draws your attention back to the oven. The strange sounds soon pass, into the direction that you recognise is the Squirrel Kingdom.

The bread is baked, coming out perfectly crusty with a Heartwarming Meal turning up in the oven with it. That (and the bread—Best in Spindle! Squirrel-Baked!—very popular) should be enough to pay for your next few Juice infusions at least. Buying more time to relax, out here, bake bread. A virtuous cycle. A nice way to get by.