>>2183705

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

Whoever it is that keeps tightening the pair of iron screws clamped around your temples, you can only hope that they die a truly horrible death. Slowly cracking one eye open you realise that there is no torturer, and there are no iron screws. Memories slowly creep back, and you have to accept that the only person you can blame for this is yourself. There was the monument, and a hot coal of anger that you foolishly tried to quench with brandy.

And now you're waking up in a dingy alleyway, feeling as though you're about to drop dead at any minute. Slowly, you run through the usual checklist – your knuckles aren't grazed or bloodied, and neither of your knives looks like they've been used. Most of your money is still in your pockets – minus what you must have spent on drink – and you've got all your clothes. Overall, you've woken up to find yourself in far worse states.

As you're patting down your pockets, though, you find something new – something that you didn't have when you escorted Fredrika to her offices. A stiff business card, advertising a local tailor's shop. Were you... shopping for clothes? Considering how drunk you were, you shudder to think at what you might have bought. Turning the card over reveals a few lines of small, tight handwriting, and your eyes start to ache with just the thought of reading it.

“Doubtless, you will not remember our meeting,” the note begins, “And so I have taken the liberty of giving you this card as a reminder. Imagine my surprise upon seeing you here, of all places! If you should wish to renew our friendship, come to that so-called “monument” at noon today. I regret that I cannot put my name in writing, but rest assured that I am...”

The note ends there, with a looping signature that you eventually interpret as “A Sincere Friend”.

“A friend?” you mutter aloud, trying to force your thoughts into order. Do you really have any friends who would pull a stunt like this? Neither Keziah nor Gunny – even if he's still alive – would be subtle enough to write you a politely worded letter. Chances are, they'd sooner join you in drinking away your bad mood.

Glancing at your watch, you see that there's still an hour left until noon. Plenty of time to make this curious appointment... although something about it smells like trouble. You've been doing a good job of keeping your nose clean, lately, and it might be best to keep it that way.

>Head to the monument and meet this “friend”
>Focus on finding your way back to the Spirit of Helena
>Track down the tailor's shop and take a look around
>Other

>>2183706
>Track down the tailor's shop and take a look around

I do want to keep a clean nose, but I also don't want to abandon a possible friend from the past on nothing but a hunch.

>>2183706
>Track down the tailor's shop and take a look around

>>2183706
>Track down the tailor's shop and take a look around
Retrace our steps a bit before heading to this meeting.

>>2183706
>Track down the tailor's shop and take a look around

Slowly turning the business card over in your hands, you take another look at the logo on it. Regal Tailoring, it says, in a suitably ornate script. It looks like a pretty expensive place, not the usual sort of place that you'd go near. The fact that your anonymous “friend” decided to use it to write their letter, then, seems to be an almost deliberate choice. It can't hurt, you figure, to go and take a look around. If nothing else, you can make sure that you didn't buy anything too absurd.

Nodding to yourself, you ease some of the lingering stiffness out of your limbs and slowly walk out into the morning streets. It's already busy, but the people around you pass by without sparing you a second glance. Swallowing your pride, you approach one of the soldiers waiting at a street corner and reluctantly ask for directions – not naming the tailor's shop directly, but asking after the general region. The soldier answers you in a clipped voice, giving out precise directions and then turning away. As conversations go, it had all the warmth and personality of talking to an airship's engines.

Less, actually. You heard Keziah talking to the Manticore more than once, back in the day.

-

Once you've reached the right district, it's easy enough to find the correct shop. Regal Tailoring is a fairly small shop, in a more antiquated style than what you've come to associate with Iraklis. The wooden sign above the door is carefully painted with gold leaf, while the large window out front is filled with frock coats and lacy shirts. Definitely not your style. Hesitating for a brief moment, you push the door open and listen to a delicate bell tinkling from somewhere within. Behind a counter of beautifully polished wood, a small man looks up from an open book.

He's a strange one, and no mistaking it. You took him for a young man at first, based off his spare and slender frame, but his face is set with deep wrinkles. You've heard that some people look smaller as they get older, but this is your first time seeing it in such an extreme way. As you approach the counter, you take note of his eyes – somehow guarded and welcoming at the same time, as if his cooperation was a resource to be carefully rationed.

“Hello sir,” he says softly, “Is there something that I can help you with?”

“Perhaps so,” you reply, choosing your words carefully, “This is a little embarrassing, but I was wondering if I've been here recently. Say... last night?”

“I shall ask my assistant. He would have been on shift last night,” the clerk muses, accepting your story with a truly professional courtesy, “Please, give me a moment. Take a look around, if you wish. Perhaps you'll see something that seems familiar.” With that, he bows ever so slightly and then retreats into a back room.

[1/2]

>>2183732

Deciding to take the clerk's advice, you turn away from the counter and start to browse the rows of clothing. Your first impression was an accurate one - it's hard to imagine that you would come in here by your own volition, unless you were driven by drunken curiosity. Nothing seems especially familiar either. As you're examining a shirt decorated with flowery stitching, you realise that you never gave the clerk your name. Before you can correct that error, you hear the soft pad of footsteps approaching from behind you.

Then you hear the quiet click of a revolver's hammer being drawn back. Closing your eyes and fighting back a frustrated sigh, you slowly raise your hands into the air. “There's no need for that,” you announce, “If there's a bill to pay, I'll pay it. Let's not do anything hasty.”

“A bill? No, sir, you don't owe us anything,” the clerk replies in that same calm tone, “But there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me.”

“There never was an assistant, was there?” you ask, stalling for time as you think hard about your next move. If he was going to kill you, he wouldn't have bothered with all this politeness. On the other hand, if he was the “sincere friend” who wrote to you, why waste time with all these theatrics?

Your question seems to take the clerk off-guard. “Is that really what offends you the most?” he protests weakly, pressing the barrel of his revolver into the base of your spine, “If so, I apologise for the deception. Furthermore, I must also apologising for insisting – come with me, please.”

He definitely doesn't want to shoot you – the weakness in his voice is proof of that – but that doesn't mean there's no danger here. When startled, armed men have a habit of doing reckless things. Meekly playing along with this farce, though? The thought is enough to revive your diminishing headache.

How do you always manage to get yourself into these messy situations?

>Play along for now, there's no sense in antagonising him
>Disarm him, and take the advantage for yourself
>Walk out of the shop, let him make the next move
>Other

>>2183748
>>Play along for now, there's no sense in antagonising him

>>2183748
>Disarm him, and take the advantage for yourself

>>2183748

>Play along for now, there's no sense in antagonising him

At least ask why before we start going though.

“Alright, I'll play along,” you tell him carefully, “But can I at least ask why you're being so... insistent?”

“This wasn't how things were supposed to go, you see,” he apologises, “There is a certain procedure to follow, and I'm afraid that you seem to have broken with the rules. I don't make them, before you ask, I merely follow them.”

“And the rules was... what?” you reply, answering your own question as a thought forms, “Be at the right place at the right time, then follow orders from there, right?” Shrugging a little, you turn slowly around and give the clerk a wan smile. “Well, whatever. Let's get this over with,” you add, gesturing towards the back of the shop, “Through there, I assume?”

“Quite so. Follow me,” lowering the hammer on his revolver, the clerk holsters the gun and nods. If there was a test here, you seem to have passed it. He leads you though into the back room, then points down a gloomy staircase. Frowning softly to yourself, you begin to descend – noting, with some interest, that he doesn't move to follow you. At the bottom of the stairs, you let yourself into the darkened room beyond.

-

“I suppose it was foolish to expect a man like you to meekly follow my instructions,” a hoarse voice greets you, “But even so, I'm not used to people taking the initiative like this. I'm not sure if I like it all that much – things are much more... predictable when people just play along.” The voice originates from a deep pool of shadow, with just the barest hint of lantern light to suggest at a human form. The rest of the room offers no more clues – all you can see are blocky shapes here and there, along with what you presume to be furniture. Then, your host turns up the lantern flame and allows a golden light to fill the room.

When you see the man's face, you can't help but stare. He's grown a beard since you last saw him – probably to cover up the unsightly burns spattered across his face – but you recognise him nonetheless. A fellow Free Captain... and a colleague from the Annexation War.

“Albert Sinclair Fortuin,” you murmur to yourself, “A Sincere Friend... very nice, very clever. I didn't know that you were still alive. After the battle...”

“After the Maiden Black was reduced to a burning wreck, you mean?” the captain corrects you, “Yes, I survived – although I allowed the world to presume the opposite. Anonymity has its benefits, you know.”

“Especially for a man up to no good,” you remark, gesturing around at the room, “And when I'm escorted down to a gloomy basement – at gunpoint, no less – what else am I supposed to think? I'll let you explain yourself, at least. I figure that I owe you that much.” With that, you take a seat opposite the older man and wait, waiting for him to speak.

[1/2]

>>2183786

As Fortuin considers where to begin, you take another look at him. The lantern gleams dully in one of his eyes – a glass eye, you suspect – while one of his legs is as stiff and motionless as only a prosthetic can be. You were lucky to emerge from the Annexation War in one piece, but Fortuin clearly can't claim the same.

“Not everyone meekly accepts the war's outcome,” he says at last, “Or rather, not everyone assumes that the war is over just because the first battle has been lost.”

So that's what this is about. Nodding slowly, you take a careful look at the room now that the gloom has been banished. Poor quality imagos have been pinned up here and there, displaying both buildings and people, along with maps of what you presume to be Iraklis. Several stacks of wooden crates have been pushed up against one wall. No markings to indicate their contents, but their size alone suggests that each one contains several rifles. “You've got your mind set on wickedness, Sinclair,” you muse, dimly recalling the older man's name of choice, “Should I be worried about this?”

“Oh, those?” Sinclair gestures to the crates, “Entirely legal to own, I assure you. I'll give the Iraklins this, they certainly believe in self-defence.”

“Perhaps so, but they might take a dimmer view of your choice in decoration. That's the Iraklin Council Chamber, and some of those men... high profile members of the military?” leaning back, you shake your head slowly, “It seems to me like you're building up a list of targets.”

“That's because I am,” lurching to his feet, Sinclair rips one of the imagos down from the wall and passes it across to you. “Marshall Eichmann of the Iraklin Fourth Fleet,” he explains, “The entire Annexation War was his idea – to establish a great northern bulwark against Carth expansionism. Incidentally, and I'm sure that this was accidental, it also did wonders for his status in the council itself. I dare say that he could make Chancellor, if he put his name forwards.”

In other words, everything you lost in the Annexation War – your ship, and more than a few friends – was down to this one man and his ambition. There's no denying that your temper begins to smoulder again as you stare down at the imago, but... but this is almost the exact opposite of keeping out of trouble. Obviously, something of your reluctance shows on your face, because Sinclair lets our a hoarse laugh.

“Oh, you needn't worry. I'm not about to start a war here and now,” he assures you, “But... I thought that a fellow veteran like yourself would appreciate knowing that not everyone has given up and accepted defeat.”

>That's good to hear. Is there anything I can do to help?
>I'm not sure about this, but I'll keep your secret
>Sinclair, I've got no interest in fighting another war. I'm leaving
>I had a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2183831
>>I'm not sure about this, but I'll keep your secret

>>2183831
>I'm not sure about this, but I'll keep your secret

>>2183831
>Sinclair, I've got no interest in fighting another war. I'm leaving
>Other
"I want you to at least consider what kind of retaliation might befall our countrymen if you go through with anything. Weigh those scales."

>>2183831
>Sinclair, I've got no interest in fighting another war. I'm leaving.

One airship was enough.
Also anything he's planning now isn't a war, it's assassination and terrorism.

>>2183831
>Sinclair, I've got no interest in fighting another war. I'm leaving
do keep it a secret

File: Albert Sinclair Fortuin.jpg (839 KB, 1920x2969)

839 KB JPG

Leaning back in your chair, you let the imago slip from your fingers and drift back down to the table. “Sinclair, I've got no interest in fighting another war,” you tell him with a sigh, “I tried it once, and it didn't suit me. I'm not willing to try my luck for a second time.”

Sinclair doesn't even bother to disguise his disappointment, sighing and leaning heavily against one of the crates. “This isn't the answer I expected to hear from you,” he concedes, “When we agreed to fight together, I never imagined that you would throw in the towel quite so easily. Time changes a man, I know that all too well, but...”

That fraudulent note of wistfulness in his voice bites at you, and you can feel your temper turning on him. Carefully forcing it down, you give him a frank look. “I want you to think very carefully about what you're doing,” you tell him, “Consider the consequences that might befall our countrymen if you go ahead with any of these... plans of yours. Weigh the scales, Sinclair, and weigh them carefully.”

“Oh, I plan on,” he assures you, in a breezy way that you find far from reassuring. Saying nothing else, Sinclair merely stares off into space for a while. Perhaps he can see a great pair of scales in his imagination, with opportunity and disaster piled up on either side of it. When his silence continues, you rise to your feet.

“I'm leaving,” you tell him bluntly, “But you don't need to worry about me telling anyone about this – I'll keep this a secret, for old time's sake.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Sinclair murmurs, nodding slowly, “You know where to find me, if you should ever change your mind.”

You say nothing to this, but you're almost certain that you won't.

-

When you next see the clerk, his gun is nowhere to be seen. He doesn't ask about your meeting or what you discussed – privacy and discretion, you don't doubt, are high virtues for these people – and his eyes seem utterly blank. You might as well be another customer, his eyes say, just one more nobleman with more money than taste. Matching his bow with a curt nod, you quickly leave the shop behind.

As you walk through the streets, you consider Sinclair with a mixture of dismay and frustration. He's heading for disaster, you're sure of that, and you don't need to get caught up in it. You're just starting to claw your way out of the mire, and the last thing you need is to waste your second chance on another man's dreams of assassination and terrorism.

The next soldier that you pass gives you directions to the aerodrome without complaint. It's strange, talking to an Iraklin soldier while your conversation with Sinclair is still fresh in your mind. You almost feel as though the truth might boil up and spill out of you.

Needless to say, you hurry on as soon as you've got your directions.

[1/2]

>>2183867

When you arrive at the aerodrome, Cammy is waiting outside the Spirit of Helena for any sign of your arrival. You wave as she leaps to her feet, hurriedly wiping her sleepy eyes and slinging her rifle. “Captain!” she calls out, “You're back!”

“Yes I am,” you agree, “Have you been keeping watch all night?”

“Not me, personally. We took shifts. Caliban was on before me, and it was the new girl before him. Keziah, uh, she made her take the first watch,” Cammy nods with the usual unease, “But we have been keeping watch. We didn't know when you'd be getting back, you see, so we didn't want to...”

“Well, I'm here now. We can get airborne again,” shaking your head, you gesture for her to sit back down, “Did I miss anything? How are the crew?”

“Keziah's been holed up in her room for hours, she hasn't said anything since giving the new girl her orders. Speaking of her, she's getting settled in well enough... I guess. Nothing else to report,” hesitating, Cammy then snaps her fingers, “Oh, right. I did catch the kid – Blessings, I mean – using the radio set. He said he was calling his mother, and I guess I can believe that. He seems like the sort of kid who needs to call home every now and then. Is he allowed to use the radio for personal business, though?”

Thinking back, you do recall Penelope telling the boy to write home. Maybe he decided to just call her instead. “I'll have a word with him,” you grunt, “Anyway, about Freddy – do you think I'm making a mistake by hiring her?”

“It's not my business, captain,” Cammy answers flatly, “But so long as she can do her job, she's fine with me. She's a strange one, though – she doesn't mix with the other members of the crew, and that name of hers? Weird...”

“Freddy?” you ask, “Yeah, it's short for Fredrika.”

“I know. What I mean is, “Fredrika” is an odd name. It's... aristocratic. Kind of an Iraklin thing, traditional really, having some names for the noble families and other names for the common folk. There was a Queen Fredrika, back when they had kings and queens,” Cammy scratches her head as she thinks, “It's kind of tasteless to give a common child a noble name, but it does happen. I guess that's why she uses that nickname of hers.”

“Maybe so,” you reply with a shrug, “You seem to know a lot about Iraklis, Cammy.” She colours at this, as if angered by some implication in your words, but says nothing else. “Anyway, you can stand down now,” you add, “Let's get going.”

And your first stop is...

>Check on Keziah, see what she's sulking about
>Check on Freddy, to see how she's settling in
>Check on Blessings, and speak to him about his radio usage
>Other

>>2183901
>>Check on Keziah, see what she's sulking about
I wanna see the birb

>>2183901
>Check on Blessings, and speak to him about his radio usage

Blessings is definitely not as dumb as he is letting on. Don't bring up the radio. Try to get a recording device in the radio to keep track of what's been transmitted.

>>2183901
>Check on Keziah, see what she's sulking about
Soothe some rustled birb feathers.

>>2183916
Nah.

>>2183901
>Check on Keziah, see what she's sulking about

You'd better look in on Blessings, just to make sure that he's not doing anything untoward with the radio equipment. Before you go and speak with him, though, you should really check in with Keziah and see what she's sulking about – as if you couldn't guess. Straightening out issues with the crew is an important job for a captain, so you'll tackle that first. Leaving Cammy to hurry inside, you stroll into the Spirit of Helena after her.

Keziah doesn't answer you when you knock, but her door is unlocked and you let yourself in. Considering how freely she lets herself into your quarters, you feel entirely justified in taking a look inside. It's impressive how quickly the witch managed to turn a normal room into something that more closely resembles a hoarder's stash, but that's just one of her talents. Bits of spare machinery butt up against wilting potted plants and thick books, while a tall birdcage stands in one corner of the room. Herod waits within, while Keziah herself kneels at the foot of it.

She stares into the bird's eyes, while the bird stares back. Even when you close the door behind you, neither of them breaks eye contact.

“You know,” you begin, finally causing her to jolt back to reality, “Some captains don't allow pets on board.”

“Aye, well, you ken well enough that Herod isnae a pet,” Keziah replies, laughing nervously as she scrabbles to her feet, “And he doesnae make a mess, being dead and all. Nae need to eat, and nothin' to clean up!”

“That's... good,” you agree, nodding slowly, “But just what were the two of you doing?”

“Oh, well, nothin' much. Just talkin',” she tells you, giving the bird a conspiratorial glance, “Ah, actually, I was askin' him if there was anythin' else he could teach me. Seems to me like we might need some witchcraft from here on out, and we cannae go running back to me mam whenever we need help, can we?” Shaking her head, she hastily moves some books away from a chair and gestures for you to sit. “I wasnae goin' to do anythin' without runnin' it past you first, boss,” she adds, “But it doesnae hurt to see what my options are, does it?”

Having seen Maeve's handiwork in action, you're not entirely sure if you agree with that. “So, is there anything else he can do for you?” you ask, “Anything useful?”

“Aye, well, not really,” Keziah admits with a cheerful shrug, “We can talk to each other, like, but that's about it. I'll need to seek out some other daemons if I want their help, but... well, we'll cross that road when, eh, if we come to it.”

“Just make sure you don't get carried away,” you warn, “And definitely get my permission before doing anything.”

“Aye aye, boss!” she agrees, flashing you a wink.

[1/2]

>>2183946

Sitting up, you give Herod a long stare – a stare that the bird returns, his eyes tired and impassive. “So, was that what you've been doing all this time?” you ask, “Talking to birds?”

“Aye, well, it... wait, how long has it been?” her eyes widening, Keziah glances around at a clock, “Oh, bloody hell! I didnae realise it had been... why didn't anyone... where have YOU been?”

“Out,” you answer vaguely, unwilling to get into the sorry matter of Sinclair's madness quite so soon. Again, Keziah glances across to Herod with a strange look on her face, and the two seem to carry on a short, silent conversation. “I wish I could listen in on what you two are saying,” you muse, “It sure would have been useful back in the Deep Forest – I'm certain that Herod saw that changeling coming.”

“Aye, sorry about that. I didnae want him to get caught up in a fight. Since he's dead and all, he cannae heal if he gets hurt. If he broke a wing, there might be no fixin' it,” Keziah's face turns gloomy for a moment before swinging right back to good cheer, “Oh, but I might be able to help you! I mean, there's a way that you can speak with him – and me, usin' him as a medium. It isnae perfect – a radio will give you a longer range – but it's better than nothin'!”

“Is that so?” you muse, considering the offer, “What would this involve?”

“No fancy rituals, if that's what you're wonderin',” she answers, “I've got the tools to do it here, now if you like.”

Which doesn't actually answer your original question. This help of hers might not involve any fancy rituals, but some instinct tells you that it might not be very pleasant.

>Alright, fine. Let's do this
>Sorry Keziah, I think I'll pass
>Other

>>2183974
>>Alright, fine. Let's do this

>>2183974
>Alright, fine. Let's do this

>>2183974
>>Alright, fine. Let's do this

>>2183974
>Alright, fine. Let's do this

>>2183974

>Alright, fine. Let's do this

Still keeping up the accent even though your mother isn't around?

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

101 KB JPG

Well, it can't be too bad – Keziah still has all her fingers, after all. “Alright, fine,” you decide, “Let's do this.”

“Got it, boss!” Keziah laughs, clapping her hands together, “Now roll up your sleeve, I'm gonna need your arm for this. Aye, all the way up – or hell, just take the whole shirt off. That's easier, I reckon.”

Frowning at her, you slowly unbutton your shirt and strip it off, draping it across the back of your chair as she bustles about her cluttered room in search of... whatever she's going to use. “Are you sure that you're not taking advantage of this?” you wonder aloud as she produces a delicate paintbrush and a pot of ink, “Because you seem a little too keen to get started on this, if you don't mind me saying.”

“A girl's gotta enjoy what she does!” the witch laughs, setting down a roll of cloth and pouring out a glass of something, “Now drink up, and we can get started!”

“Not that I'm complaining about a spot of midday drinking, but what exactly is this?” you ask, lifting the glass to your nose and recoiling at the sharp, medicinal smell.

“I wouldnae worry about it,” she assures you, “Just somethin' to kill the pain, that's all.” With that, she unrolls the cloth to reveal what it contained – a physician's scalpel, the steel blade gleaming coldly in the light.

Without further delay, you throw back the sharp, burning drink.

-

It's an odd feeling, as if you were floating on a gentle ocean rather than sitting in a solid chair. The feeling of Keziah's brush slipping across the flesh of your upper arm is also odd, purely for how distant it feels. She carefully inked out a border, about one inch across and two inches tall, and then set to work filling it with tiny letters in her unreadable native language. They look more like the scratches left behind by a bird's talons, but that might just be a product of your unhinged imagination.

“All done,” she murmurs, setting the brush aside and picking up the scalpel, “Now, boss, you're gonna want to stay perfectly still for this. Aye, I ken that it feels weird – I couldnae sit still for it, and me mam made a terrible mess. I'll show you the scar sometime, if you like.”

Your tongue feels swollen and heavy, so much so that speaking would be pointless, so you just nod dumbly and focus on holding your arm as still as possible. Keziah's face grows hard with concentration as she sinks the scalpel blade down into the meat of your arm, pausing at a depth of just a few millimetres before sliding it down and cutting through you. There IS pain, but it almost seems like it's happening to someone else, someone very far away. The knowledge of pain, perhaps, without the actual sensation of it.

Quite a strange feeling, to be sure.

[1/2]

>>2184028

When Keziah is finished her bloody work, she carefully peels back the strip of painted skin and studies it for a moment before nodding with satisfaction. “Perfect,” she whispers, “Now boss, you'll want to grab that cloth and hold it on you. Stop the bleedin', like, and give you somethin' else to do. Some folks, they dinnae like to watch the next bit.”

“Why?” you mumble, your tongue obeying orders this time, “What happens next?”

“Oh, you dinnae need to worry about it!” she assures you, opening the birdcage and tossing in the scrap of flesh, “Herod, dinner!”

Your stomach lurches alarmingly as the bird of prey pecks savagely down and rips at the strip of flesh, gobbling it down without hesitation. You watch with disbelief, some part of your mind trying to tell you that it's a hallucination or some other side-effect of whatever she gave you to drink. Really, though, you know that it is real. “Thought he didn't eat,” you slur, “Didn't eat and didn't shit.”

“I don't eat, normally,” a haughty voice answers you, the words ringing out in your mind, “But this is different. This is a matter of ritual significance.”

Well. At least you know that the ritual worked.

-

By the time Keziah has finished bandaging up your arm, the drug has almost completely worn off and the pain has started to press in on you. It's not the worst pain you've ever felt, but it still nags at the edge of your mind. When Herod speaks to you, speaking straight into your thoughts, the pain actually blurs his words like radio static.

“Yes, you'll need to watch out for that,” Keziah's voice adds, bubbling up from the static, “It's not a perfect solution. There are a lot of things that can mess with communication like this.”

“That's weird,” you reply, not quite sure if you're speaking aloud or not until you hear your own voice, “You don't think with that accent of yours?”

“Aye, well...” this time Keziah laughs aloud, blushing a little, “That's just somethin' you'll have to deal with, there isnae much I can do about it.”

Rotating your arm, you wince as your wound is drawn taut. Keziah frowns a little as well, although she doesn't seem aware of it. “I'm surprised that you're still keeping it up, honestly, especially since your mother isn't around to annoy,” you explain, lowering your arm again, “Or is it just habit at this point?”

“Habit? Aye, that's a good word for it,” Keziah nods to herself, “Does it... bother you too, boss? I reckon I could kick the habit, if you want. It willnae... it won't be easy, but I could try.”

>Keep the accent. I actually like it
>Drop it. It's not professional
>Do what you want. It's none of my business
>Other

>>2184062
>Keep the accent. I actually like it

>>2184062
>Keep the accent. I actually like it
also is your own choice

>>2184062
>Do what you want. It's none of my business

>>2184062
>It's your choice, I was just curious.

>>2184062
>>Do what you want. It's none of my business

>>2184062
>Do what you want. It's none of my business

“Keep it if you want – I like it, but it's not really my business,” you tell her, “If you really want to drop it, I won't stop you - it's your call, so do what you want. I might be the captain here, but I'm not going to give you orders about your personal life.”

“Aye, well, I reckon I'll stick with it for a wee while longer!” Keziah decides, grinning broadly at your decision, “Seems a shame to drop it after puttin' so much work into it, right? Aye, well, anyway, I reckon we're about done here. You go on – but I might be speakin' to you later, just to make sure there isnae any problems with the...” Trailing off here, she gestures to Herod as if to explain what she meant – as if you could forget.

“But do consider my feelings,” Herod sighs, “I have no desire to spend all day ferrying messages back and forth, just so that you two can avoid a little bit of walking.”

You'd ask if his voice is always like this – bored, languid and lethargic – but you already know the answer to that.

-

With the important matters concluded, you start to head off towards Blessing's quarters before an idea strikes you. With a hasty step, you march up to the bridge and check the radio console. The dial isn't where you left it last, you're certain of that much, but you don't recognise the frequency. Lifting the handset, you press the heavy stud and connect the call. Static blurts in your ear for a moment, and then a voice answers.

“This is the Hawthorn estate,” the unseen secretary answers, in a dignified tone, “How may I help you.”

“This is Captain Milos Vaandemere,” you reply, “Calling regarding Blessings Hawthorn.”

There is a pause, a long pause, and then a new voice picks up. “Captain Vaandemere,” Penelope Hawthorn greets you, “I understand that you wanted to talk about my son. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, this is just a courtesy call. I'm told that he called you earlier,” you pause, “He didn't say anything TOO bad about me, did he?”

“Quite the contrary. He seems absurdly pleased with how you've been treating him. Giving him control of Miriam's... pardon me, of your airship?” Penelope sighs, but you sense a faint happiness in her voice, “I understand that that's somewhat unconventional, for a man in your position.”

“The skies were quiet, there was no real danger,” you assure her, “And he exceeded my expectations.”

“I suspect, sir, that that would not have been hard,” Penelope replies in a dry voice, “If that was everything, Captain Vaandemere, then I'm afraid that I'll have to end our call here. I have business of my own to attend to. Good day, sir.”

“And a...” you begin, only for the call to be cut short, “...Good day to you too.”

[1/2]

>>2184111

So, Blessings really was calling his mother. Hardly a capital offence, but he really shouldn't be using the equipment for personal calls – at least, not without asking your permission first. Shrugging to yourself, you hang up the radio handset and sit down. “Keziah,” you think hard, “Can you hear this?”

“Sure can,” her spectral voice replies, “Where are you now?”

“Not far. I'm on the bridge,” you think back, “You can still hear me okay?”

“Not a single problem, but I wouldn't expect any at this range,” she answers, “But at least everything is working okay. Signing off now, boss.” There's a faint feeling of... not quite loss, but perhaps distance as the communication is severed, and you can tell that it's going to take some getting used to. Shuddering a little, you shake off the feeling and head back down to the crew quarters.

-

If Keziah had turned her room into a garbage dump, Blessings seems to have turned his room into a library. Books, as yet unsorted, have been stacked up here and there, while his desk has been kitted out as a writing table. The boy himself stands nervously in the middle of the room, as if he was expecting an almighty scolding. Stepping neatly around him, you pick up a book at random and read the title aloud.

“Lives of the Saints,” you read, before looking around at the boy, “Is this a good one?”

“Erm, well, it's not for the faint of heart,” he answers, “They tended to meet rather... awful ends, those saints. Bringing the Light down to Nadir was their sacred duty, but it was one that the locals usually answered with terrible violence.”

“You mean, the natives didn't care for a religion that called them inherently unclean?” you muse, “That's surprising to hear.”

“I know! The teachings tell us that through the Lord of Rising Light, all can be made pure and saved! I don't see why a message of such universal kindness would be seen as... as...” the boy pauses, “You were being sarcastic, weren't you?” He slumps his shoulders slightly and takes the book from your hands, prissily putting it back into place. “I suppose it's all a matter of, um, opinion,” he adds weakly, hesitating before daring to speak further, “This is about the radio, isn't it? Miss Cammy caught me using it, and she... well...”

“She gave you a good telling off?” you offer.

“She told me to be more discrete next time,” Blessings corrects you, coughing a little to cover up a small smile.

>Just ask before using it next time, and we won't have a problem
>Actually, I came to ask about your work for the church. What do you... do, exactly?
>Go on, tell me more about these saints of yours. I'm interested
>I wanted to ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>2184155
>>Just ask before using it next time, and we won't have a problem
>Actually, I came to ask about your work for the church. What do you... do, exactly?

>>2184155
>>Just ask before using it next time, and we won't have a problem

>>2184155
>>Just ask before using it next time, and we won't have a problem
>Go on, tell me more about these saints of yours. I'm interested

>>2184155
>ask next time
>what do you do for the church?

>>2184062
> do what you want. It's none of my business.

“Actually, I came to ask you about your work for the church,” you ask, your question causing the boy's eyes to widen a little, “What do you... do, exactly?”

“Well, you know that I donated money to fund a chapel in Monotia,” he begins tentatively, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “That's, um, that's about it. I raise funds – not all by myself, of course, although I donate as much as I can. I go around other wealthy families and explain what the church does, and what it needs more funds to achieve. I don't wish to boast, but I'm actually rather good at it.”

“Really?” you muse, raising an eyebrow. Privately, you have to wonder if some of these wealthy families agree to open their wallets just to get Blessings to go away, but you keep that unflattering thought to yourself.

“Oh yes, I could never have funded that chapel on my own,” Blessings explains, “But with the very generous donations of several other families, it became a reality.” Sighing softly, he allows himself a proud smile. “It'll never be as famous or sensational as spreading the faith and becoming a saint, but it's a duty nonetheless,” he adds in a more solemn tone, “And our local bishop is ever so pleased with me. I'm told that Hierophant Milleux himself was grateful for all that I've achieved!”

So, a more calculating part of your mind muses, he might have some degree of influence with the church. Access to restricted archives, perhaps, or even sacred sites in Zenith. That, in itself, might well be a useful resource for you. Then, suddenly realising that you just wrote the boy off as a resource, you scowl a little and clear your throat. “Tell me some more about these saints of yours,” you decide, gesturing to the book, “Go on, I'm interested.”

“Oh, really? I didn't think...” Blessings blinks in surprise, then picks up the book and nervously weighs it in his hands. “Saint Alma!” he blurts out after a moment, “That's a name you'll recognise, I think. She, um, she has the school named after her. Saint Alma's Academy, up in Zenith... oh, how I'd like to see it up close! She was one of the earliest saints to venture down into Nadir, and one of the few to return alive. Her writings about that first expedition are quite famous. Er, famous among certain circles I should say...”

“Church circles,” you state, more to encourage him to keep talking than anything else.

“Yes, quite. Church historians, to be precise, and... oh, I forget the name, but scholars who study ancient Nadir. It's not a very popular field of study, you see. Saint Alma – she wasn't a saint back then, of course – was a curious soul, and she collected many things on her travels,” Blessings gestures vaguely with the book, “Some bones, weapons of ceremonial use, things that we still don't know about – a strange piece of iron, for example.”

At the word “iron”, your ears perk up.

[1/2]

>>2184231

“Just a piece of iron?” you ask in a calm voice, “That seems like an odd thing to bring back.”

“Doesn't it?” Blessings agrees, “To date, we still don't know exactly why she chose to bring it back. It was placed in the church archives with all the rest of her treasures, while Saint Alma herself chose to venture down to Nadir for a second time. This time, she did not return. Even her bones were lost. A terrible shame, really, so many of her relics were lost...”

“And this piece of iron, is it still there?” you press, leaning forwards a little, “In those archives of yours?”

“Unfortunately not,” the boy shakes his head slowly, “For whatever reason – many of the records concerning this matter are, um, sealed – it was taken to the Vault of the Sun by a party of churchmen. They, um, they never made it out and no further attempts at an exploration have ever been made.”

“Spooky,” you murmur, “Do you know why?”

“Ah, well, I'm afraid not,” Blessings gives you a helpless smile, “I'm only a fundraiser, after all!”

With that soft smile, the tension in the air – tension that you had hardly been aware of until now – dissipates without a trace. Sighing in frustration, you lean back against the closed door and give Blessings an aimless gesture. “Don't mind my questions. You know how it is – always trying to sniff out a profit, if there's one to be made,” shrugging, you move to leave, “Oh, and about the radio... ask before using it next time, okay? Do that, and we won't have a problem.”

“Yes sir!” Blessings yelps, straightening up and giving you a look of earnest obedience.

-

Back in your quarters, you stand looking at your chalkboard for a moment before scratching some new words onto it. “Vault of the Sun,” you mutter as you write, “Saint Alma. Church archives...”

“Do you really think you'll be able to find these pieces of yours?” Herod asks drily, his voice coming from nowhere, “It's a task of considerable scale.”

“I can work hard, when I want to,” you reply, “I've got a good crew, I've got decent information to go on, and I have the freedom to work as I see fit. I'm not saying that it's going to be easy, but I don't see why we can't pull it off.”

“Allow me to rephrase the question, then,” the daemon sighs, “Do you really think you SHOULD find these pieces of yours?”

This gives you a moment's pause. “Keziah doesn't know that we're having this conversation,” you murmur slowly, “Does she?”

“The question stands,” Herod pauses, “Considering everything you know, about the terrible weapons sealed away within the hoard and the fate of that first thief who sought to plunder it... do you really think you should be doing this?”

>Who's going to stop me?
>I'm not looking for weapons – just the treasure. We'll be fine
>Are you suggesting that we just... give up?
>Other

>>2184309
>>Are you suggesting that we just... give up?

>>2184309
>I'm not looking for weapons – just the treasure. We'll be fine

>>2184309
>>Are you suggesting that we just... give up?
"Where's your sense of adventure?"

>>2184309
>Absolutely, there's something more to this whole thing, who knows what lies in that vault? I sure as hell intend to find out, no matter what it takes.

>>2184309
>"What if I'm in it to destroy the weapons and take the treasure?"

The worst thing about talking to someone that you can't see is that you can't scowl at them. You settle for the next best thing instead, and imagine yourself scowling very hard at Herod. Whether that actually does anything or not is unclear, but it makes you feel a bit better about things.

“So what,” you ask quietly, thinking the words very deliberately within your head, “Are you suggesting that we just... give up?”

“I'm suggesting that you consider your actions with great care. Weigh the scales, so to speak,” Herod corrects you, “Balance risk against reward, as your kind must so often do, and then reach your conclusion. If you still wish to pursue this treasure of yours, so be it – you will have made you choice with a clear and deliberate head. That is something to be respected.” There is a moment of something that is not quite silence as Herod thinks blankness at you, and then he continues. “She would follow you,” he adds as an afterthought, “No matter what you choose to do.”

This time, you're the one to think blankness back at Herod, frowning at his mention of Keziah. “Just what is THAT supposed to mean?” you mutter after a moment, glaring at the chalkboard.

“Exactly what it seemed to mean. That girl would accept any order that you choose to give her. Foolish, really, but very human,” the daemon drawls, “Even if you should plunder the hoard for the most wicked weapons that you could find, she would find some way of justifying it to herself.”

Something about his words – his thoughts – seems to leave a greasy, sickly film over your mind. Maybe it's nothing to do with him, and it's just the words themselves – the implications that hang heavily in them. “That's irrelevant,” you snap, not caring that you spit those words out aloud, “We're not going looking for weapons, or trying to destroy the world. We're aiming for the treasure, and the thrill of discovery – I know that there's something more in that vault, and I intend on finding out just what it is. If it IS something dangerous, maybe we can destroy it and make the world that little bit safer.”

“Also foolish,” Herod sighs, “You make a good pair, the two of you fools.”

“Oh come on,” you grunt, “Where's your sense of adventure? You're not trying to tell me that you prefer life in that cage of yours, are you?”

Herod doesn't take your bait. Instead, he sighs again. “So long as you are certain of your actions,” he concludes, “I will offer you my full assistance – what little that amounts to.” The daemon ends the conversation there, cutting you off like a man smashing a radio.

“Forget this vague talk,” you mutter to yourself, marching off towards the bridge, “Time to see just how high this bird can fly.”

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

>>2184389
>“Time to see just how high this bird can fly.”
>Milos was then seen chucking Herod off the airship midflight.

Thanks for running Moloch.

>>2184389
Thanks for running!

>>2184397
Had the exact same thought.

File: Zenith2.png (1.46 MB, 2172x1220)

1.46 MB PNG

Settling down into the captain's chair, you run your hands along the Spirit of Helena's controls before taking a tight grip on them and throwing the engine lever into “hover” and cranking up the altitude. Slowly, the engines still warming up even as you rise, the ship begins to move. Reaching across, you grab the internal radio and send a message out across the entire ship. “All crew, to your stations,” you order, “Prepare for ascent.”

Clicking off the radio, you glance across the shimmering data screens and take in their contents – the engines are good, and all systems are running at optimal capacity. That's what you like to see. Just as you're angling the ship's nose up towards Zenith, you hear the bridge door banging open.

“Sir, captain, I didn't... uh, I didn't know where my stations are supposed to be,” Blessings blurts out, “I thought maybe the kitchen, but...”

Sighing, rolling your eyes where he can't see you, you point across to one of the nearby seats. “Sit there, if you like,” you tell him, “But don't touch anything and definitely don't cause any trouble. Just watch and learn.”

“Yes captain!” he chirps, flopping down into the seat and gazing, rapt, as you soar up into the white clouds above. It feels good to be leaving Iraklis behind, although you know that you'll probably end up returning there sooner or later. For now, though, Zenith awaits.

-

The sky in Zenith is a strange thing, pale and ethereal. In some places, it looks as white as milk while in others it has a delicate blue hue to it. Even without the vast Mountain of Faith looming above you, surrounded by six smaller islands, it wouldn't be hard to see how the first people to reach Zenith were struck by religious awe. Even a cynic like yourself can feel a hint of wonder, looking out across this pristine world.

Well, not exactly pristine. Of those six islands surrounding the Mountain of Faith, two of them were willingly gifted to Iraklis as a show of faith. Faith that Carthul had no military intention for this upper realm, merely a religious desire for it. Those two Iraklin islands have been converted into brutal fortresses, bristling with stubby cannons. The Carth islands, on the other hand, still retain the odd, inhuman structures that awaited those first explorers. Swooping structures built in pure white stone, or something that is not exactly stone, the purpose behind those structures remains unclear – even now.

The Carths found their own uses for them. A school, a place for aged priests to live out their dying days, even a prison for their worst criminals – men brought closer to heaven, in the hope that they would be inspired towards penance.

And the Vault of the Sun, the most enigmatic of all the islands.

[1/2]

>>2186681

“Captain,” Fredrika radios, “Permission to take the Eliza out for a test flight?”

“Granted,” you reply, pausing a little before continuing, “I don't see any storm clouds out there, so you should be safe.”

The pilot hesitates for a moment, perhaps debating with herself over whether or not you're making a joke at her expense – you are – before she replies. “Thank you, captain,” she confirms, “I appreciate your concern.”

Ending the call, you chuckle to yourself as a faint shudder runs through the Spirit of Helena, doors opening in the cargo hold as the Eliza drops free. A few moments later, you see it roaring out ahead of you, blue flame burning around its engines. It flies a distance ahead before turning a sharp corner and racing back towards you, twisting in the air and following a swooping arc over and above the Helena. Storm jokes aside, Fredrika can really fly that thing – even an experienced skiff pilot might balk at some of the twists and turns she puts the Eliza through.

Then, you recall seeing Iraklin skiffs pulling off those exact same manoeuvrers during the Annexation War, and your expression darkens. Scowling, you turn the Spirit of Helena around to the left and start a slow circuit of the Zenith islands, allowing Blessings to gasp with awe at each sight that passes by. Further off in the distance, the countless islands of the Drift churn and shudder.

“You are entering Iraklin air space!” a curt voice snaps over the radio as you approach one of the fortresses, “Identify yourself, or we WILL fire upon you!”

“Captain Milos Vaandemere, of the Spirit of Helena,” you answer, feeling your scowl deepen, “Free Captain, no current duties.”

“A Free Captain?” the voice replies, softening a little, “There's work available, if you're interested. One of your colleagues radioed in a distress call a few hours ago before dropping out of contact. Find them, and the captain will reward you – or, you'll have full salvage rights for the wreckage.”

You slow the Spirit of Helena and take a moment to think about the job. It's not exactly an official Guild mission, so there's no guarantee of what the reward might be. Salvage rights are tricky things – sometimes they can yield a small fortune, something they're worth nothing at all. Even if you can recover the ship intact, with the crew alive, that doesn't promise anything – you might get nothing more than the captain's gratitude. It's always hard to judge, with these kinds of job.

The Eliza flies overhead, then, the sight of it bringing you back to reality. On the radio, the Iraklin operator awaits your answer.

Mission: Investigate the missing ship
Reward: ?

>I'll take the job. Give the the full details
>Can't do that. You'll need to find someone else

>>2186684
>>I'll take the job. Give the the full details

>>2186684
>>I'll take the job. Give the the full details
TraesureHunting!

>>2186684
>I'll take the job. Give the the full details

Hi 'loch, how was Christmas?

>>2186684
>I'll take the job. Give the the full details

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

>>2186684
>DO IT
We're free right now after all.

>>2186722
I'M FREEEEEEEEE
FREEEFALLIN'

Grimacing a little, you reach your decision. “I'll take the job,” you tell the unseen radio operator, “Give me the full details.”

“Six hours ago, the Minotaur radioed in a distress call. Their transmission was almost illegible, and it was cut off before they could provide many details. They seemed to have casualties on board, but we were unable to discern the cause,” the operator tells you, “After their transmission was cut off, they deviated from their expected course and entered the Drift. No further contact has been received since then.”

“What was their expected course?” you ask, glancing out across the Drift. A ship could easily hide out there – and many do, mostly pirates or military deserters.

“The Minotaur originated in Monotia, and it was due to return there after making a circuit of the Zenith islands,” he informs you, his voice already dropping back into a bored sigh, “That is all the information I have available, other than the Minotaur's last known coordinates. The coordinates are as follows...”

As the bored operator reads off the figures, you hear Blessings scratching away as he scribbles them into his little notebook – it's probably his idea of helping, although the coordinates might not be accurate by now. The Drift never stays still for too long, which is partly why it's such a good place to hide out. Still, it gives you a place to start looking. Having given you all the information that he can, the radio operator wishes you luck and cuts the call. Shrugging to yourself, you turn the Helena's wheel and start her towards the Drift.

“All crew,” you radio, “We'll be heading into the Drift for a little. Standby for further orders.” Fiddling with the dial, you reach out to the Eliza next. “Freddy, go on ahead and scout out these rough coordinates,” you order, rattling off the numbers, “We're looking for a ship. Maybe crashed, maybe not. Radio back if you find anything, and watch out for rocks – don't scratch the paintwork!”

“Yes captain. Orders received and understood,” Fredrika responds. Ahead of you, the Eliza flies out towards the Drift at a slower pace than what you've seen before. She might be a skilled pilot in the open skies, but the Iraklin clearly has no intention of racing through the Drift. You'll have to be even more careful – you've got shields, but they're no good against rocks or debris, and the Helena isn't quick enough to jink away from a collision.

But this isn't your first dance – you know what you're doing.

[1/2]

>>2186717
>Hi 'loch, how was Christmas?
No disasters, which is good enough for me. I'm really big on celebrating these things

>>2186734

Even above the rumble of the Helena's engines, you can hear leather creaking as Blessings digs his fingers into his armrests. When you tilt the Spirit of Helena to creep past a leisurely floating rock – not really big enough to be called an island in its own right – he gasps aloud, and you feel yourself grinning a little. Every so often, you see a flare of blue from up ahead as the Eliza slips in and out of view, but that's the only contact you have with the little skiff. In a situation like this, neither one of you needs to be distracted with idle chatter.

“I've got something, captain,” Freddy reports, “An airship. Looks like it... like she crashed. It should be just up ahead of your position – there's a clearing, you should be able to get here safely.”

“I see it now,” you reply, easing the Helena past a cluster of rocks. A larger island hangs suspended in a pocket of relatively clear sky, with the ruins of an airship planted right down in the middle of it. It's not completely destroyed, so it's perfectly possible that some of the crew – or the cargo – survived. You're more concerned about the island itself – you don't like how unstable it looks, as if landing the Helena might be enough to break it apart. “Freddy, get back here. We're going to need the Eliza,” you decide, “If we want to go down there, we'll need to leave the Helena in the air. The Eliza can bring down a small team, and we can investigate things from there.”

“Understood, captain. Making my approach now,” the pilot responds, with the Eliza turning a sharp corner and returning towards you. Shifting the Helena into hover, you lean back and consider the scene before you. The Eliza has space for four people and a small load of cargo – not enough room for everyone, in other words. You'll need Freddy to fly the damn thing and you're definitely heading down, so that leaves two open spaces. If there are any survivors, you can always come back with an empty ship and recover them, so there's no need to worry about leaving space for them.

Two spaces. Between Keziah, Cammy, Hanson and Caliban – you're not including Blessings here, for obvious reasons – you'll have to make a choice of who to bring along. You'll bring...

>Keziah
>Caliban
>Hanson
>Cammy
(Choose two)

>>2186762
>Caliban
>Keziah

We only need one tracker, and as a mechanic kez will know what salvage is worth the most.

>>2186776
>>2186762
Good point. Seconding.

>>2186762
>>Keziah
>>Caliban

“Caliban, Keziah, I want you two to meet me down in the cargo hold as soon as possible,” you announce, sending your radio message out across the entire ship, “We're entering a potentially hostile situation, so come prepared.” Ending the call there, you rise from your chair and glance across to Blessings. “Don't touch the controls,” you warn him, “This is no place for a novice to take control.”

“Oh no, no sir,” he assures you, shaking his head earnestly, “I wasn't planning on-”

“Good,” you interrupt, “We'll be back in no time.”

-

The Eliza might have room for four people, but that doesn't mean it's a comfortable fit. The little skiff was built for speed and manoeuvrability, nothing more. Sitting opposite each other, Keziah and Caliban are practically banging their knees together, while your forward facing seat in the front is pressed right against Freddy's seat. If this awkward arrangement bothers her at all, Freddy doesn't show it. After checking to make sure that everyone is buckled in, she gestures to one of the crew and signals for him to open the cargo bay doors.

Free fall. The Eliza drops free from the Spirit of Helena and sinks through the air for a short moment before her engines kick in and sweep you up. Twisting the controls, Freddy guides you down to the unstable island in a smooth approach, landing with barely a shudder.

“Show off...” you overhear Keziah thinking to herself. Strange, how that sometimes happens – there seems to be some faint bleeding effect between the two of you, with your thoughts sometimes intruding upon the other. Dimly, you wonder if she knew about that before carrying out the ritual, but the sound of the Eliza's engines powering down cuts off the start of your question.

“Alright, listen up,” you announce instead, “Our first goal is to identify any surviving crew. If that fails, we move to identifying salvage – anything that we can bring back and sell. Keziah, that means you should keep your eyes out for any intact machinery or engine components. Anything we can sell or use ourselves, let me know.”

“Aye aye, boss,” she confirms, “I cannae be sure that anythin' survived the crash from out here, so we'll need to take a wee peek into the engine room. If her Pleonite heart is intact, that should sell for a good price...”

“But let's not get ahead of ourselves,” you warn, “We're not gutting someone's ship until we know that they're too dead to complain about it.” With that, you all unbuckle yourselves and disembark. Your first step on the island is a cautious one, but nothing shifts underfoot and so you proceed normally. Ahead of you, the wreck of the Minotaur waits like an opened grave.

That would make you grave robbers, though, wouldn't it?

[1/2]

>>2186823

Studying the Minotaur for a moment, you work out your approach. The cargo bay is sealed up tight, while the impact has left the emergency exit buckled and likely inaccessible. The observation window is still intact, although so scuffed up that you can barely see through it, and you don't have the artillery required to break a hole in it. That just leaves the viewing deck above the bridge. Just like the Spirit of Helena, the Minotaur has an open air platform set into it, and you can see the door from here. It's hanging ajar, leading down into the depths of the ship. That's your way in, but as you're turning to announce that, Caliban speaks up.

“There's nothing alive in there,” he states simply, indifferently shaking his head.

“Is that your instincts talking, or do you know something that we don't?” you ask as you approach the crashed ship, circling around it until you find a ladder set into one side of the hull. Caliban doesn't answer until you've all clambered up to the viewing deck, and even then his answer is vague.

“Call it a hunch,” he decides, “Maybe something I smell on the wind.”

You can't smell a thing – a few fires here and there, perhaps, but nothing untoward – but you don't put too much faith in that. Caliban is a Nadir sort, they're said to have sharper senses than people like you. Shrugging a little, you draw a revolver and approach the door, hauling it open and descending the stairs. As gloom engulfs you, you can't help but recall your meeting with Sinclair – all of a sudden, you seem to finding a lot of dark, ominous staircases. Allowing yourself a wan smile, you push open the next door you find and turn into the bridge.

Now you can smell something – the rich scent of blood. There are no bodies in sight, but puddles of the red stuff are scattered here and there. Not just puddles, either – a trail leads deeper into the ship. When the others join you, an awkward silence descends.

“I mean...” Keziah begins, “We dinnae know that everyone died.”

“No bullet casings, no signs of gunfire,” Freddy reports, “No signs of combat at all, in fact, other than the blood. I don't think anyone died here – there's not enough blood for that.”

“So, the bridge grew were... what, cut up?” you wonder aloud, “Without putting up any kind of fight?” You leave the question hanging, hoping for someone to offer an answer, but only silence greets you.

“There's a book here,” Caliban announces, holding up a small leather-bound diary before leafing through the pages, “Look like a log of jobs taken. His last job... here. Take a look.” He holds the book out to you, and you take it eagerly.

[2/3]

>>2186860

Your eagerness soon sours and turns to disappointment. You had been hoping for a full, detailed log of what happened here, but perhaps that was foolish of you – was the captain supposed to note down his experiences, even as he was being torn apart? No, that would be asking a little much of him. Settled for what you can get, you read over the latest entry. Starting at Monotia, the captain – Captain Strauss, to be specific – set off on a round trip. On board, he had a group of pilgrims bound for the Palace of Silence, some unnamed trade goods, and one more passenger – a Nadir woman, a traveller. The pilgrims, a small amendment reads, were dropped off at their destination without incidence, while the traveller was due to stay on for the rest of the journey.

Pausing at that last part, you consider it for a moment. It's uncommon, but not unheard of, for a Nadir native to buy passage on an airship in order to see the world from above. Still, you've got a bad feeling about it. It makes you think of the Deep Forest, and the shapeshifting thing you encountered there. If a monster like that is still lurking on the ship...

Snapping the book closed, you turn to the others and explain the situation. They greet this new knowledge with quiet dismay, but no panic or overt fear. “That blood trail goes down, into the guts of the ship,” Keziah muses, “Maybe the engine room, maybe the cargo hold, maybe... ah, blood hell, maybe any number of places. Cannae be sure from here, can we?”

The engine room and the cargo hold – in other words, exactly where you'd need to go to find any good salvage.

“Captain,” Freddy asks, taking a heavy, military-issue flashlight out of her pocket and testing the bulb, “What are your orders?”

>We're searching the ship. We'll work our way down and see what we can find
>We're pulling out. There's no point in searching this wreck
>We're pulling out and blowing the ship. There's something else here, and I want it dead
>Other

>>2186876
>We're searching the ship. We'll work our way down and see what we can find
>Other
"So from your knowledge what kind of bad shit could have this Nadir woman done to these people if she was a witch?"

>>2186876
>We're searching the ship. We'll work our way down and see what we can find
Surely nothing will go wrong. The crew just had an impromptu fight club and went downstairs to sleep is all.

“We're searching the ship,” you announce, “We'll work our way down and see what we can find. Survivors – although I'm not optimistic – or salvage, anything we can carry back with us. Let's take this slowly and carefully, people, I don't want us overlooking anything.” Pausing a moment, you glance across at Keziah and think a question at her. “In your experience, what kind of bad shit could this woman have gotten up to?” you ask her, “Especially if she was a witch?”

“I'm not sure. If she was a witch, we might be able to find something in her cabin – ritual tools or things like that,” she answers carefully, “But speaking generally? It IS possible that she was able to disable them. Paralyse them, put them to sleep, something like that.”

Frowning, you nod and then gesture towards the depths of the ship. “We'll check the crew quarters first,” you announce, “Just to make sure that there's nothing hiding there.”

-

After checking with the logbook to learn where to find the mysterious traveller's room, you move below deck in search of it. The overhead lights are almost completely dark, just barely keeping a struggling glow alive. Freddy's flashlight proves much more effective at cutting through the gloom, and so she leads the way with her pistol at the ready. If anything does attack you she would be the first in line to get it, and she must know that, but she offers no complaint.

“Here,” she declares, lighting up the door number with her flashlight, “Room seven. That was her cabin.” Standing aside, she lets you throw the door open and you both aim your pistols inside it. The room, though, is empty. It's not just that there's nobody inside it, but... the emptiness seems somehow deeper than that. As if it was a vacant room before, and something was removed from it. Sniffing the air, you can just about sense something vague enough to defy proper description – an earthy smell, perhaps, like wet soil.

The bed seems unused, the sheets smooth and uncreased, while no personal effects have been left behind. “It was definitely room seven,” you mutter to yourself, opening a closet and finding it to be as empty as you expected, “This WAS her room.”

“Maybe she spent the trip in the captain's quarters,” Caliban suggests, a hint of amusement in his voice. His revolver is still holstered, but he has a weighty hunting knife held at a deceptively casual stance.

“Definitely no traces of witchcraft,” Keziah thinks at you, “So either she did a damn good job of covering her tracks...”

“...Or we're not dealing with a witch,” you finish for her. “Let's keep moving,” you tell the others aloud, “We'll sweep the other rooms, then move down to the next layer.”

“Aye,” your witch agrees, “That's the engine room.”

[1/2]

>>2186898

Caliban is the real tracker here, but even you can tell when you're looking at a trail. Dripping blood marks out the path towards the engine room, although there's a strange twist to it. The path splits, with one trail leading further down into the cargo hold while the other leads into the engine room. “There were two of them?” you mutter to yourself.

“No, just one,” Caliban corrects you, kneeling down and peering at the trail, “This goes down into the cargo hold, then doubles back and goes into the engine room. You see, how these later drops are far smaller? The flow of blood must have slowed by then.”

“That's what I pay you for,” you tell him with a grim smile, rising to your feet and touching the engine room door. It's ajar – like most of the doors you've found so far – but the hinges are stiff enough to resist a gentle push. When you push harder, the door opens with a squeal of rusty metal and an eerie blue light spills out. Immediately, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your body reacts to the charged air. The engine core has ruptured and the Pleonite core is burning freely, wreathed in a brilliant halo of blue fire.

Silhouetted against that blue light is a human figure, kneeling before the fire and staring into it as convulsions intermittently shudder through its body. When the figure spreads its arms wide, they seem too long, too thin to be entirely human. The surreal scene draws out for a moment more, before a voice breaks the silence.

“Bloody hell...” Keziah whispers, “What is she doin'?”

There's no that her voice should have reached that emaciated human figure, and yet Keziah's words cause it to jolt upright and twist, everything above the waist rotating a half turn before its lower half snaps around – joints folding back on themselves as it goes – to catch up. You catch a glimpse of horribly melted flesh, coloured such as to give the impression of clothing, before the changeling skitters towards you with that loathsome, spider-like gait.

The guts, you recall as you aim the revolver, that's their weak spot – the black lodestone within its stomach.

>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 2, 1 = 3 (2d6)

>>2186936

>>2186939
I probably shouldn't touch dice ever again.

>>2186936

Rolled 3, 1 = 4 (2d6)

>>2186936

>>2186955
>>2186944
You and me both.

Rolled 6, 1 = 7 (2d6)

>>2186936
I got this! Maybe

>>2186961
Maybe not.

>Failure!

“Fire!” you yell, cocking back the hammer on your revolver.

“No!” Keziah wails, “You cannae, not here, not-”

Gunfire cuts her off as the changeling scuttles towards you, rearing up into a standing posture as it closes in. As it lunges towards you with outstretched arms, its head rolls back and splits open to reveal a hideous jaw – a jaw that yawns vertically down the middle of its face, rather than horizontally. Freddy's automatic pistol barks several times, each shots coming so quick after the last that they almost sound like a single blurt of noise, but her shots do nothing more than stun the changeling – she hits it high, right in the centre of its chest. She was probably trained that way, to aim for the largest target possible.

If you had been fighting a normal human, you have no doubt that her training would have served her well – but this isn't a normal human. As it jolts back, you aim lower and fire into its midsection, but this too ends in failure. Your shot pierces through the pulpy flesh and exits the other side, with the wound closing up almost as soon as it has opened up. Cursing aloud, you start to correct your aim – only for the changeling to lunge forwards with a sudden burst of speed. Throwing up an arm, you feel those awful teeth – strangely rubbery things, as if they were still partially unformed – closing around the thick sleeve of your coat.

Caliban lunges before the beast can do anything more than gnaw on you a little, slashing out with his hunting knife and cleaving off the changeling's lower jaw. Grunting, you shove it backwards and fire repeatedly into its body. Most of your shots push it back and stagger it, but one of them punches straight through it and sparks against the tangled machinery behind you. When that eerie blue light flares to a new intensity, you realise why Keziah warned you not to fire.

“Shit! We've gotta run!” Keziah screams, grabbing your arm, “She's unstable, I tried to... she'll explode!”

“You heard her, RUN!” you shout, pushing Caliban back out the engine room door, “Forget the cargo, there's no time for that. There's no time for... just RUN!”

There's no argument. Freddy is the last one out of the engine room, turning as she flees to fire one last burst into the changeling's leg, cutting it down to slow its pursuit.

-

Metal clanks underfoot as you sprint through the Minotaur's corridors, deliriously thanking the late Captain Strauss for flying a small, neatly laid out ship. No maze of corridors here, and that might be what saves your life. Stairs clatter as you reach the bridge and throw yourself around the next corner, racing up onto the viewing deck. This time around, there's no time for carefully climbing down the ladder.

This time, you have to jump.

[1/2]

>>2186997

Your entire body cries out as you hit the hard ground, but there's no time to let something like that hinder you. Scrabbling to your feet, you haul Keziah up and race towards the Eliza, with Caliban and Freddy following close behind. The Minotaur shudders like a dying beast, with blue mist starting to seep out from the cracked hull. It won't be long now, you realise as you collapse down into the seat. Freddy is starting the engines with a hard look of concentration on her face, and that's when-

And that's when the Minotaur explodes, seeming to swell up for one brief moment before it is torn apart from within by a blinding flare of light. The Eliza is shunted back, and then... and then down, as the unstable island finally gives up and begins to crumble beneath you. As you fumble with the buckles of your safety harness, the ground gives way completely and, once again, you enter free fall.

The Eliza shudders as it falls, only slowing as her engines finally fire. Jerking at the skiff's controls, Freddy jinks back and forth between floating rubble, guiding your fall until the engines are finally warmed up. Pulling back, Freddy levels the Eliza out and holds her steady for a brief moment before throwing her forwards, back towards the Spirit of Helena.

Now that you're out of the immediate danger, you notice that your fingers are white knuckle tight, ragged nails digging into the seat's leather armrests.

-

Feeling as though your body is one giant bruise, you slump back into your seat on the Helena's bridge. Blessings sits pale and silent in the seat next to you, and he doesn't quite seem to understand what just happened. Apparently, the Minotaur's destruction was violent enough to rattle the Spirit of Helena herself – but, true to his word, he didn't touch the controls. As you groan and straighten up, gripping the controls, he finally shakes off his silence.

“Um,” he begins, “What... happened?”

“Her Pleonite core was damaged. They need to be handled with care, those things. Serious damage can leave them... prone to detonation,” you sigh, “And... I shot it. Not deliberately, mind you.”

“No, of course not,” the boy agrees, nodding slowly, “So, you mean, the Spirit of Helena could just... explode?”

“You mean, on its own? No, that almost never happens,” you assure him, “Now, if we crashed or took a few nasty shots from hostile ships... that's different. That's why we have shields, so we don't get shot, and good pilots, so that we don't crash.” Shaking your head – and wincing as it sends a wave of pain through your body – you set the Helena into motion and slowly guide her towards the edge of the Drift.

[2/3]

>>2187070
>No, that almost never happens
I think we jinxed it.

>>2187070

Firebase Omega might have been the closest aerodrome, but it's far from the friendliest one. Still, the Iraklin fortress is willing to give you permission to land, and you need to check over the Spirit of Helena for any damage. There's nothing seriously damaged – you'd be able to tell if there was, just from how she flies – but even a minor flaw can prove disastrous later. So, you ordered Keziah to take inspect the ship and she happily obeyed – she feels guilty, you think, perhaps for not mentioning the unstable core earlier.

It's not her fault, not really, but you're still brooding over the lost cargo. Maybe it was nothing, but it just as easily could have been worth a small fortune. Grunting sullenly to yourself, you pour a glass of strong wine and lift it to your lips, only for a knock at your cabin door to interrupt your drinking. When the knock isn't immediately followed by the door opening, you realise that it's not Keziah.

Freddy answers your greeting, entering and standing at attention until you wave at an empty seat. “Hell of a first mission,” you announce, draining the cup of wine, “But I guess you passed the test. You didn't crash.”

“No, I didn't,” she agrees, pausing a moment before continuing, “Captain, the storm... I'd like a chance to explain myself.”

“To make your excuses, you mean?” you correct her, refilling your cup of wine before grudgingly filling a second and pushing it across the desk towards her.

“No. I won't make any excuses. The fault WAS mine,” Freddy replies, shaking her head a little, “The storm came on faster than any I've ever seen before. I was under orders to deliver those documents to Reichstag as soon as possible, and that's what I aimed to do. I was approximately halfway through the cloud layer when the lightning hit. I should have flown faster, or taken a steeper angle of ascent, or turned back. I should have done something differently, but I didn't – so, as I said, the fault was mine. I accept that, and I have to learn from this. I think that working for you will be... good for me. To that end, I'd like to thank you for this opportunity.”

She was probably thinking up that speech for a long time, but you're too exhausted to give it much of a response. “Okay,” you tell her, “That's good to hear... I think.”

Nodding slightly, Freddy finally reaches out to take the cup of wine. As she reaches out for it, she glances aside at your chalkboard and pauses. “The Vault of the Sun,” she reads, “Captain, can I ask what this is about?”

>I'm chasing after a treasure. Maybe you can help me with it...
>Don't ask. Forget what you just read – that's an order
>Other

>>2187159
>I'm chasing after a treasure. Maybe you can help me with it...
Just don't mention any weapons. Or how much treasure, exactly.

>>2187159
>I'm chasing after a treasure. Maybe you can help me with it...
"It's still a work in progress. Getting bits and pieces of clues as we find work."

>>2187159
>I'm chasing after a treasure. Maybe you can help me with it...

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

83 KB JPG

Sighing, you drain your second cup and rub your aching brow. With all the excitement, you forgot about the chalkboard. It might help you think, but having your plans written up on a wall for all to see... well, maybe that's not the most discrete way to handle things. Still, she's seen this much and she'll probably see more before too long. You might as well see if she can help at all.

“I'm chasing after a treasure. Pretty standard Free Captain stuff, and it's still a work in progress,” you begin, “We're working on finding clues and information. Maybe you can help.” Taking Miriam's diary out of the locked desk – this, at least, you don't leave out in the open – you flick though the pages until you find the poetic intructions that Maeve's daemon gave you. “A shrine to man's chosen god, War,” you quote, “Does that sound like anywhere you know?”

Freddy thinks for a moment, looking down into her cup of wine as she considers your words. “Odyssey Point,” she answers eventually, “Do you know of it? It's a military academy, a training ground for elite groups and a testing site for new weapons. I visited it once, as a... a cultural site.” The idea seems a strange one to her, causing a small smile to form on her lips. “As a people, we're not really religious,” she adds, “But we have a certain... affinity for martial prowess. Training, discipline, hierarchies – these are the things that we value above all else, and Odyssey Point celebrates those.”

Nodding slowly, you think about her suggestion. It does seem plausible, although you're not convinced yet. There must be dozens of other sites in Iraklis that celebrate war. “Is that it?” you press, “Set aside facts and logic for a moment – have you heard any rumours about it?”

“Rumours? Yes – I was a messenger for a time, and I heard things. Odyssey Point is supposed to be where our forces send... unidentified items recovered from Nadir. I'm told that the Carths lock them away in their churches and cathedrals, but we keep them at Odyssey Point,” she hesitates a moment before sipping her wine, “At least, that's what I've heard. This treasure you're looking for, then – it comes from Nadir?”

“It comes from all over,” you answer vaguely, “That's why this is a work in progress.”

“I see. That does sound quite difficult,” Freddy takes another tentative drink, frowning a little as if she's not used to wine, “I'll think on this, captain, to see if anything else comes to mind.”

“Do so,” you order, rising stiffly from your seat and chalking your new information onto the board, “But be careful. I'm trying to keep this from becoming common knowledge.”

“Understood, captain,” she promises, “I'll be discrete.”

Somehow, that doesn't reassure you.

[1/2]

>>2187243

“You know, if you're right about this, my job just got a whole lot harder,” you point out after a moment, dropping the stick of chalk and wiping your hands on your trousers, “Breaking into what is probably a high security vault in an Iraklin military base isn't going to be an easy task.”

“No, it wouldn't be,” Freddy agrees, “If you even approached it without the proper authorisation, you risk being shot down. The defences are always live, always prepared for a Carth attack.”

She's not wrong there. You've heard plenty of Free Captains complaining about having to take diversions around the area – for some, the idea of blocking off an area of airspace is a borderline insult. Sinclair was always like that, and it seems that time hasn't softened his stance. If anything, time has tempered his grudge into a bare blade, while your own resentment has dulled over the years. It's still there, and it probably always will be, but that's something you've just got to live with.

“Boss, we're finished inspecting the hull,” Keziah thinks to you, “No damage, although the paintwork is looking pretty rough and she's grimy as hell. She's got... character now.”

“Right...” you mutter, causing Freddy to look around at you in confusion as you, so far as she knows, speak to yourself. “You're dismissed,” you tell her, waving your empty cup in her direction, “Go and... do whatever you do to relax. You've earned that much.”

“Yes captain,” she replies, visibly fighting the urge to salute, “I'll check over the Eliza, make sure that it... that she's in good shape.”

So much for relaxation.

>I think I'm just going to pause things here, I've hit a bit of a wall. I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions I'll answer them if I can
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today, and I apologise for the delays!

>>2187301
Thanks for running!

But really, stopping now? I just got home, I don't have to post from traffic anymore!

>>2187301
Thanks for running.

>>2187313

Don't post in traffic, that sounds incredibly dangerous!
But really, I've got a stinking headache and it's getting in the way of things.

>>2187301
Thanks for running!
How long until Freddy snitches on us to Iraklins? We did just mention breaking into an important ideological monument of her country.

>>2187633

You should have more trust in her! Snitching on us would be a really good way for her to lose her new job, and who wants to be fired twice in such a short space of time?

>>2187688
Blessings mom isn't a Church spy, is she? Also will we have another chance to look into the Minotaur?

> MFW a bad result destroys it.

Damn it. We need 2lrnEngines

>>2187724

Penelope? She sits somewhere between "bored socialite" and "concerned mother", so... probably nothing to worry about, unless she decides to start spreading nasty gossip.
As for the Minotaur, we might be able to investigate it a little, but I can't really guarantee that there would be much to find. Just in the interests of fair play, though, I can confirm that there was nothing irreplaceable on board.

File: Map.jpg (1.23 MB, 2164x3648)

1.23 MB JPG

The Mountain of Faith has always been many things to many people. A sacred site for some, a military objective for others. An enigma just waiting to be unravelled, and a treasure trove ripe for plundering. Right now, as you stare up at the Mountain, your goal has never seemed so distant and fanciful. Lines of lanterns mark out the uppermost border, the altitude that no airship has ever broken, and you find yourself wondering if you'll be the one to pass that lofty point. Maybe. Maybe not.

Behind you, the elevator grinds away with its normal inelegance, but you pay it no mind. This is a public viewing platform, grudgingly installed by the Iraklins, and the elevator often brings its cargo of travellers to do just what you're doing now, looking up at the Mountain and thinking their own, individual thoughts.

“Hey, boss,” Keziah greets you quietly, “Had a feelin' that I might find you here.”

“Oh yeah?” you reply, peering out over the darkening sky in search of her familiar, “Did a little bird tell you?”

“Nah, he didnae. I just guessed,” she corrects you, standing beside you at the railing and sighing, “I just thought to myself, “I bet Milos is out lookin' at the Mountain”, and here you are. Looks like I know you pretty well, huh?” A hushed laugh escapes her, as if proximity to the Mountain of Faith has done the impossible and dampened her usual cheer. “I'm sorry about the mission. I fucked it right up,” she admits, “I wasnae thinkin' about the reactor, not until... well, you ken what happened just as well as I do.”

“We all got out alive, and the Helena is undamaged,” you tell her with a carefully neutral shrug, “And you know what salvage rights are like.”

“Aye, we probably would have ended up with a load of old shite anyway,” Kezah chuckles, “Then we'd have it sittin' around and takin' up space, makin' a mess of your nice clean ship. That's no way of runnin' things!”

“That's rich, coming from you – unless you've cleaned up your quarters since I last saw them, which I doubt,” this time, you're the one to chuckle as she shuffles in place and fumbles for some rebuttal. When none comes to mind, Keziah pouts and slumps over the railings. “That's our target, way up there,” you continue, breaking the silence before it can turn sour, “You ready to spend your share of the treasure?”

“Hard to say. I dinnae really ken what I'd do with the money,” she decides after thinking for a moment, “I reckon I'm more in this for the spirit of adventure, all that good stuff. So, boss, what about you? What would you spend it on?”

“I've not actually thought about that yet,” you confess, “Maybe I'd buy back the old family estate. Although, I've never really been one to settle down and live a quiet life.”

“Just never found the right person, I reckon,” Keziah suggests, “Hey...”

[1/2]

>>2189561

“Captain!” Cammy calls out, “I've been looking for you!”

An ugly cloud of anger, as thorny as a rosebush, hits you as Cammy hurries over, and it takes you a moment to realise that it didn't come from your own thoughts. Some of Keziah's thoughts, her feelings, spilling over into you – another unexpected side-effect of your “bond”. Shaking off the curious sensation, you give Cammy a nod. “Don't worry, I wasn't going to vanish off again,” you assure her, “What's the problem?”

“No problem, captain, but the crew were getting a little curious. What's our next destination?” she pauses a moment, taking an unlit cigarette out from her mouth before continuing, “Only, I know that a couple of the men wanted to stop by Salim at some point, see how Captain Mahdi is healing up...”

It's a reminder, and not a very subtle one, that you'll be losing some of your crew as soon as young Tobias is back on his feet. Wincing a little, you nod again. “I'm still planning our next move, so that might be possible,” you tell her, “You can let the crew know that.”

“Thank you, captain,” Cammy replies, swiftly turning and hurrying back to the elevator to share the news.

“Salim, huh?” you muse, “I could talk to my lawyer while we're there...”

“Oh, aye?” Keziah asks, “You in some trouble, boss?”

“Not yet. No, he's a smart guy – probably one of the most educated people I know. He might be able to help with some of this diary stuff,” sighing, you lean back against the railing and think for a moment, “It's not like we've got a lot of other leads. The museum in Pastona, and... hell, I could even see if Morey knows anything. The old fiend collects rumours and secrets like an attic collects spiderwebs. He might be able to track down... what was that name?”

“Barrow Jackson,” the witch offers, “I think.”

“Yeah, him. Morey knows people,” a shudder runs through you, “Although I'd sooner not go to Morey asking for a favour...”

“Aye, I dinnae blame you for that. I've heard some nasty wee stories about him,” Keziah agrees, “Some folks say that he's got a third arm – this wee shrunken thing he keeps strapped to his chest, that's why he looks so fat!”

Silence descends as you process this information. “That IS nasty,” you say with a slow nod, “But I don't see what it has to do with asking favours.”

“Oh, well, nothin' really,” she explains with a shrug, “Just forget about it. Anyway, like Cammy said, you got an idea of our next destination?”

>Salim. We can visit Tobias and see what we can find out there
>Pastona. I'll see what I can learn at the museum
>Monotia. Like it or not, Morey might have information we need
>Other

>>2189564
>Salim. We can visit Tobias and see what we can find out there
Plus we can ditch his losers and replace them with our winners.

>>2189564
>Pastona. I'll see what I can learn at the museum

Sorry im late.

>>2189564
>Salim. We can visit Tobias and see what we can find out there

>>2189566
Also screw you I'm going to miss Hanson and Cammy.

“Salim sounds like a good bet,” you decide, “We can visit Tobias, and see what else we can find out there. If we can't find anything useful... well, we can move onto Pastona and try our luck there. It won't hurt to start sourcing some new crew, either, since our current lot won't be around forever.” It won't be too difficult to recruit common crewmen – assistants, general labourers, the sort of busy hands that a ship needs to keep running smoothly – but you're all too aware that sourcing an artilleryman might be harder. That's the sort of job that needs training – or natural talent, like Gunny had back in the day.

“Aye, Salim. I'll let the others know,” Keziah gives you a bright nod and starts off towards the elevator, “Dinnae stay out too long, boss, or you might get in trouble again!”

“Hey, wait,” you call out to her, “Before Cammy showed up, you started to ask me something. What was it?”

“Oh, aye. Nothin' important,” she explains, shaking her head quickly, “I was just wonderin' how your arm was healin' up. You might want to change that dressin' later, make sure it stays nice and clean, like.” Having said this, Keziah gestures vaguely back towards the elevator and finishes her escape. Letting her flee off into the night, you turn and look back up at the Mountain of Faith. High above you, that border of lanterns taunts you.

“Just you wait,” you whisper, making a promise to the night, “I'm coming.”

-

That night, you dream of fire. Not the blue fire of a healthy engine, either, but the hungry red and yellow fires of disaster. With twisted metal pinning your limbs down you lie in the middle of a ring of fire, one that slowly closes around you like a noose. Without any help, it won't be long before the flames tire of lapping at the ruins that surround you – the ruins of a downed airship – and move onto your flesh. It is then, in your dream, that the flames part and a figure strolls closer.

Albert Sinclair Fortuin approaches you, looking down at you with dead and glassy eyes for a moment before turning, turning his back on you and leaving you to your fate.

You can feel the fires now, and oh they are hot.

-

“Are you feeling unwell, captain?” Blessings asks as you carefully guide the Spirit of Helena away from Firebase Omega, “You look... pale.”

“I didn't sleep well,” you grunt, “Bad dreams.”

“Oh,” your blunt tone gives Blessings a moment of pause, although he soon bounces back, “I think the open skies will do you good! I mean... what I mean to say is, flying will give you something to concentrate on, so that you don't need to worry about anything else!”

His optimism does little to lift your mood, but at least you manage to stop yourself from snapping at the boy. Whatever else you can say about him, his heart is in the right place.

[1/2]

>>2189588

Flying does soothe your nerves a little, and by the time you announce your destination over the radio you're feeling just about back to normal. As you're descending down through the light, feathery clouds that separate Zenith and Azimuth, the bridge door opens and Freddy enters. Lingering at the entrance, she gazes out of the main window for a silent moment before speaking up.

“Strange place, Salim,” she begins, “I've been there several times, usually on business. I can't work out how people live like that.”

You're not surprised – in many ways, Salim is the exact opposite of Reichstag. The old capital of Carthul, before the Church of Rising Light came to power and moved the government to Sol Carthul, Salim has taken on a reputation for being an artist's city, a bohemian paradise. To a practical, pragmatic Iraklin, it must seen like a city of fools – too much whimsy, and not enough productivity. “I'm sure they feel the same way about some of your cities,” you point out, “Anyway, we probably won't be staying that long.”

“Captain, you use a revolver, don't you?” Freddy asks, “I know an excellent gunsmith who specialises in revolvers. Albright... no, Albrecht. Master Albrecht. He has a shop in the craftsman's quarter, if you were thinking of talking a look around. It should be easy to find, but I could show you the way if you like. I remember his shop fairly well – I delivered several packages for him, back when I was a courier.”

“Master Albrecht, craftsman's quarter,” you repeat, “I'll keep that in mind.” You wait to see if Freddy has anything else to say, but she simply leaves the bridge – like any good courier, she doesn't linger around once she's delivered her message. Shrugging silently to yourself, you tune the radio to Salazar's frequency and give your name to the androgynous secretary. Soon, the old man himself comes on the line. “I'm going to be in town today,” you tell him, “I can't guarantee that I'll have time to visit, though. What's your schedule looking like?”

“Almost entirely clear, my boy. I'm positively falling asleep with boredom!” he laughs, “So feel free to drop by whenever you like, we can have a nice talk about the old days – or the future, if you prefer.”

“We'll see,” you conclude, stopping short of actually promising anything.

-

Once you've landed at the Salim aerodrome, you linger on the bridge for a moment more and think. A knock interrupts your unfocused thoughts, and Hanson lets himself in. “We were heading out to the hospital, to see Captain Mahdi,” he says, without bother to explain who “we” meant, “Feel like coming along?”

>Sure. It'll be nice to see how he's doing
>Maybe later. I've got other things on my plate right now
>Other

>>2189603
>Sure. It'll be nice to see how he's doing

>>2189603
>Sure. It'll be nice to see how he's doing

Does anyone else want to limit our meetings with Salazar? Feels like the more time we spend with him the easier it'll be for others to connect the dots.

>>2189607
Officially he is our lawyer so visiting should be fine. Probably shouldn't be publicly chummy though.

>>2189603
>Sure. It'll be nice to see how he's doing

>>2189603
>>Sure. It'll be nice to see how he's doing

>>2189607
Eh, I kinda want to ask him to track down Gunny.

And I'm wondering when we're going to pick up the Jailbait.

>>2189603
>Sure. It'll be nice to see how he's doing

“Sure, it'll be nice to see how he's doing,” you decide, heaving yourself out of your seat and stretching the stiffness out of your shoulders, “Do you know where to find him?”

“Saint Serena's ward,” Hanson answers, offering a wry smile as he gives you the name, “I just hope they'll let a dog like me in – I might scare some of the weaker patients to death.” With a hollow chuckle, he gestures towards the door and strolls out. As you follow him, he glances around to you. “Bad luck about the Minotaur,” he adds, with a suggestive weight in his voice, “But there will be other jobs.”

Meaning, one specific job. “There's always work that needs doing,” you reply, not taking the bait, “I'm sure you'll be back with Tobias soon, taking some of that work onto your own shoulders.”

“I'm sure,” he agrees, smiling a little at your answer.

-

Cammy seems to know the way to Saint Serena's well enough, and all you have to do is follow in her wake – trying not to get too caught up in the cloud of cigarette smoke that trails after her. She talks as she leads you through the city, and it's like travelling with an indifferent tour guide. Some landmarks get barely a mention, while others are favoured with more detailed stories. That said, you're not entirely sure how true most of those stories are – she almost seems like she's making them up as she goes along.

“Anyway, that's our place there,” she concludes, gesturing towards a tall building. The hospital has an air of antiquity about it, reminding you that this city is far older than the “modern” Carthul. Beneath the gloss and gilt, you can still make out hints of a grimmer, gloomier style that would seem more at home in Iraklis. Shaking off your uneasy first impressions – an unease that you can't explain – you enter the hospital. Hanson hesitates for a brief moment before crossing the threshold, but it seemed like an involuntary pause – something that he himself was unaware of.

Tobias has a private room, apparently, on one of the higher floors. A smooth, quiet elevator delivers you out into the ward, although it looks more like a museum or a palace than a place of healing. Catching your expression, Cammy shrugs. “They don't handle emergency medicine here,” she explains, “This is more... long term care, I guess. Peace and quiet, isolation, gentle rehabilitation.”

“Not like the hospitals they have down in Monotia,” Hanson adds with a smirk, “I spent some time in one once. I think it doubled as an abattoir. It certainly looked the part.”

“Yuck,” Cammy mutters, “Remind me never to get sick when we're down in Nadir.”

“What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger,” he replies with a cool shrug, “That's the Nadir way.”

[1/2]

>>2189635

When you enter Tobias' room, the silence – or rather, the impression of silence – is so great that you can barely bring yourself to speak, and your companions are much the same. His room is not large, but the pristine emptiness of it makes it seem larger than it should be. Polished tiles lie underfoot, while the walls are panelled in bleached wood. The bedsheets are white, and so are the crisp drapes that whisper at the large, open window. Noises from outside drift through that window, but distance gives them a strangely muffled feel – that impression of silence rearing its head again.

Tobias himself stands at that window, leaning out with a stout walking stick resting by his side. He looks... smaller. Shrunken, somehow diminished since you last saw him. It's absurd, but you can't shake the feeling that you're not looking at a living thing. Instead, a spirit or some bloodless corpse has replaced the young captain.

Then Cammy calls out a hushed greeting, and the surreal illusion bursts like a soap bubble. Tobias carefully turns around, bracing himself against the windowsill, and his face is stirred by a weak smile at the sight of you.

-

“It's actually quite a bother,” Tobias confesses later, after he's rung a small bell to summon tea for you all, “The care here is excellent, it really is, but I feel like a bird in a cage. I want to be out there again, flying and seeing the world!”

“How much longer are you due to be in for?” you ask, dimly aware that it sounds as though you're describing a prison sentence.

“Oh, a week or so. I was given a date, but I've forgotten it now. The days sort of... run into one another here,” taking a sip of his tea, Tobias looks down into the delicate cup as he thinks more carefully about the future, “I suppose that I could discharge myself, but that would be... uncouth. I'm told that Miss Hawthorn – Penelope, I mean – gave the church a significant donation to thank them for my treatment. I don't want to appear ungrateful by just... walking out.”

“Limping out,” Hanson jokes, nodding towards the walking stick.

“Yes, well, I'm told that I might need that for a long time to come. Maybe until the day I die,” Tobias wilts a little at the thought, “But I'll just have to accept that. My physician said that I could have lost all use of the leg if I had been a little less lucky. That puts things in perspective.”

You all nod solemnly. Inwardly, you feel the urge to groan at how awkward and stilted the mood has become. Maybe it's this place, the oppressive silence weighing down on you and stifling any attempt at a “natural” conversation.

>Try to brighten the mood by telling Tobias about some of the work you've been doing
>Make polite conversation until your visit is over
>Make an excuse and leave
>Other

>>2189659
>Try to brighten the mood by telling Tobias about some of the work you've been doing
Restart of our Free Captain career and we've been fighting more changelings on the ground than flying.

>>2189659
>Try to brighten the mood by telling Tobias about some of the work you've been doing

He can laugh at how we blew the Minotaur mission.

>>2189659
>Try to brighten the mood by telling Tobias about some of the work you've been doing

Truly nothing inspires wanderlust and awe like a good ol' mythical forest demon hunting you down.

“Speaking of losing a leg, that reminds me. Hanson, Cammy, you remember that Deep Forest job, don't you?” you begin, plucking a topic off the top of your head in an attempt at brightening the mood, “Professor... Estheim, that was it! He went missing, you see, and we were hired to find him. Well, he was in a pretty bad shape when we found him, but we brought him out alive. Not the best job I've ever done, but the pay was decent enough. Shame about the professor's leg, though – the natives cut it off.”

“Ah...” Tobias, paling a little, looks down into his teacup, “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

You're not very good at this sympathy thing. “Well, what I mean is, life goes on. Professor Estheim survived, and he's still doing his work,” you explain, “Even if you did lose the leg, your life wouldn't have ended there and then.”

“Captain?” Cammy says, shooting you a look that is both irritated and amused, “You're an arse.”

Before you can reply to that, Tobias chuckles. “No, he's got a point,” the young captain decides, “I understand that you know a thing or two about loss, Captain Vaandemere. The Annexation War...”

“Well, I've had a more recent loss than that,” you interrupt, cutting him off before you can get into that unwelcome topic, “Just yesterday, we got salvage rights for the Minotaur but we weren't able to get anything valuable out of her. The core was unstable, and... well, things got a little out of hand, and it ended up detonating. So much for that!”

“So I guess you'd say that we've not been having the best of luck lately,” Hanson agrees, “In fact, we seem to spend more time stomping around in the mud than flying, these days. If I didn't know any better, Captain Vaandemere, I'd say that you were worried about getting the Helena damaged.”

“Hey, that's not fair,” you protest, inwardly sighing with relief as the mood lightens, “If there were pirates causing trouble around here – ideally pirates with fat bounties on their heads – I'd be the first one out there hunting them down. Business has been a little slow lately, that's all.”

“Pirates? I don't know about a bounty, but I did hear some of the nurses mentioning something about a pirate airship,” Tobias muses, “I don't know if they've caused any deaths yet, but some pilgrim ships have been robbed and threatened. That might be a spot of business for you, Captain Vaandemere.”

“Maybe so, maybe so,” you agree slowly, setting your teacup aside and rising to your feet, “Excuse me one moment, I need a breath of fresh air. You three can talk about me behind my back, if you want.”

“Oh, well,” Hanson chuckles, “Now that you're giving us permission...”

[1/2]

>>2189690

Crossing over to the window, you lean out and look across the city. “Keziah,” you think to yourself, “Can you hear me?”

“You're a little quiet,” the reply comes, “Can you think a little louder?”

You have no idea if she's joking or not, but you put a little extra emphasis into your thoughts nonetheless. “I've heard about some pirates causing trouble around these parts,” you tell her, “Can you take a look around and see if an official bounty has been posted yet? The Guild would have all the details if there was, wouldn't they?”

“Right. I'll go now,” she confirms, “Anything else you want while I'm running errands?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” you think, “But I can always bother you later if I remember something else.” A faint feeling of amusement, tempered with exasperation, answers that, but Keziah offers nothing else in response.

-

A short while after you finish your silent conversation, a nurse arrives to chase you out. She does it politely, with a mention of visiting hours and necessary rest, but you know when you're being thrown out. It's all the same routine, whether it's a bar or a hospital. Accepting your fate with good grace, you promise Tobias that he'll have his crew back in due time and head out. As you're riding the elevator back down to the ground level, you hear Keziah's voice brushing against your thoughts.

“I asked around,” she begins, skipping the idle talk, “But an official bounty hasn't been posted yet. From what I gathered, there isn't likely to be one either – not until someone dies, at least. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Don't worry about it,” you reply, hiding a frown, “And thanks for checking it out.”

“So, captain, what are your plans now?” Cammy asks, “We were going to get something to eat, maybe see the sights a little.”

“I'm not sure yet,” you admit, “I might go looking for a lawyer, do you know where I'd one?”

“Try kicking over a rotten log and seeing what scuttles out from underneath,” Hanson grunts as the elevator doors rattle open, “Or the scholar's quarter, that's your best bet. Salim isn't a complicated city, so you should be able to find the way easily enough.” He doesn't question why you need a lawyer, but that's not such an unusual thing for a Free Captain to ask about – after all, Miriam hired Salazar to handle her affairs, and your father was no different.

So, your next move...

>Head to the scholar's quarter and look for Salazar's office
>Head to the craftsman's quarter and look for that gunsmith
>Have Freddy show you the way to the gunsmith
>Other

>>2189711
>>Have Freddy show you the way to the gunsmith
No rush to get to Salazar after all.

>>2189711
>Head to the scholar's quarter and look for Salazar's office

>>2189711
>Head to the craftsman's quarter and look for that gunsmith
This intrigues me.

>>2189711
>Have Freddy show you the way to the gunsmith

>>2189711
>Have Freddy show you the way to the gunsmith

We should interact with our crew whenever possible, helps building loyalty and all that jazz.

Salazar said that his office was open all day, you recall, and that gunsmith has you curious. It must have been something special if Freddy thought to mention it – the Iraklins take their weapons seriously, after all. Now that you think about it, she might have mentioned it as a hint – a suggestion that she might like to visit it as well. On the other hand that would require subtlety, so...

Well, she offered to lead the way so you might as well take her up on that offer – if nothing else, you have a nasty habit of getting lost in cities like these.

-

Back at the Spirit of Helena, you head down to Freddy's quarters and knock on the door, entering when she calls out a greeting. Compared with how Keziah and Blessings have treated their quarters, Freddy's room is neat and tidy. A rifle lies across the desk with a toolbox next to it, while a small set of free weights sits next to the bed. Rounding out her meagre possessions is a single row of books – military history, weapon maintenance, and... a few trashy romance novels When Freddy notices where you're looking, she pales a little.

“Captain?” she asks, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“That gunsmith you mentioned,” you reply, tearing your gaze away from the books, “Could you show me the way?”

“I can do that, yes,” Freddy assures you, grabbing her padded pilot's jacket up from the bed, “Now?” There's almost a note of pleading in her voice, as if she can't wait to be out of here.

“Now,” you agree, watching as her shoulders slump with relief.

-

You don't talk much as you walk through the streets of Salim together, but the air isn't really uncomfortable. Just... quiet. Salim itself is a scenic place, and you belatedly consider that it wouldn't be unpleasant to get lost here. Just wandering around with no real destination could be quite nice, in fact. Shrugging the thought off, you glance across to Freddy. “So this gunsmith,” you ask her, “Who buys their stuff?”

“Rich people,” she answers simply, “Actually... a surprising number of Iraklins buy from them, especially the nobility. Master Albrecht is very good at his job, after all – he would have to be, for the great and good of Iraklin society to buy from a...” Cutting herself short, she frowns at her own words. “Pardon me, captain,” she adds, “I spoke out of turn. Suffice to say, Master Albrecht comes highly recommended.”

“So it would seem,” you agree, following her as she leads you around a corner. Above you, an iron sign bears the insignia of two crossed pistols. Nodding ahead of you, Freddy points out the shop in question – innocently placed between a maker of candlesticks and a tailor.

[1/2]

>>2189754

The gunsmith seems divided up into two sections – the overly ornate duelling pistols on one side of the shop, and the simple, but excellently made revolvers on the other. Freddy smiles faintly to herself as she looks over the display of duelling pistols, while you start to browse the revolvers. Even at a glance, the quality of the machining is obvious – the sights are precise without being hard to read, while the parts have been handmade to exacting specifications. As you browse, an elderly man emerges from the back of the shop and approaches you.

“Miss Lhaus, a pleasure to see you again,” the old man – Master Albrecht – says, “How are your parents? Your brother?”

Freddy stiffens. “They are well,” she replies carefully, “I'm afraid that we've not spoken in some time. My... my job keeps me very busy.”

“Indeed? A shame,” Albrecht sighs, shaking his head before approaching you, “And you, sir, I don't know. Are you Fredrika's...”

“Her employer,” you finish for him, “Captain Milos Vaandemere.” Shaking his hand, and finding his grip to be firm and confident, you gesture to the revolvers. One in particular catches your eye, with the grey sheen of good steel rousing a powerful sense of desire within you. “These are excellent pieces,” you continue, “How do they stand up to... practical usage? I might be in the market for a new weapon, but I need something that can survive real world conditions.”

“The target models over there, I wouldn't recommend subjecting them to any rough treatment,” Albrecht explains gently, “But the revolvers are guaranteed to perform under even the most stressful of circumstances. So long as you don't drop them from the Mountain of Faith, these guns will outlive you – and perhaps your children.” Lifting the revolver out of its cradle, Albrecht hands it across to you.

Taking it carefully, you peer down the long barrel. It's definitely a good piece, and it would be an asset in a fight. Nodding slowly, you hand the weapon back to Albrecht as if it was a religious relic.

“Would you be interested in purchasing it?” the old man asks, “The price, I'm afraid, is... not small.”

Craftsman's revolver: +1 to dice rolls for revolver attacks
Cost: 1 Funds
Current Funds: 2 Funds

>Purchase the craftsman's revolver
>Do not purchase the revolver

>>2189789
>Purchase the craftsman's revolver
Sure why not. We are here anyways and a +1 on 2d6 is pretty substantial.

>>2189789
>>Purchase the craftsman's revolver

>>2189789
>Do not purchase the revolver
Gee guys that's pretty pricey. I'd like more of a money buffer first.

>>2189789
>Purchase the craftsman's revolver

Yeah after our last adventure with the changeling we need anything we can get.

It's with some amusement that you consider the revolver. For roughly the same price as a single revolver, you could see the Spirit of Helena outfitted with a set of missile tubes. That said, missile tubes wouldn't do you much good if you come face to face with a murderous barbarian or some other inhuman creature of Nadir. This revolver might well make the difference. You can always earn more money... somehow.

“I'll take it,” you decide, seeing the corners of the old man's mouth lift in a restrained smile, “Do you take letters of credit?”

Current Funds: 1

“By all means,” Albrecht confirms, heading back towards the counter, “This model comes with a wooden display case and a tailored holster, both included in the price.” Setting the revolver down on a velvet pillow, the old gunsmith takes out a blank letter of credit and starts to fill in the required details – all you need to do is sign it. “One moment please,” he adds, before calling out to some assistant, “Mister Hotchkiss? Could you bring out a number eight display case and holster please?”

Your hand, still clutching the pen, freezes in mid-air. That name...

“Excuse me,” you ask, “Did you just say “Hotchkiss?” Is he your assistant?”

“Yes. A good young man, I hired him... oh, a few years back,” Albrecht purses his lips in thought, “Garth, I think his name was, or was it...”

Before he can finish that, the assistant himself emerges from the back of the shop with a wooden case tucked under one arm. He's hardly a “young man”, as Albrecht described him, but his face still retains a sense of youthful energy that might explain the difference. Even at a glance, you recognise his face – after all, it's a face that you came to know well in your time together. “Gregor!” you hear yourself blurt out.

“Gregor, that was it!” Albrecht agrees, “But how did you-”

“Milos, brother, is that you?” Gregor “Gunny” Hotchkiss gasps, almost dropping the wooden case, “You... here... I don't...” Blinking away his amazement, he turns to his employer. “Boss, I wouldn't ask if this wasn't important, but I'll need to take my break early today,” he begs, gesturing towards you, “He's an old friend, from way back, and we... we've got a lot of catching up to do!”

You're still too amazed to say anything, but Albrecht sighs. “I dare say that we won't be seeing many customers today. I have a gut feeling about that,” he concedes, “Go on, take the rest of the day off. I can see that this is important to you.”

“You're a good man, boss,” Gunny breathes, reaching across the counter to slap you roughly on the arm, “C'mon, brother, let's get a drink. I know a place.”

That's so typically Gunny – he always knows a place.

[1/2]

>>2189810
ok I guess the revolver was worth it after all

>>2189810

But the place that Gunny had in mind is not the kind that you had been expecting. A quiet, sophisticated cafe is a world apart from the dirty bars and dangerous pubs that you used to trawl through as younger men. Looking down into your cup of delicately perfumed tea, you can't help but wonder if this is all a mad dream. It seems so... so unlikely. Finding Gunny like this was improbable enough, but this? This is something that you never expected.

Gunny Hotchkiss has found religion.

“You remember that wild night we had, don't you?” he asks, starting his story from the beginning, “Brother, we really set the world on fire! I don't know how it happened, but I ended up stowing away on a ship, sleeping all the way to Carthul. When I woke up, I thought someone had kidnapped me – I beat the first man I found, and brother... I could have killed him if they didn't stop me. Six months in a dungeon, and I earned every one of those. Back in those days, I was BAD.”

“Bad” is not a word you would have used to describe the Gunny you know... knew. He was always genial, never had a bad word to say about anyone. Then again, after the Annexation War you were all damaged in a way. Evidently, Gunny was no different. Freddy gives you a sceptical look, but you shake your head and silently urge her to keep quiet.

“Six months in that dungeon gave me time to think, brother, and I realised something – all those nights we spent drinking, we were just harming ourselves. Poisoning ourselves. The human body is a wonderful thing, brother, but we were wasting what we'd been given,” emptying his tiny teacup in a single gulp, Gunny gives you a serious look, “From that moment on, I was on the straight and narrow. When I was released, I went looking for work and Master Albrecht saw that I was good with my hands. He took a chance on me, and I'm on my way to becoming a respectable man.”

“Wow,” you manage at last, “I don't really know what to say. That's some story, but-”

“You never were a believer, Milos,” Gunny sighs, glancing across to Freddy, “What about you, sister? Have you found the Light?”

“I...” Freddy pauses, fumbling for an answer that won't cause a fight, “Not... exactly.”

“Salim's a good place to find it,” the convert muses, “I know, I know. The capital is a little too grand, too stiff for some. Salim has a softness to it, if you'll allow yourself to see it. Well, enough about me, brother – how are you doing?”

“Well, I've found my wings again,” you tell him, “A lucky inheritance – Miriam Hawthorn, if you can believe it. I've got Keziah with me, and this is Freddy Lhaus, my skiff pilot.”

“Little sister, huh?” Gunny chuckles, his old nickname for Keziah bringing a nostalgic smile to your face, “I bet she's glad to be in the air again!”

[2/3]

>>2189843
Well this is awkward. At least if we manage to steal him away, him and Blessings will get along swimmingly!

>>2189843

After that, Gunny leaves you for a moment to buy a fresh round of tea. As soon as he's gone, Freddy turns to you. “An old friend, captain?” she deduces, “You look as though you've had a bad shock.”

“This IS a shock,” you admit, “Gunny Hotchkiss – he was part of my old crew, back in the day. After the war, we lost contact and... hell, I thought he might have been dead. Five years, and he was here all along, busy finding religion and working in a gunsmith.” Running a hand across your stubbly cheek, you consider the situation. It still doesn't quite feel real to you.

“I see,” Freddy nods to herself, “That does sound unfortunate. Was he always the... gullible sort?”

“Hey, watch it. He's still one of my oldest friends, so don't start on that,” you warn her, “But no, he was never into the church scene when I knew him. He liked drinking and blowing things up with the Manticore's cannons, those aren't exactly traditional church activities...” Slumping back in your seat, you consider the situation. You DO need a replacement gunner, but Gunny's faith might make things... difficult. More difficult than bringing a former Iraklin soldier onto your team, though?

“Sorry about the wait, brother,” Gunny apologises, setting down a fresh tray of tea, “This is a good place, it gets busy at this time of day. So, you were saying that you had a new ship?”

“Yeah. The Spirit of Helena, and the Eliza – that's the skiff,” draining your new tea in a single swallow, you lean forwards, “Listen, Gunny...”

You hesitate, then, while Gunny waits to see what you're about to say. Freddy keeps her expression blank, offering no hint as to her own opinion on the matter.

>Do you want your old job back? No pressure, but I could use a gunner
>I hate to run off, but we've got work to do. I'll see you around, okay?
>Other

>>2189861
>>Do you want your old job back? No pressure, but I could use a gunner
What's one more addition to our dysfunctional little crew?

>>2189861
>>Do you want your old job back? No pressure, but I could use a gunner

>>2189861
>Do you want your old job back? No pressure, but I could use a gunner

Tough decision. He won't be anywhere near as easy to deal with as Blessings. He might even encourage the kid.

On the other hand, he's apparently quite talented and an old friend. Maybe we'll be able to corrupt him again.

Hell, he might even turn us down.

>>2189861
>Do you want your old job back? No pressure, but I could use a gunner

>>2189861
>>Do you want your old job back? No pressure, but I could use a gunner

File: Gunny Hotchkiss.jpg (430 KB, 1200x2023)

430 KB JPG

“Do you want your old job back?” you ask simply, deciding against any attempt at dressing the offer up, “No pressure, but I could use a gunner. What do you say?”

Gunny's eyes widen a little, as if your offer had been as unexpected as his conversion had been to you. “That's a difficult question, brother,” he admits, toying with the delicate teacup, “I owe Master Albrecht a lot, and I'd be walking out on him. He won't struggle to find a new apprentice, but I'll still be making trouble for him.”

“If you want to do this, do it,” Freddy urges him quietly, “You can't hold yourself back for fear of disappointing someone else. You have to do what YOU want to do.”

Her words take you both by surprise, with Gunny's jaw dropping a little. “You sound like you know what you're talking about, sister,” he replies slowly, “What I want to do, huh? I've missed flying, brother, I won't lie about that. What I've got here is stable, safe, but...”

“But we never liked that kind of thing, did we?” you finish for him, “Hey, there's no need to give me an answer straight away. I've got some other stuff to do, we can always meet up later and talk after you've thought about it.” You gesture to Freddy, who offers a tiny shrug of agreement, then you look back to Gunny. “We'll be at the aerodrome, and you know which one is our ship,” you add, “The Spirit of Helena. If it makes any difference, you won't be the only faithful on board – we've got this kid, he's pretty religious as well. You might like him.”

Gunny sighs heavily, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a brass watch. “Brother, I have a favour to ask you,” he says slowly, “I need some time to think. There's a service coming up, I'd like to go and listen. It'll help me weigh this one up – I'll be an hour, no more than that. If you want to come with me, brother, I'd happily bring you along. If not, we can meet up here.” Rising to his feet, he pauses again and gives you a weary smile. “Right now, I think that I might take that job of yours. In fact, I'm almost sure that I will,” he admits, “But I need to be sure. Not almost sure, SURE. So, I need to go and take in a service.”

“That seems fair,” you tell him, standing as well and slapping him on the shoulder, “I need you to be sure as well.”

“Right on, brother,” Gunny laughs, “So, what do you say about joining me at church?”

>Alright, I'll come with you. It can't hurt
>Sorry Gunny, that's really not my scene
>Other

>>2189903

>Alright, I'll come with you. It can't hurt

I am now too invested to back out. Maybe we can pick up on the sillier parts of the faith and tease Blessings.

>>2189903
>Sorry Gunny, that's really not my scene
I'm almost curious about the scene but not curious enough to go for it.

>>2189903
>Sorry Gunny, that's really not my scene
"I'm still doing chores around the city."

>>2189903
>>Alright, I'll come with you. It can't hurt

>>2189903
>Alright, I'll come with you. It can't hurt

Still debating the offer, you leave the cafe with Gunny and gesture for Freddy to stay close. Her brow has furrowed with a slight frown, but she obeys your command without question. The only visible sign of her discomfort is when she pats the bulky holster on her belt, reminding herself that she still has her pistol with her. Gunny either doesn't notice or doesn't mention the gun, simply leading you out without comment.

“Hey boss,” Keziah thinks at you, “Just checking in quickly. Cammy and Hanson arrived back a few moments ago, and they said something about that lawyer of yours. Did you find his office, or what?”

“Got a little distracted,” you think back, smiling a little, “Just wait until you hear about what I've been getting up to. I'd tell you now, but I don't think you'd believe me. I should be back soon, so you'll have some time to think about it.”

“Man, I hate it when you make me guess,” she whines, “But you'd better tell me when we get back!”

Laughing softly to yourself, you follow Gunny down a smaller side street and see his little church. It's smaller than you had been expecting, with more of a humble air to it. A few benches sit opposite it, and Freddy sits down on one of them. “I'm going to wait out here,” she explains, her voice taut, “I shouldn't really...” Leaving that sentence unfinished, she just shakes her head in mute stubbornness.

“It's your life, sister,” Gunny assures her, “I won't drag you in. Milos, brother, what about you?”

“Ah, what the hell. I'll come with you,” you decide with a shrug, “It can't hurt, and I've always wondered about what goes on in there. I'm not converting or anything, though, just to warn you in advance.”

Gunny laughs, before gesturing for you to follow him inside.

-

You had been expecting rows of pews, all set out in a neat and tidy way, but this chapel is set out in a broad circle with the individual seats all facing a central space. No lectern or anything, but a carefully placed hole in the ceiling allows a beam of sunlight to provide a natural spotlight. That, you assume, is where the priest stands. There are a number of people already seated, ranging from dirty labourers to prissy clerks. Any member of your crew – save for Freddy, perhaps – would fit in here.

As you're taking your seat, a clock chimes from somewhere deep within the building. As if on cue, the background hum of chatter dies down and a door swings open. The priest is dressed in more humble garb than you had been expecting, simple grey robes with a yellow shawl draped over his shoulders. Sweat glistens on his bald scalp as he enters the beam of sunlight and, without any fanfare, begins to speak.

“Hello friends,” he begins, his voice oddly subdued, “I'm glad to see that the Light has guided so many of you here today.”

[1/2]

>>2189939
We in for it now. Time to get converted.

>>2189939

The more you hear, the more cynical you feel. The priest has a natural, unforced way of speaking, and his sermon gently sways from one subject to another without any obvious transitions, but you eventually decide that it's not the product of natural talent – he's trained, and trained hard, to speak like this. Even knowing this, you can't help but nod along with a few of his points.

The Church of Rising Light has an inherently positive creed – mankind is a beautiful thing, so the teachings say, and the human body deserves better than to be polluted with alcohol, drugs and “spiritual maladies”. There's a small part of you that wants to believe it, wants to accept the priest's claims of an inherent human innocence, but... not after everything that you've seen. Besides, there's one nasty little problem with their dogma – humans might be beautiful and pure... but the men and women of Nadir aren't exactly human, so far as their teachings claim.

“And so the Lord of Rising Light lifted men up!” the priest cries suddenly, his sudden outburst causing you – and more than a few other people – to jolt upright, “He lifted them up, and He burned away their impurities! And friends, I know that it can be painful, but He burns us with His love and His grace. One day, my friends, we will burn away these flawed bodies of ours – all of us, even down to the basest soul. The promised time – a great burning...”

A murmur of agreement runs through the chapel, with a few of the women dabbing at their glistening eyes. “But you needn't be afraid,” the priest adds, his voice dropping back into that friendly tone, “With the flesh of your body burned away, you won't have to worry about sunburn!”

Demure laughter answers this, but you have to fight back a groan. He might joke, but it doesn't soften his earlier words. The faithful might eat them up, but they nag at your thoughts like an open wound.

A great burning.

-

“Well, brother, that's that,” Gunny tells you when the sermon is over, “Thanks for humouring me. My conscience is clear now – I can come with you, without regretting anything or looking back in doubt. Let's go – I bet that little sister of yours is waiting.”

“Probably,” you agree, “She's an odd one, though. If I ordered her to wait out in the rain all night, I reckon she'd-” You stop short here as you pass a noticeboard, a printed notice catching your eye. It seems to be a plea for help – help in “routing a most uncouth and villainous assailant”, apparently. Your attention piqued, you pull down the notice and give it a careful read.

[2/3]

>>2189958

Put aside all the flowery language, and the notice is simple. A group of pirates, likely the same group that Tobias mentioned, have been terrorising pilgrims in the airspace east of Zenith. One group of pilgrims in particular – among them was the daughter of a wealthy noble, and her father is the one to have written this notice. It's not an official bounty, but the old man is offering a reward to anyone who deals with the pirates. Anyone interested should contact the nobleman in question – Virtue Bonhomme – for the full details, but only during morning hours.

When you read that last part, you grunt with dismay. It's past noon now, so you'll need to wait until tomorrow. Apparently, this nobleman is too busy to see the likes of you in an afternoon. When you mention as much to Gunny, he nods sagely.

“A lot of men spend their afternoons in quiet contemplation – at least, the ones who don't have to work all day,” he explains, “Sermons are important, brother, but private meditation is even more valuable. I spent a lot of time in isolation, when I was... you know.”

“In the dungeons,” you finish for him, shrugging before shoving the notice into your pocket, “Well, so be it. I've still got a few chores to take care of today. Let's go.”

-

Just as you expected, Freddy is still sitting on the bench when you arrive, with no indication that she's moved a muscle over the past hour. Your new revolver, boxed up, sits on her knee. For some reason, bringing the gun into a chapel hadn't seemed... proper, and she had been happy to look after it. Rising smoothly to her feet, she starts to hand the case back to you only for you to shake your head. “Keep hold of that for now,” you tell her, “Take Gunny and head back to the ship, I've got some business to attend to.”

“Business, brother?” Gunny asks, “I don't mind coming with you.”

“I'm going to see my lawyer,” you elaborate.

“Never mind, then,” he quickly corrects himself, “Come on, sister, let's see this ship of yours.”

>I'm going to have to pause things here. I'll continue this next Friday, probably sticking with this thread rather than starting a new one. In either case, if anyone has any questions or comments, I'll answer them if I can
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>2189989
Thanks for running.

Gunny's liberal use of the words 'Brother' and 'Sister' has made me think he sounds like older WWE wrestlers.

So now he sounds like Hulk Hogan to me.

>>2189989
Thanks for running!

Does Gunny call everyone brother and sister? Is it a religious thing, and if so why doesn't Blessings do it?

>>2189989
Thanks for running! When will the religious members of our crew stage a coup and hijack the ship to spread the word of the Light?

>>2189989
Thanks for running Moloch, happy new years too.

>>2189989
Missed again. Thanks for running though.

I am uncomfortable with this religion. The whole "great burning" thing. At the same time, I don't want to ruin Gunneys newfound peace of mind. Maybe talk about the good we saw in him back in the day, and try to find out where this "badness" came from

Also when are we going to stop pretending to be Shounen dense about Kez.

>>2190031
When Cammy stops cockblocking us. So in a week in universe time.

Oh yes, and I hope that everyone has a good new year - I've got some plans for 2018!

>>2189998
Not going to lie, that's pretty much how I imagine how as well
>>2190002
No, it's not a religious thing. He always talked like that. Even if it was a religious thing, I don't really think that Blessings would be able to pull it off
>>2190004
Well, on one hand they've got more than a few ships of their own. On the other hand, can you ever have too many ships? We shall see!
>>2190031
We'll have a good chance to sit down with Gunny and talk things out, definitely
>Also when are we going to stop pretending to be Shounen dense about Kez.
What about Keziah?

>>2190045
Smart ass~

>>2190045
>What about Keziah?

Bless you Moloch. Happy New Year!

>>2190045
Hulk HoGunney is ideal.

>>2190045
>Well, on one hand they've got more than a few ships of their own. On the other hand, can you ever have too many ships? We shall see!

What exactly are the salvage rules that let us take another person's ships again?

Admiral sounds a lot nicer than Captain.

Maybe Pirate King, even.

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>>2186681
>Mountain of Faith
Every time

>>2190555
>Salvage rights

Basically, if an independent ship - that is, not one belonging to the two major powers - crashes and the crew are killed, the first person to find it gets salvage rights. Usually that just extends to cargo, but the ship itself is fair game if it's in good enough shape.
Salvage rights don't apply if the crew are still alive, however. In that case, the captain is considered responsible for giving a reward for their rescue. There are no strict standards for those rewards - they can be anything from hard currency to oaths of loyalty, depending on the captain. That said, a captain who gets a reputation for not coughing up a decent reward often finds themselves pretty short of friends.

And yes, that does mean that some unscrupulous sorts have made sure that there are no surviving crew in order to get a better prize.

>>2190675
Reminder that Hax Sign [Miraculous Victory] jobs to Hax Sign [You Just Plain Fucking Lose].

>>2190675
When will Keziah discover our "Faithful Mountain" I wonder I do.

>>2190675
>>2191338
I dont get it

>>2191341
Keziah's corruption manifests as a penis.

>>2191351
Best End

>>2191351
Have you considered writing a webcomic? I think you have the skills for it.

>>2191350
I wonder if I'll get at least someone who does.

>>2191381
Not if you don't explain it.

>>2191381
I don't think I made it past stage 3 or 4 of MoF so I definitely don't know

>>2191497
It's from a fan comic. Raise your power level, anon.

I don't think I'll ever catch one of these sessions live, but I better make my thoughts clear.
Keziah is a shit. A SHIIIIT. God bless Cammy for unintentionally cuntblocking her.

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>>2192529

>>2192529
Who's your favorite girl anon

>>2192669
It's too early for anyone to have the proper title of Best Girl, but all I know is that Keziah has all the flags for the worst. Miriam's dead and her personality's somehow far better then shitziah's.

>>2193259
Miriam was my initial choice. A cool rival character that we butt heads with and meet up occasionally. And then she fucking died.

>>2193259
Yeah, Keziahs fake accent for no reason is really damn irritating. And she's hopelessly devoted to Milos? No thanks.

>>2193376
>>2193259
Witch-fu is clearly best girl.

And now we telepathically know it.

Y'all barely interacted with any other women. One is a traitor, the other an Irk.

We might as well seduce Blessings Mom if we're being that indiscriminate.

Besides BEST Girl is clearly Keziahs mom.

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>>2193451

>>2193259
>>2193376

I like her. Shitting on her for no reason is dumb.

>>2193484
>for no reason
>>2193376 just gave two very good reasons.

Huh, noone's gunning for Eliza this time? Fancy that.

>>2193485
Those seem more like plusses to me.

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>>2193636
Yeah, maybe for a neckbeard like you
Here, I've illustrated why your waifu is shit.

>>2193883
Pfft nice

>>2193883
You put a lot of effort into something that's so shit.

Clearly Freddy is best girl.

>>2194255
I wonder if Milos is exceptionally observant. We picked out those trashy romance novels on her shelf pretty quickly.

>>2194277
Have to always keep an eye on Iraklin scum.

>>2194255
>Dem washboard abs

>>2194277
Maybe Milos has seen and read his fair share of trashy romance novels?

>>2194345
I like this theory.

>>2194345
Sometimes on a long flight you need something, anything to read.

Sometimes this awakens something in you.

But we have to decide what to do about Kez now that we're telepathically bound.

Acknowledge the situation and deal with it. Maybe we decide to keep things professional for now, and see how it goes. Maybe we decide to try dating for a bit. Sounds like we're good enough friends to not be dicks about it not working out. Like actual dating not just having sex.

Maybe we say she's more of a daughter or sister figure and that it feels weird.

IDFK but remember telepathy link so it has to be honest.

>>2194409
>Maybe we decide to keep things professional for now
I'd say this. Not sure what will go down later so I'm fine with just kinda pushing that issue under the rug.

>>2194431
We still have to talk to her about it.

Our tee love is the skies and adventure anyways.

And Keziahs Mom.

>>2194723
>fucking your best friend's mom
Wow rude

>>2194764
nah it's top banter

>>2194409
>telepathically bound

That just makes it funnier to cuck her.

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Salazar's secretary sounded perfectly androgynous over the radio, and now that you're seeing them in person... you're still not sure what you're looking at. Their hair is short and their chest is very much flat, but their face is too delicate for you to confidently place them as male. All the while you wait for Salazar to send for you, you keep sneaking quick glances at them as you try to figure it out.

“Captain Vaandemere?” they ask softly, looking up from the desk, “Go right in.”

Salazar's offices were in the scholar's quarter, just as you had been told, although you still needed to search it out. Compared with the more artistic regions of Salim, the scholar's quarter was packed with nearly identical buildings and very little signage. After a while, you found the right place – there was a brass plaque fixed to the wall, with the name “Sierzac”, among others, engraved into it. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that it was deliberately anonymous. Even the decorations inside seemed carefully chosen, picked to leave no strong impression – much like the man himself.

Entering the office, your eyes are immediately drawn towards a picture on the wall. Not an imago, but an old fashioned portrait of an airship. A familiar airship, no less, but it takes you a moment to feel confident that it really is-

“The Ragnarok, yes,” Salazar confirms, his measured voice drawing your attention away from the portrait, “It's a rather old painting, and I'm afraid to say that I haven't always been able to treat it with the respect it deserves. The paint is flaking a little – you see there, up at the top corner?”

A patch of sky in the top left corner does, in fact, look a little worse for wear. If he hadn't pointed it out, though, you might never have noticed it. “Did it belong to my father? The Ragnarok was his ship, after all,” you ask, “But I don't remember ever seeing it at home.”

“No, this was mine. I had it painted when the Ragnarok was being refitted. It took about a week, if I recall correctly,” rising from his desk, Salazar approaches the portrait and studies it, “You must have been, oh, ten years old then. Do you remember that?”

You have to fumble for a moment, but the memories slowly surface. Your father had spent the entire week at home, although he hadn't mentioned anything about airship maintenance. No, you had been allowed to believe that he had missed you, and that was why he had spent the full week at the estate. Even from long beyond the grave, your father still manages to disappoint you.

“Yes,” you tell Salazar quietly, grimly, “I remember that.”

[1/2]

>>2202331

“Well, my boy, what is past is past. Old portraits may hold a terrible fascination, but they cannot harm us,” Salazar brushes his hand together, as if brushing off so many things, and then steers you across to the desk. As you sit, he studies a tray of wine bottles before selecting one at random. “So,” the old man adds, setting out two small cups and pouring he wine, “How are you finding Salim?”

“I've seen a hospital, a gunsmith, and a chapel so far, and now this,” you reply, “It hasn't been boring, at least.”

“Not even the chapel?” Salazar asks with a faint smile, “Well, never mind. What about business?”

“It has its ups and downs,” you admit with a shrug, taking a sip of the rather good wine, “I've got my crew more or less assembled – a bunch of misfits and oddballs, true, but I've got a good feeling about them.”

“Your father wasn't so different. He had a way of attracting strange people – or maybe it was that he chased away normal, level-headed people? I couldn't say for sure,” the old man takes a sip of his wine, “Either way, my boy, I wonder if you might introduce me to this misfit crew of yours one of these days.”

This causes you to pause with the cup halfway to your lips. “Are you sure that that's wise?” you ask, “They don't know anything about what we did with Miriam's will.”

“That can remain our little secret, of course. Ah, but perhaps I'm just being foolish – seeing you now reminds me of the old days, back before I found myself in this line of work. Tell me, my boy, what do you think I do here?” Salazar pauses for a moment, barely long enough for you to think, before he answers his own question. “Legal work, of course, but that's largely a pretence. No, I listen – there are a lot of whispers out there, just waiting for someone like me to gather them up,” he explains, “And whispers are often valuable things. I'd be happy to share what I knew, of course.”

“For a price,” you finish for him, “Right?”

“For old time's sake,” Salazar corrects you gently, “Consider it compensation for all the times that you needed help and I wasn't there. I promised your father that if anything happened to him, I'd take care of you – a promise that I wasn't able to fulfil. You can take care of yourself now, but you don't have the... breadth of knowledge that I've been able to accumulate. Five years is a long time to spend in the mire.”

He's not wrong. While you were drinking away your sorrows and doing dirty work for Morey, he must have been making contacts and gathering facts.

“So, if you seek enlightenment...” he spreads his hands wide, “You just have to ask.”

>I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Salazar
>I might have a job for a nobleman named Bonhomme. Do you know him?
>Have you ever heard the name “Barrow Jackson”?
>Do you still want me to take that girl of yours onto my crew?
>Here's what I want to know... (Write in)
>Other

>>2202333
>>I might have a job for a nobleman named Bonhomme. Do you know him?
>>Have you ever heard the name “Barrow Jackson”?
>>Do you still want me to take that girl of yours onto my crew?

>>2202333
>I might have a job for a nobleman named Bonhomme. Do you know him?
>Have you ever heard the name “Barrow Jackson”?
>Do you still want me to take that girl of yours onto my crew?

>>2202333
Seconding >>2202340

No twitter access, good thing I looked at this thread!

>>2202333
>I might have a job for a nobleman named Bonhomme. Do you know him?
>Have you ever heard the name “Barrow Jackson”?
>Do you still want me to take that girl of yours onto my crew?
>Write-In:
Blessings didn't seem to intend to sell the Spirit of Helena. What can you tell me about him and his mother?

“I might have a job involving a nobleman named Bonhomme,” you begin, “Do you know him?”

“Personally? Not especially well. We have met once or twice, but I wouldn't say that we've ever spoken at length. By reputation, however? I know a few things about him,” Salazar strokes his neatly trimmed beard for a moment as he thinks, “He owns a Pleonite mine, which is the source of his wealth, and he's fairly popular with the church – although in his private life, I've heard that he's far from a pious man. Not that he's especially wicked or sinful, of course, but he likes his wine a little more than he really should.”

“I suppose we all have our vices,” you agree with a bland smile, gesturing at your own empty cup. Salazar returns your smile with one of his own, graciously refilling your cup. “So, he's got money. That's good to hear,” you continue, “He'd have to, to offer a private reward for this kind of work. Pirate hunting, it seems.”

“Mm, I had heard about that. Something about his daughter being aboard a pilgrim ship that ran afoul of some pirates. You know how protective some fathers can get,” chuckling to himself, Salazar takes a drink of wine and glances across at the framed portrait as he thinks. “As for Bonhomme himself... he likes to think of himself as an intellectual, and I suppose he is... of sorts. My advice to you? Humour him, and let him enjoy the sound of his own voice,” the old man continues, “He's the sort of man that I like – he's so eager to share what he knows!”

“Which must benefit your own business quite well,” you point out, “Although that does make me wonder – when we talk like this, does THAT benefit your business as well?”

“Milos, my boy, I'd like you to consider something. Our little trick with Miriam's will – if that became public knowledge, how do you think it would play out for us?” he asks, quickly answering his own question, “You would be harmed by it, yes, but not sorely. With no actual proof of our crime – and I was careful not to leave any evidence – you would suffer nothing worse than an injury to your reputation. Perhaps things have changed since I was a young man, but Free Captains have always had a certain... infamy about them. Ill rumours would not burden you unduly. On the other hand, a man in my position could be ruined by such talk. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“What you know could harm me,” you deduce, “But what I know could destroy you.”

“Exactly, my boy!” the old man declares with a clap of his dry, papery hands, as if praising his favourite student, “You may consider that an insurance policy against me, if it pleases you. Of course, I think that I would rather we trusted one another. It's more... civil that way.”

“Civil,” you repeat, “Of course.”

[1/2]

>>2202367

“Well, I think you're right. There's no reason for us to be pointing pistols at one another all the time,” you add after a moment, sighing and shrugging your shoulders, “There's another name I'm curious about, though. “Barrow Jackson” - do you know it?”

“Now, that IS a familiar name...” Salazar muses, “But just where did I hear it? He was being spoken of in quite unflattering terms, as I recall. I'm certain that I wrote it down at the time. Would you allow me to check my files? I can bring you the answer later, if I do have something noted down.”

“That's fine. You've got my radio frequency,” you assure him, “It's not urgent information, in either case.” Draining your cup, you consider the situation. You got Barrow Jackson's name from Miriam's journal, which still holds large sections of untranslated text – and Salazar himself might have a translator for you. “So, that girl of yours,” you add, “Do you still want me to take her onto my crew?”

“I do, yes. I've spoken with Grace, and she was quite interested in the idea. I think it must be all that time spent with her head in the clouds – she sees airships quite often, but she's never really had a chance to spent a lot of time on one,” an easy smile, quite unlike anything you normally see from him, spreads across Salazar's face, “Quite honestly, I think she's excited. Have you decided to accept her, then?”

“Not quite yet. I still have a few things to...” shaking your head vaguely, you wave off the question, “Speaking of guests, I'm curious. Blessings doesn't seem like he would have sold the Spirit of Helena, he was more interested in flying it himself. What can you really tell me about him and his mother?”

“Yes, I'll admit that I was quite wrong about that. Not something that happens often,” Salazar frowns at this confession, “Well then, Blessings Hawthorn. A fundraiser for the Church of Rising Light, and a pampered child. Quite popular with Carth high society, if you can believe it – I think it's because he's a model example of the faith. He doesn't misuse church funds, he doesn't have any embarrassing vices, and he does what he's told without complaint. At least... as far as I've been led to believe.”

“No, that sounds pretty accurate,” you sigh, “What about his mother?”

“Penelope Hawthorn. Also popular, although for different reasons. She's a good member of the church, although she takes less of a personal involvement. She holds a lot of balls and galas, rather dull parties – I've attended more than one,” the old man taps his chin in thought, “But her personal life is rather unclear. She never married – which made for something of a scandal when young Blessings came along – and she keeps her private life private. I have to wonder if she's trying to hide something!”

[2/3]

>>2202381
there's definitely more going on here.

Blessings is a kancolle?

>>2202387
Blessings is confirmed this settings Jesus. Virgin birth and just look at the name.

Also we stole from Jesus we're going to suffer in hell sooo bad.

>>2202381

“So,” you press, “Is she?”

“I wish I knew!” Salazar chuckles, “But no, as far as I'm aware, she's never been linked to any real rumours. By all accounts, she's spent most of her life living in her sister's shadow – which might explain why young Blessings took an unexpected interest in following in his aunt's footsteps. Raised with the church on one side and a notorious Free Captain on the other... quite the strange upbringing he must have had!”

“Strange upbringings are fine with me,” you mutter, “So long as I'm not dealing with any spies.”

“Spies? No, I can't see either of them as the spying type,” he decides, shaking his head slowly, “But... well, I've been wrong about them once already!”

-

After that, conversation descends into musings over the old days. You ask after a few of your father's old crew – men who weren't by his side on that last, fatal voyage – and the answers are universally depressing. The few who haven't died have ruined themselves with some vice or another, or otherwise vanished from public life. It's an unwelcome reminder that few men in the airship trade get to enjoy a peaceful retirement. Before you can talk for longer, an unformed blurt of excitement burns its way into your mind.

Gunny must have finally arrived at the Helena – after taking the scenic route, apparently. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, you give Salazar an apologetic smile. “Looks like it's getting late,” you tell him, “I should get back to the ship before those misfits of mine get in any trouble.”

“Send them my regards and well-wishes,” Salazar urges you, “I'll start digging into those files, and see what I've got.”

-

Back at the Spirit of Helena, you don't have a difficult time in tracking down Keziah and Gunny. They sit opposite each other in the small common room that passes for a dining hall, and even at a glance you can see that they're deep in fevered conversation. Lingering in the doorway, you almost feel... reluctant to intrude. They have a lot to talk about as well, five years of lost time, and they seem pretty eager to catch up.

>Join them in conversation
>Leave them to their conversation
>Other

>>2202402
>Join them

How did Kez take the religion?

>>2202402
>Leave them to their conversation

>>2202402
>>Join them in conversation

Hell, it's always been the three of you – right from the earliest days of your career as an airship captain. It wouldn't be right now if you started splitting up and going in your own separate ways now. Smiling to yourself at how familiar the scene feels, you approach the table and call out a greeting. Keziah and Gunny return your smile with easy, unforced smiles of their own, and gesture towards an empty chair. Sitting down at the round table, you choose a seat between them.

“So,” you begin, nodding to Keziah, “How's that for a surprise?”

“Aye, boss, you got me there,” she laughs, “I wouldnae have guessed this one, not in a thousand years!”

“Little sister here couldn't believe what she was seeing when I walked in,” Gunny agrees, “She kept blinking and talking about how she was dreaming – how she must have been dreaming!”

“I mean, to be fair, I get very vivid dreams,” the young witch points out, pouting a little, “So it wouldnae be that strange to... bah, forget that! It's over and done now, I dinnae want to dwell on that nonsense now!”

“Not while there's more interesting nonsense to talk about,” Gunny agrees, “Funny though – I never dream much of anything. What about you, brother?” As you think about your answer to that, Blessings appears with a steaming bowl of stew in each hand only to wilt at the sight of you. Before he can work himself into a fit of panic, you assure him that you're not hungry and he hurries away. “Good lad,” Gunny remarks, his question soon fading into memory, “He looks familiar – I think he might have visited the shop before, to talk with Master Albrecht. He wasn't there to talk to me, brother, you can be sure of that!”

“He was probably collecting donations for the church,” you offer, “Speaking of the church – Keziah, that must have been a shock to hear about, huh?”

“Old Gunny Hotchkiss findin' religion? Aye, I couldnae believe that either – I thought he was pullin' my leg the whole time!” Keziah nods, her spoon poised to dig into the stew as soon as she gets a chance, “Well, I cannae complain too much about it, but I'll sure miss our wild nights out. Those were the days, huh boss?” Sighing a little, she takes a few quick bites of her meal before pointing her spoon at Gunny. “You just let us know if you ever feel like havin' a wee lapse, okay?” she urges, “We'll hit the bars again, for old time's sake. You can always ask for forgiveness later, right?”

“It doesn't work like that, sister,” Gunny replies, shaking his head, “It's not a matter of forgiveness, it's a matter of... oh, I don't know. Cleanliness. You don't ask forgiveness for drinking poison, do you?”

“Oh aye?” the witch muses, “Poison, is it?”

“That's right, sister,” Gunny replies, taking a cigarette from behind his ear and slipping it between his lips, “I'm done with polluting my body. Brother, you got a light?”

[1/2]

>>2202402
>>Join them in conversation

>>2202435
>that last paragraph

God damnit Moloch

>>2202435
He also does crack, doesn't he?

>>2202448
I mean all the golden age wrestlers do/did so I wouldn’t be too shocked.

>>2202435
I guess the church is okay with lungs getting fucked up.

The Liver is Sacred.

>>2202485
Inb4 the faithful have to keep their livers clean to sacrifice them to their god.

>>2202485
Maybe big tobacco has managed to keep the health effects covered up in this universe, or maybe it's a different substance that really doesn't pollute lungs.

>>2202497
still burning so probably still bad for your lungs

>>2202522
Maybe they're made with Pleonite and it's cold fire but still works because magic

>>2202542
>Literally huffing diesel fuel

>>2202435

Meandering from one topic to another, the conversation continues for a while longer. As you talk, though, you slowly start to realise something – there's something missing. The conversation had appeared bright and eager when you were looking at it from the outside, and it very much still is, but time has opened up an undeniable rift. Maybe it's not irreparable damage, but it'll take some work before you can return to those easier days of your early career.

“What do you think, brother?” Gunny asks, drawing you out of your gloomy thoughts.

“Sorry Gunny, I was busy scheming – just world domination, nothing serious,” you joke, “What do I think about what?”

“Going back to Pastona for a bit. I've not seen it since the war,” the artilleryman repeats, “I hear that you've been down in Nadir for a while, so I take it that you've not been there for a while either. I've got a powerful curiosity about how things are doing, brother, you can bet on that. I asked your pilot friend, but... well, that girl doesn't like to talk much, does she?”

“Should've just ordered her to talk,” Keziah chuckles, “I reckon that would've worked.”

Going back to Pastona has always been a sore subject for you, and a matter of significant internal debate. On one hand it'll always be your homeland, and you have some good memories of it. On the other hand, the Iraklin occupation has gone a long way to changing it. “Well, Gunny, I'll have to think about that,” you reply with a shrug, “Maybe we'll need to head out that way for work. Not yet, though – we've got that Bonhomme thing tomorrow.”

“Lookin' forwards to it,” the witch agrees, before yawning heavily, “All this excitement has tired me right out. I'm headin' to bed, boss. Early start tomorrow, isn't it?”

“Before noon,” you tell her, “So yes, early by your standards.”

Groaning a little, Keziah heaves herself out of her seat and ambles away, stretching and scratching her head as she leaves. Her stew, half-eaten, sits for a moment before Gunny reaches across and starts to finish it off. “Real nice getting a chance to catch up,” he says between mouthfuls of stew, “She's changed.”

Considering Gunny's words, you glance over at Keziah's retreating back. “She passed her Guild exams,” you offer as she leaves, “So I suppose she's responsible now.”

“I don't know if I'd go that far, brother,” he remarks, tapping cigarette ash into one of the empty bowls. You wait a moment to see if he's going to say anything else, but he remains silent.

>Well, I'm heading off as well. You can pick your own quarters
>There was something I wanted to talk to you about... (Write in)
>Other

>Sorry for the delay. Feeling a little rough today

>>2202544
That is wholly inaccurate. Cold fire is way more eco friendly than diesel.

>>2202550
>Well, I'm heading off as well. You can pick your own quarters

>>2202550
>There was something I wanted to talk to you about...
>Ask if he knows some good people to hire instead of our current temporary crew.

We will return to Pastona at the head of a liberation armada.
Iraklin must be destroyed.

>>2202550
>There was something I wanted to talk to you about... (Write in)
"Our skiff pilot is Iralkin. It's not really a secret but I'd rather you hear it from me first. She's good at what she does so don't give her 'too' much grief over it yeah?"

>>2202557
I still feel that temp crew is sticking with us for quite awhile longer while their captain is still on the mend.

“I should head off as well, come to think of it,” you think aloud, “Oh, before I go. I'm going to need some new crewmen before long, do you know where I can find some good men?”

“You could always post a notice in the Guild, that'll get you plenty of volunteers – there's always men looking for work. Sort of lacks the personal touch, mind you,” Gunny considers the question for a while before continuing, “Ah, brother, I've got it! When I was first released from the dungeons, I got to know the local bars – you know how I was back then. There's a couple near the aerodrome that are popular among crewmen – or men and women who want to join a crew. You get all sorts there, but brother... it's more interesting than just putting up a notice!”

“Yeah, I bet,” you laugh, “Alright, that's a good idea. What sort of people do you get there?”

“All sorts, brother. Not just Carths, if that's what you're worried about,” leaning back in his chair, Gunny lights a fresh cigarette with the butt of his old one, “Some Carths, some Pastonnes, even some Nadir folk, and... a few Iraklins, but I don't know if you'd take them.”

This causes you to laugh again, although there's less humour in it. “Bit late for that,” you tell him, “Our skiff pilot is Iraklin. It's not really a secret, but I think you've got a right to know. She's good at her job, so long as the weather plays along, so don't give her too much grief for it.”

“Irakin, huh?” Gunny considers the issue for a while before shrugging, “Well brother, nobody's perfect. She's quiet, but civil enough – whatever happens, I won't be the one to throw the first punch.”

It's an attempt at a reassurance, which is enough for you.

-

With that, you bring things to a close and go your separate ways. As you're heading to your quarters, a crewman that you don't recognise – you know his face, but not his name – points you towards the bridge. There's a call for you, and when you arrive at the radio you find Salazar's voice on the other end. He sounds calm, but there's a triumphant edge to his voice – he found what he was looking for, you're sure of that.

“Barrow Jackson found brief infamy for trying to rob the crypt of an old bishop – Bishop... Droit, I believe. In either case, his attempt met with failure and he was arrested. Sent up to Cloudtop Prison, where he currently languishes,” Salazar tells you, “I remember hearing it on the radio news. As you can imagine, the Carths didn't look kindly on his attempt at grave robbing. A shame, really – I understand that he was one of the best in the business. Pulled off a few jobs in Nadir, which is quite the feat. Those old barrows have some wicked traps – that's where he got his nickname, you see.”

[1/2]

>>2202604
>wicked traps
Were they cute?

>>2202646
they were gay with life

>>2202604

So he might know more about one of key fragments you're looking for – the one located in the tomb of a Nadir king. Maybe he even saw the old bit of iron, only to dismiss it as trash and take some more obvious treasure instead. Or, maybe he took it and stashed it somewhere – that would be convenient, if you could work the location out of him. “I see,” you muse, “I suppose it would be impossible to speak with him?”

“It wouldn't be easy,” the old man tells you, “But it certainly wouldn't be impossible. Say, if a lawyer – and his young assistant, of course - came to visit him in order to gather information, hoping to plead for his early release...”

“Well, it sounds easier than breaking someone out of Cloudtop Prison,” you reply after a heavy moment, “Has that ever happened?”

“Someone did break out, I believe,” Salazar answers slowly, “But even after getting out of the prison itself, there was nowhere he could have gone. He chose, as I recall, to jump.” Those last words hang in the air for a few seconds before the old lawyer clears his throat. “That's all that I noted down. Once people go into Cloudtop Prison, they tend to just... vanish,” he adds, “I hope that helped. Do call again, my boy, my office is... usually open.”

With no further pleasantries, the radio call ends.

-

The next morning finds you travelling out towards the outskirts of Salim with Gunny as your guide. Your destination is Bonhomme's manor, to hear about this work of his. Cold morning air chills your lungs as you walk, but your brisk pace soon warms you up. The manor itself is a typically Carth structure, with pale sandstone bricks and ample use of gold leaf on the decorations. Alchemical gold, Keziah told you once, not real gold at all. When you mention as much to Gunny, he laughs.

“It's a loophole, brother,” he tells you, “Real gold would be, what's the word, ostentatious? This fake stuff, though, that's fine and humble.”

“Oh right,” you reply, “So it just LOOKS ostentatious. I see.” Smiling a little, you rap heavily on the gilded door knocker and wait for a servant to show you inside. All you have to do is show him Bonhomme's notice, and he hurries you into a receiving room – one that looks alarmingly similar to the one in Professor Estheim's manor. You've barely settled down into the plush chairs when a tall, hawkish looking man arrives. His attire is mostly humble, but the pendant at his throat has the lustre of real gold.

“I understand that one of you is a Free Captain,” he begins, looking between you and Gunny, “You're here about my notice of employment?”

“I am,” you answer, “Captain Vaandemere, at your service. This is my artilleryman, Gunny Hotchkiss.”

“And I am Virtue Bonhomme, owner of the Bonhomme mines,” the tall man answers, “Shall we get straight to business?”

[2/3]

>>2202657

You don't get a chance to say yes or no – Bonhomme moves right on ahead regardless. “Recently, Charity – my daughter – was taking a brief trip around the Zenith islands on board a pilgrim ship. There, they were accosted by a most uncouth vessel – it made awful threats and demands of them, extorting money from both passengers and crew. When they arrived to take their ill-gotten gains, they... treated my daughter most poorly,” Bonhomme's lips curl in disgust, “The incident left her traumatised, and she refuses to leave her bedchambers since then.”

“You have our deepest sympathies, sir,” Gunny assures him, the usual joviality wiped clean from his voice, “Can I ask about... how they treated her?”

“They made scandalous propositions to her, and spoke in the roughest possible way,” the nobleman answers, “These curs were not gentlemen, about any part of their doings.”

In other words, they were rude to the poor, delicate girl. “I see,” you reply, “And I assume that you want us to hunt down these pirates.”

“Yes, I do,” Bonhomme nods firmly, “And I will pay extra if I can be there to witness the act. I pride myself on doing everything that I can with my own two hands, but that isn't always practical. When that fails, I have to satisfy myself with overseeing the act. I would be there, on the bridge of your airship, when you battle these ruffians. If you take the job, I will provide you with more accurate directions – the locations of their past offences.”

And he'd probably be all too happy to bark orders in your ears while he's there, telling you just how to do your job. Having Blessings around is one thing, but at least you can tell him to keep his mouth shut – a paying customer like Bonhomme is a whole other matter. Just how much is the extra annoyance worth?

When Bonhomme names his prices, you have to pause and give the matter careful consideration.

Mission: Hunt the uncouth pirates
Reward: 2 Funds, 3 if Bonhomme personally accompanies you

>Accept the mission, but go without Bonhomme
>Accept the mission, and take Bonhomme along for the hunt
>Refuse the mission

>>2202687
>>Accept the mission, and take Bonhomme along for the hunt