>>2146675

>Twitter: https://twitter.com/MolochQM
>Previous: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Into%20the%20Skies

Falling head over heels, you tumble down the steep incline and hit the soft ground below, the cold mud barely cushioning your fall at all. Although you don't lose consciousness, it takes a moment for you to regain any control over your body. A long moment, or so it feels, and you spend the time staring blindly up at the darkening sky. Silence has fallen, and you allow yourself a flicker of hope – whatever it was that was pursuing you, it seems to have passed you by.

At least, until you look back and find it waiting there, waiting to devour you at long last.

Shaking off those childhood memories, you focus on more practical matters – starting with the native trap clamped around your ankle. Your armoured boot kept it from doing any real damage, but just stepping on it was enough to trip you up and send you tumbling down. Carefully grabbing the jaws, you force the trap open before pulling your leg out and allowing it to snap closed again – this time, closing around empty air. Your leg feels bruised and painful, but it takes your weight easily enough when you stand.

“Thank you, Marshal Goering,” you mutter to yourself as you look around, trying to figure out your next move. Your mad dash to safety might very well have simply delivered you into greater danger – the others are nowhere to be seen, and you can only assume that they were scattered in all manner of directions... just like the errant children in your old tales. Too late, you realise that you never made any plans for this kind of situation, no agreed meeting place. A small oversight, but one that might well prove disastrous.

If there's one saving grace, it's that there's enough daylight left for you to get your bearings. So long as you keep walking east, you'll eventually arrive at the edge of the Deep Forest. That's your easiest way of getting out of here, but there's no way of telling whether the others will try the same thing. Finding a landmark, then? The stone circle is the first thing that comes to your mind, but it won't be easy to find. Maybe if you had the map, but...

Slowly, thoughtfully, you feel the rough bark of a nearby tree. It's firm, with plenty of handholds – you could climb it easily enough, to get a better idea of where the stone circle was. Short of starting a fire and sending up some smoke signals, you're not sure what else you could do.

But night is only going to get closer – you've got to do something.

>Start heading east, to the edge of the forest
>Get your bearings, then head for the stone circle
>Start a fire, see if you can signal the others
>Other

>>2146677
>Get your bearings, then head for the stone circle
Smoke might attract more natives. We can stay at the stones for a bit to see if anyone shows up then head east to the treeline.

>>2146677
>Get your bearings, then head for the stone circle.

As captain it's our duty to make sure everyone is accounted for.

>>2146677
>Get your bearings, then head for the stone circle

>>2146677
>>Start a fire, see if you can signal the others
Just feels like the most likely way to actually get everyone together, even if it brings some unwanted company.

A smoke signal might well attract your crew, but it could easily attract other, less desirable attention. The last thing you need right now is to bring a mob of angry natives down upon your head – so, that option is out. Also out is the thought of just cutting and running, making for the border and simply hoping that your crew follow suit. A captain has certain responsibilities, and means not leaving them behind.

That leaves just one option ahead of you – you'll head for the stone circle and hope that the others have the same idea as you. First, though, you need to get your bearings. Flexing your fingers, you pick an especially gnarled tree and start to climb it, carefully seeking out handholds before moving up to a solid looking branch. Gazing out across the forest, you still can't make out the stone circle. There's a path heading north-east, which might lead in the right direction, but you want to be certain before you start to follow it.

Higher, then. Silently thanking your childhood self for all the practice you put in – scaling the tall trees in the grounds of your family estate, rather than studying like you were supposed to be doing – you pull yourself up to the next likely branch. From there, you have a better view out over the forest – and just as you suspected the path leads towards a clearing, almost certainly the stone circle. Grimly accepting that this is as sure as you're going to get, you turn back around and start your risky descent.

It's almost the exact opposite of flying an airship, you realise, coming down is much harder than going up.

-

With your glimpse of the forest still fresh in your mind, you set off towards the stone circle with as much haste as you can safely allow yourself. Every breaking branch and rustle of undergrowth causes you to freeze in place for a moment as you listen, rifle in hand, for an imminent ambush. While you had been travelling with the others, you hadn't realised just how noisy nature can sometimes be – now that you're alone, there always seems to be some animal noise or another coming from deceptively close by. Even when the trees draw back sightly to reveal the crude path, you don't feel safe. Time is ticking onwards, and the shadows have started to grow long indeed.

Brushing aside a low outcrop of branches, willowy things that reach out to snare at your clothes and hair, you emerge out into the clearing. While they had seemed strange and uncanny at first, the looming stones you are confronted with now seem almost comforting – just as calming as any church or chapel that you've ever been in. It's an apt comparison, you realise, as the natives likely see this place as a church of their own.

With that, you remind yourself that you're still in enemy territory. Cocking back the hammer on your revolver, you creep into the stone circle.

[1/2]

>>2146677
>>Start a fire, see if you can signal the others
my bet is that even the natives dont want to get in the way of this monster, so they'll either help or run away from the fire.

>>2146713

A careful search of the area reveals nothing – no signs of any natives, but no indication that your crew might be nearby either. Resigning yourself to wait – just how long you wait is a matter that you'll have to decide later – you sit down in the loamy soil at the base of one of those looming stones. Wincing a little as you do so, you unbuckle one armoured boot and slide it off your foot. Just as you feared, livid bruises are starting to bloom on the skin there. Still better than a shredded ankle, you remind yourself as you recall Professor Estheim's mangled boot.

Pulling the boot back on, you lean back against the stone and stare up at the sky. Carthul hangs in the air above you, mocking you with the thought of safety and luxury. Shaking off those thoughts before they can take root, you look away from the vast island. As you look up at the open sky instead, you spot a bird circling above you. A single bird, seemingly fixated on the stone circle. As you watch, it dives lower down before perching on the opposite stone and glaring at you – glaring at you in a very familiar way.

“Wait a minute...” you mutter to yourself, “Herod?”

The bird doesn't reply – obviously – but it does glare at you for a moment more before launching back into the air. As it flies higher, you hear a rustle from the nearby undergrowth. Leaping to your feet, you aim your revolver at the noise just as a human figure blunders out and stumbles into the clearing. Sighing with relief, you lower the gun.

“Keziah,” you breathe, waving her closer, “I knew you'd think to come here. Did you find the others?”

“Captain, I'm glad to see you,” panting, Keziah bends double for a moment and shakes her head, “I did, I found the others. They're in bad shape, though, they need your help – I came to find you.”

Relief starts to creep up on you. The others might be in bad shape, but at least they're alive.

“What about Professor Estheim?” you ask, “Was he still with them?”

“Yes, he's okay. He can't walk, though, and we can't carry him for much further,” straightening up, Keziah gestures back towards the forest, “Come on, I'll take you to them. Follow me, captain.”

>Alright, lead the way
>Do you have any idea what that smoke thing was?
>Before we go... (Write in)
>Other

>>2146722
>Alright, lead the way
>Do you have any idea what that smoke thing was?

>>2146722
>Alright, lead the way

>>2146722
>Before we go... (Write in)
"What's the password?"
>Alright, lead the way
>Do you have any idea what that smoke thing was?

>>2146722
>password
>set a fire on a patch in or near the stone circle. it'll keep SOMETHING busy investigating it, whether beast or man.

>>2146722
>Before we go... (Write in)
"What's the password? Also, since it's you, who was the third close member of our old crew?"

If answers are provided:
>Alright, lead the way
>Do you have any idea what that smoke thing was?

>>2146722
whait her entire accent changed, we sure this isn't a changeling?

>>2146739
so this

“Alright,” you tell her, “You lead the way.” She nods to this, smiling with relief at your agreement before making to leave. “Hey, Keziah,” you call out as the witch is turning to walk away, “Do you have any idea what that smoke thing was?”

“There are stranger things than just native warriors in these forests,” she answers, glancing briefly around with a placid look on her face, “Stranger, and far older. Sometimes, they come out to feed – all that blood and all those bodies must have roused it.” Resting the flat of her palm up against the bark of a nearby tree, she seems to think for a moment. Flakes of bark crumble and fall away as she plucks at the wood, clawing at the tree like a beast sharpening its claws. “We should be safe now, though,” she adds as an afterthought, “I don't think it's likely to follow us out this far. Why are you asking ME about it?”

The sudden sharpness that enters her voice as she asks that last question startles you a little. She's probably tired, you reason, and in no mood for an interrogation. “I thought you might know about it, that's all,” you explain with a shrug, “Being that you're from around here, and all. I thought you might have heard tales of such things.”

“I wonder,” she murmurs, stepping away from the tree and walking off into the woods, “Hurry up. The others will be waiting.”

It's that reply, the brusque and indifferent nature of it, that brings a sweeping wave of realisation to mind. Keziah, the Keziah you've always known, would never pass up a chance to talk about something – even it was something she had no knowledge about. She would talk, simply for the sake of talking. Slowly raising the revolver, you clear your throat. “Wait a moment,” you announce quietly, “What's the password?”

Keziah freezes, her entire body tensing up before she slowly turns around to face you. “Do we really have time for these little games, captain?” she asks, nodding up towards the sky, “It's getting dark. We've still got time to reach the edge of the forest before nightfall, but only if we-”

“Tell me the password,” you press, this time aiming the revolver directly at her, “Or if you can't tell me that, then, who was the third member of our old crew? You couldn't have forgotten that, right?”

She can't even answer a simple question – something that she should have been able to tell you without even thinking about it. Her face darkens as she realises her error, with one corner of her mouth twitching furiously. “You won't make it out of this forest alive,” she warns you, her voice growing deeper as her face starts to... to blur slightly, like a smudged oil painting, “We have your scent now. You won't-”

Her threat is cut short as she readies herself to lunge and you fire, the bullet snapping her head back and dropping her to the ground.

[1/2]

>>2146746

A shudder runs through you as you approach the body. Even knowing that it wasn't human, shooting something that wore the face of an old friend has left you with a trembling hand. Swallowing hard, you brush aside some long grass and take a proper look at what you just killed. It still looks a little bit like Keziah, although its head hangs at a sickly angle and its face has warped. The mouth is the worst bit, split all the way up to the cheeks and bristling with needle teeth. Just thinking about those awful jaws closing around your throat causes your stomach to lurch uneasily.

The bullet hole in the creature's forehead doesn't bleed exactly, but a thick resinous fluid has already started to crust around the edges of the wound. Drawing your thinner knife, you prod gently at the wound and find the flesh strangely easily to manipulate. It's like pushing around freshly kneaded dough, rather than actual flesh.

When a low gurgle escapes the creature, you jolt back from the body – but not quick enough to avoid the emaciated claw that shoots up and closes around your throat. A second claw seizes the hand that holds your gun and jerks it away from you, even as you reflexively pull the trigger and send a bullet crashing aimlessly into the undergrowth. With that terrible claw closing tighter around your throat, the creature pushes up against you and drives you back down into the ground. Dimly, you feel the revolver tumble out of your hand as the shapeshifter slams your wrist down against the ground.

With its head still hanging at a crooked angle and its mouth still yawning wider than any human mouth should, the creature shudders with silent laughter. Struggling beneath the ever-tightening grip around your throat, you cling onto the knife in your other hand as if it was your only lifeline left.

>Calling for a dice roll, 2D6, aiming to beat 9-10 for a partial success and 11+ for a full success. I'll take the best of the first three results.

Rolled 4, 1 = 5 (2d6)

>>2146758
Curiosity killed the captain, I believe is the expression?

Rolled 6, 3 = 9 (2d6)

>>2146758
O boy

Rolled 3, 2 = 5 (2d6)

>>2146758

>Partial success

Grunting, you bring the bayonet up and slam it into the creature's side, plunging it into the strangely malleable flesh again and again in the hope of hitting something vital. The creature barely seems to notice your blows, even as you can feel the blade plunging deep into its body. Finally, you thrust low into the creature's stomach – or where its stomach would have been, if it had sane and conventional anatomy – and hear it hissing with anger. It loosens its grip on your throat for a moment, only for it to bring its other hand down onto your face.

Burning lines of pain trail across your skull as the creature's nails dig into your flesh and draw blood. Screaming, you throw all your strength behind one last attack and rip the bayonet through the shapeshifter's gut – drawing it across the thing's stomach in a disembowelling blow.

Instantly, the pressure on your throat vanishes as the creature launches itself away from you, limbs bending back on itself as it scuttles back like some bloated insect. Through the long and ragged cut drawn across its stomach, you can see a sack of some kind – a burlap sack, half hanging out of the thing as if it contained something heavy. Of organs, or any other vital anatomy, you can see no sign. Hissing one last time through the still-recognisable remnants of Keziah's stolen face, the creature begins to scuttle away into the undergrowth.

As it runs, you lunge for the revolver and snap it up for one last shot at the creature, but the fiend has already gone by the time you have the gun up and ready. Letting a low gasp slip from you lips, you slump back down and stare up at the sky for a moment, grateful just to be alive. Tentatively, you touch at the gouges on your face and find them to be not as bad as you first feared. Worse than just flesh wounds, but at least they didn't bite right down to the bone.

Waiting for a few moments more, waiting until the strength has started to creep back into your body, you heave yourself to your feet and limp back towards the stone circle. There, you sit back down at the base of a stone and massage your bruised throat, fighting off a wave of fatigue as you do so. The rustle of feathers sounds from above you as the bird returns, perching a few paces away and studying you.

“Some help you were,” you mutter, giving the bird a suspicious look. As if taking offence at your words, the bird takes flight once more. You watch as it rises up into the sky, and you feel some part of yourself rising up and away with it.

Your head slumps back, and you sleep. You dream of singing, songs sung in a melodious language that you have no knowledge of. Even so, something about them is oddly soothing... and oddly familiar.

[1/2]

>>2146800

You wake up to the soft crackle of a bonfire, and the murmur of low voices. Slowly opening one eye, you find yourself staring down the barrel of a rifle – your rifle, you realise with sudden anger. Hanson has it trained upon you, while the others sit a short distance away. The sky is dark, and the background noise of the forest has changed into something subtly different. Whenever the wind changes, you can hear the faint sound of drumming – or perhaps you're just imagining it.

“Good morning,” Hanson murmurs to you, “What's the password?”

“Manticore,” you groan. Hanson nods firmly, then lowers the rifle and hands it back to you with a humourless smile. “You're all here?” you ask, rubbing your eyes, “Is everyone okay?”

Rising, Hanson calls across to the others in a low voice. “He's awake, and he is who he says he is,” he hisses, before looking back to you, “We're all here... finally. It wasn't exactly easy.” He pauses here to scratch at his temple, and you notice a long gash running along his brow – a knife wound, perhaps. “I managed to find Cammy quickly enough, we didn't split up very much, and then I was able to figure out roughly where we were. The professor's man knows the lay of the land, so he was able to find his way here quickly enough. He was the one who found you, actually, not long before we arrived.”

At the mention of Caliban, you look across to where he sits – apart from everyone else, staring out into the dark forest. Looking at him now, you can see what Matilda Estheim meant – his face seems cold and cruel, as if he was indifferent to everything that was going on around him. “And Keziah?” you ask, glancing up at the sky. Hanson just shrugs.

“Blind luck!” the witch announces cheerfully, in the voice of someone telling a bad lie, “Aye, I figured that I needed to head east, but I didnae expect to come out here. When I found a path, I followed it and...” Shrugging to herself, she bends down beside you and peers closely at your cuts. “Cannae leave you alone for a moment, can we boss?” she jokes, “Looks like you got in a fight with an angry wee cat!”

“Not so little,” you complain, “So what's the plan?”

“We were waiting for you to wake up,” Hanson tells you, “We could set a watch and spend the night here – it's six or seven hours before we'll start seeing daylight - or we can risk walking the rest of the way tonight. Frankly, neither option is very good but we don't exactly have many alternatives. You're the captain here, what's your call?”

>We'll dig in here and wait until morning
>We'll risk the walk. I want to get the hell out of here
>Other

>>2146821
>We'll risk the walk. I want to get the hell out of here.

If that mist comes back we'll have to run anyway, might as well start now.

>>2146821
>>We'll risk the walk. I want to get the hell out of here

>>2146821
>We'll risk the walk. I want to get the hell out of here
Do not fall asleep in spooky places.

>>2146821
>>We'll risk the walk. I want to get the hell out of here

>>2146821
>>We'll risk the walk. I want to get the hell out of here
We got some nice manly scars on our pretty face, we're a real man now!

“We'll risk the walk,” you decide, with barely more than a moment of thought, “I want to get the hell out of here. Can the professor walk? I mean... can he move?”

“We can move him,” Hanson corrects you quietly, “But yes, he's safe to move. It's strange – the natives took great care to keep him alive, aside from the part where they hacked his foot off. I was talking to Caliban – they were kept in that clearing for a few days, as if they were waiting for something. I suggest speaking with him yourself at some point, if you can get much out of him. He's not exactly talkative.” Shaking his head, Hanson glances aside to Keziah before slinking off to tell the others about your plan.

“Aye, I dinnae blame you for wantin' out of here,” Keziah murmurs to you, “So long as we keep movin' and take lights with us, we shouldnae have too many problems.” She starts to move away, but you catch her arm. Wincing, she turns back to you and meets your eyes. “Aye, it wasnae luck that I found you,” she confesses, “A wee bird told me, if you ken what I mean. I didnae want to mention it to the others, and...”

“I thought so,” you agree, letting go of her arm, “Now let's get moving.”

-

With flaming torches in your hands, you march quickly through the forest. Caution has given way to haste now, but even so you can't move too quickly – especially not with the professor burdening you down. Caliban supports him most of the time, only reluctantly giving up his charge when he starts to flag. It's your turn to help the old man hobble along, the sad stump of his maimed leg hanging limply between you. The strain of the past few days has taken its toll on him, and he keeps slipping in and out of consciousness.

“It's cold,” he mumbles, “Fetch me a brandy, would you? A nice drink will help warm up my old bones.” A shiver runs through him, and he almost slips to the ground before you tighten your grip on him and pull him upright again. “And make an appointment with the doctor...” he adds, as if the stumble had never happened, “I think my foot is acting up, those old war wounds of mine... Wait... my foot?”

“Don't worry about that now,” you tell him awkwardly, not quite sure what else to say to him, “Just keep looking forwards, that's all you've got to do. You're a tough old goat, professor, you can do this. Just keep looking-”

“Boss!” Keziah hisses, “Look, in the trees!”

Jolting around, you wave the flaming torch towards the tree line and focus on the darkness, waiting for your eyes to adjust. Then you see them, countless silhouettes lurking in the gloom – standing motionless as they watch your party scurry through the forest. Stillness envelops you all as you look out, and the waiting natives look back. Slowly, uncertainly, Keziah raises her revolver.

[1/2]

>>2146893

Before she can fire – if, indeed, she planned on firing – Caliban puts his hand on top of hers and forces the gun back down until it's pointed at the dirt. Silently, he shakes his head at her before walking past and taking the professor from you, supporting the old man over one shoulder. Thus unburdened, you're free to look out across the ranks of natives waiting in the thick trees. They all wear masks of some description – some crafted from the skulls of beasts, others sewn from pelts. As silhouettes, they are somehow more unsettling than they might have been in the light – the misshapen nature of their bodies seems almost exaggerated. You see many with horns, and you suspect that not all of them are due to ornate headpieces.

“We're leaving,” Caliban hisses, glancing back over his shoulder at you, “Slowly and calmly. Don't provoke them.”

When you're outnumbered like this – five of them for every one of your crew – provocation was the last thing on your mind.

-

Walking single file through the forests, you feel the sharp tingle of eyes upon you with every step you take. It's only when the woods start to get somewhat thinner that the feeling starts to fade, and the distant shapes stop following you. They watch you from a distance for a while more before you round a gentle corner and, finally, they see fit to leave you be. As soon as their eyes are away from you, you start to walk faster and faster. Even the professor hobbles a little quicker.

Then you burst from the trees, and right into a different kind of trouble. With your flaming torches highlighting you against the gloom, you make easy targets – so when the first gunshot thuds into the dirt ahead of you, you know that it's a warning shot. With their armoured frames bulkier but more reassuringly uniform, the Iraklin soldiers advance out of the night and aim their rifles at you.

“Drop your weapons, and get to your knees!” their leader yells, his commands curt and harsh, “Do not approach us – we WILL fire!”

Groaning with frustration, you throw the flaming torch aside and carefully set down your rifle. A moment later, two armoured soldiers grab you and wrestle you to the ground. Pain shoots through you as one of them plants his knee in your back, his companion patting down your pockets. When he pulls out something, the mood turns that little bit uglier.

“He's got Markov's tags!” one of the soldier curses, and then you feel the muzzle of a rifle shoved up against the back of your neck. Keziah cries out in protest, but her words soon end in a yelp of pain. “That's the doctor,” he adds, “You got an explanation for this, savage?”

>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!
>I'm no savage, now let go of me!
>Take me to Marshal Goering, I can explain everything to him
>I can explain... (Write in)
>Other

>>2146945
>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!

>>2146945
>>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!
>>I'm no savage, now let go of me!
Rude.

>>2146746
>tfw your idea came useful

>>2146945
>I'm no savage, now let go of me!
>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!

.

>>2146945

>I'm no savage, now let go of me!

>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!

Some heroes welcome, this.

>>2146945

>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!
>I'm no savage, now let go of me!

>>2146945
>I came here to rescue the professor. Ask his wife!
>I'm no savage, now let go of me!
Can the professor vouch for us?

“He's not a doctor, he's a professor – and I came here to rescue him, not harm him!” you protest, “Look, ask his wife. Ask Matilda about this - she can vouch for me!” The pressure on your back lessens slightly as you give the name, but it certainly doesn't let up altogether. “I'm no savage, you understand me? Do I look like a barbarian to you?” you add, “Now let me up, so I can explain things properly!”

“Your friends sure look like barbarians,” the unseen soldier sneers, even as he takes the barrel of his gun away from your neck. The knee pressing into your back is finally removed, although your relief is short lived – soon, your arms are being cruelly twisted back as they force a pair of cuffs onto you. Judging by the yells and groans of protest that you hear from behind you, the others are being subjected to exactly the same treatment. As you're being hauled upright, you glance around at the others. Keziah looks furious, while Hanson is sullen and reserved. Cammy just looks confused, as if her mind is still lagging behind, while Caliban somehow manages to retain his aloof nature. The professor is the only one of you who isn't wearing cuffs, but he's in no fit state to speak up for you – he watches the scene unfold with eyes that make Cammy look alert and aware.

“Get him to a doctor,” Caliban orders as you're being dragged away, “He needs medical attention.”

“Quiet, you. We'll take your statement later. Take them away!” the lead soldier barks, before looking back to his underlings, “And send for a medic. It looks like the doc... the professor needs one.”

-

Despite everything that's happened to you over the course of your life, this is actually the first time you've been a guest in an Iraklin dungeon. It's not as bad as you were expecting – it's reasonably clean, and you actually have a cot bed to sleep on – but it still rankles at you. So much for your heroic return to Camp Prosperity. The only consolation is that the soldiers promised to check your story – they would ask Matilda Estheim about you, and then hopefully release you.

It just might take some time.

“I wish I had a cigarette,” Cammy complains, from her cell at the far end of the row, “Can't believe they took my stash. These guys don't have anything better to do, that must be it.”

Her complaint goes unanswered, which isn't much of a surprise. Keziah is sleeping, curled up on her cot like a child, while Hanson leans back against the wall. In the cell next to you, Caliban lies stretched out on his cot. He looks relaxed, but his body is like a coiled spring – ready to launch into action at a moment's notice.

[1/2]

>>2147019

“You had a pair of their tags,” Caliban says suddenly, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear him, “They don't take kindly to that sort of thing.”

“I took them from a dead native. I don't know how HE got them,” you reply, “Probably took them from a dead soldier.”

“Dead, or worse,” Caliban replies breezily, “Markov, wasn't it? He was one of the men who vanished recently. No wonder they're all so tense.” Sitting up, he gently touches the swollen flesh around his eye and wince a little. His face is still a horror of cuts and bruises, but he's already started to heal up. Nadir folk are like that, hardy and strong – maybe it's something in the blood. “I got off lightly,” Caliban adds, noticing your gaze, “They were planning on sacrificing me. You saw how they were digging a hole like that, didn't you?”

“Sure,” you reply, “Like they were going to cut your throat and fill it up with your blood.”

“They do that. They think that it... plants a seed, so to speak. Something that grows into a dark and foul fruit,” he pauses for a moment, before continuing in a matter of fact voice, “They're not wrong.” As if on cue Keziah stirs in her sleep, groaning softly and shuddering as her dreams darken. Caliban smirks a little at the sound before turning away. “They let us go, you know,” he adds, “So we could act as a warning, probably. In future, the men here will think twice before encroaching on their territory – and they were reluctant enough already.”

“You make that sound like a good thing,” you point out, noting his crooked smile, “Is that what you think?”

“Whatever I think of it, the Deep Forest is my homeland, my birthplace,” Caliban admits quietly, “How would you feel if soldiers were allowed to march into your homeland?”

Thinking back to the Annexation War, you wince. When he puts it like that...

>Whatever. I'm getting some sleep
>You really seemed to care for the professor
>So whose side are you on? The natives, or...
>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?
>I wanted to ask you something while we're here... (Write in)
>Other

>>2147065
>>So whose side are you on? The natives, or...
>>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?

>>2147065
>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?

>>2147065
>You make a good point there.
>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?

>>2147065
>>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?

>>2147065
>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?

>>2147065
>>You saw that smoke thing. Do you know what it was?

File: Caliban.jpg (313 KB, 1000x1100)

313 KB JPG

“You make a good point there,” you grumble, conceding the point with a reluctant nod, “But that doesn't explain everything. Just whose side are you on?” You leave the question hanging for a moment, waiting to see if Caliban will take the bait. When he holds his tongue, you push him a little. “So...” you ask, “Are you with the natives, or...”

“I'm on my own side,” Caliban answers simply, “Which is the only side that matters, as far as I'm concerned. If it makes you feel any better, though, I have no love for Eishin or his men. The “King in Exile” can rot, as far as I'm concerned.” Scowling darkly, he rolls up his sleeves and shows you the pale, smooth flesh. “I won't strip off completely, so you'll have to take my word for it,” he continues, “But I'm as “clean” as any man of the Church. Not a single taint or blemish – which didn't exactly make me popular with the others.”

“You mean they exiled you?” you remark, raising an eyebrow, “Just because you weren't...”

“I exiled myself,” he corrects you, “But they pushed me to it – I won't bore you with the details, but I didn't exactly have a happy childhood. That's all in the past now, but I won't ever be on THEIR side. If I had King Eishin right here in front of me now...” Letting his words trail off here, Caliban mimes a pistol with one hand and smirks.

“Well,” you admit, “I suppose that answers that question.”

“I should hope so, too,” the hunter nods, “Was that all?”

“No. I'm glad that you're a native, actually, because you might be able to answer something for me,” fixing Caliban with your gaze, you gather your thoughts before pressing on, “You saw that smoke thing. Do YOU have any idea what it was?”

“I heard a story once, when I was... allowed the luxury of such things,” Caliban begins, “Now, a rational man might not believe this, but if you've heard any rumours of magic... there's a truth to those. In Nadir, there's a long tradition of trafficking with daemons – summoning them, and binding them into hosts. According to the old stories, that thing is a daemon of incredible power. A coven of witches tried to bind it into a host, to put it under their control, but they failed. The rite was never completed, so the daemon was... trapped. Not quite free to return to whatever hole it crawled out of, but not safely bound as a familiar either.”

Frowning to yourself, you listen to the soft voice as Caliban tells his story.

“The witches fled, of course, but the daemon had their scent – no matter where they ran, it hunted them down and destroyed them, one by one. Even so, that wasn't enough to undo what was done,” Caliban smiles with cold relish, “Nobody knows if CAN be undone.”

[1/2]

>>2147154
And now it has our scent. Lovely.

>>2147170
At least we weren't the ones who bound it.
it might be less devoted to hunting and killing us

>>2147175
Let it try to reach us on an airship while we're laughing and spitting down on it.

>>2147181
>inb4 it can fly

>>2147154

“So, if the stories are to be believed, there's a powerful daemon lurking within the Deep Forest. It's quite mad, as much as daemons are ever sane, and it's supposedly drawn to scenes of great violence. I always thought that it was a way of keeping people in line – stopping the rival tribes and groups from waging war upon each other,” letting out a hollow laugh, Caliban shakes his head, “I never believed that it was true. I wondered, sometimes, but...”

“It's probably got our scents as well,” you muse, “Does that mean it's going to come chasing after us, now?”

“Well, that's the question, isn't it? I can't exactly stroll back home and ask,” Caliban snorts with contemptuous laughter, “Who knows? All we can do is avoid pitched battles – at least, while we're within the Deep Forest. From what I recall, though, the story only mentioned that it hunted down the witches responsible for summoning it.”

“They committed some taboo, and they were destroyed because of it,” you muse, “I've heard that story before...”

“Really?” Caliban sits up, his eyes brightening a little, “And who told it to you?”

Searching your memory, then, you realise that you can't remember.

-

You sleep a little after that, but it isn't long before you're being woken by the sound of your cell door rattling open. The guard is already moving on to the next cell when you call out. He turns around, and you shiver a little at the blank, expressionless mask you're presented with. “We've confirmed your story,” he says curtly, “You're free to go. Marshal Goering wished to convey his regrets for this misunderstanding – there are protocols to follow, we can't afford to take any chances.”

Grumbling a little, you stretch the stiffness out of your muscles and amble upstairs. As you're checking your belongings out of storage, you glance across at the clock – it's almost noon, to your surprise. They certainly weren't in any hurry to let you go free. Still, you're free at last and now all you need to do is pick up your pay and head back to Monotia. When you mention as such, Cammy gives you a firm nod.

“The full reward, as well,” she remarks, speaking around the cigarette held in one corner of her mouth, “I wasn't expecting that. Leave no man behind, huh?”

“Right,” you agree, before adding, “I learned that in the war.” A small choking noise escapes Cammy as the cigarette falls out of her mouth, her jaw dropping at your remark. Inwardly smirking a little – it was a cruel jab, but you just couldn't help yourself – you gesture for everyone to follow you. The Estheim manor awaits.

[2/3]

>>2147209

Compared with the first time you saw her, with her drugged stupor and her slow words, Matilda Estheim seems like a completely different person. Although propriety and good manners keep her somewhat at bay, her eyes shine with a fierce intelligence and her words have grown quick indeed. She's the sort who can cut deeply with her tongue, you realise, just as deeply as if she was wielding a knife. It's a good thing that you've got her on your side, then.

Otto Estheim, on the other hand, seems more reserved. He sits by a blazing log fire with his maimed leg propped up on a low stool. With a pipe smouldering in his hand, he stares into the fire and says nothing.

“I'm afraid that we won't be able to provide your fee in cash,” Matilda apologises, “One learns not to keep large amounts of anything valuable here, for fear of the locals. Would a letter of credit suffice?”

“That would do just fine,” you assure her. Hardly any of these jobs ever pay cash, after all. Matilda hums gently to herself as she fills the relevant details in with a feather quill, then stamps the family seal upon the form.

Mission complete. Funds increased by 2
Funds: 4

“Oh, but look at the time!” she cries as she hands the letter to you, “Would you and your crew care to stay for lunch, Captain Vaandemere? It won't be any trouble at all to clear some extra places at our table?”

>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you
>I'm afraid that we need to leave as soon as possible
>Other

>>2147232
>>I'm afraid that we need to leave as soon as possible
its not the wife its the demon

>>2147232
>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you
After trudging through the forest and getting arrested a home cooked meal will do some good.

>>2147232
>I'm afraid that we need to leave as soon as possible
Let's prod the professor for some info and have Keziah look at some of those paintings.

>>2147232
>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you

Come at us demon

>>2147232
>>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you

>>2147232
>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you
What could possibly go wrong?

>>2147237
Or maybe the previous one, the drugged up one, was the demon.

>>2147232
>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you
For all I know, refusing hospitality is some sort of taboo in these parts.

>>2147247
Meant to vote for
>We'd happily stay for lunch. Thank you

“We'd happily stay for lunch,” you reply with a small nod, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Well, it's the least we can do after everything you've done for us! Otto hasn't told me much, but...” Matilda's expression darkens a little, “But I know enough to realise how close he came to death. If you hadn't intervened, I might never have seen him again. In time, I hope that he can come to terms with what happened. It's not the Iraklin way to let these thing defeat us, after all!”

You wouldn't know much about that – your idea of “the Iraklin way” is probably very different to hers. “If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like to have a few words with your husband before lunch,” you add, “Would that be possible?”

“Of course, of course,” Matilda assures you, “I have arrangements to make, after all, so lunch won't be straight away. The dinner bell will ring when everything is ready, and I'm sure that Otto can show you through to the dining room. Please, make yourself at home.”

“Take a look at those paintings,” you mutter to Keziah, nodding towards the various pictures, “See if any of them mean anything to you.” She raises her eyebrow at your request, but otherwise she doesn't question it. With that out of the way, you ease yourself down into the seat opposite Professor Estheim. As if waking from a long sleep, the professor starts to take a slow draw on his pipe.

“I was certain that I would die in that forest,” he remarks suddenly, “It wasn't when they took my foot that I realised this, or when I put my foot in that trap. No, I felt that was as soon as I stepped into that stone circle – I felt as though I had committed some unforgivable act, and that I would surely be punished for it.”

“But you didn't die,” you argue, “You survived.”

“I wonder,” Otto muses, “I don't think I've quite accepted that truth yet.” Setting his pipe aside, the professor gives you a frank look of appraisal. “Where are your companions?” he asks, “I recall there being other men – and a woman, I believe – with you. I should like to thank them as well.”

“They're outside. They didn't want to intrude,” you look around the small study with a tiny smile, “It might get a little crowded in here, with so many of us.”

“Quite so, quite so. The dining room is larger, it will suffice for everyone,” Otto pauses, glancing contemptuously down at the stump of his ankle, “Although I might need some help getting there. Would you believe that it's not my foot that I miss most? I would have happily traded my other foot for the books those savages burned. Frankly, an attack on the written word like that is far more offensive than a simple mutilation like this!”

He's a strange one, this professor.

[1/2]

>>2147320

“Boss, a word?” Keziah murmurs, touching your arm. When Otto dismisses you with a wave, you rise and follow her out to a more discrete corner. “Odd taste he's got,” she continues, “Those paintings are all of... rites and rituals, that sort of thing. I didnae recognise a lot – I've only got a wee bit of experience in these matters – but there were some that match up to what I've heard.”

“There was one called “Calling the Storm”, I think,” you ask, “Did you know anything about it?”

“Aye, a wee bit,” Keziah nods, “If it's what I'm thinkin' about, it shows a rite to alter the weather. Now, most witches aren't that powerful so they cannae do much more than make it rain a wee bit, but the most powerful ones were said to conjure up vast lightnin' storms! The name, uh, the name doesnae really hide much.”

“Storms...” you mutter, “Miriam Hawthorn was brought down by an electrical storm, apparently.” Maybe that was why your eye was drawn to that particular picture, you think to yourself, you automatically linked it with Miriam's death.

“Boss?” frowning a little, Keziah looks over her shoulder to make sure that you're not being overheard, “What're you thinkin'?”

“I don't know,” you admit, “Not yet, at least.”

“Well, anyway, the other picture werenae anythin' too important. Mostly just prayers or ceremonies. A load of dancin' about and makin' a fool of yourself, really. Some folk used to do it naked, in the old days,” she shivers at the thought, “You wouldnae catch me strippin' off back home, I'd catch my death from that sea breeze! Well, ah, the point is... I dinnae think there's anythin' too amazin' in those pictures. I bet they're worth a wee bit, mind you, especially to a collector like him.”

“Oh, that's good,” you sigh, “Because the Spirit of Helena had dozens of the things tucked away in storage.”

“Oh, aye?” Keziah's eyes brighten for a moment before she realises that you weren't being serious, “Oh bugger.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” you apologise, patting her on the arm as you return to the professor. “I'm sorry about that,” you tell him, “Just a small interruption. Do you-”

“Interested in art, are you? I wouldn't have thought you were the sort,” Professor Otto smiles faintly, “I took you for a man of action. The sort of man they make portraits of, rather than the sort to collect them.”

“Just like my father,” you murmur to yourself, “Although he never had the patience to stand for a portrait. He just got an imago taken and that was good enough for him.”

“Awful things,” Otto mutters, shaking his head angrily. Just then, the dinner bell rings.

>Time for lunch, then. Let me help you up...
>Before we go, I wanted to ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>2147405
>Time for lunch, then. Let me help you up...

>>2147405

>Time for lunch, then. Let me help you up...

>>2147405
>>Time for lunch, then. Let me help you up...

>>2147405
>Before we go, I wanted to ask you something... (Write in)
Do you know anything of Gach Beairteas or the old gods?

>>2147405
>Before we go, I wanted to ask you something... Ask about the two unknown symbols, the "sun" and "sideways soup"

“I had a question about your work,” you begin, “Your work as a historian, I mean. I was curious if you knew anything about... ah. Forgive my pronunciation of this, but Gach beairteas. It's an old Nadir tale, I think.”

“Yes it is. A very old one, but especially well known among men of Azimuth. Let me see... I imagine that if you know the name, you know the basic outline. What, then, is less commonly known?” Otto toys with his pipe as he thinks, “The treasure vault was said to reside at the top of a great mountain. When the famous thief of the story broke in once, the gods were said to be furious – the ripped the mountain up, and hurled it into the sky. Of course, I don't need to explain what this should remind you of.”

“Zenith,” you confirm, “And the mountain of faith.”

“Exactly so, exactly so,” pleased with your answer, Otto nods, “The gods were said to place it high up, out of reach of man. Even now, men still haven't reached the peak of the Mountain of Faith. It's almost enough to make a believer out of me!”

“You mentioned the old gods,” you ask next, “You mean the four of Nadir tradition – Soil, Flames, Winds and Waves.”

“Five, actually,” he corrects you, “Although I don't blame you for making the mistake. The fifth god of Nadir is a difficult subject, owing to certain translation issues – concepts with no direct correlation. Most confounding. Additionally, even the most cooperative of the natives are reluctant to speak of it to outsiders – or even to members of their own kind who are not familiar with their occult traditions. I myself only know a little, in fact!”

Distantly, you recall Matilda mentioning that Otto had been reluctant to speak. Evidently, she just hadn't been asking him about the right things. “So what is the fifth god?” you wonder aloud, “Or, what's your take on it?”

“In the lack of a proper translation, I've taken to naming it “Corruption” or “Impurity”. Rather loaded terms, I'm afraid. The natives would have a more favourable interpretation,” Otto stares into the fire for a moment more, as if the answers to all life's mysteries lay within. “I believe that this god represents the Nadir bloodline itself,” he says at last, “While some stories even go so far as to suggest that this god is the source of that bloodline – the divine, mingling with mortal men.”

Keziah, who had been keenly listening in, stiffens at that. Her lips move as she repeat those two ugly words to herself. “It has a symbol, doesn't it?” you ask quickly, “Is it like a sun, or...”

“Closer to half a disc, and some deliberately irregular lines,” Otto corrects you, “I've seen this sun design as well, but it's a mystery to me too. I've never met anyone, from any background, who can reliably identify it. Quite... unusual.”

[1/2]

>>2147565

Before you can talk any further on the subject, the dinner bell rings again – and this time, it has an almost frantic sound to it. A pleading kind of sound, reminding you uncomfortably of a hungry infant – not to mention reminding you of how hungry YOU are.

“Sounds like it's time for lunch, then,” you decide, standing up and offering the professor your hand, “Let me help you up...”

Otto doesn't move at first, simply staring at your hand with quiet frustration. Then, at least, he sighs. “I'm going to have to accept that offer, aren't I?” he groans, before allowing you to heave him up and out of the overstuffed armchair. “I'm going to have to start accepting a lot more help from now on,” he adds, speaking more to himself than to anyone else, “It seems as though my adventuring days are over.”

“You know,” you remark, thinking of Salazar, “You remind me of someone I know. He's not really the type to settle down peacefully, either. He was in the airship business when he was younger, on and off. Not any more, though.”

“No?” Otto asks, “What does he do now, then?”

“Well...” you answer, “He's a lawyer.”

“Good grief,” the professor lets out a dry laugh, “Suddenly, my own circumstances don't seem quite so bad!”

>I'm going to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions I'll answer them if I can
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>2147596
Lol
Thanks for running!

>>2147596
Thanks for running Moloch!

>>2147596
Thanks for running Moloch.

>>2147596
Thanks for running, Moloch!
How likely is it that Miriam ran afoul of the god of corruption?

>>2147596
Thanks for running!
Did we check the professor for skinwalkerness?

>>2147791
I wouldn't worry about that, fellow human!
>>2147768
The god itself? Pretty unlikely - they tend not to directly intervene in mortal affairs, if they even exist at all. Falling foul of people or daemons acting on behalf of a god, on the other hand, that's far closer to the realms of possibility.

We should probably tell Keziah about the skinchanger.

>>2149122
Any reason you wanna do that anon? Feels kinda weird to tell a close friend you had to shot something that had their face.

>>2149214
well there's the question of what the fuck the bird was thinking, not attacking the skinchanger or otherwise making a fuss.

>>2149220
It's not an attack bird, I wouldn't expect too much from it. I think it flying away was a big hint that it was a skinwalker, in hindsight I mean.

>>2149214
More like a reassurance of some sort.

>>2147847
Hey Loch, what kind of scars will Milo have from the skinwalker attack?

>>2149387
Nothing especially deep or noticeable, but he will have some marks. Mostly across his scalp and forehead - if you lay the flat of your palm across your face, the fingers would more or less mark out where he was cut

File: Arya Wellager.jpg (324 KB, 1024x1775)

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Dinner is certainly better than anything you might expect from a prison. Roast beef, with carefully cooked potatoes and a velvety sauce, with ample strong wine on the side – a more robust vintage than anything Carthul has ever produced. You might have some issues with Iralkis as a nation, but you certainly can't fault the wine they enjoy. In a past life, you would have freely indulged and drank yourself into a slumber, but things are different now – even though all your urges pull you in the opposite direction, you limit yourself to two glasses.

Marshal Goering joins you for the mean, which is somewhat awkward considering the actions of his soldiers, but he wastes no time in offering you an apology – a brusque one, one that never actually sounds like an apology or an admission of fault. Either he'd been rehearsing it, or he's had plenty of practice. Either way, you don't allow it to spoil the meal.

What does put something of a downer on the meal, however, are the table arrangements. The dining room has two tables, one that is far more ornate than the other. Matilda is quick to show everyone to their designated seats – you and Cammy join the Estheims and Marshal Goering at the main table. The others – those with Nadir blood, in other words – eat at the more commonplace table. Hanson quietly fumes at the segregation while Keziah stares in slack-jawed disbelief, but Caliban shows no sign of offence. In fact, he seems to have expected this very outcome.

Suffice to say, it's hard to make polite conversation while most of your friends are sitting some distance away and you're expected to pretend as though they don't exist. You've never heard of the Iraklins having any special intolerance towards those with the Nadir blood – not like the Carths – so you're prepared to put this down to a personal preference. Probably from Matilda's side of the family, considering how she had been the one to urgently shoo Keziah away from the seat next to you.

It's all made worse by the portrait of Chancellor Arya Wellager that hangs on the wall, glaring down at you all as she eat. Although she's largely just a figurehead, the mouthpiece of a sprawling council, Chancellor Wellager is a popular leader and many Iraklins keep pictures of her somewhere in their homes. That's the Iraklin way – the state above all else, even in the family home. It's just like them to have the image of their leader staring down at them – although she's technically your leader as well, you muse, since the Pastona Union was brought under Iraklin control.

Well, you never voted for her.

[1/2]

>>2150365

After lunch, you stick around for a little longer – as long is polite, really – before making yourself scarce. Otto does give you a stiff card, though, with his wireless number printed on it. If you were ever in the neighbourhood with any interesting history to discuss, he told you, his door would always be open. He was a little more blunt than that, actually, but that was the gist of it. With that, you left the manor.

There was still some time until the next car for Monotia left, so you all split up. Hanson headed for the town bar, or the closest thing that passes for one, to drink away his frustrations. Cammy, meanwhile, elected to go for a walk around town - “seeing the sights”, as she had sardonically described it. Finally, Keziah had gone off to browse the lone general store in search of anything interesting to buy. It was strange, watching Herod circling high above the shop. The bird seemed to come and go as he pleased, vanishing and reappearing whenever he liked.

“I don't think Matilda cares for me,” a quiet voice calls out, as Caliban approaches you from behind, “Or people like me, to be more specific. She must hate living here.”

“I imagine that she does,” you agree, “Although she seems to be making the best of it. She's happy... for now.”

“Hmm,” Caliban muses, “I wonder.” He lapses into a brief silence at that, lighting a thick cigarette with a brass lighter. Mulling over the smoke, he then turns to you. “You know, I should be thanking you,” he remarks, “You probably saved my life out there. I don't know why they didn't just kill us both straight out back in the Deep Forest – they were keeping us for something, and they only chose to let us go when that plan went awry. Whatever their plans were, I doubt they would have ended well for me. So, thank you for the well-timed rescue.”

“You're welcome,” you assure him, “So what are you going to do now?”

“The same things I was doing before this. Odd jobs, hunting and scavenging in the woods, whatever work I can get my hands on. Sometimes bodyguard work, although I estimate that that'll be slower to come after people learn about what happened to Professor Estheim. Still, I lead a simple life - I don't need fame or riches to be happy,” letting out a slow lungful of smoke, Caliban studies you through narrowed eyes, “Why do you ask?”

>Just curious. I hope it works out well for you
>You're a useful man to have around. There's a place for you on my crew if you're interested
>Other

>>2150368
>You're a useful man to have around. There's a place for you on my crew if you're interested

>>2150368
>>You're a useful man to have around. There's a place for you on my crew if you're interested

>>2150365
>Complaining about portraits of such a cutie
Our hero has dreadful taste

>>2150368
>You're a useful man to have around. There's a place for you on my crew if you're interested

>>2150368
>Wanna join my crew?

>>2150368
>You're a useful man to have around. There's a place for you on my crew if you're interested

>>2150368
>You're a useful man to have around. There's a place for you on my crew if you're interested

“Because you're a useful man to have around,” you tell him, “There's a place for you on my crew, if you're interested. There's food and board included, and you'll get a chance to travel – the way you're living now, I don't think you'd ever get the chance to really see the world. What do you say?”

Caliban considers the offer for a moment, idly tapping ash off the tip of his thick cigarette. “A useful man to have around...” he muses, “Do you have a need for a bodyguard, then?”

“I might do,” you answer, “The life of a Free Captain can be a dangerous one – I won't lie about that – but I don't have any serious enemies... yet. No, I'm preparing to work on something big, and I'm gathering all the help I can. You're the sort of person that I'm interested in.” Letting that vaguely worded offer hang in the air, you watch Caliban's reaction. He's interested, you can see that much, although he tries not to let it show.

“I don't like committing to things,” he warns you, “If I want to walk away...”

“You can walk away,” you finish for him, “Just, preferably not when the bullets start flying. What do you say?”

“Then it's a deal,” Caliban decides with a firm nod, offering out his hand to shake. His grip is hard, and not in an especially friendly way, but you give as good as you get. Smirking a little at the understated contest, the native man releases his grip and starts to walk towards the waiting armoured car. “Oh,” he adds, looking over his shoulder, “I'll want private quarters – a room of my own.”

“Won't be a problem,” you assure him, fighting the urge to massage your aching fingers, “There's plenty to choose from.”

-

The armoured car bumps and shakes you back to Monotia, but your attention isn't on the poor conditions of the road. You're thinking about Miriam's diary again, pondering on how best to start working on it. With a lot of vague speculation and untranslated script to work on, you don't have much to build your plans around – the next step, then, is to gather more information.

“Here, boss,” Keziah says, leaning across to you, “What're you thinkin' about now?”

Not anything that you're willing to shout about in a busy armoured car, that's for sure. “Just wondering what Blessings did while we were away,” you reply, “It's a damn good thing we didn't take him with us on this job. Can you imagine him running through the woods like that?”

Judging by the way that the others laugh, they can imagine it – and the resulting mental image is not a flattering one. “Aye, well, there's nae need to throw the kid into the deep end,” Keziah decides, “He looks more like the type to sink rather than swim.”

“I don't know,” Hanson remarks with a cold smile, “I think he'd float pretty well.”

[1/2]

>>2150407

When you arrive back in Monotia, the Spirit of Helena is your first destination. Everyone files away to their own respective cabins, with Hanson leading Caliban to the as-yet empty quarters. Miriam must have planned around a much larger crew than the one you're currently leading, as there are numerous private rooms still unused as well as a larger dorm room used by the common crew.

Your own quarters are still relatively bare, still awaiting decoration, but they have a chair and a desk – everything that you need right now. A chalkboard stands against one wall, mocking you with its blank space. Taking out Miriam's diary, you begin to leaf idly through it. When you reach the untranslated section, however, you stop. Scrawled in one margin is a legible name, something that you must have skimmed right over on your first look.

“Barrow Jackson,” you muse, reading the name aloud to yourself. It's not a name you recognise, but it does give you one possible lead to go on. Whoever this “Barrow Jackson” was, Miriam was interested in them. Before you can ready any further, there's a quiet knock on the door. Blessings answers your call, entering and then freezing in place as he studies the cuts on your head. He starts to ask something, but you cut him off. “Just scratches,” you assure him, “What's the news?”

“Ah, well, yes. There was a call on the ship's radio while you were away,” he explains, still unable to take his eyes away from the cuts, “Mister Sierzac – he was Aunt Miriam's lawyer, he read her will – called. He didn't say what it was about, but he gave me his wireless frequency and asked you to call him. I wrote it down, and left it up at the bridge. If you don't mind me asking...” Again Blessings hesitates a little, gathering up his courage before pressing on. “Are you doing business with Mister Sierzac?” he asks, “Or... are you in trouble? He IS a lawyer, so...”

“Free Captains often keep a lawyer on retainer, to handle the boring financial things,” you answer smoothly, “I wouldn't be surprised if he was offering his services. I'll think about calling him later – thank you.” Leaning back in your chair and studying the boy, a thought occurs to you. “Was that what you were doing while we were away?” you ask, “Just... listening to the radio and taking any calls?”

“Oh no, no,” Blessings shakes his head hastily, “I had some books to read, so... it was no trouble!”

“Books. I see,” you sigh, “This is a long shot, but did your aunt ever mention someone called “Barrow Jackson” to you?”

“No, never,” he shakes his head again, “I'm sorry, she tended not to go into specifics when she was telling me about... her work.” Apologising again, Blessings turns and scurries back to his own quarters.

[2/3]

>>2150457

Rising from your chair, you stride across to the chalkboard and start to write, slashing letters across the board with a crumbling piece of chalk. You note down what little you've been able to learn so far – more possible sources for leads than actual leads, you think with faint frustration as you look at what you've got so far.

The Pastona Grand Museum had one of the key fragments once, before it was destroyed in the war. The rebuilt museum might still have some information on the fragment, even if the piece itself has gone missing.

Keziah suggested asking her mother about the key fragments, implying that the old woman was knowledgable in old things such as this. Sybile is on the other side of Nadir, but it's a trading town – there's an aerodrome there, so you can fly.

Salazar seemed to have business that he wanted to discuss with you. He might be able to help you with doing research – and his daughter was said to be studying languages. Potentially, she could help translate Miriam's diary.

Tossing the piece of chalk back down, you study the options you've noted down. Meeting with Salazar would probably be the easiest course of action, but you're not sure how much help he could offer you with regards to the more... esoteric parts of your search. Likewise, asking around at the Pastona Grand Museum wouldn't involve much danger, but it might draw attention to you. Keziah's mother... that's a wild card option, you couldn't say what that might involve.

So, you think to yourself, where first?

>Travel to the Pastona Grand Museum to ask about the key fragments
>Travel to Sybile and meet with Keziah's mother
>Call Salazar and arrange to meet up with him
>Consult with some of your crew... (Who?)
>Other

>>2150478
>Call Salazar and arrange to meet up with him

>>2150478
>Call Salazar and arrange to meet up with him

>>2150478
>Other
Keep the diary on the back burner, see if we can find a job in Sybille to justify us going their and while we're their we can seek Keziahs mom.
The others dont have to know because they dont need to know.

>>2150494
Or arrange the meeting with Salazar there.

>>2150478
>Travel to Sybile and meet with Keziah's mother

I dunno if we want to trust others with the diary.

>>2150505
We aren't going to get much out of it without a translator.

>>2150494
seconding

Calling it now, Caliban's corruption manifests on the inside.

Staring at the chalkboard for a moment more, you slowly pick up the piece of chalk and circle Salazar's name. Even if he can't help you with this exact matter, it'll be good to keep in touch with the old man – after he helped you gain the Spirit of Helena, you can't help but feel some... duty towards him. A loyalty, perhaps. You'll call him and see what he wanted – if it was something that could wait, if he was just wanting to talk about old times with you, you'll put that on the back burner for now. Hesitating for a moment more, you also circle Keziah's name – her mother is more likely to know about this than anyone else.

Marching towards the bridge, you settle into the captain's chair – your chair, you remind yourself – and snatch up the note Blessings left on the controls. His handwriting is neat and precise, each letter looking as though he spent hours carving it into a block of marble, and the radio frequency is easy to decipher. Reaching across to the wireless, you set the dials to Salazar's frequency and punch the call button. Static blares for a moment, and then a polite young voice answers you.

“You've reached the offices of Salazar Sierzac,” the secretary – rendered androgynous by the poor line – announces, “May I take your name?”

“Captain Milos Vaandemere,” you reply, “Calling for-”

“Putting you through now,” the secretary states, cutting you off with a strange urgency. Static blares for a moment more, and then Salazar answers you.

“It's good to hear from you, my boy. Were you away, earlier? I called, but I must have reached your secretary instead,” the old man lets out an indulgent chuckle, “Your fortunes must be faring well, if you can afford a private secretary.”

“Could be better, could be worse,” you reply carefully, “So, why did you call me?”

“I just wanted to pass my frequency along, so that we can keep in contact. I meant to tell you at the will reading, but with all the excitement...” you hear Salazar sigh, “Well, it quite slipped my mind. Would you like to come into the office and discuss things in person? It's easier than having to deal with this appalling line. I have some free time... tomorrow, in the early afternoon. The office is in Salim. That isn't a problem, is it?”

“Not a problem, no,” you answer, “But I won't be able to make an appointment just yet – I've got a few other things on my plate. I'll call you when I'm available. Sorry for being blunt about this, but-”

“I understand,” Salazar assures you, “There's always work that needs doing, always an opportunity out there somewhere. You have my frequency, in either case. Stay safe, my boy!”

Feeling vaguely guilty about the whole conversation, you hang up the radio mic and lean back in your seat to think.

[1/2]

>>2150542

Picking up the mic again, you dial down to the engine room. “Get those engines warmed up and ready,” you order, “I want us airborne.”

“Got it, boss!” Keziah calls back, “Got a destination in mind, or are we just headed for a trip?”

“I thought we might head across to Sybile for a spot of trading. It's not very exciting, but after what we just crawled out of...” shuddering a little, you shake off the memories of the Deep Forest and continue, “Oh, right. Once we're moving, can you come up to the bridge? Cammy can watch the engines while you're up here. I had something that I wanted to talk to you about.” Hanging up the mic, you feel the Spirit of Helena hum with power as the engines begin to warm up. Just as you're shifting into hover, Keziah arrives on the bridge.

“Tradin', boss?” she asks, hurrying across and sitting down in a nearby seat, “Really?”

“Of course. Salt, fish, salted fish... there's always safe business in a bit of buying and selling,” glancing across, you give her a wry smile, “And I don't want you telling the rest of the crew anything different, okay? If we just so happen to make a stop along the way...”

“Ah,” Keziah's face darkens a little, “You're hopin' to meet my mam. Aye, I wondered if that was the case. Well, I willnae lie about it – she's a wee bit strange, and we dinnae always see eye to eye. As far as strangers go, mind you, I reckon she's mostly harmless. I'll make the introductions, and you can have a wee chat on your own.” Nodding vaguely to herself, Keziah rises from her seat and gestures towards the door. “That all you were wantin', boss?” she asks, “Or did you want to talk for a wee bit?”

>That was all. I'll let you get back to the engines
>Stay here a while and keep me company. Cammy can look after the engines
>Out in the woods, I was attacked by some... shapeshifter. Do you know what it was?
>You don't get along with your mother, do you?
>I had something to ask you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2150573
>Out in the woods, I was attacked by some... shapeshifter. Do you know what it was?

Gesture to the slashes.

>>2150573
>Stay here a while and keep me company. Cammy can look after the engines
>Out in the woods, I was attacked by some... shapeshifter. Do you know what it was?
>How's your relationship with your mother?

>>2150573
>>You don't get along with your mother, do you?

>>2150573
>>Out in the woods, I was attacked by some... shapeshifter. Do you know what it was?

>>2150573
>Out in the woods, I was attacked by some... shapeshifter. Do you know what it was?

File: Keziah.jpg (101 KB, 816x1600)

101 KB JPG

Gesturing to the seat next to you, you wave for Keziah to sit back down. Without complaint, she happily settles back into the seat and gives you an expectant look. “You don't get along with your mother,” you ask, watching as her smile withers a little, “Do you?”

“Aye, well, I figure that was obvious enough,” she concedes, “She, uh, she never really forgave me for not takin' up the family business. Runnin' off with some young airship captain to get up to who knows what... she wasnae very happy about it. Whenever we went back to Sybile, no matter how much I tried to steer clear of her, she found a way of lettin' me know what she thought. When we lost the Manticore, I went home for a wee bit and...” Trailing off here, Keziah shoots you a vaguely guilty look.

“What?” you press, “She blamed me for almost getting you killed?”

“It wasnae like that. She said I was foolish, like, gettin' caught up in what she thought was someone else's fight. There was a bunch of other stuff and all, but I was too angry to listen,” Keziah shook her head, “It WAS my fight, just as much as it was your fight. The way I see it, that's what being part of a crew is like. Of course, she wasnae goin' to see it that way...”

The fact that, indirectly, you're the one to blame for the rift between Keziah and her mother doesn't sit right with you. It's not as if you've done anything wrong, but it still rankles a little. Hopefully, that won't get in the way of getting some information out of the old woman. Sensing the ill mood, you decide to change the subject – although you're hardly moving to lighter matters. “Out in the woods, I was attacked by something. A shapeshifter of some kind,” you explain, gesturing to the cuts across your scalp and face, “Do you know what it was? It didn't seem to feel pain when I stabbed it, but when I cut across its stomach...”

“Somethin' came out, aye?” Keziah finishes for you, “Aye, I ken what they are. Changlings, we call them, or spiders of the earth. Horrible wee things, as awful as they come. They're no really made of flesh, not like you or me, so cuttin' them up or shootin' them won't do the trick. The way I've heard it, you need to cut out that thing in their guts. That's their heart, see, or what they have instead of one.”

“It looked like an old sack,” you murmur, “Burlap, stained and dirty. It didn't look like anything natural.”

“Aye, it isnae. I dinnae ken exactly what it is, but I've heard things. A black lodestone, all carved with the old words. Put it in a sack and bury it, then somethin' might grow,” shifting in her seat, Keziah looks out the main window for a moment before continuing, “They dinnae really need to eat... but they do it anyway. They'll take you and drag you underground, then they'll do it slow.”

[1/2]

>>2150646

In light of this, your fight with the creature – the changeling – makes a lot more sense. It probably could have killed you if it really wanted to, but it tried to choke you into unconsciousness – so it could bring you back to its lair and feed on you at its leisure. Shivering a little, you hear yourself speaking aloud. “It had your face...” you murmur, “But not your voice. It got that wrong.”

“Aye, they're not perfect. I wouldnae be surprised if it had been followin' us for a while, watchin' and learnin',” Keziah nods slowly, “Normally, they dinnae need to keep the trick goin' for long. Just long enough to get someone to drop their guard, and then they'll strike.” Silence descends as you focus on the controls, turning the Spirit of Helena towards the west and starting her towards her destination. “Well,” the witch decides, “I'd better get back to the engines. Shouldnae leave them alone for too long.”

“Stay a while longer,” you urge her, “Cammy can look after the engines. She does her job well enough for Tobias, she'll do it for us.”

Keziah studies you for a moment, then smiles. “Aye, well, if that's you givin' me an order...” she chuckles to herself, making herself comfortable and slowly looking around the bridge. “She's a good ship,” she murmurs, “I willnae lie to you, boss, it's good to be up in the air again. I missed this, more than I realised.”

“You had a choice, though,” you point out, “You've got Guild papers now, you could have found work on any ship you like – if you couldn't find a Free Captain looking for an engineer, you could have signed up with the Carth fleet. They need good people, from what I've heard.”

“Aye, maybe. Maybe,” Keziah concedes, tilting her head to the side, “But it wouldnae be the same. I'd end up with some arsehole like DuPont givin' me orders and expectin' me to kiss his boots for the pleasure. We had a good thing goin', back in the day, and I didnae want to just... move on.” Leaning across, she prods you in the arm. “And what about you?” she presses, “You could have signed on with the Carths, worked your way up. With your experience, I reckon you could have had a ship of your own in few years, easy.”

“But it wouldn't have been mine,” you point out, “I wouldn't have been able to choose what I did, where I went... or who my crew were. That's important, maybe just as important as having a ship in the first place.”

Resting her hands on the arm of your chair, Keziah leans even closer. “Oh aye?” she muses, “I'm just as important as the Helena?”

Before you can answer THAT little question, the bridge door opens and Keziah draws back like a scalded cat. “Are we going... Oh!” Blessings gasps, “I... Sir, I didn't mean to intrude! I mean, was I...”

“Dinnae worry about it,” Keziah tells him stiffly, rising and hurrying away. Slumping back, you let out an exhausted sigh.

[2/3]

Shit yeah, looking back on it the changeling didn't have Keziah's accent at all.

>>2150706

Time passes slowly, like a thick and glutinous liquid creeping downhill, and neither of you says a thing. You keep your attention focused on the Helena's controls, but you can still feel Blessings' eyes on you. He's watching your every movement, studying your hands as they guide the Spirit of Helena through the skies. Nadir unfolds beneath you, and distance does little to diminish the Deep Forest's evil aura. From here, it looks like a spreading fungus – some kind of black mould growing upon a loaf of break.

Finally, the silence gets too much for you. “She's got simple controls, the usual “tilt and turn” system that most cruisers use,” you explain, “You see this wheel here, and how it's mounted on a pivot joint?”

“What? I wasn't...” Blessings yelps, before approaching you and taking another look at the controls, “Yes, sir, I see.”

“When I tilt the wheel forwards, the Helena's nose dips lower. When I pull it back, the nose lifts higher – you see?” pivoting the wheel forwards slightly, you demonstrate how the Helena reacts, “The same applies to tilting the wheel side to side. Tilt it to one side, and that side dips. Simple, see? Now, the wheel itself...” Pulling the Helena back to a level angle, you pat the wheel – shaped like a gently curving “W” - and check that Blessings is still watching. He is, with his eyes wide and fascinated. “Nothing complicated here, either. I rotate it left, the Helena rotates to match. The more I turn it, the sharper she turns,” you state, “That's the basic stuff, so-”

“Um, sir?” Blessings steps a little closer, “Can I...”

You were worried that this might happen – he mistook your attempt at filling the silence for a genuine lesson. That said, the skies are clear and the weather conditions are favourable... but still, turning the controls over to a complete novice?

>Allow him to take the controls for a while
>Turn him down gently
>Throw him off your bridge
>Other

>>2150760
>Allow him to take the controls for a while

Well mybe give him controll over one thing at a time
Slowy giving him more

>>2150760
>Allow him to take the controls for a while
But if he makes a single mistake we'll be taking the wheel back.

>>2150760
>Let him drive only if we're really high up and won't easily crash, and stay near enough to take control back quickly.

>Otherwise turn him down gently.

>>2150760
>Allow him to take the controls for a while

>>2150760
>>Allow him to take the controls for a while

Slowly, you release the controls and rise out of the seat, taking a step back so that Blessings – a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his pinkish skin – can sit. You must be mad to be letting him do this, but at least you're still sane enough to keep a careful eye on him. “All you've got to do is keep her steady, and do exactly what I tell you,” you warn him, “But make one single mistake, and I'm taking the controls back. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” he whispers, tentatively taking the controls. A frown crosses his face as he feels the wheel twitching in his hands.

“Just the wind tugging at the Helena. Don't let it distract you,” you tell him, “Like I said, just keep going straight ahead.”

“Straight ahead. Yes sir,” Blessings glances briefly to the left, at the rest of the controls, “What does that lever do?”

“Forward acceleration. It goes from stop, to hover, and then up to the various speeds. Don't worry about that for now, and definitely don't touch it,” pausing a moment, you watch as the boy struggles to listen to you and attend to the controls at once, “In hover mode, that dial there regulates the altitude – lower or higher.” When you say this, Blessings' concentration wavers for a brief moment as his eyes flick across to the altitude dial. Still, he forces his attention back to the main window before the Helena's path can stray at all. You've got to admit, he's better than you expected him to be... which wouldn't have been hard, considering your first impressions of the boy.

The radio blurts out static, and you cross to answer it without taking your eyes off Blessings. “This is the bridge,” you answer, “What's the problem?”

“Gunnery deck here,” Hanson replies, “No problems here – I hope. I just thought the Helena felt... different for a moment. Something going on up there?”

“Just teaching Blessings the ropes,” you assure him, “He's handling himself okay, so there's no reason to panic. Everything is under control.”

Even though his eyes don't waver away from the observation window, you see Blessings flush a little – pride only causing the pink hue of his skin to deepen. This too was a little test on your part, to see if you could distract him easily. Again, you're more impressed than you'd like to admit. Hanson, meanwhile, just grumbles something indistinct and ends the call. Hanging up the radio mic, you see the first spots of rain splattering against the observation window.

“Alright kid, that's enough for now,” you tell Blessings, gesturing for him to rise, “This only looks like it's going to get worse, so I'd better take the controls before it turns into an electrical storm.”

Blessings, all too aware of what caused his aunt's death, can't leap aside fast enough.

[1/2]

>>2150846

While the lightning never quite appears, the storm has grown much worse by the time you arrive in Sybile. Rain lashes at the observation window as you slow the Helena to a crawl and move her into place. Your hands dance across the controls as nudge her carefully above the aerodrome landing pad and then shove the acceleration lever back to hover. Then, adjusting the altitude dial by increments, you lower her down onto the crude concrete pad. All the while, Blessings watches you with something that approaches religious awe.

“Landing is the hardest part,” you remark in an off-hand way, “Lots of little adjustments, lots of things that can go wrong. You won't be trying this for a very long time.”

-

It's been years since you were last here, but Sybile remains a familiar sight. The aerodrome is still as minimalistic as you recall, little more than a ring of concrete landing pads with a set of power umbilicals in the centre, while the town itself is stubbornly rustic. The trading post is the only modern building here, and even that looks like a simple warehouse. Just looking at it brings the overpowering smell of dried and salted fish to mind. Your first job as a Free Captain started here, you were bringing a load of fish to Monotia and scraping off a meagre profit from the trade.

“Really takes you back, huh boss?” Keziah remarks, as if she could read your mind, “It hasnae changed a bit.”

“Those houses are new,” you point out, gesturing to a small cluster of cottages before indicating a taller structure, “And that tower wasn't here when I last saw the place.”

“Scary, how you can remember stuff like that,” she mutters, shivering a little as cold rain trickles down the back of her neck. She's wearing her best clothes, her formal GERA uniform, and her features are pinched with determination. Before you can trade any further words, Hanson appears.

“So we're here to buy fish, right?” he asks, sounding as if he can barely believe what he's saying, “Well, you're the captain here. Lead the way, then.”

You do just that. Ignoring the rain that beats against your face, you march across the muddy ground and enter the trading post. Even bracing yourself for the smell, it still hits you like a closed fist and causes you to wince. Hanson coughs, while Cammy lets out a loud groan of dismay. Keziah doesn't flinch – growing up here probably gave her a good deal of resistance to the smell – and Caliban doesn't react at all.

It's always hard to know just what he's thinking at any given moment – those dark eyes of his reveal nothing, and hide much.

[2/3]

>>2150924

There's no difficulty in finding trade here, even this late in the day. Natives are selling prepared fish and solid blocks of sea salt, along with local crops and dozens of other things. Once you've grown accustomed to the smell, you actually find yourself enjoying the simple task of haggling with the locals and passing over letters of credit. That's new as well – when you were just starting out as a Free Captain, the locals would have treated you as if you were mad if you had paid with anything less than cash.

Even here, at the western tip of Nadir, modern life is creeping in.

You might be enjoying the trading, but you don't forget why you're here. Once the rest of the crew are finished loading up the Helena, you'll break for the day and let them enjoy some land-leave. Then, you'll take Keziah and go looking for some proper answers. You're so busy planning this out that you don't hear Hanson approach, much less feeling his hand closing around your upper arm.

“Captain,” he says carefully, “A word?”

Keeping a neutral expression, you nod firmly and lead him away from the others. “Alright,” you tell him, once the coast is clear, “What is it?”

“I've run the numbers – even if we get a good price, a damn good price, for all this stuff back in Monotia, we're barely going to make a profit. This whole trip is small-time, too small for us to bother with,” he pauses, folding his arms and watching your careful lack of a reaction, “So why are we really here?”

>It's like I said before – we could do with an easy job after that business in the Deep Forest
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a good score – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed
>My orders are final, Hanson. If you don't like that, you can walk away now
>Other

>>2150949
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a good score – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed

This should be enough. If we don't have the trust of our crew we are going to be screwed in the long run.

>>2150949
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a good score – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed

>>2150949
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a good score – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed

>>2150949
>>My orders are final, Hanson. If you don't like that, you can walk away now

>>2150949
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a good score – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed
tell him to trust us and not ask more questions

>>2150949
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a another job – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed

No need to mention a score or treasure. Just a job that didn't really exist.

>>2150990
Yeah cause telling a person to stop asking questions really inspires trust.

>>2150949
>I've heard that some of the locals might have a lead on a good job – I didn't want to say anything until it was confirmed

And include a bit of nostalgia about how the very first job we did on the Manticore was trading fish

“Alright, listen. I heard rumours about some work, and I heard that some of the locals here might know a thing or two about it. So far, they're the best lead I've got, and I don't want to lose it,” you tell him quietly, locking eyes with him and making sure that he's listening carefully. “I didn't want to say anything about it until it was confirmed,” you continue, “I know how bad it can be for morale, to get worked up for something before having it snatched away from you. It's bad for the crew, and it's bad for the captain.”

“I never took you for the cautious type,” Hanson remarks with a crooked smile, “But you're not wrong. Losing a chance like that – even if there was never a chance in the first place – makes a man hungry. Hungry men make bad decisions.”

“I'm glad we see eye to eye on this,” you conclude, “It's better for everyone if we-”

“Now, I might not be a captain like you, but I know a thing or two about being in a crew,” Hanson warns you, cutting your assurance short with a curt gesture, “And there's only so long that you can keep a crew in the dark before people start to ask questions. Oh sure, you can replace the common men – swap them out before anyone starts to get suspicious – but what about the people you keep close to you? Sooner or later, these things will come out.”

“Maybe so,” you agree, glancing across to where the rest of your crew are carrying sacks of salt towards the Helena's waiting hold, “But like we agreed, it's best to wait until thing are confirmed. Trust me on this, Hanson. If you don't like that...”

“If I didn't like it, captain, I would be walking away right now,” Hanson promises you, “I'm just making sure that we both understand the situation here. Oh, and don't worry – I won't tell the others about this little talk.”

-

Your little exchange with Hanson has left you feeling faintly uneasy, restless and unsettled. Pacing back and forth as the crew finish their loading, you almost feel as though every pair of eyes in the warehouse is following you. Part of your unease, you realise, is the lingering memory of your encounter with the changeling. Any one of those traders could be one, a monster lying in wait within a guise of human skin. They wouldn't dare attack in a busy hall like this, but...

“Hey, captain!” Cammy calls out from a group of the crew, her voice jarring you back to reality, “We were going to hit up the town, see what kind of bars they have here. You coming along?”

“I don't think so. I feel like a quiet night in, and...” your words trail off as you realise that Blessings is among the group, “Hey kid, you're going with them?”

“This is an important team building experience,” he replies, repeating words that he must have been taught by rote, “I shouldn't distance myself from other people, and so-”

“Just... bring him back alive,” you tell Cammy, “Okay?”

[1/2]

>>2151022

Once the others have departed, you feel your phony smile drop away. It's all business now, and you realise that you're not looking forwards to it. When you find Keziah sitting on an empty oil barrel, you can tell that she's even more nervous about this than you are. “About time for us to make a move, huh?” she says as you approach, “I'll lead the way. Uh... you might not want to say anythin' until I give you the nod. I dinnae really know how me mam will take seein' you on her doorstep.”

Nodding, you step aside and allow her to scurry out of the warehouse. The rain has only worsened since you arrived, but Keziah doesn't seem to notice it. As you walk though the darkened town, you hear the distant sound of your carousing crew – they must have found a decent bar, you think to yourself as you walk, good for them.

Your path snakes though the gloomy streets for a while longer, and then a rumble of thunder from the skies above causes you both to pause for a moment. Muttering something about a “bad omen”, Keziah shakes her head and points up towards a larger house perched upon the edge of a cliff. Even from a distance, you can hear the sound of waves crashing against the cliff face. If that was her childhood home, you realise, she must have grown up living at the very edge of the world. The idea leaves a strange, nameless dread festering within your heart, and before you know it Keziah has marched on ahead. Hurrying to join her, you reach her side just as she starts to pound on the wooden door.

No answer comes, no matter how long you wait or how long Keziah hammers at the door. Eventually, her shoulders slump and she turns back to you. “Ah well,” she sighs, “There's nae point in keepin' this up. She must be out, or-” As she babbles, you reach past her and turn the handle, allowing the door to swing neatly open on well-oiled hinges. “Ah, bugger,” Keziah groans, “Worth a try, at least.”

The house is dark and cold, with no electrical power nor any indication that it EVER had electrical power. Wooden floorboards creak underfoot as you creep down the entrance hall, and more than once you find your hand dropping to the revolver at your hip. You just can't shake the feeling of intruding upon a long-sealed tomb.

When the woman – freakishly tall, and carrying a single lit candle – walks out from around the corner ahead of you, you jump back as Keziah cries out in startled fear. You do more than reach for your gun this time, you actually draw it halfway from its holster before good sense returns and you let it slip back into its holster.

“Keziah,” the woman begins, speaking in a low and husky voice, “You ought to dress more appropriately – you'll catch a cold in this weather, walking around like that.”

[2/3]

>>2151103
She's a mom alright

>>2151103

With the candle flame flickering in the middle of the table – neutral ground – you sit facing the uncanny woman. Keziah sits beside you, looking anywhere BUT at her mother. Maeve – no last name, just like her daughter – is easily the tallest woman you've ever seen, standing a full head taller than you. The long robes she wears hide her legs from sight, and you find yourself feeling strangely grateful for that fact. Other than to introduce herself, she is yet to speak.

“Aye, well, you see...” Keziah begins, “I dinnae ken how to put this, but-”

“My daughter,” Maeve interrupts softly, “Why are you talking like that?”

“Sorry, mother,” your old companion whispers, dropping her eyes towards the floor, “I won't do it again.”

“Wait a minute!” you blurt out, quite unable to keep quiet, “That's not your real accent? Then, why were you-”

“Ah, the captain speaks,” Maeve leans forwards a little, allowing the light to play across her face. “Such strange company you keep, Captain Vaandemere. I smell a bitterness upon you, and a great many curses. I'll have you know that I have a keen nose for such things,” her voice drops lower still as she looks you in the eye, and something seems to change in her face, “Just what are you looking for?”

This... is not going the way you intended it to go. Keziah still has her eyes fixed sullenly upon the ground, unable to find her tongue. So much for letting her speak first...

Maeve simply watches you and waits. You're not sure if she's blinked once since the start of this entire conversation.

>Actually, this was all a big mistake. I think we should leave... now
>I'll be blunt. I'm looking for pieces of a key – the key to a heavenly treasure hoard
>I have a book that I'd like you to take a look at. I need to know if you can translate it
>Here's what I want to know... (Write in)
>Other

>>2151156
>I'll be blunt. I'm looking for pieces of a key – the key to a heavenly treasure hoard
>I also have a book that I'd like you to take a look at. I need to know if you can translate it

>>2151156
>I have a book that I'd like you to take a look at. I need to know if you can translate it

>>2151156
>I have a book that I'd like you to take a look at. I need to know if you can translate it
We can tell her about the treasure if it comes up, but I'd prefer not to bring it up.

>>2151156
>I have a book that I'd like you to take a look at. I need to know if you can translate it

>>2151186
Why's that? I'm still trying to figure out why this is such a big secret. I understand hiding the diary while we were at the memorial since taking that would be sketch and I understand not babbling to everyone about the treasure but why are we hiding stuff from specialists that can further our goals and the important crewmembers?

It really feels like we are keeping a secret just to have a secret at this point.

>>2151156
>I'm looking for pieces of a key to a vast treasure.

>>2151156
>I have a book that I'd like you to take a look at. I need to know if you can translate it
Try to be as polite as possible

The silence that falls over the room is broken only by the sound of waves crashing against the shore outside, with the tiny crackle of the candle flame dancing at the very edge of your hearing. Maeve finally breaks her eyes away from you as she rises from her threadbare seat and strides across to the window, looking out over the violent ocean. Only then, when her eyes are away from you, do you find yourself able to speak.

Being subtle and dancing around the issue is going to get you nowhere, you realise, it'll just end in you being drawn deeper into her web. You need to break this impasse.

“I have a book that I'd like you to take a look at,” you croak, swallowing to moisten your dry throat before continuing, “I need to know if you can translate it.” Taking Miriam's diary out of your coat pocket, you lay it down on the table and wait to see if the uncanny woman will take the bait. She lingers by the window for a moment more before turning and returning to her seat. Her footsteps, you note, are almost silent – you half expected them to sound like cloven hooves.

“A book,” she murmurs, the corners of her mouth creasing as if she was enjoying a private joke. Picking it up, she seems to do everything except reading it – smelling the paper, stroking the leather binding, flicking though the pages – before finally opening it and looking at the written words. “This is a Zenith script,” she states, “I can read some of it, yes, but I can only provide a... general overview. Would that it had been written in a less debased hand.”

Debased? The script you recall skimming over had been, if anything, too neat and orderly. Debased is certainly not how you would have chosen to describe it. Before you can say anything to that, Keziah rises from her seat and murmurs an apology, hurrying out of the room. Maeve watches her leave, but says nothing. You hear Keziah's footsteps all the way as she stumbles up the wooden stairs, before a door slams closed. Things are definitely not going according to plan.

“This was copied word for word, was it not?” Maeve asks at last, “Much of it relates to the tale of Gach Beairteas. You know of it, of course – I can see that much in your eyes. An older telling of the tale, and far more interesting, but fundamentally the same tale. Along with wealth, the gods took... other things from the hands of men.”

“Other things?” you repeat.

“Weapons,” Maeve explains. The word hangs in the air for a moment before she continues. “And in this telling, it was not MY gods who ripped the hoard up from the land and hurled it into Zenith,” Maeve pauses again, waiting for the waves to quieten outside before continuing in a whisper, “It was the other. The sixth god, of whom I will not speak.”

[1/2]

Oh shit! the sixth symbol is of the god that the church of the rising light worships

>>2151300
Soil, Flames, Winds, Waves and Corruption
You might be right
maybe corruption god is the good but lost and light god is bad but after victory he vilified corruption god and anyone that carries his blood

>>2151309
>>2151309
>maybe corruption god is the good but lost and light god is bad but after victory he vilified corruption god and anyone that carries his blood
Feel like that theory matches up suspiciously with the two kings of nadir. Though if the corruption god lies in the forest he does kind of seem like a dick what with all the daemons and shit

>>2151276

Upstairs, you hear something heavy being shifted, or perhaps thrown weakly to the ground. Maeve looks upwards, and then lets out a tiny sigh. “That girl cannot bear to be in my company,” she laments, “She... fears me.” She sounds remorseful about that little fact, but hardly surprised. You're so out of your depth here that you let her comment hang in the air, not answering it for lack of an answer.

The moment draws out a little longer, and then Maeve shrugs ever so slightly. Turning her attention back to the book, Maeve picks it up as though it was a decaying rat and hands it back to you. Just as you're taking it, she speaks again. “You seek the key to this hoard,” she states calmly, “Do you not?”

You nod slowly. What else can you do, when she seems to know more about your intent than you do?

“The pieces will not be easily found. They dislike staying in one place for too long,” the eerie woman muses, speaking of them as if they were alive, “And no, I cannot tell you where to find them. However... I know who can. We could ask them today, if you so wish – this is a good day for it, with the winds howling and the waters churning. I think this is a very good day indeed.”

“You're... losing me here,” you admit, “Who exactly are you talking about? Who can tell me about the pieces of the key?”

“Someone who was old when this world was young,” Maeve answers, her voice low and calm, “A daemon.”

>I'm going to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions I'll answer them if I can
>Sorry for some of the delays today!

>>2151323
Surely nothing will go wrong with talking with a daemon.

Thanks for running.

>>2151323
Thanks for running!
Poor Keziah.

>>2151315
isnt that fog just a strong unbound daemon? we dont know how daemons interject in the religion, all we know about corruption god is his name and that people dont talk about him and that the people of nadir carry his blood.
and even the name corruption good isnt a precise translation of the name that the people use.

>>2151323
Thanks for running!

On a scale from monster girl encyclopedia to Pact, how nasty are daemons in this setting?

>>2151323
whait weren't there only five gods? with the fifth not being talked about. or are there 2 gods no one talks about?

>>2151364
I have a feeling they're much closer to Pact

>>2151372
I wanted to make sure they couldn't possibly fall outside the given range.

>>2151376
I doubt they're going to go beyond the scale of retconning space into unexistence

>>2151366
Essentially, there are four elemental gods that are commonly known in Nadir and two other gods who are a lot less spoken of - sort of secret gods, kept hidden from those outside the faith.
Then there's the Lord of Rising Light, but that's more of an Azimuth thing.
>>2151364
So long as they are appeased and summoned properly, daemons can be controlled. They range in power from fairly minor messengers like Herod to incredibly dangerous creatures like the smoke daemon that haunts the Deep Forest. Two main rules of daemon summoning - always know your limits, and always know what you're trying to call up!

>>2151323
On a scale of 1 to MILF how MILF is Maeve?

>>2151435
Character art coming soon - I found a suitable piece, but only just now. For what it's worth, though, I think she's kept pretty well for her age!
Of course, there may be a reason why she keeps her body covered up.

>>2151486
oh god, she's based on Ozen, isn't she?

>>2151427
Do demons have an ultimate goal in mind? Like, say, the destruction of all existence? If people knew we were involved with demons how badly would they react?

Going to be a short delay before I can get started, maybe 15 minutes or so.
>>2154245
Daemons tend not to have long term goals, but in the short term they seek to act in accordance with their nature - a daemon of hunger would aim to consume, usually focusing on a target indicated by its summoner, while a more knowledge focused daemon would be more likely to answer questions. Of course, this all assumes a proper summoning - if the rites are flawed, all bets are off.
As for how we might be perceived, it can vary. Most men of Nadir wouldn't see it as particularly strange or wrong, although some might regard us with suspicion. Men of Azimuth would be a different matter - some doubt the existence of daemons, in which case we'd be seen as just eccentric. For those who do believe in daemons, though, people involved with them are seen as a pretty bad thing

File: Maeve.png (1.49 MB, 1024x1365)

1.49 MB PNG

A daemon.

It takes a long moment before you allow yourself to accept what Maeve just told you. She's proposing that you summon a daemon in search of answers, summoning the same kind of monster that nearly destroyed you in the Deep Forest. Are you really so desperate for answers, that you would resort to such things? Before you can make your reluctance clear, there is another loud thud from above you. Again, Maeve looks up and sighs.

“You ought to go to her,” she states, “Talk. Consider what I have offered you – but please, leave the book here. I would like to read it some more. It is a rare pleasure for me to read a modern book. Words seem different, somehow, when they are not carved upon stone.”

Leaving you with that... unique statement, Maeve looks away. Feeling as though your movements are clumsy and heavy, you stumble out of the room and head upstairs, following in Keziah's footsteps – literally, in this case, as she left a path through the thick dust that clings to the upper floor. The trail leads you to an ajar door, and you slowly push it open with one unsteady hand.

This was a bedroom once, a child's bedroom. No decorations hang on the walls, and only the most rudimentary of furnishings remain here. The bed frame itself has been overturned and left leaning against one wall, while Keziah herself sits hunched in the middle of the floor. Her hair has fallen across her face, hiding her eyes from view. Even though you ease the door shut, she still flinches a little.

“I don't to be near her,” Keziah whispers, her voice strangely unsettling now that her phony accent has fallen away, “I don't know what she'll do. I don't know what I'LL do...”

“Okay, I don't understand this one bit,” you begin, “But even I can tell that something seriously bad happened here. This is more than just some family squabble, isn't it? All that stuff about not following in her footsteps, that wasn't the real reason for all... this. Whatever “this” even is. But, I can't do anything until I know what I'm dealing with, and you probably don't want me making all kinds of guesses, so I'm going to ask you something and I'd like an honest answer.” You pause, waiting to see how Keziah takes your words. She tenses up a little, but then nods slightly. “Okay”, you repeat, “What's the deal with that phoney accent?”

Your question – apparently not the one that she had been expecting – causes a disbelieving laugh to force its way from Keziah's lips. “What?” she asks in return, her voice thick, “You've never done something stupid as a teenager, just to annoy your parents?”

Both your parents were dead or gone before you were that old, but you decide not to mention that little fact.

[1/2]

>>2154433

Once the first layer of her armour is down, Keziah quickly opens up more and more – as if she was desperately confessing her sins and secrets.

“When I was a kid, I was told stories. Traditional ones, and stories about my family – my ancestors, and especially my grandmother. She was a witch, and a seriously powerful one – she made predictions, you see, and they usually came true. So, one day, she made a... a bad one,” drawing in a shuddering breath, Keziah recites some words from memory. “This is a cursed line,” she begins, “Mother will devour daughter, or daughter will devour mother – from now, until the end of time.”

Things are starting to become clear. Hearing this prophecy, probably on a regular basis, from a young age must have carved it into Keziah's mind. Even now, just the thought of being around her mother...

“So what happened to her?” you ask, “This grandmother of yours?”

“She exiled herself, for fear of that prophecy,” Keziah replies, “Not so different from what I did, now that I think about it.” Brushing the hair away from her face, Keziah gives you a careful look. “It's... odd. Since I started travelling with you, I've never actually thought about that stupid prophecy much. There was always more important stuff to do,” one corner of her mouth lifts up in a slight smile, “And now that I think back, it's... dumb. I'm not going to eat her, and she's not going to eat me. Why would we do that? Just because some prophecy said so? For all I know, it was a cruel trick that her daemon played on her.”

“Her daemon?” you press, grabbing Keziah's shoulder, “This all started because of a daemon?”

“Yes... aye. Grandma had a familiar, and it was the one that helped her make predictions. Maybe it lied,” her voice drops low, “Maybe... she did something wrong, did something to offend it... Oh, I don't know. What's wrong?”

“Maeve... your mother... she thinks a daemon can tell us where the pieces of the key can be found. She wants to summon one and ask it,” hesitating, you give Keziah a frank look, “Is it safe?”

“Safe? So long as she doesn't...” Keziah frowns with sudden defiance, “So long as she doesnae make a mess of it, I dinnae think it'll be a problem. I mean, a daemon will be as obedient as any of your crew if you treat it right. So long as she knows what she's callin' up, and knows all the proper rites...”

“I do,” Maeve interrupts, speaking from the doorway. She had approached in utter silence, even opening the door without any of you hearing her. “I will be summoning a daemon that I am quite familiar with,” she continues, “Do you wish for me to call him up?”

>If you're sure that it's safe... then yes. Call it up
>No way. I don't want any part of this
>Other

>>2154436
>>If you're sure that it's safe... then yes. Call it up

>>2154436
>If you're sure that it's safe... then yes. Call it up

>>2154436
>If you're sure that it's safe... then yes. Call it up
What could go wrong?

>>2154436
>If you're sure that it's safe... then yes. Call it up

Swallowing heavily, you glance aside to Keziah only to find her looking away, her hands clenched into tight fists by her side. Whatever hold that old prophecy had over her, it won't be thrown off easily. Turning back to Maeve, you look up at her and draw in a deep breath. “If you're sure that this is safe...” you begin, “Then yes. Call it up.”

“Fear not the daemon, Milos, for it is not evil as you might think of it. There are risks, yes, but there will always be risks in life,” Maeve murmurs, her dark eyes twinkling in the gloomy room, “Those who call up an all-devouring fog should not be surprised when they too are devoured – but we shall not be calling up a spirit of such power. I know the rites well, and Ohrmazd will be no danger to you.”

“Ohrmazd...” you repeat, letting the alien name roll around your mouth for a moment.

“Now come, both of you,” the older woman concludes, turning away and walking out, “There is much to be done, Milos.”

It's only when you start to follow her out that you realise something – you never gave her your first name.

-

With Keziah following close behind you, you slowly trek downstairs to find Maeve gathering several items. A pair of small drums, you note, and a small wooden box. Seeing your curious look, the witch passes the burden across to you and gestures for you to carry it. Opening the box, you see a number of thick candles rolling around within it.

“Candles, made from the fat of a hanged man. The drums are made from his tanned hide,” Maeve explains, “Worry not, he was a man who lacked virtue – his execution was just and proper, and I dare say that he will not complain that we now use his... remains.”

Tucking the ghoulish objects under one arm, you follow Maeve out into the wind and rain. The clouds have thickened now, completely hiding Azimuth from sight, and you spot lightning flickering through the oily mass. Your guide wastes no time with gazing up at the clouds, simply marching down towards the beach with her curiously gliding stride. Groaning a little as you watch a mighty wave crash down onto the gritty sand, you tighten your grip on the drums and hurry after Maeve.

When you arrive at the beach, you see five flat rocks laid out in a rough circle – a site that reminds you of the stone circle you found in the Deep Forest. “One candle on each rock,” Maeve orders, “Hurry now, before the moment eludes us.”

“Lighting candles in this weather?” you mutter as a spray of icy water hits you from the side, “You've got to be kidding me, they'll never stay lit...”

Heedless of your objections, Maeve strides into the centre of the stone circle and starts to untie her long robes. The concealing garb falls away, and Keziah lets out a rough gasp.

[1/2]

>>2154502

From the waist up, there's nothing about Maeve that could be considered objectionable. Indeed, her body is surprisingly youthful looking – even beautiful. Her skin is soft and pale, while the swell of her bosom has a pleasing fullness to it. Her long hair hangs down to the waist in untamed locks, the messiness bringing certain images and impressions to mind. Below the waist, though...

Her legs are long and inhuman, swept back in an almost digitigrade way. It seems impossible that she should be able to balance on her precarious feet, let alone stride purposefully about, and yet that is just what she does. But for the fact that they were just as smooth and hairless as the rest of her skin, you would sooner have associated legs like those with a goat or some other beast. Even compared with the most serious deformities that you've seen in men and women of Nadir, Maeve manages to send a wave of sickening fear running through you.

“You need not stare, Milos,” she scolds, giving you an unreadable look, “The candles?”

Blinking away your shock, you snap back to reality and return to the task at hand. Incredibly, impossibly, the candles light easily and stay lit despite the awful weather. When all five of the flat rocks have a candle burning atop them, Maeve gestures for you and Keziah to take one of the drums and then sit either side of the circle. Sinking down into the wet sand, you grunt in surprise as a wave strikes you and soaks you to the skin.

“Daughter, the Celaeno summoning,” Maeve orders, pointing to Keziah before gesturing to you, “Milos, you must copy what she does. Keep time, and do not miss a beat!” Then, turning her back on you, she starts to prowl around the outer edge of the stone circle. Keziah starts to beat her drum with a shuddering, irregular rhythm – a rhythm that worms its way into your head and scatters your thoughts. Listening for a moment more, you start to mimic her increasingly frantic drumming. It's easier than you expected – almost as if something was helping you, you think with dull unease – and soon Maeve is raising her voice in song.

No, what she does could never be called singing. She keens and wails, filling the air with long and drawn-out cries as she paces around the stone circle. As she howls and you strike your drum, the burning candles slowly start to rise up from their rocks and hover in the air, their flames dancing as the wind seems to draw inwards. Mad winds buffet you as the sand and dirt within the centre of the stone circle is whipped up into a filmy cloud – yet, you can see something taking shape within that cloud.

“Ohrmazd!” Maeve howls, “I call to you!”

[2/3]

File: Ohrmazd.jpg (90 KB, 696x862)

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>>2154551

A flat, thunderous wave of force explodes out from the centre of the circle, pelting you with a shower of sand and pebbles... but still, your body carries on the uncanny rhythm. Maeve stands frozen in place, her hands thrust up towards the sky.

What rises up from within the stone circle is a horror of rags and old bones, dismal wings hanging from an emaciated spine and flapping in the slowly calming breeze. One single arm reaches out from the daemon's body, dust trailing from the grasping palm. Cold blue light burns within the hollow hood it wears in place of a head, while a halo of golden light gutters dimly above it. The candles, caught within the creature's orbit, slowly circle it. Before you can speak – or even see if you CAN speak – the daemon begins to talk.

Rather, its sibilant words force their way into your mind – it doesn't make a single actual sound, you're sure of that. The daemon says...

Six fragments of a key long divided
Scattered throughout this land of men
In dark and foreboding Nadir
Seek the guardian of the northern labyrinth
Seek the shadowed tomb of an ancient king
In grand and mighty Azimuth
Seek a man of great and grasping avarice
Seek the shrine to man's chosen god, War
In distant and alien Zenith
Seek what lies within the Vault of the Sun
Seek the hidden men, lawless and adrift
These six things that you seek
They shall allow themselves to be found

It falls silent then, and the candle flames begin to dim. Just as they are about to fade out completely, though, they burst into new and brilliant life – burning brighter than any candle you've ever seen. When the next words echo within your mind, they slam into you with a savage and merciless strength:

This world of men is as an egg
The seed, long planted, will blossom
The Àm an Fhìrinn is now nigh

With those last words, another explosion of force blasts out across the beach and the daemon vanishes. The candles, their flames snuffed out, hover in place for a moment more before tumbling down to the sand. Gasping, you slump across the drum as Maeve stumbles, falling to one inhuman knee as her trance is broken. Nobody speaks for a moment more, and then Keziah lets out a loud sigh.

“Bloody daemons!” she groans, “I didnae understand a word of that!”

“You have the answers that you seek,” Maeve replies, lifting herself up onto unsteady feet and reaching for her robe, “Come. We should discuss this in private.” With that, she drapes the robe over her shoulders and starts back towards her house. Keziah, pale and unsettled, makes no move to follow.

>Follow after Maeve
>Take Keziah back to the Spirit of Helena
>Other

>>2154620
>Other
"One second."

>To Keziah
"If you want to head back to ship and get some...distance I understand. I'll be right behind you after I finish talking with her."

>Follow after Maeve

>>2154620
>Follow after Maeve

Kez seems fine from her complaining, and it's not like talking about how we summoned a daemon could be worse than the actual summoning.

>>2154627
this

“Hey,” you hiss to Keziah, your voice causing her eyes to flick across to you, “If you want to head back to ship, get some... distance... I won't force you to stick around. I'll be following right behind you after I'm finished talking.”

“Thanks boss... Milos,” Keziah murmurs, slowly shaking her head, “But I cannae keep runnin' from this. I'll be fine, so long as you dinnae leave me alone with her... Ah, what am I sayin'?” Forcing a laugh, she starts to follow after her mother with a slow and reluctant step. “I'm still actin' as if she'll bite me head off as soon as I let my guard down,” you hear her mutter to herself, “Old habits...”

Frowning a little, you shake off your doubts and hurry after the older witch.

-

Miriam's book lies virtually untouched on the table when you arrive back at Maeve's home, and you waste no time in copying down what the daemon told you. Somehow, though, you doubt that you need to hurry – the thoughts will be fixed in your mind for a long time, as if they were words branded onto your flesh. Maeve rattles around in the kitchen, brewing a pot of tea, while Keziah sits rigidly beside you.

“So,” the old witch asks as she returns, setting a roughly made clay cup in front of you and filling it with a murky liquid, “How much did you understand?”

“Very little, honestly,” you admit, “The Vault of the Sun is one of the islands in Zenith – it's a Carth religious site, sealed up for safety reasons. As far as I'm aware, nobody has ever really explored inside it. Something about the air being bad...” Sighing, you risk a taste of the tea – it tastes more like mushrooms than anything else. “And that part about lawless, hidden men might refer to pirates,” you add, “There's a lot of those in Zenith, hiding out in the Drift.”

“The northern labyrinth... that's on one of the islands north of here,” Keziah offers slowly, “I dinnae know what it's like, though, and I've never heard of it havin' a guardian. The bit about ancient kings... well, there's nae bloody shortage of them in Nadir, there must be tombs scattered all throughout the Deep Forest!”

“Narrowing it down to one single site might be difficult,” you agree, drinking more of the unusual tea. It tastes strange, but it's doing a good job of waking you up and pushing back your fatigue. “And don't get me started on the Azimuth part,” you add with a groan, “A man with a great and grasping avarice? There must be thousands of those in Iraklis alone!”

“Daemons are often cryptic,” Maeve muses, taking a sip of her own tea, “To their mind, they are simply telling us what we should know – what we should be able to figure out. They see the world through poems and songs, not in terms of hard facts or statistics.”

“I was never much of a poet...” you mutter darkly to yourself.

[1/2]

>>2154737

“Anyway, it's the second part that really bothers me,” you point out, “All that stuff about eggs and seeds... what was that about? And your daemon said a name at the end, something like... Fuh... Fih...”

“Fhìrinn,” Keziah corrects you, speaking with a quiet precision, “Àm an Fhìrinn.”

“Yeah, that,” you agree, nodding towards her, “What is that?”

“The Time of Myth,” Maeve says slowly, a thin sliver of flesh peeking into view as she toys with the neck of her robe, “The time before recorded history begins, when the world bent to more fantastical laws. The old tales date from this time, including the tale of Gach Beairteas and our hapless thief who sought to take the hoard for themselves. I wonder... what does it mean?”

It takes you a moment to realise that she's waiting for you to answer, or at least attempt to answer, that exact question. Frowning to yourself, you think the matter over. Maybe it doesn't mean anything, and she's just testing you – or maybe it means something especially important, and she's still just testing you.

>I give up. What does it mean?
>Here's what I think it means... (Write in)
>Other

>>2154802
>Here's what I think it means... (Write in)
Ifk mybe this the end times?
Or is the world going to be reborn and itl all start over agin?
Shits gona happening that much i know

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52 KB JPG

>>2154802
>Àm an Fhìrinn
I didn't even notice the first time. Moloch pls.

>Here's what I think it means... (Write in)
>Well, it said the world was an egg, so something being born from it. Maybe a god or something. You guys are the witches, I'm just a random guy.

>>2154802
>Here's what I think it means... (Write in)
The gods are going to become active again.

>>2154802
>Here's what I think it means... (Write in)
Just like in the times of old, a thief will try to steal the treasure and this very act may cause the birth of a new era, something which has never been seen before. Clearly, in that old, mythical vault there is more then simple gold and silver? Weapons were mentioned too and who knows what power these weapons of old posses.

“Well,” you begin, “Your daemon said that the world is like an egg...” Pausing for a moment, you wait to see if the witch is about to cut you off with a sharp correction. Her reaction is quite the opposite – she politely gestures for you to continue, looking at you with what might be genuine interest. “So maybe something is going to be born, or maybe reborn,” you continue, picking up speed, “A new god... or a new world.”

“I dinnae like the sound of that,” Keziah offers, “Do you really think-” Maeve holds up a finger, cutting her daughter short, and then nods for you to continue. Muttering something to herself, Keziah slumps back in her chair and glares at her mother.

“It's like poetry, like a... like a metaphor,” you state, fumbling for the right word as you recall some of Salazar's old lessons. “Just like in the old times, a thief is going to try and steal the heavenly treasure – and that's going to change something, maybe cause the egg to hatch into... something. I'm just an airship captain, not a witch like you, so I can't be sure what happen – but if what you said is true, and there are weapons inside that hoard, who knows what they could be capable of? If anything happens, it'll be because of them.”

“You've picked yourself a clever one,” Maeve tells Keziah, one corner of her mouth twitching up in a wan smile, “I believe that we're looking at a metaphor, just as you said. In you, Ohrmazd sees that unfortunate thief of old. Certainly, you have a few more obstacles in your way – I don't think they ever had to gather pieces of a key – but you seem to be following in their footsteps, following the path that they once laid out.”

“But if the old tales are true,” you point out, “The thief failed. He woke up the first Wyrm – that hatched from an egg as well – and was chased away with just a single coin.”

“Stories don't always have the same ending,” the older witch murmurs, smiling coyly at you, “If our luckless thief had a chance read the ending of his own story, don't you think that he would do things differently? Simply by hearing the tale, you change its ending.”

Looking down into your empty cup, you pass it lazily from one hand to the other as you think. “Maybe the ending can be changed,” you ponder, “But for better or for worse?”

Before that question can be answered, Keziah stands up again and backs off a pace. Muttering an excuse, she turns and hurries out of the room like before – but this time, it seems like less of a desperate retreat. A strategic withdrawal, rather than a rout. Maeve watches her leave, then turns her eyes back to you.

“For better or for worse?” she repeats, “That, Milos, is up to you.”

>Thank you, but I'd better check on Keziah
>I have other questions for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2154902
>>Thank you, but I'd better check on Keziah

>>2154902
>Thank you, but I'd better check on Keziah

>>2154902
>I have other questions for you... (Write in)
"Learn anything else from that diary?

“Well, thank you for all your help. I'd better check on Keziah, though,” you tell Maeve as you rise. Before you leave, though, and idea strikes you. “Oh, that diary,” you add, “Did you learn anything else from it?”

“I did not read any more of it,” Maeve answers simply. Her answer – dull and anticlimactic – causes your shoulders to slump a little, and you start to head out with disappointment weighing heavily on your thoughts. “But I did learn something,” the witch adds, “That diary... it has an air of death about it. This Miriam... does she yet live?”

“No. She died before she could complete her work,” you confirm, “She was testing out a new airship, trying to build one that could fully ascend the Mountain of Faith, but it was bought down in an electrical storm.”

“How... curious,” Maeve slowly taps a finger against her lips, “I can taste violence in these pages, but not natural death.” Rising from the table, Maeve crosses over to you and stands close, tasting the air around you. “She must have spilled a great deal of blood, to mask the scent of misfortune,” the witch muses, “She had enemies, then, this Miriam?”

Thinking back to the pirates who attacked during the will reading, you nod slowly.

“Then perhaps the answer lies there,” Maeve decides, turning away from you, “Do be careful, Milos – there may yet be more blood to spill. I shall pray that it is not yours.”

-

Maeve's words still hang in your ears as you numbly leave the room, glancing down at the floor and following Keziah's trail – wet, dirty footprints leading you upstairs once more. Rather than the child's bedroom that she had retreated to before, this new trail leads you to a ladder and a rush of cold air. Above you, you can just about hear the sound of Keziah's hoarse breathing. Wood creaks as you climb the ladder, while the air grows colder still.

The ladder leads to a half-collapsed attic, a hole torn through the tiled roof to expose the sky. On a clear night, it would offer a beautiful view of Azimuth and the stars. Now, all you can see are storm clouds – although at least the rain has stopped by now. Lightning strobes and flares, but distance robs it of any menace that it normally holds for a Free Captain.

Shivering in the cold, Keziah glances around at you. “I dinnae like all this talk of endings,” she admits, “It all sounds so... final to me.”

“Endings tend to be,” you point out.

“Aye, well, you ken what I mean,” she replies, frowning and punching you lightly on the arm, “All the stories that I ever heard had bad endings, unhappy endings... I dinnae want OUR story to end like that.”

Saying nothing to that, you recall the tales you were told – even at their best, their endings were bittersweet. The hero might survive... but he never really escapes.

[1/2]

>>2155020

“Well, I guess it doesnae matter much now,” Keziah sighs, “Nae point in worryin' about the future when it's still so far ahead. We can... ah, never mind. Nice view you get here, aye?”

Not the most subtle attempt at changing the subject that you've ever heard. “It's pretty good,” you agree, playing along for now, “It would be better without the clouds, though.”

“Aye, maybe. I used to come here a lot, when I was a wee lass,” she muses, floorboards creaking as she sits, “Me mam would never risk the ladder, not with those legs of hers, so I felt safe up here. Sometimes I'd hear her movin' about at night, and I would think that she was coming to eat me up. Scared the shite out of me, let me tell you.”

“All this stuff about your mother...” you begin carefully, “Was there anyone else around? I mean, was your father-”

“Never met him. He was away and gone before I had the chance,” Keziah ruefully shakes her head before gesturing to the air above her, “All me mam said about him was that he had horns – antlers, like, all the way out to here. I still dinnae know if she was jokin' or not... Sometimes, when we were travellin' together, I wondered if we'd see anyone like that. Dinnae ken what I'd do if we did, though. Probably nothin', probably just-”

A distant crack, like a pistol shot, causes you both to look up at the air in shock. Something up in the storm has exploded, and now a flaming wreck is plummeting down through the air like a shooting star. “Hell!” you blurt out, “That must be an airship, a skiff, the storm must have brought her down!”

It could only be a skiff - most larger airships, the Spirit of Helena, have the shield capacity to survive storms like this. It's only the lighter ships that can be brought down like this.

“She's falling...” Keziah groans, leaping to her feet and following the trail of fire as it arcs down towards the ground, “She's headin' for the Drooken Fens! If she can make a soft landin', the pilot might get out of there alive... if the locals don't find them. With a trail like that, though...”

>Come on, let's get to the ship - if we move fast we might be able to rescue the pilot!
>Let's get on the radio and send out an alert. Maybe there's someone closer by who can pick them up
>There's nothing we can do for them. It's not our problem
>Other

>>2155071
>Come on, let's get to the ship - if we move fast we might be able to rescue the pilot!

Or if they're dead we can see if they dropped any good loot.

>>2155071
>>2155097
Yeah let's "rescue" the "pilot"

>>2155071
>Come on, let's get to the ship - if we move fast we might be able to rescue the pilot!

>>2155097
We could also just grab any loose stuff we see when we get there. Not like they're going to know we took it after the locals get done with the skiff.

>>2155071
>Come on, let's get to the ship - if we move fast we might be able to rescue the pilot!

>>2155071
>Come on, let's get to the ship - if we move fast we might be able to rescue the pilot!
And possibly get rewarded for our good deed!

>>2155111
>>2155104
>>2155097
Ah you guys are missing the big picture. The scrap doesn't hold a candle to potentially getting a skiff pilot's gratitude.

And potential employment

>>2155173
Yes, that was the big reward chance. The loot is what we settle for if we can't get that.

“Come on, let's get to the ship!” you snap, grabbing Keziah by the arm and pulling her away from the grim sight of the skiff tumbling towards the ground, “If we move quick, we might be able to get there in time!”

“Got it, boss!” Keziah agrees quickly. It's strange, seeing how quickly she returns to being all business. Whatever she might be feeling right now, it just got shoved into a little box at the back of her mind. Descending the ladder, you hurry towards the front door. Just as you're passing the kitchen, you glance inside.

Maeve sits at the table, calmly sipping a cup of mushroom tea.

-

You weren't the only ones to have heard the explosion – the streets are lively with locals staring up into the sky, watching the skiff as it falls. Some of them, you note with unease, look wickedly pleased at the sight. Others are simply neutral, watching it for novelty value alone. As you lead Keziah back towards the aerodrome, you spot the rest of your crew mulling around by a bar. Most of them look barely sober enough to stand.

“Look likely, you lot!” you order, “We're heading back to the Helena, NOW! Anyone sober enough to fly, tell me!” A few voices call back – two of Hanson's gunnery assistants, a pallid young man in the garb of an apprentice engineer, and Blessings. Not much, but it's good enough. “You three, get to your posts and await further orders,” you tell them, “Blessings, follow me to the bridge. You still remember those flying lessons, right?”

“Yes!” he yelps, “I remember them quite-”

“It'll have to be enough,” you interrupt, “Now let's get moving!”

-

By the time you have the Spirit of Helena warmed up and in the air, the skiff's fiery trail has come to an end. Just barely visible in the night, a plume of oily smoke has replaced it. With Blessings lingering behind you and Keziah working down in the engine room, you start the Helena towards your goal.

“Boss, we don't have a landin' zone in the fens,” Keziah warns you, her voice crackling over the radio, “There's barely any solid ground at all, we cannae-”

“We're not landing,” you tell her, not taking your eyes away from that pillar of smoke on the horizon, “We're going in low, and then we'll hover. I'll grapple down and see what I can do on the ground.”

“Grapple?” she blurts, “You cannae be-”

“Gunnery deck,” you bark, turning the radio dial to a new channel, “How are our shields holding up?”

“Holding fast, no problems here,” one of Hanson's young pups replies quickly, “No problems anticipated, either.”

No problems anticipated... he's optimistic, you'll give him that.

[1/2]

>>2155211

With the altitude set dangerously low, you bring the Spirit of Helena down over the fens and pull your speed back to a crawl. You're still unfamiliar with the Helena's controls, and it takes you a moment to find the searchlights – but soon you have them on, guiding the beams of light around until they fall upon the smouldering wreck. The skiff is a total ruin, already half sinking into the mire, but the pilot is still alive. You can see them now, dragging their battered body towards solid ground and the hope of safety.

Cranking the acceleration lever back to hover, you turn to Blessings. “You're in command here,” you bark, “Don't. Do. Anything. Just make sure that nothing changes until I say so. If we start to drift, pull us back – understand?”

“Yes, sir!” he blurts out, plopping his generous backside down into your seat as soon as you've vacated it.

“Keep the light on the tree line,” you add, pointing to the searchlight controls, “And listen out for the radio. I order you to do something, you DO it.”

Before he can agree again, you're already hurrying away.

-

Caliban meets you on the way to the cargo hold, a scoped rifle resting over one shoulder. His eyes are sharp, and stone cold sober. You exchange a nod and then hurry along, without wasting even a single moment. When you reach the cargo hold, you race past sacks of salt and cases of fish to the main door, snatching up a long cord and buckling it to your belt. The other end of the cord is fixed – securely, you hope – to the cargo hold wall. Normally, a grapple like this would be used to lift cargo... but it works for people as well. You've done this before.

Once.

Slamming a button on the wall causes the main doors to grind open, heavy wind buffeting you and forcing you to take a step back. Caliban grunts, dropping to his knees before steadying himself and aiming his rifle down at the swamp. Checking the revolver in your belt one last time, you grab your grapple cord and step out over the edge. The abyss takes you, and the pit drops out of your stomach as you plummet for a moment before the grapple kicks in and your descent slows. Even so, the wind howls in your ears and plucks at your clothes until you reach the ground and snap the cord free from your belt. Leaving it to dangle – that's your ticket out of here – you draw the revolver and squelch towards the fallen pilot.

There's no point in going back for the ship – it's gone, with just the long spike of a radio aerial reaching out of the mire. As you approach the pilot, the searchlight beam slashes above you and plays across the tree line ahead – and in the yellowish light, you see barbaric figures emerge.

[2/3]

>>2155294

Caliban's rifle cracks, and one of the figures falls. The others scatter, some melting back into the forest while others charge towards you. A few of the natives are wise enough to take cover, firing back at Caliban even though their crude rifles are woefully out of range, but most of them advance with an almost suicidal courage. Armed only with knives and brutal cleavers, no sane warriors would have continued the attack... and yet still they come.

As the rifle cracks again, you reach the fallen pilot and roll them over, trying to get a quick idea of how harmed they... she... is. Her right arm hangs at a sickly angle, probably dislocated, and her face is bloodied – but other than that, her eyes are mostly alert. Although she has a heavy automatic pistol slung in her belt, she uses her good hand to cling desperately to a bulky document pouch.

“Come on!” you yell, grabbing her unharmed arm and dragging her to her feet. Before you can retreat to the grapple, however, the savages let out a howl and close in on you. Three of them, bulky and dressed in the stained leathers of abattoir workers, hurl themselves towards you. This close up, Caliban won't be able to fire at them for fear of hitting you or the pilot – it's up to you now.

Drawing your revolver, you shoot the first barbarian through the chest – he doesn't even try to dodge out of the way – before turning your gun on the second one. This time, though, the hammer falls on one dud cartridge after another. The sea water must have gotten to the bullets, you realise with a jolt, damn Maeve and her rituals!

With two unwashed savages closing in on you, and your own rifle still safely locked up in your quarters, you don't have a lot of options. Your usual knives, maybe, but...

>Take on the natives with your blades
>Take the pilot's pistol and use that
>Fall back, and hope that Caliban can snipe the natives
>Other

>>2155363
>Take the pilot's pistol and use that

>>2155363
>Take the pilot's pistol and use that

I have no doubt that people who only have shitty guns and blades for weapons are better with the blades than we are.

>>2155363
>Take the pilot's pistol and use that

>>2155363
>Take the pilot's pistol and use that

>>2155363
>Fall back, and hope that Caliban can snipe the natives

>>2155363
>>Take the pilot's pistol and use that

As the barbarians close upon you, you glance across to the pilot in the hopes that she'll have come to her senses, but still she clings to the document pouch... and still, the pistol lies unused within its holster. Even if her good arm is disabled, surely a poorly aimed shot would be better than nothing?

Cursing aloud, you drop the useless revolver into the mud and grab for the automatic pistol she wears. The pilot cries out – not a womanly scream, but a blunt cry of anger – as you rip it from her belt, the force of your desperate lunge sending her falling to the ground. Without sparing her a second thought, you fumble for the pistol's safety catch and hastily snap it off. Just as you're bringing the gun up to fire, the first barbarian slams into you and tackles you to the ground.

Desperation is the only thing that keeps the pistol from slipping out of your hands. Straddling you, the barbarian brings his notched blade up in a two-handed grip as he prepares to bury it in your chest. His eyes are wild and bloodshot, rolling in their sockets as he froths at the mouth, while his entire body reeks of filth and rancid meat. The only things that he wears are a ragged loincloth and a matted fur draped over his shoulders. His hair, wound into dreadlocks, is stiffened with mud.

Strange, the things that you notice in a moment like this. It's only when you hear the pilot grunting that you snap back to reality, pulling the pistol's trigger by sheer instinct. The barbarian stiffens as your shut punches through his chest, but it's only when you shoot him a second time – this time through the head – that he actually dies. Even so, his heavy body falls across you and pins you to the ground. As you're struggling to shift his heavy body, you hear a scream of pain coming from nearby.

Throwing all your strength into rolling the corpse off you, you lunge upright and search for the pilot, half expecting to see the other barbarian making short work of her – or worse, taking her alive. Instead, she has him on the ground, the thumb of her left hand buried deep in the barbarian's eye socket. Bellowing in pain, the man flails around in the mud for his nearby knife. Just as he finds it, you dive forwards and stamp down on his fingers, your armoured boot shattering them like dry twigs. Rolling away from the fallen barbarian as he screams again, the pilot rips her bloodied thumb out of his skull. Wincing at the sight of that red ruin, you put a bullet through his other eye – the way you see it, it's an act of mercy.

But you're not out of danger yet. A poorly aimed rifle shot kicks up a clump of mud from nearby, reminding you of the skulking gunmen. “Come on!” you yell, pointing back towards the grapple, “We're getting out of here!”

“Wait!” the pilot snaps, snatching up the fallen document pouch and clutching it close to her chest, “Now we can go!”

[1/2]

>>2155479

A few more shots thud into the ground as you run for the grapple, but it's clear that the natives aren't used to long ranged shooting. For all you know, they just like the sound that shooting makes. When you reach the grapple, you snap it around your belt before pausing. As you're shoving the automatic pistol into your belt, you look around at the wounded pilot. With only one arm in use, the pilot can't exactly hang onto you...

Grinning a little to yourself, you pull the pilot into a tight embrace and tug on the cord. A moment later, Caliban triggers the winch and both you and the pilot are yanked up into the air. Even through her leathers, you can feel her body – firm and warm - pressed against your own.

Who says that being a Free Captain doesn't have any perks?

-

Once you're back inside, Caliban hits another button and the cargo doors start to grind closed. When they close fully, you collapse back and let out a sigh of relief. Compared with the miserable slog of rescuing Professor Estheim, this little escapade was almost... fun. Before you can say anything, the pilot leaps to her feet and snaps into a brisk salute – although the effect is ruined by the sight of her right arm hanging loosely by her side.

“Sir, thank you for the rescue!” she barks, “I'll make sure that you're rewarded for this, sir!”

“Enough with that “sir” stuff...” you groan, recognising her Iraklin accent. Now that you've got a chance to study her, she looks older than your first guess – maybe only a few years younger than you. Her hair is blonde, cut short, while her face has a slight softness to it. She doesn't look like the usual Iraklin soldiers you've seen... although they tended to wear full-face helmets. “Anyway,” you add, “What's your name?”

“Freddy Lhaus, sir,” she replies, wincing a little before adding, “Fredrika.” Saying this, she compulsively tightens her grip on the document pouch. Seeing that reminds you of something, and you hand the pistol back across to her.

“Here, this is yours,” you tell her, “But why didn't you use it?”

“My orders were to keep these documents on my person at all times,” Fredrika explains, hesitating a moment before adding, “They were my orders!”

So she's one of those people, you realise, that explains a lot.

>I think I'm going to pause things here for today. However, I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions I'll answer them if I can
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>2155558
Thanks for running.

Are we going to find out those documents are the battle plans for a full scale invasion of Carth?

>>2155574
they are orders for milos' execution

>>2155558
Thanks fior running!
How long until we find out she personally took part in shooting down the Manticore and killing all our friends?

>>2155587
I think Milos got most if not all of crew off the Manticore before it went down if I remember right.

>>2155558
Thanks for running!

Does she not understand that if she died from not using her gun, that would result in a mission failure?

>>2155591
You can kill people's friends on the ground as well, you know.

>>2155558
Thanks for running.

What made you decide to name the End Times after such a vintage meme?

>>2155574
Actually, she's carrying the briefcase from Pulp Fiction
>>2155587
Hah, well, no comment!
>>2155597
I could make an excuse about being in shock from the crash, but really - Irakins can be quite literally minded when it comes to orders
>>2155647
Going to have to plead coincidence on that one, I'm afraid!

>>2155662
>Hah, well, no comment!

Hah. She was totally in that battle at least. Probably shot at each other a bit.

>>2155662
>I could make an excuse about being in shock from the crash, but really - Irakins can be quite literally minded when it comes to orders

kek i thought she was you know ''slow''

>>2155662
So what's up with Keziah"s mom's legs? How come Keziah doesn't have or dad's antlers?

>>2156073
So, basically, the Nadir blood can be fairly inconsistent – it doesn't always manifest itself in the same way, or at all in certain people. Or, it manifests later in life as a reaction to stressful situations/other things. You can have two carriers of the Nadir blood who look normal, only to produce a deformed child, and the opposite can also happen – Caliban, for example, was born without taint despite his parentage. If Caliban himself had children, there's no telling what they might look like!

To compare it with another hideous mutation, it's like being ginger – sometimes, these things skip a generation.

>>2156201
Calling it now:

The world is an egg, and what is born is a great threat, wyrm or not. Whatever it is, blue flames will suddenly work both above and out at sea, and most everyone will race out to run away from the monster. This gives birth to a whole new age of exploration.

That, or Nadir blood will awaken and they can all go Kamen Rider or something.

>>2156201
does keizah have any deformity?

>>2157522
No visible deformities, no. That's not especially uncommon - the majority of those with Nadir blood have no deformities, or very minor ones. It's just that those with deformities are, by virtue of their nature, more obvious.

File: Fredrika Lhaus.jpg (83 KB, 595x1000)

83 KB JPG

“That new girl,” Keziah mentions in that special voice she has, when she's interested but doesn't want to sound like it, “She's an Iraklin, aye?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” you reply, swirling your cup of wine for a moment before emptying it in a single swallow, “Even if it wasn't for that accent of hers, you can tell by the way she calls everyone “Sir”. Military training, probably. They all get basic training over there in Iraklis.” Rubbing your aching shoulders, you pour another cup of wine and move to take a sip... only to hesitate and hold back. “She's resting in one of the spare rooms now,” you add, “We've got plenty of space, after all, and popping her shoulder back into place...”

“Aye, that's gonna suck,” the young witch agrees, taking the cup of wine out of your hesitant hand and drinking, “Since when did you ken how to do stuff like that, huh?”

“You learn all kinds of things, hanging around Morey's Pit,” you reply vaguely, taking the cup back from her before shrugging and setting it down, “You can finish that, I'm not thirsty.” Glancing aside, you realise that your potential leads are still written up on the chalkboard, written there for anyone to read. Keziah follows your gaze, then looks back to you with a question in her eyes. “I was planning ahead,” you explain, “Working out my next move. Your mother... I'm surprised that she didn't ask for anything in return for her help.”

“Dinnae get too pleased about that. She might well come back askin' for a favour later,” Keziah warns, “Or she might have done it just to show off. Cannae tell what that woman thinks, never could. Well, I dinnae want to talk about her now – what's our next move, boss?”

“Our next move?” you repeat, “Figuring out our next move, probably. I've been making this up as I go along.” Groaning, you rise from behind your desk and slip Miriam's diary into the drawer, locking it tightly and slipping the key into your pocket. In the time it took for you to take the controls back from Blessings and fly the Spirit of Helena back to Sybile, the worst of the storm had faded away to nothing. Now, the last few clouds have started to clear. “I'll go and check on Fredrika,” you decide, “She mentioned something about making sure that we were rewarded, so I'd better get the details.”

“Oh aye, that makes sense,” Keziah agrees, nodding sagely before giving you a mischievous grin, “And... “Fredrika” already, is it?”

“Don't start,” you warn her, shooting her a firm frown, “Just don't start.”

Even as you walk away, you can hear Keziah's chuckle following you down the corridor.

[1/2]

>>2157898

Fredrika Lhaus – Freddy, as she first introduced herself – has stripped out of her padded pilot's leathers when you arrive, and she lies stretched out on the cot bed in nothing more than an off-white singlet and shorts. She sleeps, although the frown on her face suggests that it isn't a peaceful sleep. Now that you can get a better look at her, you realise that she's more muscular than you first thought – more evidence of military training. That said, she's not so muscular as to have lost all femininity, as you can well see through the thin vest top.

You watch the slow rise and fall of her chest for a moment more before it starts to feel vaguely perverse, and you look quickly away. Her leather jacket has an emblem that you don't recognise sewn onto one lapel, while the document pouch has a larger example of the emblem crafted from polished brass. Not so polished now, admittedly, but a skiff crash will do that. The pouch, you note, doesn't have any kind of lock on it – just simple catches.

Glancing back at Fredrika, you check that she's definitely sleeping. This time, you notice something else about her, something that you had overlooked before. She has a brand – not a tattoo, an actual brand – on her upper arm. The brand is simple, just some numbers that mean nothing to you – 27/4/2.

Your eyes linger on that brand for a moment more, the sight of it leaving you with a strange disquiet forming at the back of your mind. You've seen far worse things – the disfigurements created by the Nadir blood, and Maeve's inhuman body – but that brand seems... different. There's a kind of cruel indifference at work there, as if branding her was simply the most efficient way of recording the relevant information.

Or, you think to yourself, you're getting tired and needlessly prone to whimsy – always a danger for men in your line of work. Shaking your head, you glance back to the document pouch and feel a curiosity replacing your unease.

You could always ask her when she wakes up, or...

>Wake Fredrika up and speak with her
>Take a look inside the document pouch while she's asleep
>Other

>>2157899

>Wake Fredrika up and speak with her
we're either soon to be hailed by iraklins, or whoever shot down her skiff and made it look like a storm.

>>2157899
>Take a look inside the document pouch while she's asleep

>>2157899
>>Wake Fredrika up and speak with her

>>2157899
>Wake Fredrika up and speak with her

Whatever she was carrying, it had to be something important – but getting involved in important things has a habit of bringing trouble down upon your head. If you're found tampering with the pouch, she might take it badly. Better to steer well clear, and wait to see if you can find out what's inside in some other way. Looking away from the pouch, you cross over to her cot and touch her shoulder, shaking her carefully awake.

Like flicking a switch, her eyes snap open and she goes from deep sleep to full wakefulness in an instant. Sitting sharply up in bed, she stands and gives you a salute. It's hard to keep a smile from creeping across your face as you study her – her hair is sticking up at odd angles, rather spoiling her attempt at looking disciplined.

“Stop saluting me,” you tell her with a sigh, “Oh, and good morning.”

“Good morning, sir. I'm ready for orders!” Fredrika snaps, “But, if I may be so bold, I need to finish my mission. You have an airship, sir, would you be willing to bring me to Iraklis?”

She's wasting no time at all, as is to be expected of an Iraklin. “I might be able to help with that,” you begin carefully, “But it's pretty out of the way. A trip like that... I'd normally charge a fee, and that's on top of what I usually charge for a rescue like that. I don't suppose that document pouch of yours is filled with cash, is it?”

“I don't know, sir, I'm not permitted to look inside,” she replies, allowing herself to shake her head, “But I don't think so – cash would be heavier.” Finally brushing her awkward tufts of hair back into place, Fredrika steps past you and picks up her leather jacket. As she reaches out with her right arm, a suppressed wince briefly darkens her eyes. “But I said that you would be rewarded, and I'll hold to that. Take me back to Reichstag, and my employers will pay your fee,” reaching into the jacket pocket, she takes out a wallet and flips it open to reveal that same emblem that you saw on the document pouch, “Ponape Couriers. We have an office in Reichstag. So, sir, can you take me there?”

Reichstag also has a trading post where you can offload this cargo of fish, you muse, so it's not really going out of your way at all. Still, going straight into what you still sometimes think of as enemy territory...

“How much is it?” Fredrika asks suddenly, stirring you out of your bitter thoughts, “The fee for a rescue. How much do you usually charge?”

The fact that you were joking about that seems to have passed right over her head. Shaking your head in dismay, you let out a low sigh.

>Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag – but only if you stop calling me “sir”.
>Sorry, but I can't take you. You'll need to find someone else
>Other

>>2157935
>Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag – but only if you stop calling me “sir”.

>>2157935
>>Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag – but only if you stop calling me “sir”.

>>2157935
>>Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag – but only if you stop calling me “sir”.

>>2157935
>Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag – but only if you stop calling me “sir”.

>>2157935
>>Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag – but only if you stop calling me “sir”.

“Fine, I'll take you to Reichstag,” you concede, “But only if you stop calling me “sir”, okay?”

“Understood, si... Understood!” the courier agrees, nodding in a vain attempt at hiding her blunder, “Then what should I call you? I don't think I caught your name earlier.”

“Captain Milos Vaandemere,” you answer, noting the way her eyes narrow slightly at the sound of your name, “But you can call me “captain”, for now.” Pausing for a moment, you pick up her crumpled trousers and hand them across to her, watching with some amusement as she shamelessly starts to dress in front of you. The Iraklin military doesn't segregate units, as you recall, so she's probably used to being around men like this. As she's dressing, you point to the brand on her arm. “What's that all about?” you ask, “I thought it was a date at first, but...”

“It's a mark of unit and rank,” she answers, pulling a shirt over her thin vest, “Twenty-seventh squad, fourth battalion, private first class. I was given it when I finished basic training.” Pausing as she's buttoning up the shirt, she glances up at you. “That was a skiff I saw in your cargo hold, wasn't it?” she asks, “Is it a good model?”

That, you can only answer with a shrug. “I wouldn't know,” you add, “I don't fly anything that small. You can take a look at it, if you're really that interested. It'll give you something to do while we're in the air.”

“Understood si... captain,” Fredrika concludes, nodding one last time before you leave.

-

With most of the crew still sleeping off their previous night of carousing, the bridge seems very quiet indeed. Keziah gets the engines warmed up, and soon you're ascending towards Azimuth. Iraklis is almost directly above you, but just flying straight up would be no fun at all – you turn the Spirit of Helena towards the east and set off on a wide curve. As you're flying, Blessings wanders in and sits himself down into a nearby seat, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“That was awfully exciting, last night,” he begins, “I'm rather proud of myself, if you don't mind me boasting.”

“Well, I've got to hand it to you,” you tell him with a wan smile, “You didn't crash us right into the swamp. That's a good performance, for your first mission, but maybe you should wait until you something a little more... involved before you start patting yourself on the back.”

“Ah, well, yes. You're probably right,” the choirboy nods to himself before looking at the clock and brightening up, “Ah, we're just in time to catch the end of the morning sermon!” Leaning forwards, Blessings begins to fiddle with the radio and, before you can stop him, a rich voice is pouring out into the bridge.

[1/2]

>>2157990

Youthful, but still powerful, the voice seems to be reciting the last few lines of a prayer. “Remember to sing songs of joy. Remember to hold harmony as sacred,” the dignified voice intones, pronouncing each word with absolute care, “Remember that you are not a beast – and let the Light shine upon you.”

“Let the Light shine upon me,” Blessings murmurs as the voice pauses, apparently so that those listening can do their part.

“Let the Light shine upon us all,” the voice concludes, allowing a gentle orchestral tune to swell up and take over the radio waves. Grunting in faint irritation, you snap the radio off and ignore the faint sigh of dismay that comes from Blessings' direction. His sulking is short lived, though, and soon he's bothering you again.

“Hierophant Milleux has such a wonderful way with words, doesn't he?” the boy babbles eagerly, “He's doing great things for the Church, too, and at such a young age! He-”

“Hierophant who?” you interrupt, sparing him a glance, “What happened to... I don't know, the other guy. I can't remember his name. Old guy, he had a... beard, I think.”

“Hierophant Gratis died three years ago, naming Bishop Milleux as his successor,” Blessings laughs softly, “You really missed that? It was big news, his funeral procession alone was a magnificent sight. Why, I think every man, woman and child in Sol Carthul came out to show their respects! Ah, if only I could have been there...”

“Careful,” you warn him, “We had an agreement about keeping that preaching to yourself, didn't we?”

Squeaking in sudden fright, Blessings claps both hands over mouth. He doesn't say a single word more until you land in Reichstag.

-

It's been a very long time since you were last in Reichstag, in any part of Iraklis, but things haven't changed much at all. The buildings are still grey and dreary, draped with deep blue banners as the only nod towards aesthetic value. Reichstag doesn't have the same concentration of factories that Waffenfabrik does, but there's still enough industry here to taint the air with the lingering smell of pollution. It's funny, in a way, seeing how the various members of the crew react to this place.

Blessings hides away in his quarters, claiming that Reichstag is a godless place, while Cammy seems almost as uncomfortable. Hanson and Caliban regard the change of scenery with indifference, while Keziah glances around her with barely-disguised suspicion. If Fredrika is glad to be home again, she doesn't show it – her face simply shows the satisfaction of a worker nearing the completion of a difficult job.

“Captain, I'll take you to office,” she says simply, pointing down towards a bland, anonymous street, “Follow me, please.”

[2/3]

>>2158021

In Iraklis, even the office clerks are made of sterner stuff than your average man. As you watch Fredrika's boss reading over her handwritten report, all you can think about is how absurd his spectacles look – tiny glasses perched on the bridge of a wide nose, almost swallowed up by the girth of his face. His body is just as comedic, with broad shoulders straining against a shirt and necktie. The document pouch, untouched, sits on the desk between you.

The others remained at the aerodrome, with Hanson and Cammy offloading your cargo of fish while Keziah went to check in with the local GERA office. With Fredrika standing beside you, stiffly standing at attention and utterly motionless, you almost feel like you're alone here – the only living thing in this entire office.

“It seems as though Ponape Couriers owes you a debt of gratitude, Captain Vaandemere,” the clerk decides at last, shuffling the report and placing it in a desk drawer. In its place, he takes out a letter of credit and starts to fill in the details. “Ponape Couriers pays its debts,” he adds, pushing the letter across to you, “I trust that you will find this to be suitable compensation.”

Funds increased by 1
Current Funds: 5

“That'll do nicely,” you reply as you carefully fold the letter and put it into your pocket. It's more than fine, actually, it's more than you had been expecting to get. “A pleasure doing business with you,” you add, “And if you ever need-”

“Oh yes. Lhaus,” the clerk interrupts, his spectacles glinting with a cold light as he looks across to Fredrika, “You're fired.”

-

“Fired, just like that...” you sigh as you're walking out of the offices, “That's harsh.”

“My contract was clear – destruction of company property is grounds for immediate dismissal,” Fredrika explains glumly, “Considering that I destroyed a skiff, I'm lucky that they didn't demand compensation. I just don't have that kind of money...”

“What are you going to do now?” you ask, watching as an armoured car rumbles past, belching diesel fumes as it goes. Fredrika is silent for a moment as she thinks to herself.

“Get another job,” she answers at last, “Courier work suits me well, but I can always go back to the military. It's good work, stable and reliable, and they always need pilots. I'll find something.” Turning to you, she gives you a firm nod. “Thank you for flying me here, captain,” she concludes, “But you've got your reward – I think our business is concluded.”

>Well, good luck with the military
>Why not work for me? I could use a skiff pilot
>Other

>>2158064
>>Why not work for me? I could use a skiff pilot

>>2158064
>>Why not work for me? I could use a skiff pilot
Is 4chan acting weird for everyone?

>>2158064
>Well, good luck with the military
No hiring Iraklin scum. Even if they're cute girls.

>>2158064
>Why not work for me? I could use a skiff pilot

>>2158082
I don't think Milos has the time or energy to hate every individual Iralkin. Way too stressful.

>>2158091
We can hate them as a collective, it's very energy efficient.

Also I want you to ask yourself how you would vote if Freddy was a guy.

>>2158097
Talent is talent regardless of gender. It would be short sighted to pass Fred over cause of her nationality. We just recruited an exiled Forest Nadir after all.

If she was part of the military and just got discharged I'd be more skeptical about taking her on for security reasons but she was just working for a courier service.

>>2158070
hiroshima introduced new, more intrusive and annoying ads

>>2158111
Fuck that chink piece of shit

>>2158109
>Talent
She crashed her skiff, didn't she?

>>2158109
She WAS part of the military, is completely loyal to her country and got introduced to us by crashing her skiff and failing her mission

>>Well, good luck with the military

>>2158117
By getting caught in an electrical storm. I'm not sure how much of that was user error or bad luck

>>2158122
Flying into a storm is an user error in my eyes.

A thought occurs, then. She's a skiff pilot looking for work, and you've got a skiff that needs a pilot. You never thought that you'd end up hiring an Iraklin, but this opportunity is too good to pass up. Besides, it's been fives years – what's the point in holding a grudge against a low-ranking soldier?

“Well, why not work for me?” you offer, pushing the last of your doubts aside, “I could use a skiff pilot, after all. Have you got any combat experience?”

“Yes,” Fredrika replies bluntly, “Some.” An awkward silence descends as you wait to see if she's going to expand on that, but she says nothing more on the subject. Clearing her throat, she eventually looks you in the eye and continues. “Since we're on the subject, I took a look at that skiff you had. It's not the newest model, but it's a good machine,” taking off her leather cap, Fredrika fiddles with the brim for a moment before pulling it back down over her head, “The Eliza. Were you the one who gave it that name?”

“No, she was named that when I inherited her,” you reply, shaking your head, “Did your old skiff have a name?”

“The M/79,” she answers simply, “We don't usually name our ships. They're tools, no different to a pistol or a rifle.”

“I see,” you pause, inwardly smiling a little at how differently she must see the world, “Well, even so. The offer still stands. You'll get a room of your own, and I've got a decent cook. You'll be able to see the world, although that's probably not much of a big deal for a courier like you.”

“An ex-courier,” Fredrika corrects you, “But you're not wrong, captain. I've seen just about every corner of Inounsys – people always need deliveries, after all.” Lapsing back into silence, she considers your offer for a while before nodding. “Okay, you've convinced me,” she decides, “Where do I sign?”

“We don't really do that sort of thing,” you tell her with a soft laugh, “We're not exactly what you'd call a formal operation, you see.”

“I... see,” she replies slowly, sounding as if the entire concept is an alien one. Considering where she's from, it probably is.

-

You part ways, then, as Fredrika heads back to her tenement block to pack what few possessions she owns. You offered to come with her and lend a hand, but she had hastily turned you down. Instead, you made arrangements to wait at the aerodrome for her. It's hardly an inconvenience, but it does make you wonder what she's trying to hide – an embarrassingly messy apartment, or something more interesting?

If it's the former, she's got nothing to be embarrassed about – you've seen Keziah's workshop. If it's the latter, though... that's different.

[1/2]

>>2158136
We're making an error.
Never forget, never forgive.

>>2158136

“Hey, boss!” Keziah calls out, waving to you, “You got our reward money?”

“Right here,” you reply, patting your pocket, “More than I was expecting, as well. The courier business must be doing good, these days. Are we finished with the trading?”

“Aye, Hanson just got back. He's still grumblin' about how little we're makin', but he didnae make a big deal out of it. I think he just doenae like how it smells here, that's his problem,” chuckling a little, Keziah slaps you on the arm, “C'mon boss, I dinnae like it much here either. We ready to head out?”

“Actually, we need to wait,” you tell her, “Our new skiff pilot needs some time to get ready.”

“Oh, aye? You got us a...” trailing off here, Keziah's eyes widen, “You didnae. Please tell me that you didnae do what I'm thinkin'. Please.” You don't need to say anything to this, your shrug is all the answer that Keziah needs. “Aw, come on boss!” she groans, “She dropped her last skiff into a bloody swamp, and if that wasnae bad enough, she's an Iraklin! Honestly, sometimes I just dinnae understand what goes on in that head of yours...”

Shrugging, you give Keziah an honest look. “I guess I just don't see the point in holding a grudge against her in particular,” you decide, “She wasn't the one who decided to invade us.”

“Aye, maybe, but I bet Gunnny would have a few things to say about this is he was here,” the witch says with a disapproving sniff, “Well, you're the captain here, you call the shots. I'll tell you this, though – she willnae have many friends on board.” With an almost aggressive shrug, Keziah points over to the GERA office. “I was takin' a wee look around,” she continues, as if your earlier conversation had never happened, “Why don't we do a wee bit of shoppin'? We could put that reward money to good use, tune up the Helena. What do you say?”

What you say doesn't actually matter – she drags you over to the nearby office regardless. There's a long list of prices written on a board hanging outside, covering everything from a repair service to new weaponry, while a sleepy looking clerk waits behind a window of hardened glass. The office looks more like a bunker than a guildhall, but that's exactly what you'd expect from GERA. Some items are crossed off, but the list is as follows:

Scanner Array - Identifies targets and provides details on their Shield capacity and Hull strength. Cost: 1 Funds
Improved Coil Efficiency - Increases the Recharge Rate to 5. Cost: 3 Funds
Increased Pleonite Cannon Potency (1) - Increases the base damage of cannon attacks to 1D8. Cost: 1
Missile Storage (1) - Increases missile capacity to 3. Cost: 1
Skiff Autocannon - Ballistic attack, 1 damage per turn. Cost: 1 Funds

Funds: 5

>What, if anything, should you buy?