>>2573246

>Twitter: https://twitter.com/MolochQM
>Previous: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Into%20the%20Skies
>Airship combat rules: https://pastebin.com/DTLDheZ6

“You can move your fingers?” Doctor Barnum asks, nodding with satisfaction as you flex them, “And the sling. Does it bother you?”

“I've gotten used to it by now,” you reply, allowing the doctor to strap your bandaged arm to your chest once again, “Actually, I was thinking of keeping it. Don't you think that it gives me an air of mystery?”

“If you say so, captain,” Barnum tells you, offering you an indulgent smile as you leave his makeshift quarters.

You were a little surprised when the doctor volunteered to join the expedition, but Berwick was happy to have a professional doctor aboard. Maybe your surprise had been unwarranted – after all, the good doctor has just as much right to enjoy a spot of exploration as you do. It's been a little over a week since you left the Spirit of Helena in Monotia with Dwight. If you run into any trouble out here, you'll be able to radio for him to come and pull you out.

But not for much longer. You're steadily approaching what Keziah cheerfully calls the “dead end”, the point at which Pleonite engines simply fail to operate. It's strange to look out at the open waters ahead, knowing that you're sailing into the unknown.

It was a struggle to remember the last time you spent a long week doing nothing. Before Salazar found you with his scheme, you had been far more accustomed to idleness. When you had coin to spare, you had spent days at a stretch lounging around and drinking. When the coin had run out, you found work to refill your coffers – usually a rough sort of work, which Morey always seemed to be offering. Since getting the Spirit of Helena, you've been working almost without pause. Having so much free time like this... simply put, you're not sure what to do with yourself.

The others seem to have fallen into their own routines easily enough. You've seen Freddy running laps of the ship or lifting improvised weights, which isn't especially surprising. More surprising is the fact that Blessings has been following her example – albeit with far less success. Still, he's looking leaner and fitter for it, so his efforts aren't going to waste. Grace has been busy with work of a more intellectual kind, translating Miriam's journal and making extensive notes on the Zenith script. Trying to, at least – the last time you saw her, Keziah had been pestering the poor girl. Your idleness seems all the worse when you consider that everyone else is busy.

Well, maybe not everyone else. Gunny and Caliban have mostly been playing cards. Maybe you'll join then, or maybe...

>Head to the bridge, inquire about the status of the expedition
>Discuss the translation work with Grace
>Join Gunny and Caliban for a few games
>Other

>>2573247
>>Join Gunny and Caliban for a few games

>>2573247
Test

>>2573247
Im surprised kez is on the ship.
She mightve been the only one who could have sent a message if dwight decided to just take the ship and run
>We should at least check if messenger daemons work with mom again

No, a few hands of cards sounds like a good way to kill time. Maybe just one hand in your case, though. Smiling a little at the awful joke, you head below deck and make for the last place you saw the pair. They're still there, holed up in a small side room that has, as far as you can tell, no discernible purpose. Berwick seems to have built his ship to be much larger than it needed to be, perhaps hoping to impress through sheer size.

If that was the case, you've got to admit that he succeeded – it's hard to believe that a vessel like this can float. You've heard the theories and the mathematics behind it, but all that talk went straight over the top of your head. The ship sails, and that's good enough for you.

Waving away a haze of cigarette smoke, you call out a greeting to the busy pair. Gunny looks around and quickly pulls up a chair. “Here brother, take a seat,” he says with a good-natured chuckle, “Wouldn't want the injured man to strain himself any.”

“At least I've got an excuse for taking it easy,” you shoot back, “What's your story?”

“We're preserving our energy, captain,” Caliban explains, “This way, we'll be ready to strike as soon as we're needed, like two coiled springs. You can see the logic in that, can't you?”

Feigning grumpiness, you grunt and wave away his excuses. “I believe you. Thousands wouldn't, but I do. Anyway, I won't intrude for too long. Maybe a game or two while I'm here, though,” you tell them, fumbling up the cards Gunny deals out and sighing heavily. Three cards, and you get two wastelands – not quite the worst hand you could get, but it's certainly close. Hoping that your luck will improve, you glance between the other two men. “So,” you ask, seeking to distract them from your dismay, “What were you two talking about? Not planning a mutiny, I hope!”

“Not without clearing it with you first,” Caliban promises, his wide eyes feigning innocence, “Believe it or not, your man here was trying to convert me.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Gunny argues, “I was just saying that you should try it one of these days. Sit in on a sermon or two, that's all. I figured a man like you might appreciate some of the church's teachings. I mean, you're as Nadir as they come but you don't have so much as a single blemish. If that isn't a sign, I don't know what is!”

Throwing down his cards, Caliban emphatically shakes his head. “No deal,” he states bluntly, “I don't want some god lording it over me.” Very deliberately changing the subject, the hunter looks around at you. “Speaking of mutinies, captain, I'm surprised that you left Dwight alone with the ship,” he continues, “Aren't you worried that he'll steal it?”

“I don't know, that sounds too much like hard work for him,” you reply, “Dwight... he doesn't seem like that kind of guy.”

“Hope you're right, brother,” Gunny mutters.

[1/2]

>>2573287

Still, Caliban's dire suggestion does stick in your mind even after you've lost badly at three straight games. Gracefully conceding defeat, you leave them for now. Maybe, you think as you leave, you should have left Keziah back on the Spirit of Helena – with the bond you share, she could have informed you about any problems on the mainland. It's too late for that now, but you can at least make sure that Keziah's messenger daemon can carry word back to her mother.

You find Keziah in her quarters, although it takes you an achingly long time to find them. You might know the Spirit of Helena like the back of your hand by now, but the Dust Treader remains a labyrinth. Eventually, you find the right door and knock. The witch leaves you waiting for a few long minutes before grudgingly calling for you to enter.

She still hasn't forgotten that business with Maeve's shawl.

As you explain your situation, Keziah's sullen manner is replaced by a crafty grin. “Ah, boss, a tricky wee problem you've got on your hands,” she chuckles, “If only you had a spy back on the Helena!”

She says this with such emphasis that you know something is up. “Hold on,” you reply, “Don't tell me that you summoned some daemon to watch the ship or... something like that. You know what I've told you about doing magic without permission, and-”

“Nothin' like that, boss!” the witch hastily assures you, “Go on, take a wee look around. Isn't something missin' here?” Sighing, you look around her barren quarters. Your first thought is that there's a lot missing – namely, any kind of creature comforts. The room is as bare as yours, with just a rickety cot against one wall and a footlocker opposite it. When you shrug, Keziah laughs again. “It's Herod!” she declares, “I left him on the ship. Truth be told, I didnae do it out of any spyin' reasons – I just didnae think he'd like the sea air.”

“Her concern was entirely misplaced,” Herod's distant, hushed voice whispers in your mind, “But I am glad to be here nonetheless. As I have said, I believe that you are going on a fool's errand. Should anything untoward happen here, however, I will at least be able to tell you about it.”

Keziah ignores her familiar's dry warning and beams at you, waiting to be showered with praise. “What about your messenger daemon?” you ask instead, “Have you tried calling it?”

“...Aye,” Keziah answers with a pout, “A few days ago. I was able to check in with me mam, and she gave me the same warnin' that Herod did. Dinnae ask me to send her any love letters though!”

“Damn shame. I wanted to send her my thanks,” you sigh, “This shawl has really been keeping the chill out.”

If there was anything here for Keziah to throw, you would be ducking for cover already.

[2/3]

>>2573313
Poor Kez doesn't deserve all this bullying.

>>2573313

“You do so enjoy tormenting the girl,” Herod observes as you leave Keziah's quarters, “Why is that?”

“It's always been like this,” you think back to the familiar, “We bicker, argue, taunt each other... it's been like this from when we first met. She's stuck me with more than a few barbs in our time together, so it's not like this is some one-sided deal. A daemon like you wouldn't understand.”

“Hmm,” the familiar replies, “Perhaps I would not want to understand – I prefer leading a simple life.”

You feel the somehow dusty feeling of the familiar leaving your thoughts and head for what you hope is the mess hall. There's usually plenty of talkative people there, and so many different conversations makes for a pleasant background noise. When you get there, you're not disappointed – a few tight knots of unwashed crewmen rub shoulders with each other as they eat their meals from open tins. Sitting yourself down, you lean back and listen to the murmuring conversations.

Predictably, there are a lot of complaints – the quality of the food, the lack of women, boredom... all the usual sorts of anxieties. As you listen, though, you hear one conversation growing heated. It soon boils over into an argument, although you can't really tell what the two men are arguing about. Chairs clatter as both men rise to their feet and snarl accusations at each other. Something about cheating at cards, but that detail seems unimportant now – the desire for violence has eclipsed all else.

The other crewmen back off, giving the two men space to fight it out – and it looks increasingly certain that they will. “Someone should get Berwick,” a man near you mutters, “He could settle this.”

“No way,” his companion hisses, “This is the most entertainment we've had for a week!”

Metal flashes as one of the fighters produces a knife – a wicked looking thing, meant for cutting and skinning game. A fresh round of murmurs runs through the crowd at the sight of the weapon, and you hear a savage eagerness in those voices.

>Run to the bridge and fetch Berwick
>Intervene now, before the fight can begin
>Leave the men to their sport
>Other

>>2573330
>Intervene now, before the fight can begin
Time to get our other arm cut and bursting with blackness.

>>2573330
>Other
"Oi! You need to rely on a knife? Fight him like a man!"

>>2573330
>Intervene now, before the fight can begin

>>2573334
Maybe a bit of this? I hate the wording, but he's right about knives being too much.

When you realise that none of the onlookers intend on doing a damn thing, you hiss out a curse and step forwards. “Hey!” you snap, raising your voice as you step between the two fighters, “Sit back down and shut the hell up, both of you!”

“Fuck you!” the man with the knife snarls, “We don't take our orders from you!”

You turn to focus on him. His face is lean and hard, with a dark tattoo of an anvil placed above one eye. Brief thoughts flash through your mind as you wonder about what that means. A blacksmith, perhaps, or maybe he had been apprenticed to one. Banishing those unimportant details from your mind, you give the man your most disapproving scowl. “Maybe you don't,” you concede, “But if you keep waving that knife around, somebody might get seriously hurt. Berwick might allow brawlers on his ship, but I don't think he'd want to keep a killer around. Did you think about that?”

“I don't need you to fight my battles for me!” the other man – fatter, with ears that droop with piercings – growls at you, “I can take one boy with a knife!”

“Boy?” the tattooed man yells, his temper fraying completely. You start to turn just in time to see him lunging with the knife, his eyes wide with outraged fury. He's damn fast, and you can already see that you're too slow to catch him.

Except you do. Turning so quickly that your injured arm slips out of its sling, you feel your left arm piston out with its fingers spread. Catching the tattooed man by the throat, you whirl around and lift him bodily off the ground, slamming him down onto one of the metal tables with a sound like a gong being struck. That hollow ringing is the only sound, a stunned silence falling over the entire room. You're just as startled as everyone else, unsure of exactly what you just did.

Then the pain strikes, and you see fresh blood blooming on your bandaged arm. Letting go of the tattooed man's throat, you pull your hand away to see the start of dark bruises forming there. Clutching your bleeding arm to your chest, you look around at the awed faces staring at you. “Show's over,” you say at last, managing to keep your voice firm, “Get back to work, or... whatever you're supposed to be doing.”

Another few seconds of that near-silence, the stillness broken only by the sound of the beaten man's gasps, and then the crowd begins to file away. Slowly flexing the fingers of your left arm, you feel the pain fading to a dull ache.

The sight of the blood catches your eye again, and you slowly wander off in search of Doctor Barnum.

[1/2]

>>2573355
Our most dangerous rival at the end of the road: our own arm!

Old Ripper would be proud.

YISS

>>2573355

“It seems that you split a number of stitches,” Barnum reports, glancing up from his needle and thread, “Brawling, captain?”

“Trying to stop a brawl, actually,” you correct him, hesitating for a moment before telling him exactly what happened. Even as you tell the story, you find it hard to believe your own words. Barnum, on the other hand, listens with neither surprise nor judgement in his eyes. When you're finished, he nods once as if satisfied.

“The Iraklin military has often entertained the idea of harnessing the unusual properties of the Nadir blood,” he says slowly, his voice the low whisper that you've grown used to, “But to no avail. The blood is too unreliable to be used, too mutable. A man may exhibit increased strength, uncanny senses, unnatural healing... but he might just as easily be born crippled, eyeless or with his legs fused together.”

Nadir blood... it's something that you've accepted by now, but it's strange to hear the doctor speaking about it so plainly. That's not the only strange thing that he mentioned, though. “Hey,” you begins, “You seem to know a lot about Iraklin military projects.”

“Do I?” the doctor raises one brow, “You must be mistaken, captain. Those sorts of matters would be highly classified.”

A cold silence. “Just who are you?” you breath, looking instinctively around to check if there are any weapons within reach. A few scalpels rest on a nearby table, but Barnum seems oblivious to them.

“Me, captain?” he whispers, “I'm just a humble doctor.” Turning away from you, Barnum drops his tools into a small basin of alcohol. “But I'm curious...” he continues, “I've never seen this degree of abnormality in a man such as yourself. Your... mother was Nadir born, was she not? I know of your father, and his unassailable heritage.” Although the doctor does not look around at you, you can tell that he's listening eagerly – awaiting your answer.

When you don't give him one, he continues. “I have my own theories,” he explains, “Men of Nadir can show highly abnormal properties under certain conditions. Namely, when they have been exposed to strong sources of corruption – certain regions of the Deep Forest, for example. Do you understand what I mean?”

You think of Segharl here, that horned giant. Could it be that his inhuman size and power were a result of some corruption at the heart of the Deep Forest? And Alma... her corruption seemed to be rooted in the key fragment used as part of her resurrection. Touching these key fragments has given you visions, but could they also have had some physical effect on you?

“You're free to go,” Doctor Barnum tells you, stirring you from your thoughts, “But do try and avoid any more fights.”

You're dismissed, apparently.

>No promises, doctor, but I'll try
>Hold on, we need to talk... (Write in)
>Other

>>2573403
>Hold on, we need to talk... (Write in)
>Unreliable in number of people, sure, but what do I do to control it? It would be a tad awkward to crush my drinking glass, and it sounds pretty helpful for the recoil on my guns.

>>2573403
>No promises, doctor, but I'll try
Ok, so we have to watch out for Seg being way too fast, and way too strong.

>>2573403
>No promises, doctor, but I'll try

“Hold on, we need to talk about this... problem,” you tell the doctor, “You said that these abilities are unreliable, but that's just in terms of people. Who is born with what, that sort of thing. I need to be able to control this reliably – I don't want to spend the rest of my life breaking wine glasses. What can I do about that?”

Doctor Barnum considers your question for a moment. “Drink from a tin cup instead,” he suggests, “But I imagine that you were hoping for a more helpful answer than that. Very well then... you may need to relearn a degree of fine motor control. This will take time and patience on your behalf, as well as a suitable means of practice. I suggest building clocks – something as delicate as that will help.”

“Building clocks and staying out of brawls,” you nod slowly, “I understand. No promises, doctor, but I'll try my best.”

“And do come back if you feel the urge to talk,” Barnum urges, “One of these days, I would love to learn a little more about you.”

As far as you're concerned, he already knows far too much about you – while you know almost nothing about him.

-

Your search for a suitable clock eventually takes you to Freddy's quarters. After listening to your request, she sorts through her footlocker and emerges with a small brass pocket watch. “Captain, will this suffice?” she asks, “I don't have any tools, though. I think Gunny might have some – I recall seeing him bring a case aboard. I'll go and ask him.” With that, she hurries away and leaves you alone. Sitting down on her bed, you turn the watch over in your hands and study it for any markings.

Other than a stamped number – Freddy's rank number, you recall – the watch is unmarked. Holding it, you can imagine countless identical watches leaving an Iraklin factory, delivered into the hands of newly recruited soldiers. Before you can linger on that thought, the pilot returns with a small case. “He had what you were looking for?” you ask, continuing as she nods, “That's great. You're fine with me using this, though? I might lose some of the small pieces.”

“I don't mind,” she replies with a shrug, “It's no family heirloom. I keep it around because a watch is a useful thing to have, that's all.” You wonder about that shrug, and the simple ambivalence of it, but say nothing. “Actually,” Freddy adds after a hesitation, “Maybe you're better off taking that apart here. I'll keep an eye out and make sure that you don't lose anything.”

Her suggestion brings a faint smile to your face. “If you insist,” you tell her, “Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

[1/2]

>>2573485

Other than a slight intake of breath, Freddy says nothing as you unwind the bandages around your left arm. You would have preferred to keep your arm covered, but you can't grip the delicate tools properly with the linen around your fingers. So, you have to reveal all.

You can't blame Freddy for her surprise. The flesh of your arm has blackened as if charred, and it feels firm to the touch. Although you're in no hurry to try it out, you feel almost certain that it could turn aside a glancing knife blow without any significant harm. Your fingers are just as tough, ending in gnarled cartilage that reminds you of Alma's Abrahad stone arms. A quick jab from these fingers could likely crush a windpipe or break a rip. Useful to have, if you ever get disarmed.

Not particularly useful for dismantling a brass pocket watch, on the other hand. Freddy watches, hypnotised, as you painstakingly unscrew the back of the watch. It takes you nearly hand an hour to do that single task, with the delicate jeweller's screwdriver constantly slipping out of your grasp. By the time you're finished, your brow is soaked with sweat. “To hell with this,” you groan, “I give up!”

“Do you remember when we went for that flight in the Eliza together?” Freddy asks suddenly, “When we flew to Castle Karstaag?”

You remember. “You told me about that book you read,” you recall, realising her point, “You stuck with it, no matter how hard it got.”

“Exactly,” Freddy nods triumphantly.

“But you hated that book!” you point out, “You said that reading it had been a waste of your time!”

“That's... true,” the Iraklin's face falls as she reconsiders the point she was trying to make, “Well, that doesn't matter. Sticking with that book taught me the value of persistence. If something is important to you, you finish the job no matter what.” You study each other for a long moment, and then you slowly pick the screwdriver back up. Carefully leaning in, you ease the flat tip into the guts of the watch and tentatively lift out a tiny brass cogwheel. “You see?” Freddy whispers, “Persistence!”

Your next attempt at lifting a piece out is less successful, flinging half the pieces of clockwork across the room. Staring down at the scattered pieces for a moment, you let out a weary chuckle. Freddy joins you, and soon you're both laughing hard. It's only when you hear the sound of someone clearing their throat that you manage to pull yourselves together.

“Oh, don't let me interrupt you,” Gunny says from the doorway, “I was just making sure that nobody had lost their mind.”

[2/3]

>>2573563
Man that arm has become something else hasn't it? Fine motor control is probably going to take awhile.

>>2573563

“This reminds me of when I was working for old Albrecht,” Gunny thinks aloud as he's helping you pick up scattered pieces of clockwork, “My first day on the job, I managed to launch some tiny flat spring across his workshop. I don't think we ever did find it. We must have turned that whole place upside down, but it just wasn't there. Take your eye off these things, brother, and they just vanish on you.”

“One of the men in my unit had a habit of losing socks,” Freddy counters, “He could keep track of anything, no matter how small, as long as it wasn't a sock.”

“Socks? At least I've never had that problem,” Gunny chuckles, “You sure that people weren't just stealing them?”

“I never thought of that,” the Iraklin admits, “Why would anyone steal a single sock, though? Surely taking both would make more sense.”

“If you wanted a pair of socks, sure,” you explain, “But not if you really want to fuck with someone.” When Freddy just looks even more confused by your answer, you shrug and drop the jeweller's screwdriver back into the toolkit. “I think that's everything,” you tell her, holding up the pile of clockwork pieces, “I'll put it back together... eventually. As soon as it's fixed, I'll give it right back to you.”

“Keep it,” she replies, shaking her head, “You'll get more use out of it than I will. You can buy me a new one after our mission is over.”

Between this pocket watch and Maeve's shawl, people just keep giving you presents lately. You should be glad, but you can't shake the idea that misfortune is sure to be following close behind. Nodding your thanks to Freddy, you pocket the dismantled watch and head out.

-

This time, your wandering leads you above deck. A thin mist hangs over the area, and you tug Maeve's shawl a little tighter around your shoulders as the chill nips at you. The further south you travel, the colder the days have been getting. The nights are worse, not helped by the meagre blankets that Berwick was able to provide. At least he's not keeping the best for himself – you've seen the shipmaster's quarters, and they're just as barren as your own.

As you lean on the ship's railing and look out across the mist, you feel a sudden craving for human warmth – to fall asleep holding a woman's body. It's not often that you feel that very specific hunger, but the feeling is always strong when it comes. Forcing such thoughts from your head, you realise that you're not alone here. Carnamagos stands a few feet away, forlornly gazing out across the water. Seeing him here makes you feel absurdly guilty for your earlier thoughts.

“We make good time,” the madman announces suddenly, “Berwick's ship is... better than I anticipated.”

“Good time?” you repeat, “Does that mean you know where we're going?”

That, Berwick does not answer.

[3/4]

>>2573713

As you're thinking of a question that he might feel willing to answer, Carnamagos speaks once more. “I've dreamed of our destination for so long now,” he murmurs, his voice slow and wavering. It's the voice of a drunk man, you realise, or someone in the grips of some soporific potion. With the mist coiling around you and that uneven voice slipping out from the madman's nearly motionless lips, you feel a sudden uncertainty – as if you might be dreaming this entire encounter.

“This land is the land of my ancestors. Yours too, perhaps,” Carnamagos continues, “We will find it soon.”

You shake off your trance and force yourself to approach Carnamagos. “How soon?” you ask, to no response. Grabbing his thin arm, you repeat your question.

Carnamagos jolts like a man ripped from a deep sleep, then finally looks around to face you. Confusion fills his face, and you feel your hand drop away. Blinking slowly, Carnamagos looks around him before turning and shambling away. Before he leaves, though, he calls out a single word - “Nightfall”.

That night, you sleep fitfully.

-

“That argument yesterday was only one of... hell, I've stopped keeping count,” Berwick tells you over a lukewarm breakfast. He caught you as you were entering the mess, steering you away to a corner of the room so you can talk privately. “We've had three open brawls since we set sail, but thankfully none of them have led to serious injury. The men are restless and frightened, but they'd never admit it,” the shipmaster lets out a low breath, “Hell, I'm frightened. More and more, I've been feeling the urge to turn this ship around and head back home.”

“We're sailing into the unknown,” you remind him, “I wouldn't be surprised that the men are-”

“No!” Berwick hisses, “It's not that. It's not... normal. These aren't MY urges, you see? This morning, I woke up filled with fear – not fear of any risk or danger, but the fear of some grave sin!”

“You mean...” you pause, “You think that we're not supposed to sail this far south? That some god or force is trying to... stop us?”

Berwick waves his hands in frustration, unable to find the words to describe his thoughts. “Maybe!” he curses at last, “What about you, do you think we're making a mistake sailing out here?”

>No, I don't. We have a duty to explore these waters
>Maybe we are. There are a lot of men on this ship. A lot of lives at stake
>Either way, I won't allow this god to tell me what I can or can't do
>Other

>>2573799
>Maybe we are.
>Either way, I won't allow this god to tell me what I can or can't do

>>2573799
>>Maybe we are. There are a lot of men on this ship. A lot of lives at stake

>>2573799
>>Either way, I won't allow this god to tell me what I can or can't do

You look down into your tin of mush, a greyish hash of meat and potato that just barely counts as food, and then you feel a sullen sense of defiance rising within your breast. Looking up, you fix Berwick with a hard look. “Maybe we are making a mistake,” you begin, “But either way, I won't allow this god or force – whatever the hell it is – to tell me what I can or can't do. I don't care if that's a grave sin or not. My mind is made up.”

“You won't allow...” Berwick mutters, before his brow dips in a fierce frown, “That's it lad, that's it! When I said that I wanted to make a ship that sailed on the water, everyone who cared to listen told me that I was mad, that I was wasting my time. Well, look at us now! We're further south than any man before us, and we got there on MY ship. If we turn back now... that's the real sin!”

His doubts and uncertainties seem to burn away with each word he says, and you see a few heads turning this way. In their faces, you see fresh defiance taking root. Reaching up, you touch Maeve's pendant at your throat. This too was supposed to be a blasphemy, but you chose to keep it nonetheless. Maybe this voyage is just one more sin, but you'll shoulder that burden willingly. Reaching over, Berwick claps you so hard on the shoulder that you nearly fall sideways in your chair.

“This must be why that motley crew of yours follows you,” the shipmaster declares, “You've lit a fire in my belly, lad, and no mistake! I'll see us to our destination now, no doubt about it!”

“Glad to hear it,” you reply with a tight smile, ignoring the pain in your shoulder, “But I'd feel a lot more confident if I knew where our destination was. I mean, there are a lot of men on this ship. That's a lot of lives resting on your shoulders.”

“Carnamagos says south,” Berwick tells you with a shrug, “So long as we keep going south, we'll find it eventually. I'm going to give us another week on this heading before turning back. Determination is one thing, but we only have supplies for so long. I won't have my boys starving to death out here.”

“I saw Carnamagos yesterday and he said “nightfall”, whatever that means,” you offer, “Maybe tonight?”

“We'll have to see, won't we?” the shipmaster lets out a coarse chuckle, “That's the thing about exploration, you don't know what you'll find until you find it!”

From fearful melancholy to optimism in the space of a single conversation – Berwick is about as unpredictable as the waters that his ship sails on. With the conversation apparently over, he rises and leaves you alone. Reaching across, you pick up his empty breakfast tin and crush it in your left hand. The metal splits and ruptures, a needle-like sliver sticking into the meat of your palm.

You barely feel a thing.

[1/2]

>>2573912
WORRYING ME MILOS

>>2573912

“I'm learning new things every day,” Caliban tells you, “For example, I'm learning that I hate the smell of the sea. It's different out here to when we're on the coast, don't you think?”

Whatever benefits your Nadir blood gives you, they don't include a nose sensitive enough to notice any difference. Grunting a vague answer, you look back out across the water. You've both been here for almost an hour now, idly swapping whatever thoughts come to mind. It's a gloomy day today, as if the sun had failed to rise properly. You can see it through a thin film of cloud, and you can't recall ever having seen the sun looking so small or dim. Overall, not a good day for lively thinking.

“I did learn some new knots from one of the crewmen, so that might come in handy,” the hunter adds, “He used to have a fishing boat. When he took this job, he had been expecting something similar. When he saw this great metal bucket, he nearly quit on the spot.”

“What do YOU think we're going to find out there?” you ask suddenly, the question coming to you out of the blue.

“What do I think?” Caliban repeats, “Not whatever Carnamagos is expecting, that's for sure. Not much of an answer, I know, but I'm out of my element here. Give me the Deep Forest any day.” Letting out a low sigh, the hunter takes a pebble out of his pocket and hurls it out into the ocean. It vanishes with barely a splash, and you hear him letting out a grunt of disgust. “There's nothing to do on this damn ship,” he complains.

“You make your own fun,” Keziah announces, barging you both aside and slipping between you against the railings. “I dinnae think I've seen a single bird for the past few days,” she adds, squinting up at the gloomy sky, “What about you boys?”

“No. Not one,” Caliban answers, dead certainty in his voice, “Outside of the men on this ship, I don't think there's any life out here at all.” While he remains staring straight forwards, Keziah casts a suspicious look at the waters around her.

-

That day, some nameless urge keeps you standing at the front of the ship for long hours at a stretch. Even when your hunger drives you below deck, you wolf down a meal as quickly as possible before returning to your post. Blessings jogs past you a few times, and you make sure to give him a few words of encouragement whenever he passes. It's not much, but every time you see him putting a little more effort in.

The hours pass and the skies dim, but you never see any sign of land. As night begins to fall, Keziah emerges from below deck with a ragged blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Shivering against the night's chill, she nestles up beside you without a word.

[2/3]

>>2574107

You stay like that for a long time, neither of you saying a thing, but the silence cannot last. Eventually, Keziah speaks up. “This is nice,” she murmurs, “What Caliban said, it makes me think... right now, it's you and me against the world.”

“Sure. You, me, and a ship full of surly men against the world,” you reply, “Remind me. Why are we against the world?”

“That doesn't matter,” she insists, and you feel her shaking her head, “Don't get caught up in the little details.” She trembles again as a silent giggle runs through her body, but she doesn't say anything else for a while more. When she does, her voice is different – tense, perhaps. “Wait...” you hear her whisper, “The stars...”

Tearing your eyes off the horizon, you look up at the stars above you. The night sky stretches out endlessly around you, with countless thousands of twinkling stars transfixed there. Feeling Keziah's body tightening up with fear, you watch the sky for a moment more as you try and see what she's seeing. You see nothing, and then you see-

One of the stars winks out and vanishes. The disappearance is so unspectacular that you're not sure if you really saw it or not. It's not until you see another star vanishing, followed by another, that you must accept it. The stars are dying.

“Oh gods...” Keziah breathes, clinging to you with simple, childish fear.

>I'm going to close things here for today, and I'll continue this at the same time tomorrow
>Sorry for the delays today!

>>2574111
Can we panic now? I vote that we panic.

>>2574111
Thanks for running!

If we turn around will the stars come back?

>>2574111
That don't seem right. Did we just pass through some kind of illusion?

Thanks for running.

>>2574111
FFFFFFffffffffffffffff

Well maybe I'll make it next time.

I would like to ask Barnum, not about his past because we earlier promised not to pry, but about what made him choose our ship, what he's trying to find by being on it, and what specifically keeps him with us instead of another airship.

I mean, the dude is clearly overqualified and probably could have a much more prestigious post elsewhere, regardless of past deeds or reputation.

>>2574111
It's just the land blotting out the stars one by one, right?
Right?

>>2574117
Panicking is always a valid option. Maybe not a helpful option, but sometimes you've got to work with what you've got.
>>2574121
>>2574154
>>2574182
Stars are weird. I mean, who knows how they really work?
>>2574157
Good idea. That's something that I'll keep in mind for next session

>>2574111
the sky is falling, the sky is falling, the skyisfallingtheskyfallskyfallsfallFAAAAAAAAAA

>>2573287
>sails
Does it have a sail?

>>2574111
I love how much you write, dude. I always loved reading big posts like this, lots of fleshing out of the scenes and dialogue.

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

101 KB JPG

The next morning – and you can only tell that morning has come by the reading on the ship's clock – the sun does not rise. This, you realise with a bitterness, is what Carnamagos meant by “nightfall” - not just the closing of a single day, but an end to both day and night. What replaces them is this ghoulish twilight, neither light nor dark, that the Dust Treader resolutely sails through.

Unable to tear yourself away from the sight, you remained at the front of the ship for hours on end. You barely noticed the time passing, the sight of the stars steadily vanishing holding your attention through it all. After a while, Keziah's nerve had broken and she became unable to look. Instead, she buried her face in your chest and shivered. With her body pressed against yours you had been able to feel the heart racing in her chest. She felt like a frightened rabbit, but there had been nothing you could do to comfort her.

And then when dawn had failed to break, the witch had pulled away from you and scurried down below deck. You started to follow her, only to hesitate as Carnamagos hastened past her, running the opposite direction. He looked up at the black sky and gasped, changing his course until he was bound for the bridge. As he fled, you could hear him chanting - “We're close, we're close, we're getting close...”

Confusion soured and turned to anger, and you had followed him.

-

You had been expecting chaos on the bridge, but what you find is bleak resignation. Berwick stands behind the ship's wheel, his face haggard and drawn, while Carnamagos bustles about at random. Marching towards him, you reach out to seize the madman but stop yourself at the last moment. Your left hand had been the one to reach out to him. With the mood your in, your grasp likely would have shattered his bones.

Instead, you grab his arm with your right hand. Even so, you squeeze tightly enough that he pales and grows still. At least you've got his attention. “Carnamagos,” you begin, uttering his chosen name like a curse, “Where. Are. We?”

“Outside!” the madman hisses, “We're Outside!”

“He keeps saying that,” Berwick grunts, “Won't ever explain what he means, he just says that like it's supposed to mean something.”

“Outside of everything!” Carnamagos stresses, gesturing expansively with his free arm. Grimacing, you let him go and head over to Berwick – where you might get some actual answers. He speaks up before you can think of a sensible question.

“It looks bad, I know, but... we don't seem to be in any danger,” he mutters to you, “You were out there all night, weren't you? Did you... feel anything?”

“All night...” you repeat scornfully. Already, terms like that are starting to seem quaint and laughable. “No, I didn't notice any trouble,” you add with a sigh, “It was cold, but not unbearable. It's just... nothing out there.”

“Outside!” Carnamagos hisses to himself, “Outside of everything!”

[1/2]

>>2576195

In the absence of any other idea, Berwick's decision is to press on ahead. You get the impression that moving forwards is the only thing keeping him from breaking down. Whether or not moving forwards will actually help is irrelevant – as is the question of whether you're moving towards a destination or not. So long as he can focus on running the ship, Berwick doesn't need to think about anything else.

Which doesn't help you much, but that's just life.

Still reeling from the sight of that Outside sky, you stagger down to the mess hall, dimly following the sound of harsh voices. There, you find the scene of chaos that you had been expecting from the bridge, with the crewmen explosively arguing amongst themselves. In one corner of the room, you spot Keziah and the rest of your people, all crowded around a table with varying looks of confusion on their faces. Some of them, you realise, are yet to see the sky – hardly a nice surprise for them to wake up to.

“Everyone seems awfully upset about something,” Grace says as you sit opposite her, “Was there a problem overnight?”

“A problem!” Keziah brays, her voice taut with fear, “A problem, she says! Just look out the bloody window, and-” She falls silent as you put a hand on her shoulder, her rant cut off before it can build up any momentum. “The stars,” she offers weakly, “They went... out. They just vanished.”

“Oh,” Grace thinks for a moment, “Do you mean it was... cloudy?”

Keziah's eyes widen with anger, and for a moment it seems like you'll need to break up a second brawl. Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the anger bleeds out of her and she slumps low. “They're just gone,” she murmurs, her voice lifeless, “Go and see for yourself. Count them if you like... if you can find any to count.”

Maybe it's the fatigue in her voice, but you feel your own exhaustion descend upon you. Still, you force it back for now. “I don't know what else I can add,” you tell the group, “Does... does anyone else have any ideas?”

“I'd like to see this for myself,” Caliban muses, “I've always wondered what a completely starless sky would look like.”

“I guess I could send a messenger daemon back home,” Keziah offers after a pause, “But I don't know what good that would do. Hearing a friendly voice, I guess.”

She just said that her mother was a friendly voice. The situation truly is dire. Caliban turns to you, a question in his eyes.

>I've seen enough. I need to get some sleep
>I might as well join you, Caliban, take another look at the sky
>Good idea, Keziah. Let's do that together
>Other

>>2576197
>I might as well join you, Caliban, take another look at the sky

>Are you still in contact with Herod Kez?

>>2576197
>Good idea, Keziah. Let's do that together
We've seen enough of the Twilight, and Keziah isn't taking this very well so comforting her is a priority.

>>2576197
>Good idea, Keziah. We'll do that together. Can you still hear Herod?

“Keziah,” you ask, “Are you still in contact with Herod?”

Closing her eyes, the witch concentrates for a long moment. You see beads of sweat forming on her brow as she strains, then she lets out a low rush of breath. “Just barely,” she mutters, “It's like... shouting to someone at the other end of a windy valley. This place isn't right, boss, this place isn't right at all.” Snatching up a cup of cold tea, she takes a long drink and shudders. The awful taste seems to chase away some of her worries, and her eyes clear a little. “So...” she asks, “Where does that leave us?”

“You go on ahead, Caliban. Maybe I'll join you and the others later, we can swap our theories,” you tell him, gesturing for the others to leave, “I'll help Keziah with her messenger daemon – although I'm not sure what sort of help I can offer.”

“Moral support,” the hunter suggests with a low chuckle, “Understood, captain, we'll save you a good seat. You wouldn't want to miss any of this drama, would you?”

His flippant comment draws a few hushed laughs, but Keziah just scowls at him.

-

Back in her quarters, Keziah draws the summoning circle with a grim seriousness that is unusual for her. Normally she hums or talks to herself as she works, and you find yourself wishing that she would. More and more, the rumble of the ship's engines is starting to take on a disturbingly feral tone to it – the work of an overactive imagination, you hope. When the circle is finished, Keziah begins to murmur the appropriate words.

But nothing happens. Not even the slightest breath of wind stirs the room. Seized by a sudden frantic energy, Keziah tears into her bags and pulls out a crumpled handful of paper. Even when you call her name, hoping to calm her, she shows no sign of noticing you. Frantically reading and rereading a scrap of paper, she drops to the floor and begins to scrub at the chalk markings with her sleeve. Then, making sure that everything is absolutely correct, she redraws some of the markings – but even now, the summoning fails.

“Keziah-” you begin, but the witch cuts you off.

“Something else!” she yelps, snatching up another piece of paper and copying what is written there – this time sketching a wide circle onto the wall. “Needs to be upright, this one,” she babbles, “Watch your eyes, might be bright. Old sunlight, they call this one. A party trick really...” Throwing down her chalk, Keziah steps back and throws her arms out wide, as if seeking to embrace whatever it is that she is calling out to.

When nothing answers her call, her arms drop to her sides and she sinks lifelessly to the floor. “Hey, boss,” she murmurs after a long pause, “Let's... let's just go and see what the others are doing.”

[1/2]

>>2576225
Poor Keziah.

>>2576225

As you're helping Keziah back to her feet, you see her quickly wiping at her eyes. “I'm fine, I'm fine,” she insists, looking away from you, “It just... this day is turning out pretty shitty, huh?”

“If you can really call it a day,” you agree, “Do you have any idea why it failed?”

Drawing in a heavy breath, Keziah thinks for a moment. “There's no wind,” she says slowly, “Windy days are best for this... this sort of thing. Daemons, you know, they're said to ride the winds. Out here, though?” Frowning, she shakes her head.

According to the translated section of Miriam's journal, the Master of the Winds was said to rule over daemons. The failed summoning could suggest that the god has no power here, wherever “here” actually is. Outside, you recall Carnamagos saying, Outside of everything. Before you can say anything else to her, Keziah speaks up again. “Rituals CAN fail,” she admits, “But only if something goes wrong, or if they get interrupted. I did everything right, I'm sure of it, but the winds just aren't...”

“Don't beat yourself up about it,” you urge her, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “We learned something today.”

That's right – you learned exactly how cut off from the rest of the world you are.

-

When you arrive back on the top deck, you pass a pair of crewmen carrying an empty metal barrel between them. Trading a bemused look with Keziah, you step around them and seek out the rest of your group. They've gathered at the front of the ship, staring up into the sky with an air of unease. Perhaps because they missed the actual moment of change, the gradual extinction of the stars, the sky seems to have less of a hold over them. Even so, the words that pass between them are muted.

As you join them, you see Grace lifting the Imago device to the sky and then hesitate, slowly lowering it back down again. After all, what would be the point in taking a picture of the empty sky? She might as well keep the lens cap on. Keziah's words linger in your mind as you lean against the railings, waiting to feel even a faint gust of wind. There is none – the air is as still as it could be.

A few feet away, you see a pile of scrap – empty barrels, boxes and bits of pipe, apparently assembled by the crew for some unknown reason.

“It's definitely not cloud...” Grace concedes in a small voice, “I'm not quite sure what else to call it, but it's certainly not cloud.”

Keziah scoffs quietly, but you flash her a quick look of warning. Now is no time to be snapping at each other. “Carnamagos, our... guide... said that we're Outside,” you tell the young scholar, “I don't suppose that means anything to you?”

“Outside?” she repeats, “He used that exact word?”

“He did,” you confirm, “Quite emphatically, in fact.”

[2/3]

>>2576269

“In the Zenith tongue, “Outside” can have several meanings. First, you have the normal sort of meaning. Not inside, in other words,” Grace explains quickly, “Then you have a more, ah, territorial sense of the word. Everything not under their dominion was considered outside. The final meaning is outside of... well, everything.”

“Everything,” you repeat, thinking back to Carnamagos' ravings, “That's pretty vague.”

“It is, isn't it?” Grace says with a helpless gesture, “A more accurate translation would be “Outside that which exists due to heavenly grace”. I'm... not exactly sure what that means, though.”

“Outside the reach of the gods,” Keziah answers, “Like the winds, see?”

“Ah!” Blessings cries, his eyes widening, “I've heard that before! I heard a priest talking about it once. He said... he said that there was a land that existed outside of heavenly grace. It was a wicked place where time stood still, and faithless men were left to languish. You couldn't just go there, he said, unless you had committed some unforgivable sin. He, ah, he never said what that was, though.” Uncomfortable under the weight of so many eyes boring into him, Blessings clears his throat and shuffles his feet. “I don't think he knew, either,” the boy admits, “It's not accepted church doctrine – I looked afterwords, but I couldn't find any mention of it – but he was an odd priest. Spent time in Nadir, you see...”

Pieces are starting to fit together, although you still can't be certain of the picture they form. Maybe you'll need to see this land for yourself before things start to make a little more sense. “Assuming we ever find it...” you mutter aloud.

“That's the question, isn't it?” Caliban agrees, his gaze still locked onto the empty sky, “It's a good thing that we have a trustworthy guide plotting our course, isn't it?”

If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that he was enjoying this. Oblivious to his sarcasm, Grace claps her hands together and speaks up, her voice deliberately bright. “We've got some good ideas going!” she chirps, “Does anyone else have something to add?”

Dead silence. “I'm going to bed,” Keziah mutters eventually, turning away from the group. Gunny follows her as she leaves, a pensive expression on his face. Freddy stays at her place by the railings, but adds nothing to the discussion. You can feel the mood growing tense, fearful, and the need to say something, to do something, wells up within you. Except... what can you do in a situation like this?

>Head to bed. Maybe things will seem better after a nap
>Press Carnamagos for some real answers
>Take a wander and see how the rest of the crew are coping
>Talk with Grace and the others... (Write in)
>Other

>>2576400
>Press Carnamagos for some real answers

>>2576400
>Take a wander and see how the rest of the crew are coping

>>2576400
>Press Carnamagos for some real answers

“I'm going to see if Carnamagos can give us some real answers,” you tell the group, “He's the one who led us out here. I don't know what it'll take to shake something loose from that skull of his, but... hell, I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. If I find anything out...”

“Oh, we'll be here for a while yet,” Caliban agrees, glancing at the pile of scrap, “I think we're due for an interesting little performance soon enough.”

Leaving them to it, you make for the ship's bridge. On the way, you keep an eye out for any other members of the crew. You'd like to know how they're dealing with this – not well would be your guess – but that's not your top priority at the moment. That can come later, once you've had a few gentle words with your guide. When you arrive at the bridge, you find it empty save for two men – Berwick, slumped over the wheel with his eyes glazed, and Carnamagos. The madman sits in the middle of the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

Checking on Berwick, you realise that he's dead drunk – his breath reeks of brandy, and a half-full flask of the stuff sits nearby. Slipping the flask into your own pocket, you crouch down beside Carnamagos and study him for a long moment. His eyes flick this way and that, but he sees nothing. Sleeping with his eyes open, you assume. Some half-forgotten piece of folklore surfaces in your thoughts. Isn't it supposed to be dangerous, waking a man who sleeps with his eyes open?

Danger or no danger, you reach out and prod Carnamagos in the chest. Your first tap is gentle, but when that fails to wake him you give the thin man a firm jab. This rouses him, as well as drawing a weak cry of pain from his lips.

Behind you, Berwick sleeps on.

“Hello Carnamagos,” you murmur, “I think we need to have a little talk. You were dreaming, weren't you? Dreaming about our destination – I want you to tell me exactly what you saw.”

“A paradise built by man's own hand,” Carnamagos whispers, the words spilling from his lips, “Don't you see? That's what he stole. He stole a piece of creation, and he made a home for his people. A home where they could never find him...”

“Who?” you hiss, although you have an idea of who Carnamagos is talking about, “Who stole this... piece of creation?”

The madman blinks a few times, new realisation creeping into his eyes. “A thief,” he offers at last, “They steal things, do they not?” A giggle escapes Carnamagos, although it never finds its way to his eyes. “I saw it, I SAW it! I've never seen so much of it before...” he continues, “There was a storm, a terrible storm, and he stole away into the night with his treasure. Everything... everything was in flux, then, everything was changing.”

Carnamagos' eyes start to wander, his attention wavering. Grabbing his shoulder, you squeeze it until he cries out in pain, and his eyes focus back on you.

[1/2]

>>2576463

“Listen to me, Carnamagos,” you begin in a voice that is low, level, and very hard, “I want you to describe this paradise. You can do that, can't you?”

“Ah, it was a green and pleasant land,” the madman murmurs, closing his eyes as he tries to retreat back into that blissful dream, “Lush and plentiful... they built homes, and they buried their dead. They could do that, you know, there was no need to burn them. No god or daemon could find them there.” Smiling softly, the madman leans back until he topples over and lies flat on the ground. You let him drift back to sleep, rising to your feet and taking another long look out the window.

This emptiness that you sail through... it's hard to imagine any kind of land out here, especially not a green and pleasant one. As with everything he says, you need to separate the facts from his delusions. Even so, his account does fit with what you know – the thief of old, and a land beyond the reach of the gods. If he's telling the truth, you'll be sailing for a land created by the man whose footsteps you're now following.

What kind of paradise did he create?

-

That question still hangs in your mind as you wander through the lower decks, occasionally glancing around at some distant shout. The crew seem rowdy, bellowing wordless cries of defiance and chanting. There are no sounds of fighting, though, nothing to suggest that the men are brawling. One man you pass has lurid warpaint smeared across his face and bare chest, and he carries a short length of pipe in each hand. He doesn't even glance your way as you pass him, and you have no desire to get in his way.

It's only when you hear a hollow crash from above deck that you realise what is going on. With the empty barrels serving as crude drums, the crew seem ready to perform some barbaric ceremony. The idea chills you. It's true that most of these men are Nadir born, but they were still trained and educated men. Now, they seem to be slipping back into some base savagery. Whatever they plan on doing, you hope that it doesn't involve any kind of blood sacrifice.

When your roaming takes you to what passes for the ship's infirmary, you take a look inside to see if there have been any injuries. Thankfully, the room is empty save for Doctor Barnum. The background noise seems to dim as you enter, as if respecting the doctor's hushed voice. “Quite some fuss and bother out there,” you announce, taking a seat and bringing out the flask, “Have you heard?”

“Word has reached my ears, yes,” Barnum confirms with a nod, taking two small tin cups out and setting them down next to you. Raising an eyebrow, you pour a small measure of the brandy into each cup and take a sip. Better than you had been expecting. Barnum tries his liquor as well, nodding with appreciation. For a while longer, you both drink in silence.

[2/3]

>>2576552

“I'm tempted to write this off as a mass delusion,” Barnum offers eventually, gesturing towards the ceiling – the sky above – with his cup, “A consensual hallucination, perhaps, or some kind of group mania. Such things can happen, you know. Normally rational men can be swept up in some grand hysteria and imagine that they see... say, a wyrm?” He laughs softly at this little joke, then takes another drink.

“I don't believe this is anything so simple as that,” you argue, “And I don't think you believe that either.”

“True. Very true,” the doctor studies you for a moment, “Were you here for a diagnosis, captain, or was there something else on your mind?”

“I'm curious, doctor, about just why you decided to come on this voyage,” you state simply, “Why you joined my crew at all, in fact. I mean, you can't deny that an educated man like yourself must be able to make a better living elsewhere.”

“That is true, captain. I'm afraid that my reasons may not be a surprise to you – in fact, you may find them somewhat familiar. You see, it was my own curiosity that led to me joining your crew. I recognised your name, of course, when I heard that you were recruiting, and I wondered if you would take an Iraklin aboard,” Barnum gives you a thin smile, “I expected you to decline straight away, but you didn't. Of course, you were... not entirely sober at that point.”

He's not wrong there. Honestly, you barely remember talking with him or offering him a job. “So you joined up just to see if you could?” you ask, unable to quite believe him.

“Initially, yes, but then I began to suspect that you were onto something big. I take pride in my skill at reading people, and you struck me as a man with a very definite goal,” the doctor nods slowly, “A goal that you believed, wholly believed, that you could achieve. I find that kind of passion to be quite heartening.”

“Passion, huh?” you grunt, “But I'm not that confident.”

“You are,” Barnum corrects you, “When you're drunk.”

Conceding the point with a laugh, you refill both cups. “Do you regret it?” you ask, “Joining up?”

“Not at all,” he replies, “It's true, I could easily find work elsewhere. I dare say that in any city you name, I could find employment within a day. Money, however, is of no real concern to me. I have the luxury of choosing work that interests me, and being a part of your crew is anything but boring.” Emptying his cup in a single swallow, the doctor gives you another thin smile. “Thank you for the drink,” he concludes, “I'll be sure to thank the shipmaster later.”

You look down at the flask, groaning when you see Berwick's initials engraved into the metal.

>I'd better go and give this back, then
>Be straight with me Barnum. Who are you really?
>If it's not a hallucination, what do you think is going on here?
>I have a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2576624
>If it's not a hallucination, what do you think is going on here?
>I'd better go and give this back, then

We've already made it clear that we weren't going to pry, but if he wanted to talk we'd be available to listen. I think that still holds true.

>>2576624
>If it's not a hallucination, what do you think is going on? According to Zenith scripture, we've sailed into a realm of limbo, out of the reach of the gods.

“Looks like I'd better go and give this back, then,” you sigh, picking up the flask before hesitating, “But if this whole thing isn't a hallucination, what do you think is going on here?”

“A difficult question to answer,” Barnum admits, “From what I've been told – and what I've overheard – we seem to be descending into some kind of existential doom... although the crew here would put it in rather coarser terms. Am I incorrect?”

“No, that sounds like it might be pretty close to the mark,” you remark with a wan laugh, “From what I've been able to piece together, we might well be sailing into some kind of limbo – somewhere out of the reach of the gods.”

Barnum's eyes narrow with amusement. “In Iraklis, we're taught that the gods are just figures of native superstition. In other words, all the world is supposed to be out of their reach – yet, the world doesn't look quite like this,” he muses, “So, it would seem that someone must be incorrect.” Tapping a finger against his hairless scalp, Barnum thinks for a moment more. “I'll speak plainly. We both know that there are powers in this world that cannot be rationally explained. I believe that this place, whatever you wish to call it, is the result of one such power,” the beginnings of a smile start to form on Barnum's lips, “If anyone could control that power... well, who knows what they might be able to achieve?”

His words send a thrill running through you, closely followed by a chill of fear. Indeed, you could do great things with the power sealed away, but if it fell into the wrong hands? There's no telling how much damage it could do. As you feel your thoughts darken, Barnum lets out a low laugh.

“But I'm rambling,” he murmurs, “That's the problem with getting old, the thoughts tend to wander. You wanted my opinion on this, did you not? Well... I'm not sure if I can offer you one. In the absence of a rational explanation, maybe we'll have to place our trust in mysticism and superstition.”

“I'll...” you begin, only for a terrible crash of metal from above deck to cut you short. “Hold that thought,” you urge the doctor, hurrying out of the infirmary.

-

Above deck, the sound of metal striking metal is almost deafening. The crew have gathered around their crude drums, pounding out a riotous wall of noise as they strike their instruments. Grace has her hands clapped over her ears, wincing against the noise, while Caliban watches with a feral grin. Although he hasn't joined the crewmen in their savage rite, he's certainly caught up in their enthusiasm.

He's not alone. The sound – you can't call it music, not really – causes your own heart to hammer within your chest. Your fists clench and unclench as you approach, feeling a nameless excitement building within you.

[1/2]

>>2576707

Despite the chill in the air, the men have stripped to the waist and smeared their bodies with paint. You see deformities proudly displayed - patches of scales or leathery skin, hair thick enough to be fur, even a withered third arm that flaps with its owner's movements. Under this starless sky, the crew of the Dust Treader have become beasts in all but name... and yet still, you feel the urge to join them.

Instead, you hit Caliban on the arm to get his attention and call out to him. “What is this?” you yell, “What are they doing?”

“Shouting into the void!” the hunter replies, his voice raised against the racket, “Proving their own existence, I think. Something like that, at least!”

“Couldn't they prove their existence quietly?” Grace complains, “Couldn't they... write a book instead?” Her complaint, and the querulous tone she delivers it in, leaves both you and Caliban roaring with laughter. Flushing red, she angrily stamps her foot. “I mean, really!” she continues, “What about the people trying to sleep? What about them?”

“Hey, lass!” one of the swarthy, painted men calls out as he marches over. Grace pales with fear as he brandishes his club at her. “You want to join us, take this!” he continues, thrusting the pipe at her, “Much louder than stamping your little foot!”

“That wasn't... I wasn't trying to...” she splutters, shaking her head before sighing, “No thank you, um, sir.”

“Sir!” the barbarian repeats, letting out an uninhibited laugh, “Sir, she says! Well, no matter. What about you, either of you?” He waves the pipe at you and Caliban, offering it to whoever wishes it. Caliban shakes his head, and the crude club turns to point your way.

>Reject the offer
>Accept the offer
>Other

>>2576753
I already know exist, I don't need loud noises for it,.

>>2576753
Lets see if the old thief can hear us
>accept

>>2576753
>Reject the offer

>>2576753
>Reject the offer

>>2576753
>Reject
>Why are you doing this? I don't think making noise will help.

You look down at the improvised drumstick. The barbarian – and there can be no other word for him – has wrapped a length of filthy cloth around one end to cushion his grip. A surprisingly thoughtful touch, especially for a bunch of men currently beating the crap out of some empty barrels. Shaking your head, you take a step back from the drumstick.

“I already know that I exist,” you reply, “I don't need to make some loud noises to prove that. Do you really think that this will help anything?”

Drawing back the club, the barbarian scratches at a patch of mottled, piebald skin on the swell of his stomach. “Help anything? Don't rightly know,” he admits, “Can't recall who came up with the idea first. Can't hurt to try it, though, and it sure lifts the spirits. This is the most I've seen my boys smile all week.”

You've got to admit that he has a point there. The barbarians are too busy battering their drums to worry, and the snatches of yelled conversations that you can just barely overhear seem to be happy – joyous, even. Even so, this isn't something that you wish to involve yourself in. Shaking your head again, you turn and start to head below deck. All this noise is giving you one hell of a headache.

The crew exist a little too much for your liking.

-

Below deck, you recall Grace's mention of sleep and go off in search of Keziah. You'd like to hear her opinion on what Carnamagos told you, and she's sure to be awake with all the racket up on deck. Sure enough, she responds to your knock with a loud curse.

“Bugger off!” she yells, “I dinnae want to have anythin' to do with your bloody noise!”

Her accent is back – she must be feeling better. Letting yourself in, you dodge the thin pillow she throws at you and give her a nod of greeting. “If you think it's loud down here, you should hear it up on deck,” you remark, “I think my ears are going to be ringing for days.” The noise diminishes a little as you close the door behind you, although it still provides a thunderous undercurrent to your conversation.

“Sorry about that, boss,” Keziah grunts, picking up the flimsy pillow and tossing it back onto her bed, “I had a bunch of those louts knockin' on my door a while ago, demandin' that I come out and... hell, I dinnae ken what. Lead their performance, I guess.” She snorts with disdain, pacing the length of the room as her rant continues. “That's what me mam would do, you know,” she adds, “She'd say it was an important rite, and it was her duty to... do somethin' about it. She's the same back home, involvin' herself in anythin' the villagers ask her to do.”

She's definitely feeling better, if she can rant like this.

[1/2]

>>2576817

“Anyway,” Keziah sighs, “The point is-”

“You had a point?” you interrupt, chuckling at the outraged look that passes across her face.

“Of course I had a bloody point!” she snaps, “The point is... it's... Ah hell, now I've gone and forgotten what I was talkin' about! You see what you did, boss? You see?” Flopping down on her bed, the witch throws her hands up in exasperation. Speechless for a moment more, she lets her hands drop silently down to the bed. “But you know... I was really glad that you were there before, when I tried calling those daemons,” the witch says in a softer tone, “Sure, you got to see me fail like that, but... it wasn't so bad. If I'd been on my own, I reckon I would have really gone to pieces.”

“Then I'll make you a promise,” you tell her in a solemn voice, sitting down beside her, “I'll be there to watch you fail any time you like.”

“You ass!” Keziah shrieks, slapping you on the arm as she laughs. “Honestly, I don't know why I bother,” she adds in a low sigh, “But I'm glad that I do. You... you mind if I ask you something, boss?”

“Go ahead,” you urge, “I'm an open book.”

Reaching across, Keziah plucks at the woollen shawl draped over your left shoulder. “When my mother gave you this,” she asks quietly, “Why did you take it?”

You... don't know the answer to that. At the time, you hadn't thought about it all that much. It's impossible to know what Maeve's intention had been when she offered it to you – anything from an attempt at buying your trust to a genuine display of affection. You accepted her gift... why?

“Sorry, I shouldn't have asked,” Keziah babbles, hastily looking away, “I, uh, you don't need to-”

“No,” you tell her, “I...”

>Honestly, I didn't think much about it at the time
>We need her help, and refusing her gift might have offended her
>I like her. Accepting her gift seemed like the natural thing to do
>Other

>>2576892
>I didn't want to be rude and all her other gifts have been helpful. I didn't know it held any other meaning until after.

>>2576892
>Honestly, I didn't think much about it at the time
"She said it was to protect against the wind chill on the ocean and it seemed rude to refuse her gift.

Guess she didn't anticipate there would be no wind where we are going huh?"

>>2576892
>Honestly I didn't think it was that big a deal. It's just a shawl, and she wasn't using it. I even made sure to ask and confirm it wasn't some weird courting ritual.

>>2576892
>Because it's free stuff!

“Honestly, I didn't think much of it at the time,” you continue, “She offered it to me, and it seemed rude to refuse it. All her other gifts have been helpful, and I didn't think it had any special significance. A shawl is a shawl, after all, and when have I ever refused free stuff?” A thought occurs to you, and you laugh. “She said that it would help against the wind,” you remark, “I bet she never thought that we'd end up somewhere with no wind.”

“I don't think either of us expected that,” Keziah agrees, chuckling a little to herself.

“I even made sure to check that it wasn't some kind of... courtship ritual,” you add, “I didn't want to end up engaged by accident. Not after last time.”

Keziah's eyes widen. “Last time?” she yelps.

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding,” you assure her, “I might be a little clumsy, but I've never fallen into an engagement.”

“Ass,” the witch repeats, her mouth set in a relieved smile.

“But seriously, don't overthink it. I don't know exactly why she offered it to me, but I accepted it without any kind of... commitment,” you touch the soft wool, glancing across the scrolling pattern of trees. It's hard to imagine Maeve sitting down and knitting something like this, but it has the unmistakable feel of something handmade. “This belonged to your father,” you guess, “Didn't it?”

“No,” Keziah corrects you, “But it was meant for him. I guess he left before she could ever give it to him. Sometimes, I wish I knew why he ran out like that. It must have been something pretty important, huh?”

Maybe. Or maybe he had fled as soon as he had gotten what he had wanted from Maeve. The wandering life is like that sometimes. It makes you think of your own father. Did he have a woman waiting in every city he travelled to? If so, how many little bastards could he have left behind?

Now that's something you don't want to consider. Drawing in a deep breath and clearing those unwelcome thoughts from your head, you begin to tell Keziah something only to be cut short by a loud banging at the door. A moment later, Gunny bursts in.

“Sorry for the... captain!” he blurts out, looking between you and Keziah for a moment before shaking his head. “Good, you're both here. News from up top,” he hastily adds, “We've sighted land. Land!”

Both you and Keziah hurriedly scrabble to your feet, following Gunny as he leads you back towards the top deck. It's only now that you realise that the drumming has mercifully stopped. Maybe there was someone out there listening, you think with a bitter smile, waiting for a sign that someone was coming.

That thought, amusing at first, soon sours and turns to unease. What if there IS something else out there, you wonder, something that might not want visitors?

You'll see soon enough.

[1/2]

>>2576999
It's cool Milos. If they didn't want visitors they never would have appeared, and we would have drifted for eternity.

>>2576999

Someone passes you a pair of binoculars as you arrive on the top deck, pressing them into your hand and then hurrying off. Fumbling them, making sure not to drop them, you hurry towards the front of the ship. Scattered cheers and cries of triumph fill the air here, the savage crewmen bellowing words of praise and thanks to the empty sky. An abandoned barrel – almost pounded flat by countless blows – nearly trips you up you move, but you manage to stumble around it at the last second. Spitting a curse at the world in general, you look out at the land ahead.

Then a second curse slips from your lips, this one hushed and awed. Carnamagos said that you only needed to head south to find your destination, and he wasn't wrong. There's no way that you could have missed this place – far from the small island you had been expecting, you see it stretching out to either side with no apparent end in sight. From this distance, the land looks flat and featureless.

Slowly, you raise the binoculars to your eyes and take a closer look. Even through the magnified lenses, you can't make out much detail. The land still looks flat and featureless, although slightly less so. There are a few lumps and bumps here and there, along with a small number of more blocky shapes – buildings, perhaps. No trees, no plants, no... anything.

Everything you see is grey, grey and lifeless. Nothing moves, and soon you start wishing for a hint of the hostility you feared. Lowering the binoculars, you allow Keziah to take them from you. Her reaction is tragic, excitement slowly warping into dismay and even horror at the sight of that wasteland stretching out before her. Around you, the cheering fades and falters, soon dying off completely.

A paradise, Carnamagos had called it, a green and pleasant land.

Some paradise.

>I'm going to pause things here for today. I won't be able to run this coming Sunday, so I'll have to continue this next Friday
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>2577075
>I won't be able to run this coming Sunday, so I'll have to continue this next Friday
FUG

Thanks for running though, dude. Even if I didn't participate.

>>2577075
Thanks for running!

>>2577075
>inb4 this is a sequel to Sleeping Gods and this is the wasteland in that quest.

Thanks for running.

>>2577075
Thanks for running!

How bummed is Carny right now?

>>2577075
The warlocks got to it first. Where's Ira when you need him?

>>2577084
We would be dead in a very short while, unless the land of sleeping gods just has super refreshing air

>>2577738
Nah the wasteland in that quest is pretty fucked.

My bet is on a Dark Souls-esque dead city/land.

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

313 KB JPG

The Dust Treader crawls steadily towards her destination, as if reluctant to reach it. You've barely left your spot at the front of the ship since you first eyes on the distant shore, but nothing you've seen has done much to lift your spirits. Occasionally you'll take a listless glance through the binoculars, but never for very long. Something about that drab landscape just saps your energy.

One thing you've noticed. Despite the lack of any stars, any sun or moon, this place is light enough for you to see by. Even the Vault of the Sun wasn't like this – there, you could see motes of light glowing in the air around you. Here, there's nothing like that yet still you can see. Just one more aspect of this place that feels almost dreamlike.

Keziah approaches, passing across a mug of what you assume to be tea, although it looks more like muddy water. Sipping it, you utter a soft grunt of distaste. “Cold,” you explain, “It's barely lukewarm.”

“That cannae be right,” Keziah mutters, “I only made it a moment ago, and I brought it right up.” She looks up at the sky and gives it an accusatory scowl as you slosh the cold tea overboard. You weren't really that thirsty anyway, but you would have appreciated the warmth. “So,” the witch says, feigning good cheer, “Looking for a good place to build a nice wee family home?”

This, at least, brings a smile to your face. “Oh sure, I've got just the place,” you reply, waving your hand towards the wasteland, “A nice little plot by the coast. We could sit out in the flower garden and look up at the stars. Sounds nice, doesn't it?”

“Sounds cosy,” a voice calls from behind you. You both turn sharply around to see Caliban lingering a few paces away, a smirk fixed on his lips. “Is there room for one more?” he adds, leaning against the railings beside you.

“Aye, I can think of a place,” Keziah jeers, “How about the family dog?”

“As amusing as this is, I'm guessing that you didn't come here just so we could talk shit at each other,” you remark, gesturing for the pair to stop bickering, “What's the situation, Caliban?”

“Berwick. He's been arguing with some of his men for the past hour about what to do, that's why we've been moving so slowly. He's reached his decision,” Caliban explains, his smirk dropping, “He's going to take us closer, then drop some smaller boats. We'll row the rest of the way. After coming this far, it looks like he wants to see this through to the end. I suppose I can respect that.”

Words of high praise, coming from him. “I want on one of those boats,” you reply firmly, and Caliban nods.

“I thought you might,” he agrees, “Berwick says there a boat for you. Room enough to bring everyone who wants to come along with us.”

“Oh boy...” Keziah mutters.

[1/3]

>>2590903

The boat that Berwick provides you with seems far from sturdy, with every motion accompanied by the creak of frail wood. Even a mild storm would likely prove too much for this little craft, but there doesn't seem to be any danger of storms out here. The water is placid, barely lapping against the little boat's hull as Freddy and Gunny row you towards the shore. It's not a long distance to cover, but you make slow progress.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the second boat bobbing along beside you. Carnamagos sits in it, and you can see him stirring restlessly. Just watching him makes you feel anxious – if he threw a fit, it could easily tip the boat over. For some reason, the thought of sinking into these waters fills you with a kind of formless dread. It just looks somehow unclean, like foul milk poured into stagnant water.

When you hear the oars scraping up against the shore, you feel a sense of relief welling up within you. Carefully leaping from the boat to the dusty shore, you see a puff of gritty white dirt swirling around your boots. It's not sand exactly, but you're not sure what else to call it. It seems more like the dust that accumulates in ancient libraries and abandoned homes. As he joins you, Caliban stoops down and touches his finger to the dust, cautiously tasting it.

“A touch of salt,” he murmurs to himself, “I wonder...”

A terrible scream cuts him short. Jolting around, you see Carnamagos on his knees with his hands clutched to his head. The act of making landfall here has stripped away the last of his protective hope, and the hideous reality of his “paradise” has descended to crush him. He screams again, howling up at the blank sky, but before he can let out any more of those fearful cries he is dragged to his feet by one of the Nadir crewmen. His face fixed in a snarl of blind rage, the crewman tugs a pistol from his belt and jams it under Carnamagos' chin.

“You!” the Nadir-born man hisses, “You brought us here! Now look, look at this place – I ought to splatter your brains across this fucking beach!”

“Hey!” you snap, drawing your own revolver and pointing it at the man, “Let him go!”

The man turns to you and flashes you a wild glare. He's a ghoulish looking sort, his lipless mouth drawn back almost to his ears, and his eyes are flat black. “To hell with you!” he retorts, “I don't follow your orders!”

[2/3]

>>2590907

“You should,” a third voice, low and threatening, calls out. Another of the crew steps forwards, and you recognise him – both by the anvil tattoo on his face, and the dark bruises around his throat. “If you know what's good for you, that is,” he adds. A murmur of recognition passes through his companions as they realise who you are. The belligerent crewman hesitates, licking his exposed teeth with a thin tongue before pulling the pistol away from Carnamagos.

“I wouldn't waste the bullet,” he spits, allowing the madman to wilt down to the ground. For a moment it looks as though he's considering kicking Carnamagos in the rips, but then he relents and steps carefully away from the fallen man. “Okay then, captain,” he continues, leering at you, “What do you want us to do with him? Drag him along with us, kicking and screaming all the way?”

“I'll stay here with him,” the tattooed man offers, “We can guard the boats while the rest of you explore further in. Doesn't seem to be anything around here, but...”

“What's the matter?” his lipless rival jeers, “Scared?”

“Absolutely,” Anvil – as you've come to think of him – agrees, “What do you say?”

You glance down to Carnamagos, but he doesn't seem to be in any state to offer an opinion. Something, either the sight of this place or the idea of having his skull emptied out, has left him close to catatonic.

>We'll take him with his. If we can keep him lucid, he might be able to help us
>Okay, you stay here and watch him – and the boats
>Take him back to the ship. He'll be safer under Berwick's care
>Other

>>2590908
>We'll take him with his. If we can keep him lucid, he might be able to help us
"He's the closest thing we have to an 'expert' on this place. Sadly."

>>2590908
>We'll take him with us. He may have been wrong about this being a paradise, but he's been right about everything else. No sense in discarding him now over a single mistake.

>>2590908
>We'll take him with his. If we can keep him lucid, he might be able to help us
>Post some guards for the boats.

“We'll take him with us,” you order, reaching down and gently lifting Carnamagos to his feet. “He's the closest thing we have to an expert on this place,” you add, grimacing at the thought, “He was wrong about this being a paradise, but he's been right about everything else so far. No sense in discarding him over one mistake.”

The crewmen mutter amongst themselves as they consider your answer, and you see a fair few heads nodding. Even the troublemakers among them keep their complaints quiet, simply casting sour looks at the madman. “You'll be babysitting him, then?” the lipless freak sneers, “Don't expect me or my boys to waste our time on him.”

“That's fine with me,” you reply evenly, fixing him with a hard look, “And I want two good men to stay being and guard the boats. Any volunteers?”

Another moment of debate, then two of the crewmen step forwards. They look reliable enough, and they carry their rifles with confidence. Leaving them to await your return, you begin your march inland.

-

You need to support him on your shoulder at first, but Carnamagos gradually shakes off the worst of his horror and walks under his own power. To your surprise, Blessings takes a place next to the madman and murmurs to him in a low voice. You don't catch any of the words, but you see Carnamagos nodding slowly along with whatever the boy says. Soon enough, Carnamagos surfaces from his catatonia and glances around him with new awareness. Keeping one hand on Blessings' shoulder, he allows the young man to lead him on.

Clouds of dust puff around your boots as you march through the wasteland, your sights set on the blocky shapes ahead. Compared with how they looked from the ship, those buildings – or whatever they are – seem further away from the coast than expected. It's a joyless slog, walking through this place, and conversation is sparse. At one point, Caliban kneels down and scoops a fistful of the white dirt into a small leather pouch.

“A souvenir,” he explains with a wan smile, noticing your look, “Who else can say that they have some dirt from the edge of the world?”

“That's one way of impressing the women, my man,” Gunny chuckles, “Hey, why don't you come back to my room and look at my jar of dirt?”

“Women love a well-travelled man,” Grace replies in an absent minded voice, flushing as she realises that she spoke aloud. “A-anyway, I think it's a good idea,” she hurriedly adds, “Taking a sample of this dust, I mean. It might be interesting to analyse it later... although I wouldn't really know what to look for. Maybe we can take it to an expert, a natural philosopher or something of that sort, when we get back home...”

“Sure,” Caliban remarks, “I can invite them back to take a look at my jar of dirt.”

Although it seems very small compared with the silence around you, the sound of laughter lifts your spirits a little.

[1/2]

>>2590908
This>>2590927

>>2590929

When you reach the settlement, laughter is hard to come by. For a while, you can't find anything to say – none of you can. All you can to is look around at your eventual destination.

You count exactly twelve buildings, of varying sizes and shapes but sharing a common style. Rich with stone columns and sweeping steps, they have a sad kind of majesty to them. In better times, when there was some life to this place, they would have been truly grand. Something about them nags at you, though, something that you can't immediately place. It's only when you approach the closest building that you realise what it is. The buildings are partially sunk into the ground, as if they had been build on boggy land.

The twelve buildings form a rough circle arranged around a monument, a great stone needle with a hunched figure, a hideous gargoyle, perched atop it. You end up staring at that gargoyle for a long moment. It doesn't seem right here, as if the Nadir crewmen had placed it there as a practical joke. The men themselves sit around that monument, talking amongst themselves in low and fearful hisses. You start towards them, but then you hear Grace murmuring to herself.

“This stone...” she whispers, approaching one of the buildings, “Abrahad?”

“No,” you tell her as you join her. Reaching out to touch a white stone column, you feel a layer of powdery stone flake away beneath your palm. “Abrahad wouldn't crumble like this,” you continue, “I'm sure of it.”

Nodding slowly, the young scholar sits heavily down on some of the stone steps and lapses into a thoughtful silence. Every so often she starts to say something only for the words to die in her throat. Sighing, she gives you a helpless gesture. You can understand her silence all too well – this place just steals away anything you could say, sapping the will to speak. Seeking out the comforting sound of voices, you drift over to the crew and listen in.

“I told you, I can't read this!” one man hisses, flapping his hand at the surface of the monolith, “These aren't even letters!”

“They are. Old letters,” another man argues, “My old man, he sometimes carved letters like these into little bits of stone. Good luck charms, that sort of thing. He said they meant stuff, but I don't think he ever knew what.”

“Some help you are...” the first man mutters bitterly to himself.

“Let me take a look,” Carnamagos announces, approaching the monument with Blessings by his side. The crewmen scowl at him, but draw back to that he can study the carven stone. The letters are in poor shape, almost lost to decay. “Leave me,” the madman murmurs, glancing around at the crewmen, “You, boy, stay. Please.”

“It's okay,” Blessings assures him, “I'm not going anywhere.”

[2/3]

>>2590991
>The buildings are partially sunk into the ground, as if they had been build on boggy land.
Reminds me of the end of the Ringed City.

>>2590991

You start to draw back along with the rest of the crewmen, giving Carnamagos some room to work, but the madman grabs your arm with a sudden jerk of motion. “This was all grass once,” he whispers, “Children would gather here and tell tales of the man who planted this stone. This was the heart of it all. Everything else came later.”

“Grass?” you repeat, gesturing around you, “What happened to it?”

Carnamagos just shakes his head, a fretful expression forming on his face. His hand falls away from your arm, and you continue your retreat. You can see the others spreading out and sweeping through the desolate settlement in search of... of anything. Freddy is taking it extremely seriously, pressing herself up against walls and aiming her rifle down every doorway she passes. The others just stroll about at random, mostly lost in their own thoughts. The contrast brings a thin smile to your lips, but that slips away before long.

The oppressive weight of this place – a weight that you can barely describe, but permeates every inch of the settlement – presses down on you. Seeking a moment of relief, you wander past the buildings and trudge up a low hill. Beyond, the wastes spread out in an unbroken mass.

Maybe not unbroken. Although it shimmers like a hazy dream, you can see – you think you see – another group of buildings not too far away. Looking out at them, you feel a strange sadness – almost a kind of nostalgia.

You almost take a step towards those distant buildings before stopping yourself. You should...

>Head back to Carnamagos, see if he has anything else to say
>Help the others sweep through the settlement
>Venture out to investigate the distant buildings
>Other

>>2591011
>Help the others sweep through the settlement

>>2591011
>Help the others sweep through the settlement
Then show them the distant buildings. Don't want to head out on our own if it's a mirage.

>>2591011
This>>2591019

>>2591011
>>2591019

Shaking your head to clear it, you take another look out at the wastes. The distant buildings are still there, which suggests one of two things – either they're real, not an illusion, or they're an illusion potent enough that you can't just shake it off. You'll see what the others say, after the rest of the settlement has been cleared. Turning your back on the endless wastes, you hasten back to join the others.

You find them in one of the larger buildings, a wide structure that vaguely reminds you of your old family manor. It feels like a place that was lived in, once upon a time, although no trace of that former life greets you as you enter the building. Gunny lingers in the immediate entrance, on his hands and knees as he brushes away the dust to uncover patterned tiles. Although the mosaic is still half-covered, you guess that it's a plan of the building. Nothing complicated, just straight corridors and rows of smaller rooms.

“The others are in the west wing,” Gunny says, pointing to one corridor, “I think that's west, at least. Let me tell you this, brother, I've got no sense of direction in this place. None at all.”

“You didn't feel like joining them?” you ask. Rising to his feet, Gunny shakes his head.

“Feels wrong to me,” he explains, “Like we're creeping through someone's house. Hell, that's just what we ARE doing!” Snorting with forced laughter, he flaps his hands in a frustrated gesture. “But what I mean is, it doesn't feel right,” he adds, “Like whoever lived here is going to come strolling back at any time, or like they never left in the first place!”

You try to think of something to say to that, then abandon the effort. Giving Gunny a firm nod, you head through to the western wing. Hushed voices reach out to you, drawing you in.

-

“What I don't understand is why this is crumbling,” Freddy complains, pointing first to a wooden set of drawers before pointing at a limp cloth doll in Grace's hands, “But that isn't. These should show a consistent rate of decay, but-”

“I wonder,” Grace whispers, turning the doll over in her hands. It doesn't look like an ancient thing, although the cloth it's made from has been bleached grey and the stitching is starting to fray in places. That's normal wear and tear, though, while the wooden drawers are crumbling to dust. As you think, Freddy prods the drawers with the toe of her boot. That slight touch is all it takes for them to collapse completely, casting a haze of gritty dust into the air.

“I saw something out, past the edge of town,” you explain, causing heads to turn towards you, “Some more buildings, it looked like. That, or some kind of illusion. Can I get someone to come out with me, confirm that we're seeing the same thing?”

“More buildings?” Caliban mutters, before nodding, “Sounds interesting. Let's take a little look...”

[1/2]

>>2591060

Before leaving, you explore the rest of the large building carefully. It looks like this structure used to house a great number of people – families, perhaps. The rooms are sparsely furnished, with most of the furnishings well on their way towards complete dissolution, but you find a surprising number of intact items. A wooden charm on a length of twine, another doll like the one Grace still holds, a flute made from a single length of bone...

You're still wondering about this strangely selective decay as you lead the others out to the edge of town. As you're leaving, Caliban shoots an ugly look up at the gargoyle perched atop the monument. “Ugly beast,” he mutters, “Never seen anything like it before.”

“I'd happily never see anything like it again,” Freddy agrees, half-heartedly pointing her rifle at it before allowing the weapon to slump back down again.

“Oh, Grace!” Blessings calls over, waving to you, “Could you come over here? I'd, ah, I'd like your opinion or something...”

“Go on,” you tell her, “We'll be back soon.” Leaving her to hurry off towards the monument, you gesture for the others to follow you and make your way towards that hazy sight.

-

“Well, I see it too,” Caliban offers, shielding his eyes against the non-existent sun and peering out, “I don't know what I'm seeing, but I definitely see it.”

Emboldened by this support, you get a little closer to the strange sight. Sliding down the low hill, you stumble forwards a few paces before regaining your footing and moving on ahead. Gunny joins you, even as some of the others hesitate and hang back. Squinting, he stares at the half-seen shapes before you. “I know what it is,” he says suddenly, his voice low but certain, “It's a cemetery. Seen one of then in Salim – some wealthy folk had monuments built to remember their passing. Well, their families built them, but... you know what I mean, brother.”

“A cemetery,” you repeat, “A burial ground?”

“Not really. Wasn't anyone actually buried there,” Gunny shakes his head, “But the families would go there sometimes, lay flowers on the marker and have themselves a good sob. Rich folk, you know, they do weird things sometimes...” A shudder runs through him as a thought comes to mind. “Not a place to go to if you're fixing to cause some trouble,” he adds, “Messing around with the dead like that... it's just not respectful.”

“Remind me,” you remark, “Who's the one carrying a staff that we robbed from a Nadir tomb?”

Gunny thinks that over for a moment. “That's different,” he answers at last, “That doesn't count.”

>I'm taking a look. Don't worry, I'll be respectful
>Don't worry, I'm not going out there. Let's head back
>Other

>>2591102
>I'm taking a look. Don't worry, I'll be respectful
Maybe we can see in what state of decay the bodies buried (if there are any) in the cemetery are.

>>2591102
>I'm taking a look. Don't worry, I'll be respectful

>>2591102
>I'm taking a look. Don't worry, I'll be respectful


>“I'd happily never see anything like it again,”
Is that some foreshadowing?

>>2591102
>I'm taking a look. Don't worry, I'll be respectful. I want to confirm a belief, that these graves will be less touched by decay than the buildings.

“I'm taking a look,” you tell Gunny, “Don't worry, though. I'll be respectful. Besides, I have a theory to prove.”

Shrugging, Gunny sits down in the dust. “I won't stop you, brother, but I can't come with you. Creeping through homes is one thing, but a cemetery is a whole other matter,” glancing behind you, he waves at the others, “I figure you'll find someone else to watch your back easily enough.”

“I'll go,” Freddy answers straight away. Your voices must have carried over to them – little wonder, considering how otherwise silent this place is. Slinging her rifle over one shoulder, the Iraklin hurries over to join you. “Those buildings look small. Cramped,” she adds, “A larger group wouldn't help much either way. Two people, that's all we'll need.”

“If you say so,” Gunny muses, taking a cigarette out of his jacket and trying to light it. It takes a very long time for one of his matches to spark.

-

Creeping through the uneven ground, you feel dust shifting underfoot and soon you're ankle deep in the gritty dirt. Scowling, you pause and take a slow look around. Scattered about more or less at random are posts of bleached wood, some of them with letters carved into them. You can't read the letters, but you try and fix them in your memory. Maybe you'll be able to draw them later, see what Carnamagos thinks. For all you know, they might just be the names of those memorialised here. Even so...

Reaching out to the closest wooden post, you tap it with your finger. When nothing happens, you give it a firmer tap. “No sign of it collapsing,” you murmur.

“Okay,” Freddy pauses, “So?”

“People came to mourn at these graves,” you explain, “To... remember the people buried here. There was thought and feeling here. Tell me something – how much do you think about something like a set of drawers?”

“Not much at all,” she admits, “It's a utility, nothing more. What does that... oh!”

“Right,” you tell her with a nod, “The doll, the charm necklace... they were all handmade, with care and feeling, and they remain intact. I don't think that's a coincidence.”

Smiling a little at your deduction, you study the cemetery around you. Most of the graves are simple things, but aside from the wooden posts, there is one stone structure. It seems to have sunk even deeper into the dust than any of the other structures back in the settlement. Approaching the lone tomb, you reach out a hand and brush your fingertips across the doorway. This too remains intact, just a little bit of stone flaking away at your touch.

The tomb isn't large. You could probably walk from one side of it to the other in a few paces, and almost half of it is taken up by a stone casket. Not large enough to hold a body, you guess, not unless the body had been... dismantled first.

[1/2]

>>2591166

Freddy lingers outside as you explore the tomb. It's not a matter of choice, but one of necessity – with two of you inside, you'd be pressed up against one another. Normally, you might enjoy that, but... this is neither the time nor the place for any of that. You shouldn't even be thinking of such things. Shaking off the thoughts, you tentatively reach out and rest your hands against the stone casket.

The lid shifts slightly. Drawing your hands back with a hiss, you cautiously look down and study the casket in closer detail. It's plain and unadorned, but a small flaw in the rim causes the lid to rest unevenly. Swallowing heavily, you dig your fingertips under the casket lid and lift. The stone is lighter than you expected – no, it's more like you're a lot stronger than you remember, all thanks to your Nadir blood – and it clatters down to the floor before you can stop it.

“What was that?” Freddy calls, “Trouble?”

“No trouble,” you assure her, “You know me. Clumsy.” Forcing a laugh, you look down into the empty casket. Instead of any bones or ash, you see a sheathed sword covered in a fine layer of dust. The sheath is crudely made from animal hide, strung with glass beads that still somehow twinkle. Compared with the decorative sheath, the hilt and handle of the sword seem uncommonly plain – and crafted from familiar white stone. The grip has been wrapped in cord, but you can see the Abrahad stone peeking out from behind it. Only dimly aware of what you're doing, you lift the sword out of the casket and grip it tightly.

What feels like a mild electric charge runs through you, and you hurriedly let go. Carrying the blade by its sheath, you turn around to leave.

Coming face to face with a new figure. A tall man, his mane of hair thick and dark, he stares into you with piercing green eyes. His features are gaunt and hard, lined with scars, and his body looks as though it has a whipcord strength to it. At his brow, you see two buds of bone piercing through the skin like horns. All these details seem to come to you at once, all in the space of a single blink. As soon as that moment is over, the apparition – or whatever it was – is gone.

“Captain?” Freddy asks, waving a hand to catch your attention, “Did you find something?”

“A... sword,” you manage to answer, stirring yourself to motion and hurrying out of the tomb. Tentatively gripping the sword – this time, you feel nothing – you draw it from its sheath – what little of it there is. All that remains is about six inches of blunt metal, not broken but almost worn away. Even this looks in poor shape, so riddled with holes that it almost seems hollow. Both you and Freddy look down at the sad remnants of the blade.

“Well... shit,” you finally mutter.

[2/3]

>>2591231
An illusion or did disturbing the grave revert the sword back to it's regular amount of decay?

>>2591260
Maybe they gave the sword its own tomb because it was already dead/broken.

>>2591231

Returning the sad blade to its sheath, you start to trek back towards the settlement. Every step of the way, you keep an eye out for any sign of that apparition. Already, you have a vague idea of who it might have been. The owner of the sword, for one thing, but more than that... who else would be important enough to have a stone tomb instead of a wooden post? The man who created this place, of course, your thieving predecessor.

By this point, seeing ghosts isn't that much of a surprise. Even so, you're not exactly happy with it – you can't shake the feeling that he could see you too.

“A ruined sword, a cloth doll, a bone flute...” Freddy thinks aloud as you walk, “Is that what we came here to find?”

“It's this place. We came here to find this place,” you correct her. You're still not really thinking about what you're saying, simply allowing your thoughts to unfold and spill from your lips. “Not for the sake of discovery, but because we had to see this place. I had to see this place,” you continue, “As a warning, perhaps, or for guidance. We learn from the mistakes of those who came before us. Coming to this place was almost... a pilgrimage of sorts.”

Freddy thinks about this for a moment, then shakes her head. “I don't understand this at all,” she admits with a sigh.

-

You arrive back at the settlement to find a strange scene awaiting you. Carnamagos sits at the base of the monument in a solemn silence, Grace and Blessings sitting with him, while the Nadir crew shout and yell a stone's throw away. Proving their existence again, you assume. A few of them have trophies looted from the buildings here – frayed scarves, chains of beads, things which once meant something to someone. For a split second you see a flash of wild black hair and piercing eyes through a gap in their ranks, but then the gap closes and you see nothing more.

The gargoyle stares down with something that is not a face, mocking in its blankness. Ignoring it, you lead the others into one of the buildings and take shelter from the noisy display outside. There, you draw the blade and show it to the others. “I've never seen metal in a state like this,” you tell them, “Can anyone explain it?”

“I don't know,” Keziah sighs, her voice listless, “This place tires me out. I can barely think straight out here.”

Caliban snorts laughter at that, but shakes his head. “No, it's new to me as well,” he tells you, “Small wonder. If we're ever to find something new, this would be the place for it.”

“I wish they'd shut up out there,” Gunny growls, “Hard to believe that your “expert” can get anything done out there with all that racket. Want to check on them, or did you have something else on your mind?”

>I do. Let's go
>There was something else... (Write in)
>Other

>Sorry for the delay, hit a bit of a block

>>2591402
>>I do. Let's go

>>2591402
>I do. Let's go

>>2591402
>>I do. Let's go
Let's tell Carnamagos what we've seen and ask if he has any idea what could have happened to this land. I think I remember him saying he (or his ancestors) was originally from this place, maybe something comes to his mind.

>>2591402
>I do, let's go.
Want Kez to take a closer look at the sword, but it seems like she is really not in the mood.

“Right. Maybe Carnamagos can give us some answers,” you decide, nodding towards the centre of town. As you're leaving, you touch Keziah on the arm. “This sword,” you ask her quietly, “Are you sure that you don't know anything about it?”

“It looks like a... beehive, I guess?” she offers weakly, “The sheath looks Nadir, that sort of traditional thing. Doesn't really surprise me much though, does it?”

“No,” you concede. Giving her a thankful smile, you head out into the clearing and approach the monument. Shooting an ugly glare at the noisy display, you sit down with Carnamagos and his young companions. “So,” you begin, “Have you had any luck?”

An answer is slow to come. “Sort of,” Blessings offers in a faltering voice, “He says-”

“We were fools to think that it would last,” Carnamagos announces suddenly, his voice deeper than ever before, “We spun this land out of wishes and dreams, but such things can never last. This land, cut off from the gods, would surely return to the dust in time. Were we left with no choice but to flee back to the north?” A convulsion runs through him, and Blessings leans forwards to hold the madman up. Carnamagos grows limp for a moment, and then the flow of words continues. “This land is dying, we can deny it no longer,” he growls, “Gather what food you can find, and cut wood to build a ship. Perhaps the gods will show us mercy, and bring us back into their grasp!”

“He keeps doing this,” Blessings whines, “He's not even reading anything, his eyes have been closed most of the time.”

“Carnamagos,” you say slowly, causing the man to look around at you, “Is that what happened to this place? It just... died?”

“It would never have survived. Arrogance, to think it could,” Carnamagos shakes his head slowly, “One little spark, that was all it took to create this place, but sparks gutter and fade. The plants withered, the soil failed, and the people... fled. Back to the land of their birth.”

“They must have made it,” you offer, a weak attempt at consoling him, “Your ancestors, Carnamagos. They made it.”

“But I shall not join you,” the madman concludes, his voice cracking and lowering once more, “This place shall be my tomb, and I-” As if cut off by a knife, the flow of words abruptly stops.

“He doesn't say anything after that. I think it's because of this,” the boy explains, gesturing for you to follow him. He leads you around to the back of the monument, where a different set of letters have been gouged into the stone. “Zenith script, apparently. Grace could read this,” he whispers, waving the girl over, “Grace, tell him what they say.”

Grace swallows heavily, glancing between you and Blessings with nervous eyes. “There is nowhere that you can run,” she quotes from memory, “Where we will not find you.”

[1/2]

>>2591521
>“There is nowhere that you can run,” she quotes from memory, “Where we will not find you.”
I have a sudden urge to convert to the Church of the Rising Light.

>>2591521

“What...” you mutter, “What does that mean?”

“I'm not-” Grace begins, but the sound of cracking stone cuts her off. A fine hail of dust falls over you, and you look up just in time to see the gargoyle smoothly rising to its full height. Wings of pristine white spread out from its back as it stretches its arms up towards the sky. Blessings gasps, his hand clumsily dropping down to the pistol at his belt as Grace screams. With the Nadir crew still howling and chanting, her own scream is lost in a whirl of noise.

But the gargoyle seems to hear her.

Stepping back from the top of the monument, it allows itself to plunge down towards you. Barking out a warning, you roughly shove Grace away and tackle Blessings to the ground. Between you, where you stood a few short seconds ago, the gargoyle slams into the dust. A huge cloud billows up, blinding and choking you. Throwing yourself to your feet, you yank the revolver from your belt just in time to bring it up as the gargoyle lunges through the dust cloud. Its first blow slaps the revolver from your hand before you can fire, and the second cuts through the air above you as you duck low.

Anger makes you impulsive, and you rise fists first. Driving your left hand into the gargoyle's blank face is like punching a brick wall, both in how much it hurts and how effective it is. As you're reeling from the blow, the gargoyle grabs the front of your shirt with one hand and lifts, slamming you back against the stone monolith. The impact sends a wave of pain rippling through you, and you feel Maeve's trinket flying up from around your neck.

The gargoyle's featureless, mutilated face turns to follow the trinket as it lurches up, and all motion seems to leave it. One arm is held back, still clenched in the fist that it would have put through your skull, but it has become a statue once more. Fleetingly, you recall the pilgrim at the Palace of Silence. He too had been almost hypnotised by the trinket, by the blasphemous wound that it supposedly bore. Is this the protection that Maeve promised?

A gunshot splits the silence, slamming into the gargoyle's head and causing it to drop you to the ground. You see Blessings a few paces away, a tongue of smoke trailing up from his revolver as he stares on with horror. More shots follow as Freddy brings her rifle to bear, battering the gargoyle with a hail of bullets that do little more than stun it. As she fires, Caliban sweeps in and grabs Grace, roughly hurling her away from the gargoyle. Taking the hint, Blessings also draws back from the scene.

“I knew that thing looked like trouble,” Caliban growls, casting a doubtful eye down at his knife. What good could it do against something that just shrugged off a volley of rifle fire?

[2/3]

>>2591640

The gargoyle straightens up as the last of its daze fades, just in time for you to hear Grace calling your name. She throws you your revolver, and you snatch it out of the air. Even his potent weapon might not help you. Soaked in the blood of daemons, it's especially powerful against their kind... but this isn't a daemon. Saint Alma's staff is equally useless here, leaving you with nothing, no weapon suited to this kind of fight.

A strategic withdrawal, then. Freddy opens fire again as you back off, and you see the gargoyle striding forwards like a man fighting against a light breeze. As soon as her magazine runs dry, it launches itself into the air and swoops down upon you. Throwing yourself down, you feel it cutting through the air above you and slamming down into the ground behind you. Another cloud of dust fills the air, and you see a misty shape moving through it.

When the dust clears, you see Carnamagos standing before you – the sheathed blade in his hands. Alarm rips through you. He can't know that it's useless, but he-

He draws the ruined blade, and you see a white mist seeping from the holes that riddle it. The mist gathers, shaping itself into the ghost of a sword and somehow growing... solid. As solid as the bridge you crossed over in the Vault of the Sun. Scrabbling to your feet, you grab the sword and wrench it from Carnamagos' hands. Holding it feels good, like it was made for your hand and your hand alone.

Caliban shouts a warning, and you bring the blade swinging up as you jolt around. The phantom blade slashes through the air and strikes the gargoyle's hand, blocking the blow and leaving a dark gash across the pristine white stone. A gash – you've damaged it.

>Calling for a dice roll. This will be 2D6, aiming to beat 10-11 for a partial success and 12+ for a full success. This will be at +2 due to our sword, and I'll take the best of the first three rolls.

Rolled 4, 1 + 2 = 7 (2d6 + 2)

>>2591699

Rolled 5, 5 + 2 = 12 (2d6 + 2)

>>2591699

>>2591699
Is this the Sword of the Sun?

>>2591707
Clutch.

Rolled 5, 5 + 2 = 12 (2d6 + 2)

>>2591709
Shit, forgot the roll. Thankfully it's not really needed.

Rolled 6, 2 + 2 = 10 (2d6 + 2)

>>2591699
Oh nice!

>>2591717
Another 12 can't hurt.

>Full success

Behind the gargoyle, you see Caliban and Freddy backing off as they realise how the tide of the battle has turned. Their weapons are useless, and they would only get in the way of things. The gargoyle doesn't seem to notice them retreating, its mutilated face fixed upon you. Making sure that Maeve's trinket is fully exposed, you think back to Salazar's dull lessons on swordplay – so many theories, so little practical training! - and bring the blade into a cautious guard.

It's a beautiful thing, like liquid moonlight. You could stare into it for hours...

That is, if not for the gargoyle currently set on removing the head from your shoulders. Beating its powerful wings, it lunges towards you and swings a flurry of rapid blows at you. They start off composed, flawless punches and jabs, but as you slap each blow aside with the glowing sword the gargoyle's attacks become frenzied. Lashing and clawing at you, it fights more like a beast than a man. Every time you turn aside a blow, it leaves a dark scar on the gargoyle's Abrahad stone limbs.

With this sword in your hands, it's almost too easy. Every attack the gargoyle throws, you move to block it almost by instinct. The sword itself seems to guide your hand in the right direction, even whispering advice into the back of your mind. When you see the gargoyle hesitating, you see the next attack before it happens. A rapid lunge, to seize you by the throat and snap your neck like a twig. Vision and reality blur for a split second, just long enough for you to wonder if you're dead, and then the attack – the real attack – unfolds.

Moving like water, you sway aside and bring the sword sweeping up. Cleaving through the gargoyle's arm, you send it tumbling to the dust before twisting the blade up, around, and through the living statue's neck. There is a blue flash, and then the blade slices clean through the stone, decapitating the gargoyle and causing it to topple rigidly to the ground. You know, at once, that it is dead – dead or destroyed, whichever one applies best here.

Silence greets you, and then you hear Caliban applauding. “Very nice, captain,” he calls out, “How much do you want for that sword?”

Looking down, you watch as the blade bleeds away and vanishes. Returning the remains to its sheath, you bend down and pick up the severed arm. “It's not for sale,” you tell him, offering out the arm, “But you can have this. You think Priscilla would like a friend?”

“Sure, and then I'd find the pair of them holding hands behind my back. No thanks,” Caliban chuckles, “But seriously. Good work.”

You feign a smile, but somehow the compliment fails to cheer you. Why, you wonder, does it feel as though someone else deserved the real praise?

>I'm going to pause this here for today, but I'll continue things tomorrow
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>2591832
Thanks for running!

>>2591832
>“Sure, and then I'd find the pair of them holding hands behind my back. No thanks,
Hah

Thanks for running Moloch

>>2591832
Thanks for running!

So this is the power of heresy....

>>2591832
We should bring the whole gargoyle to those abrahad monks

>>2592791
I agree that we should haul the whole thing home with us. It seems like a waste to lose almost a whole abrahad statue even though we know where it is.

>>2593548
What are you going to do with it? And how are you going to get it to the main boat?

File: Grace Sierzac.jpg (155 KB, 658x1236)

155 KB JPG

“Ghost blade,” Caliban suggests, speaking around a mouthful of cured meat.

“Phantom blade,” Grace argues, leaning over and swiping a piece of meat from him, “It sounds more mysterious that way.” Giving the dried flesh a dubious look, she soon gives in to her hunger and starts to nibble at it.

“You said it looked like moonlight, aye?” Keziah says to you, “What about the sword of the moon?”

The debate about what to call your new sword rages on. You can sense an undercurrent of desperation, of mad relief that you're all still alive, fuelling the conversation, but you try not to dwell on that. Why ruin the good mood – perhaps the best mood your party has felt since making landfall – by mentioning that little fact? So, you've decided to allow them their fun for now – it gives you something to do as the shamefaced crewmen slowly return to the settlement. When the gargoyle attacked, they scattered to the winds.

A sensible plan on their part, you have to admit, but they certainly look ashamed of themselves. Considering that even Carnamagos stood his ground, they might have a good reason for feeling miserable. Carnamagos himself hasn't said anything since the attack, simply tugging his baggy overcoat tighter around himself and shivering. Blessings is with him now, doing his best to sooth the madman's nerves. Leaving the others to their bickering, you head over and join the unlikely pair.

“Carnamagos,” you begin, “Do you know what that thing was?”

“Immaculate,” he murmurs, “An Immaculate. It must have come here for him, slept all the while. We... we woke it.” Blinking slowly, he takes a moment to put his sluggish thoughts into some semblance of order before continuing. “In a little way, we brought the gods here with us. Not enough for much... for anything except rousing the Immaculate,” he frowns suddenly, “Or that awful noise woke it. Terrible racket.”

Blessings laughs at that. With a start, you recall his small role in the fight – putting a shot into the back of the gargoyle's head while it had you in its grasp. “You did good, back then,” you tell him, “You shot straight when you needed to, and you didn't bite off more than you could chew. That's one of the most important lessons you can learn.”

Blessings accepts your words of praise with a restrained nod, his face growing serious as he thinks on the skirmish. “Thank you, captain,” he says quietly, his voice solemn, “I... just did what I thought was best. I didn't have any sort of plan. If it hadn't been for that sword...”

“He left it here for you,” Carnamagos announces, plunging his hand into the dust, “The pieces are all laid out, they have been for years... centuries. The man who built this place, he would never leave it. He remained here, even when all others fled north.” As he says this, he lets the dust sift through his fingers and fall.

[1/2]

>>2593713

“I didn't bring enough ammunition,” Freddy complains as you return to the group, “I didn't expect to use so much of it. I've got one magazine left for my rifle, that's all. I think I have a few more back on the ship, but that won't help us now.” Ejecting the magazine from her rifle, she gives it a sour look before slapping it back home again. She's not taking it well, the apparent uselessness of her rifle, it's put her in a foul mood.

“I don't see any other gargoyles around here,” Caliban points out, “The only thing we've got to worry about is the crew, and I don't think they're in the mood to cause any trouble. They seem more interested in... ah hell, what are they doing now?”

“Looks like they're trying to lift that thing,” Gunny replies, nodding towards the fallen gargoyle, “Maybe bring it back home, try and sell it as a statue. They'll be so busy carrying it that they won't have any energy to cause trouble. I hate to imagine them bringing it back on one of those rickety little boats though...”

Nodding slowly, you watch the crew carrying their treasure away for a while more, secretly feeling glad to see the back of them. They felt wrong here, out of place, like a blot on an oil painting.

“They're not a part of this,” Keziah thinks to you, her voice sounding thin and distant in your mind, “What we're doing, I mean. This should be a secret, shared among us alone.” Yawning aloud, the witch rises to her feet and starts to trek over to one of the smaller buildings. “I'm goin' to take a wee lie down,” she announces, “I saw a bed that looked intact inside, and I dinnae feel up to the walk back. Dinnae leave without me, though!”

Freddy waits until the witch is out of sight before nodding briskly. “Right then,” she declares, “If we leave now and stay quiet, we should be able to-”

“Hey!” Keziah yells from inside, “I heard that!”

“I'm going to take another look around as well,” you decide, rising to your feet, “See if there's anything else we missed.”

“Optimistic,” Caliban mutters, “There wasn't much here the first time around.”

He's not wrong about that, but still. Leaving the others to quietly talk amongst themselves, you amble a short distance away. Blessings and Carnamagos sit apart from the others, busy with their own secretive conversation, and standing in a nearby doorway is...

Him. The apparition. Staring out at you with those piercing green eyes, he lingers for a moment more before turning and melting away into the building. There's a mocking air about that disappearance, and you almost chase after it. Halting yourself a moment later, you consider your next move.

>Follow the apparition inside
>Check on Keziah
>Talk with Carnamagos for a while
>Other

>>2593715
>Follow the apparition inside
What do you got for us predecessor?

>>2593715
>Follow the apparition inside
Missed most of yesterday's session, but did we just get the Monado?

>>2593715
>Follow the apparition inside

Hell, you'll take this bait. Glancing down at the sheathed blade on your hip, you boldly follow the apparition inside the deserted structure. There, you see him for another fleeting second – just catching a glimpse of his back as he marches around a corner. His mane of hair, long enough to trail down to his hips and bound with a simple length of cord, drifts behind him like a tail. Following it makes you feel more like you're tracking some kind of beast, which might not be so far from the truth.

As you follow the occasional glimpses, you rest one hand on the hilt of the sword. Touching it makes the apparition seem more solid, more real, but it has an influence on more than just him. The desolate corridor around you seems to double, splitting into two contrasting images laid atop one another – the bleak haunt that you know, and a version of it from better times. Woven grass mats are spread underfoot, while cloth drapes soften the stone walls. From around you, you can hear the faint echo of voices ghosting through your thoughts.

And then you're there, standing facing him in a small, featureless room. His room once – you're certain of that, even in the absence of any evidence. Nothing remains of the furnishings, leaving nothing to draw the eye away from that phantom. His lips part in a mocking smile, revealing sharp and animalistic teeth.

“You're him, aren't you?” you ask, “The thief. Do you have a name, then? I'm getting sick of calling you-”

He speaks without saying a word, moving his lips but making no sound. “I had many names,” he mouths, “I was born as Feanor, but I took the name Cernunnos for myself. It was our custom, to hide our true names and cloak ourselves in aliases. Call me what you wish.”

You've never been particularly skilled at reading lips, but this comes naturally to you. Dimly, distantly, you suspect that there is more at work than just that – he places the words into your mind, just as Keziah can send her thoughts to you with the bond you share. Except, you don't share a bond with this thief... do you?

“The path we share is our bond,” Feanor corrects you, his arrogant smile widening slightly, “The sword you bear - Claíomh Solais, my blade of killing light – is our bond. Will you still deny that we are one?”

“I'm my own man,” you argue, shakily speaking to what you know is really just an empty room, “Maybe we do share the same goal, but I'm not like you. That time on the mountainside, that champion... you killed her, but I did not.”

“A moment of weakness,” the thief sneers, “This path you now walk is a harsh one. You cannot idly walk down it – you must pursue it with every drop of strength you possess, or you will fail. To walk hand in hand with your enemies is the act of a fool.”

[1/2]

>>2593759
Something tells me if we walk down the 'exact' path he did we'll end up the same way he did. Dead at the end of a decayed world. Maybe not even get as far as he cause pissing off the more organized nations of this time is a bad idea.

>>2593759

Standing here, face to face with Feanor – or Cernunnos, or the thief, or whatever he wishes to call himself – you find yourself struggling to find the words to say. Even as a phantom he has a presence here, and it's not hard for you to imagine him gathering a band of loyal followers. A full head taller than you, his posture suggests violence – the kind of casual brutality that seems all too common among the Nadir-born, both as an act and as genuine confidence.

“So is this it, then?” you ask him, “You're here just to chide me for being weaker than you?”

“And if I chide you, will you scorn my guidance?” Feanor counters, “I wish for you to succeed, little thief. Not just for you to follow in my footsteps, but to surpass me. Heed what I have to tell you, and perhaps you will find victory.”

He speaks of victory, but what did his success win him? A kingdom perched upon the edge of the world, a land that fell to dust within his life and became his tomb. You speak the first words of a question, but the apparition vanishes with a blink and leaves you here, alone in a lonesome room.

-

As you trudge back towards the monument, you think about Feanor and what little you know of him. On one hand he was a warlord, a conqueror willing to shed as much blood as needed in pursuit of his goals. On the other hand, he made this land in the hope of granting his followers a paradise, a place where they could live out their days in peace. It's not impossible for you to correlate these two contrasting images, but it still leaves you with unanswered questions. Which was the real Feanor?

And his offer of advice. How much use can the advice of a long-dead warlord really be?

Keziah is wandering back outside as you head back to join the others, and she gives you a tired smile. “Somethin' the matter, boss?” she asks, “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I did,” you admit, “Our predecessor, the thief. Feanor, he called himself, or Cernunnos. Something about taking different names...”

“Some witches do it,” Keziah explains vaguely, “They say that names have power. Dinnae ken how much truth there is to that – I cannae say that I've ever heard of a name holdin' sway over someone. Daemons are a wee bit different, but... wait, you talked with him?” Her eyes widen at that, her inhuman pupils squirming with surprise.

“It wasn't much of a conversation,” you grunt, “But yeah, I guess we talked.”

“So?” she prods, “What was he like? C'mon boss, tell me – what kind of guy was he?”

>A harsh, cruel man. I don't want to become like him
>A driven man. I can respect that kind of determination
>A wise man. I think I can learn a lot from him
>A ghost. He's not worth thinking about
>Other

>>2593812
>A driven man. I can respect that kind of determination. He'd do whatever it takes to get to his goal, for good or ill.
>I can learn from him, but not emulate him.

>>2593812
>A driven man. I can respect that kind of determination. But at the same time I don't want to become like him, or at least end up like him.

>>2593812
>A driven man. I can respect that kind of determination

>>2593812
>A skilled man. He uh, didn't delegate as much as I do.
>A harsh man. He wasn't one to forgive, and I don't think that would fly in modern times.

>>2593812
>A harsh, cruel man. I don't want to become like him.

>>2593812
>A driven man. I can respect that kind of determination
>A harsh, cruel man. I don't want to become like him

“A driven man,” you answer cautiously, stopping short of outright praising the man, “I can respect that kind of determination, at the very least. He is... he was... the sort of man who would do anything to achieve his goal, for good or for ill. That's a good trait, up to a point, but I don't want to end up like him.” Pausing, you gesture at the wastes around you. “After all,” you add, “This is where he ended up.”

“Aye,” Keziah agrees slowly, “It's a sad place, this. I'd give anythin' just to feel some good honest dirt between me toes for a little.” Kicking up little puffs of dust with each step, the witch begins to pace back and forth. “I remember hearin' stories about him as a wee lass,” she continues, the ghost of a nostalgic smile passing across her lips, “The way I was told, he was a right and proper hero. Well, as much of a hero as a thief could be. I'm guessin' that he wasn't shy about spillin' a little blood, huh?”

You nod. “With his own hands, if he needed to. He wasn't the kind of man who had others do his dirty work for him,” wincing a little as you recall that mountainside duel, you continue, “Not the sort to show mercy either, for all his skill with a blade. He was harsh, cruel... not the kind of man who could make in the modern world.”

“You might be wrong about that,” Keziah murmurs, “He sounds a little like Eishin to me.”

-

You leave the settlement behind you. There's no ceremony about your departure, no grand exit. In fact, you never even really discuss it. There's nothing for you to discuss – you've picked this place clean of whatever you can use, recorded any information that you can learn from, seen everything that there is to see. All that remains here are ghosts, and you'll be taking one of those with you when you leave. Is Feanor looking over your shoulder even now, watching as you leave his home behind? Maybe he is, but when the time comes for you to leave, not even Carnamagos looks back.

The scholar wears a different air around him now. Seeing this place for himself seems to have cooled his madness, quietening it somehow. Looking at his slumped posture, you sense that there will be no more explosive bursts of prophetic raving, no more frantic bouts of research or planning. It's a sad sight to see, looking at a man whose dreams have come to an end, and it makes you think of Feanor himself. How long did he stay here on his own, after his followers fled back to the north?

You won't end up like him. You won't.

[1/2]

>>2593889

“You missed a fine show,” one of the Nadir-born men says as you return to the one remaining boat, “The others came back dragging this statue, this massive thing, and they nearly dropped it in the water carrying it back to the ship. Bloody idiots – they nearly wrecked one of the boats getting it across.” Scratching at his rather prominent nose, the guard looks at the dusty land around him. “Strange place to find a statue like that,” he ventures, “You think someone else brought it here?”

“It brought itself here,” you reply, gesturing towards the sky, “Flew here on those stone wings it had.”

Both guards stare at you for a long moment before the second man laughs nervously. “Good joke, chief,” he says with a lingering chuckle, looking at your companions, “He say this sort of thing often?”

“All the time,” Keziah replies with a smile, punching you lightly on the arm.

“Can't imagine they'll have much luck selling the bloody thing, mind you,” the first guard mutters as he starts to prepare the remaining boat, “I couldn't stand having that creepy thing staring at me all day. Just ain't right...”

-

Compared with the silence of Outside, the background rumble of the ship's engines seems almost offensively loud, grating against your nerves and following you wherever you go. The mess hall was your first stop, your hunger transforming the cold canned food into a delicious feast. You expected to share your dinner with a mob of noisy crewmen, but the few other faces you see are pale, solemn and silent.

As you're eating, a pair of men enter the mess hall and sit nearby, muttering to each other. The statue, you learn, has been locked away in one of the many empty cabins – kept out of sight, not for fear that someone might steal their treasure but because none of the men could bear to be around it for long. You're certain that it won't come back to life – you felt it die, after all – but you're less certain of being able to explain that to them. Fear can become a living thing, hard to tame once it has been released.

The sound of the engines changes slightly as the Dust Treader begins to move a little faster through the waters. You're homeward bound now, and not before time. Idly, you wonder how Berwick feels about the results of your expedition. The last time you saw him, he had been locked in conversation with Carnamagos – a hushed, secretive conversation.

Finishing off the last of your cold food, you rise to your feet and make your way out of the mess hall, already thinking of your next destination.

>The bridge, to check on Berwick
>The infirmary. Doctor Barnum will be interested in what happened
>Below deck, to check on the destroyed gargoyle. Better safe than sorry
>Look for someone else... (Write in)
>Other

>>2593973
>Below deck, to check on the destroyed gargoyle. Better safe than sorry

>>2593973
>The bridge, to check on Berwick

>>2593973
>The bridge, to check on Berwick
He wasn't in the best shape last time we saw him

>>2593973
>>The bridge, to check on Berwick

>>2593973
>The bridge, to check on Berwick

>>2593973
>The bridge, to check on Berwick
Wonder if he found out we confiscated his whiskey.

Whenever you catch a glimpse of a secretive conversation, it leaves you feeling curious about it – about what they were talking about, and why they were being so coy about it. You fully intend to check on the destroyed gargoyle later, just to be certain, but that can wait until later. Probably. Stretching your aching muscles as you walk, you head up towards the bridge and pause at the ajar door, listening for a brief moment.

No voices, but the rumble of the engines could easily cover a discrete exchange. Feeling vaguely embarrassed by the attempt at eavesdropping, you push the door open and stride onto the bridge. Berwick sits slumped at the controls, giving them only the faintest scrap of his attention, while Carnamagos dozes on a nearby stretch of floor. He sleeps like a dog, one leg occasionally twitching or kicking, but he doesn't look like he's going to wake up any time soon.

“So this is it,” you begin, seeing Berwick's shoulders tense up at the sound of your voice. He doesn't turn around, but he's listening. “Not what I expected to find out here,” you continue, “But then, I didn't really know what to expect.”

“It's shit,” Berwick growls, “This place, this ship, all of it. All shit.” Lifting himself up, he finally looks around at you with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Staring at you for a long moment, the captain lets out a low grunt and turns dismissively away. “We talked, just the two of us,” he continues in that same sullen voice, “I'm going to lie, and have the crew do the same. As far as the land needs to know, we found nothing out here. Not a damn thing.”

The simple defeat in his voice stings you, but you can't fully blame him. It's hard to imagine that much good would come of sharing this discovery with the rest of the world. “Are you sure that'll work?” you ask, “What about that statue? If your men try and sell it, won't people ask where it came from?”

Berwick frowns as he considers this. “That damn thing...” he mutters, “We'll say that we dredged it up, pulled it out of the water somewhere. Doesn't look much like it, but we can say that we cleaned it up. Can't sell something covered in filth, can you?”

“No,” you sigh, “No, I guess not.”

“The sooner it's off my ship the better,” the shipmaster spits, “It's making the men nervous. I've already had one man in here, demanding that we throw it overboard.” Digging deep in his coat pocket, the captain scowls darkly. Producing the flask from your own pocket, you offer it out with a wan smile. “To hell with it. Stone is stone, it's not going to harm anyone. It's this place, really, that's the problem,” he rambles, snatching the flask from you and taking a long swallow, “It'll all look better when we can see stars again. A bit of normal sky, that's all I want...”

Glancing around again, Berwick gives Carnamagos a long, pitying look. “Poor bastard,” he mutters, “I don't think he wants to wake up.”

[1/2]

>>2594062
Carnamagos had a hard life.

>>2594062

“Hey,” you remark as Berwick takes another drink from the flask, “Should you be drinking so much? This ship is under your control, and-”

“I could pass out right here, and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference!” Berwick snaps, gesturing at the empty waters ahead, “Calm seas, nothing else for miles around, and we don't even need to follow a course! So long as we keep heading north, we'll...” Trailing off, Berwick ends his rant with a disgusted sigh. He holds the flask out to you, and you gratefully take a drink from it. The last of the brandy burns as it drips down your throat, and you pass it back with a murmur of thanks.

Berwick gives the flask a sour look as he realises that it's empty, and you speak up before he can say anything. “I'm going to check on that statue,” you tell him, “Maybe that'll put the men at ease.”

“Sure, go ahead,” the shipmaster grunts, waving a hand towards the door. As you're walking out, he calls out your name. “Might be, the gods were onto something when they turned their back on this place,” he suggests, a bitter note in his voice, “But still... at least I've seen it with my own eyes. How many men can say that?”

Nodding silently, you show yourself out.

-

Down in the guts of the ship, you slowly check rooms one by one until you find the right place. Reaching out, you feel the door move when you try it – it's unlocked. Cautiously opening it, you peer inside and see that statue resting against one wall, wrapped in a heavy length of weighted chain. Caliban sits opposite it, his legs crossed and his gaze fixed on the severed head he holds. “Well?” he says quietly, “Don't just stand there, come in and sit down.”

“Should have known that I'd never be able to sneak up on you,” you remark, closing the door behind you as you sit beside him, “Thinking of taking another souvenir?”

“I don't think it'll fit in my pocket,” he replies, shaking his head, “No, I'm trying to figure out what's missing. Hold that arm, tell me what you feel.” His words bring a frown to your face, but you reach across and pick up the severed arm. The stump of the arm is blackened, as if the blade had been heated in a furnace before you struck off the limb. “You don't feel anything, is that right?” the hunter guesses, “I can't explain it, but Priscilla feels different. There's something there that this thing lacks.”

“Life,” you suggest, “Or whatever it is that animates these things. It's as dead as dead can be, but your lady friend is still moving.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Caliban agrees, turning the head over in his hands. “Why the faces?” he asks suddenly, his own face twisting into a look of disgust, “Why hack up the face like this?”

“I don't know,” you admit, “Maybe it's... symbolic. Erasing any identity they might have once had. Erasing the IDEA of an identity.”

[2/3]

>>2594140

“Awful,” Caliban mutters, dropping the head to the deck with an echoing clang. Unconsciously wiping his hands on his tunic, he draws his knife and studies his reflection in the polished blade. “I'd hate to lose my face,” he admits, “Vanity, perhaps, but allow me this one vice. Last time we were in Monotia, I saw a man – a beggar – with most of his face eaten away. Some kind of disease, perhaps, or just something in his blood. You got lucky, captain. You could have ended up with no nose, or a mouthful of hideous teeth.”

“That's true,” you chuckle, “All things considered, I'd say that I got off lightly.”

“In a way, I can understand why someone might do this to themselves,” the hunter muses, tapping his blade against the statue, “Absolute, unchanging purity of body... that's an attractive idea to some. If you started selling it over in Carthul, you'd make a fortune by the end of the first day.” Pausing a moment, he laughs at the look on your face. “I'm kidding. Mostly,” he adds, “But if I knew that my body was decaying around me, that there was no cure... I'd be tempted. What about you?”

Looking down at your left arm, you try and imagine if it was some other deformity, something far worse.

>No way. Nothing could be as bad as turning into one of those statues
>It would have to be something pretty bad, but... I'd be tempted too
>I don't know. Maybe if I didn't know all the details
>Other

>>2594183
>It would have to be something pretty bad, but... I'd be tempted too
It would have to be really bad though

>>2594183
>I don't know. Maybe if I didn't know all the details
"Anything can sound great if you don't know its side effects. Hope can be blinding."

>>2594183
>It would have to be something pretty bad, but... I'd be tempted too

>>2594183
>It would have to be something pretty bad, but... I'd be tempted too

Full body paralysis is way worse

>>2594183
>>I don't know. Maybe if I didn't know all the details

>>2594183
>It would have to be something pretty bad, but... I'd be tempted too

“I don't know. It would have to be something pretty bad,” you offer after a thoughtful pause, “Losing the use of my body, being trapped in some... withered shell, anything like that would be awful. I don't know if I could stand it. If that was the only future I had ahead of me, then... then yeah, I'd be temped too.” Another thought occurs to you, then, and you continue. “Of course, anything can seem pretty tempting if you have the right person selling it,” you suggest, “You know what I mean?”

Caliban's eyes widen a little, genuine surprise showing for a moment before a more cynical mask descends. “You aren't suggesting that someone might be dishonest, are you?” he remarks, “That's a very serious accusation to make, captain.”

“I'm serious,” you stress, “If someone came to you with the offer of some miracle cure – maybe omitting a few of the worse details – wouldn't it seem that much more tempting?”

“Then these things, these statues, would be more like... unwitting victims,” Caliban muses, “I'm not sure if I like that idea. It might make cutting their heads off a little more complicated.”

“That thing was trying to kill me,” you point out, “There's nothing complicated about that. Look at it this way – if they are victims, killing them is an act of mercy.” Sighing, you pick up the head and gaze down into the destroyed face. “But they could have made them without faces,” you think aloud, your thoughts wandering back to the earlier question, “Just a smooth, featureless surface. This seems more like... punishment.”

“Some punishment...” Caliban mutters, gingerly touching his own face.

-

Back in your cabin, you stare down into the guts of the disassembled pocket watch. Your attempt at getting some sleep ended in restless failure, so now you're trying to do something productive. Your fine motor control does seem a little better than before, but you still have a long way to go. It doesn't bother you much – you've got nothing but time on your hands right now, and that won't change for the next week.

“A fool's errand,” you hear yourself say, the words coming unbidden from your lips. Looking sharply up, you see Feanor sitting opposite you with a sneer on his face.

“A timepiece, is it?” he mouths, “Useless. The sun and the moon are all a man needs to mark the passing of time. That thing just makes you weak.”

“I'm going to get pretty sick of this,” you reply, “If you keep butting in on me. Is this the kind of advice I should expect from now on? If so, I think I'd rather make my own mistakes.” Scowling down at the watch, you push it carefully aside. You can't concentrate on it now, not while this phantom is staring at you. When you look up again, though, he is gone.

This is going to be... tiresome.

[1/2]

>>2594250
How usefull is the sun and moon in a cave? Or the vault? Piss off ghost.

>>2594250
[Urge to toss sword into ocean rising]

>>2594250
You know what also makes you weak? Being fucking dead

>>2594250

Sleep finally comes to you after a few hours spent poking and prodding at the watch. With your eyes itching and aching, you had collapsed down onto the uncomfortable bed and passed out almost immediately. For the most part your sleep is deep and dreamless, although you have the occasional stab of awareness – like feeling someone's staring eyes boring into the back of your head.

Roused from slumber by the sound of muffled shouts, you jolt upright and look frantically around for a weapon, grabbing the sheathed sword before reality steals back in and you remember how useless it would be. You're still not fully sure of how the blade works. Does it appear in the presence of any dangers, or just the Immaculate? It's a strange idea – an Abrahad weapon created to kill its own kind. You'll have to ask Feanor about it next time he feels like putting in an appearance. Certainly, you've got plenty of things that you'd like to say to him – most of them rude.

Shaking off those thoughts, you hurry out of your cabin and follow the source of those voices. They don't seem panicked or alarmed, but rather... excited. The crew has started to gather on the top deck, staring up at the empty sky with eager eyes. You wander for a while before someone calls your name. Your companions have gathered at one side of the ship, and they wave you over.

“I heard that someone ran the numbers,” Keziah blurts out, childish excitement in her voice, “They say that we should be gettin' back into normal waters soon. We're all watchin' the skies, see, waitin' for-”

“Waiting for the first stars to appear,” Freddy finishes, trying very hard to sound unimpressed by the idea. “It's a waste of effort, really,” she continues, “It doesn't matter if we're here to see them or not. We've been making steady progress, and there's no reason to suspect that-”

“There!” Blessings calls out, and Freddy jolts quickly around to follow his pointing finger. True enough, you see a faint spot of light flickering to life in the sky. Another spot of light follows soon after, and you hear a ragged cheer rising up from the assembled crew. Your own voice joins the chorus, lost amidst the other roars and yells. Some part of you has to accept how foolish this is – a group of supposed adults whooping and cheering at the stars – but you let yourself get swept up in the rush of the moment.

You're on your way home. Before now, that had seemed like a vague and abstract idea – now it's for certain.

>I'm going to have to stop things a little early today, I'm afraid. I'll continue this tomorrow, same sort of time
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>2594341
Thanks for running!

>>2594341
Thanks for running!
Will Feanor also watch us on the toilet?

>>2594341
Thanks for running Moloch.

Was there anything used as inspiration for the wasteland?

>>2594354
He could, but he's not that kind of guy. Or Milos isn't his kind of guy. One or the other.

>>2594359
The original idea came from a picture of the lunar surface that I saw once. The white land against a black sky really struck me as alien and weird. The rest more or less followed on from that image.

>>2594341
Thanks for running!

Can we chop through those Abrahad temples now? How heretical is the blade compared to Maeve's trinket?

>>2594250
You'd think Feanor would be able to respect our timepiece repairs. After all, we're doing them to gain better control of our arm. It's training to become stronger.

File: b9b.jpg (79 KB, 680x952)

79 KB JPG

>>2594834
If you need to become stronger then you're weak, anon.

>>2596308
Well shit faggot, if you've never fought someone stronger than you then you've only ever faced other weaklings.

Besides, we're becoming better not just stronger.

>>2596326
autism

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

83 KB JPG

“Claíomh Solais...” Feanor mouths, leaving you to imagine him rolling the alien words around his mouth as he savours the sound of them. Judging by the satisfied expression his shade wears, he really does savour them. You hold the blade's grip tightly in your hand now, the bared blade seeming dull and ugly. Ever since you travelled north, away from Outside, holding the weapon has been the only way of contacting the spirit. Occasionally you feel something that might be him – a dull and distant sense of longing, perhaps – but those moments are easily enough ignored. At least, unless you're holding his sword at the time.

“Solais,” you repeat, saying the half of the name that you feel more confident in pronouncing, “So did you make this yourself, or did you take it from someone?”

“There is no shame in stripping the dead of their possessions,” the ancient warrior replies, “Their weapons and garb can be put to better use. Even their flesh can serve your purposes.”

The implication of his words causes your stomach to lurch. Maybe that was fair game in his time, but that's one custom that you'll be happy to avoid. “Did it always look like this, then?” you ask, seeking to change the subject, “Ruined, I mean.”

“There was a daemon. Its blood changed the Claíomh Solais into what you now hold,” Feanor answers, “A fair trade, perhaps. It was a beast of no small danger. You walk the same path as I – perhaps one day you too will cross paths with it.”

Great. Another thing to look forwards to.

-

“Captain,” Freddy calls out, hurrying over to you as you emerge from your room, “I've been thinking.”

“Glad to hear it,” you reply briskly, “Should I be worried?”

“I... excuse me?” she says, faltering a little. This conversation already going far differently to how she must have envisioned it. Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, she snaps to attention once again. “I've been thinking about Odyssey Point, about how we might... deal with it,” she continues, “An overt attack would be near impossible. Even if we were to manage it, it would likely be a bloodbath. If our ship was identified, we'd very likely end up as wanted criminals. We'd spend the rest of our lives hunted, chased everywhere we go...”

You feel a pulse of Feanor's emotions, something that you recognise as bloodlust – he relishes the idea. “So that's the bad news,” you remark, forcing the alien thoughts out of your mind, “You were about to tell me the good news, right?”

Freddy hesitates, and you realise that there is no good news. “We could try and scout it out at some point,” she offers, “Parts of it are open to the public. Not the parts that we're likely to need, but... it's better than nothing.”

It's damn near nothing, but that's technically still better than nothing.

[1/2]

>>2596710

It's amazing, the difference that a few days can make. The sun shines down from a bright and brilliant sky, while a cold sea breeze stirs the waters around you. It's almost the complete opposite of the lifeless Outside, and the mood on the ship has lifted to match it. It's gotten bad enough that you prefer to stay below deck as much as possible, leaving the upper level to Berwick's crew and their noisy celebrations. Berwick himself seems in better spirits as well, albeit only slightly. You've not spoken much at all with Carnamagos – he spends nearly every hour of the day asleep.

If the crew are happy, though, Keziah is ecstatic. She was able to call up a messenger daemon again, summoning it with an almost off-hand ease, and the small victory has left her with a broad grin on her face. Even now, as you gather everyone together to discuss your next move, she keeps smiling at everyone. Freddy seems particularly unsettled by it, as if she was locked in a room with a madwoman.

“I'll keep this simple,” you announce, “We have three targets left. Theon and his little kingdom up in Zenith, the Iraklin military academy at Odyssey Point, and some kind of Nadir tomb. Thanks to Keziah's mother, and Masque's memories, we have a solid lead on Theon. Odyssey Point is still looking uncertain, but we can start considering our options for that. Finally, the Nadir tomb – Miriam's notes mention a tomb robber being held in Cloudtop Prison, and I should be able to meet him. Does anyone else have anything to add?”

“The engines,” Keziah points out, “We dinnae have any way of flyin' right up to the peak of the Mountain of Faith just yet. Unless you fancy a wee bit of a walk, we'll need to look into some way of flyin' that high up.”

“Maybe we won't need to fly,” Grace murmurs, “There are pilgrims living on the Mountain, they know it better than anyone. Maybe we could speak with some of those, and get the benefit of their wisdom...”

“Those are small tasks. Errands at most,” Caliban remarks, “Captain, what do you want us to focus on next?”

All sets of eyes turn your way, and you prepare to give your next set of orders.

>We'll focus on Theon. We have a solid lead, so let's use it
>We'll focus on the Nadir tomb. I'll arrange a meeting with our tomb robber as soon as possible
>We'll focus on Odyssey Point. We need to come up with some kind of plan for it first
>Other

>>2596711
>We'll focus on Theon. We have a solid lead, so let's use it
Taking a break from tombs

>>2596711
>We'll focus on Theon. We have a solid lead, so let's use it

“I think we should focus on Theon for now,” you decide, “We have a solid lead on him, so let's use it. Besides, I think we could all use a break from tombs.”

“Hear hear,” Gunny agrees, thumping his fist against the table, “So what are we going to do instead?”

“We'll probably end up breaking into his house, beating him up, and taking his stuff,” you reply with a shrug, “That might be oversimplifying it a little, but you get the idea. Honestly though? It's hard to know exactly what we're dealing with until we get up there and see for ourselves.” Tapping a finger against your chin as you think, you consider the possibilities. “Maybe we can cut some kind of deal with him. If there's something he wants, maybe we can trade that for the key fragment,” you suggest, “That worked with Hess, after all.”

“Still cannae believe that worked,” Keziah mutters, “If he knew what we were up to, you reckon he'd regret the trade?”

“It's possible,” Freddy admits, “But I'd like to think that he would respect the deal regardless. By all accounts, Consul Hess is not the kind of man to go back on his word.”

She's certainly optimistic, you'll give her that. “I'll speak with Masque when we're back home,” you conclude, “We'll need him with us on this run. This is his old home we're talking about, he should be able to give us the details. Does anyone have any questions?”

“Um, yes,” Grace says, demurely raising a hand, “Am I correct in saying that Mister... ah, that Masque was exiled from this place? If so, might be not be... unwelcome there?”

“She's got a point,” Caliban agrees, seemingly unconcerned by the idea, “But what the hell? We can cross that bridge when we get to it. These people respect the rule of the strong, right? Then all we need to do is crack a few heads together and hey, problem solved!” Springing to his feet, he cracks his knuckles and heads for the door. “Shame that we'll be heading up into Zenith, though,” he laments, “I was looking forwards to seeing some honest scenery for a change. Trees, actual trees...”

“Aye right,” Keziah chuckles, “You just wanted to get drunk and cause some trouble somewhere, that's all it is!”

“Maybe so,” the hunter concedes, “Are you saying that you're any different?”

“I guess that's everything, then,” you announce, raising your voice to cut off the bickering before it can really begin, “Crew dismissed. If you have anything you'd like to discuss, you know where to find me. If not, try and make the most of the time off. After this, we're getting straight back to work.”

“You know...” Blessings thinks aloud, “This was the worst vacation I've ever had.”

[1/2]

>>2596751

The others file out, but Blessings himself remains behind. “Something on your mind?” you ask him, your voice causing him to look around and flash you an apologetic smile.

“Ah, well, maybe,” he replies, “I was thinking about Carnamagos. When we get back home, what do you think he'll do? I, ah, I suppose the same applies to Berwick as well, but he seems a little more...” He trails off here, his smile growing awkward.

“Stable?” you guess, and the boy reluctantly nods.

“A little more suited to normal life,” he offers, “But Carnamagos... I suppose that I'm a little worried about him.”

“You were good with him,” you tell the boy, recalling the way he had stuck close to Carnamagos and kept him calm. Calmer, at least. “I'm glad you were there,” you add, “But how come you knew how to keep him under control?”

“Church, I suppose. I've met some... older gentlemen there, and they get confused sometimes. All they need is a little patience and a reassuring voice, that's all really. I stepped in to help one once, and the priest praised me for it. I suppose... I liked that,” a faint flush rises in the boy's cheeks as he thinks back to a more innocent time, “It's like we were talking about before all this, the good that the church does. Those old men, they really benefited from the ritual of it all even when they couldn't really understand the sermons.”

He falls silent at that, as if startled by the flood of words that spilled from his own voice. You're a little surprised too, honestly. “Well, either way, I'm glad you were there to help,” you repeat, “As for your first question... I don't know. I guess all Carnamagos can do is lie low, maybe he'll find some new dream to chase or maybe he'll just take it easy from now on.”

“I hope he finds something to do,” Blessings murmurs, before shaking his head and rising to his feet, “I'm going to take a jog around the ship. I'm getting better at it, little by little!”

After seeing him off with an encouraging nod, you sit back down and think about the boy for a while. You see a bit of Miriam in him, in his moments of natural talent and quick thinking, but their personalities are really nothing alike. That's probably for the best, you decide, otherwise you might have ended up strangling him before too long. A faint blur of Feanor's thoughts touches you, but you ignore him. By now, you know him well enough to know that he'd have nothing kind to add.

Following Blessings up to the top deck, you lean on the railings and gaze up into the sky – your next destination is waiting up there somewhere, and you don't intend to leave it waiting for long.

[2/3]

>>2596778
Carnamagos technically still HAS a job. Whether we should actually make use of that is another thing, though. Maybe life up with the abrahad monks will do him some good.

>>2596788
If he goes back to his job there is a good chance the concerned parties down in Nadir will find out. He should just retire.

>>2596778

“You return,” Herod's dry voice murmurs in your thoughts, causing you to instinctively glance around for a bird flying above. There are a few of them flitting through the air, but somehow you know that none of them are the familiar. There's a deliberation to the way he flies, something distinctly unnatural.

“I return,” you agree, “Did you miss me?”

“I have been told what you saw, what you found out there,” the familiar replies, ignoring your remark, “I never thought that such a place could exist, nor was it meant to exist. Truly, man was never meant to hold the power of creation within his hands.” There's a faintly smug edge to his thoughts, a haughty air that you don't like at all. Of all the daemons that Keziah could have called up, she ended up with this one.

“So are you just looking to gloat, or did you have a point to make?” you ask, shielding your eyes against the glare of the sun. It's still a bit of a novelty, having to do that.

“Have you forgotten our conversation already?” Herod sighs, “I asked what you intended to do with this treasure, should you manage to find it. You spoke of satisfying your curiosity, and perhaps making your world a safer place – destroying whatever weapons you found there. Now that you know more about what you stand to gain... I wonder if your intentions have changed?”

“You mean, have I gone mad with power?” you think back, smiling a wan smile to yourself, “Will I try and make my own kingdom of dust somewhere out there?”

“Well?” the familiar asks, “Will you?”

You let out a scornful laugh, shaking your head at that... at least, until you seriously consider his question. Feanor's paradise was doomed from the start, true, but if you could learn from his mistakes...

>Maybe that's not such a bad idea, now that you mention it
>You overestimate my ambition. I wouldn't know what to do with my own paradise
>What about you? Would YOU try and make your own world?
>Other

>>2596820
>You overestimate my ambition. I wouldn't know what to do with my own paradise
>What about you? Would YOU try and make your own world?

>>2596820
>You overestimate my ambition. I wouldn't know what to do with my own paradise
Milo seems like the kind of guy who doesn't want to settle down, prefering to go on adventures and exploring the unknown.
>What about you? Would YOU try and make your own world?

>>2596820
>You overestimate my ambition. I wouldn't know what to do with my own paradise
>What about you? Would YOU try and make your own world?

>>2596820
>Other
It would be an interesting experiment, to create something outside the gods control and find out exactly why it decays. And to see if it could somehow be maintained without them. So less power hungry and more back to that curiousity I have.

>>2596820
>You overestimate my ambition. I wouldn't know what to do with my own paradise
>I've seen quite a few "kingdoms" already, and I think I'd prefer to stay on the move

“You overestimate my ambition,” you reply after a while, “I wouldn't know what to do with my very own paradise. I'll admit, it might be interesting to see exactly how it works – the exact limits of what a man can achieve – but that comes back to curiosity, doesn't it?” You pause, half-expecting Herod to butt in here, but the familiar remains silent. “Besides, I've seen enough petty kingdoms by now to know one thing, and that's that I'm better off staying on the move,” you conclude, “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I wished to hear an honest answer,” Herod replies, “And I believe that you have given me one. I thank you for your courtesy.”

“But what about you?” you ask quickly, “Would YOU try and make your own little world?”

“I would not,” he answers immediately, “Rather, I could not. One such as I was never meant to wield such power. Even if I was somehow granted that power, I would be able to do nothing with it. I lack the...” His thoughts lose coherent form here, changing from simple words to looser concepts that dance around the edges of your thoughts. It's a dizzying sensation, and somehow you feel like you brushed up against the real Herod.

“The imagination?” you offer, shaking off the giddy feeling, “The creativity?”

“That will suffice, yes,” Herod agrees, “One such as I lacks the imagination innate to men. A bitter joke - such a power was never meant for you, yet you can wield it nonetheless. I wonder... what does that mean?”

“Why are you asking ME?” you laugh, “If you don't know, why would I know?”

“I wonder,” Herod repeats, and then his voice – his thoughts – are gone.

-

When you next see her, Keziah says nothing about Herod to you. Your conversation, you gather, was not one that he shared with her. Either that, or she was too excited about her other daemons to bother mentioning it. She received word from Maeve, apparently, a brief update on the situation back home. No significant changes, for better or for worse, and no further information about Eishin. If he is razing villages in the Deep Forest, further word of it has yet to reach Maeve's ears.

You're not sure if you're glad to hear that or not. Maybe it just means that he's not leaving any survivors.

“But you know, I still dinnae ken what he could be up to,” Keziah muses, “Changin' up the way things have always been, that sort of thing makes me nervous. Either he's got a nasty plan in the works, or he's got no bloody idea of what he's doin'. I dinnae like either of those options!”

“You should never trust a man with a scheme, and the power to carry it out,” you remark, recalling your father saying something similar once. His plans had never worked out very well for him, but then again, nothing really had.

[1/2]

>>2596710
>Freddy even entertaining a thought of attacking an Iraklin facility.
Good, good. Our brainwashing is proceeding as planned.

>>2597034
That surprised me as well. Maybe that was her way of trying to head off all notions of attacking the place before we have it thought

>>2597060
>have
gave*

>>2597060
That's the way I read it. She doesn't want to attack the facility (but who knows, would she go through it if we asked?) so she preemptively told us it's a bad idea.

>>2597070
What she should've told us is "If you try it I'll shoot you in the face".
Her mind is broken, anon. Accept is.

>>2597081
I see it as the typical Iraklin mindset. Duty to one's "nation/family" is one of their core principles, so after leaving the Iraklin military and joining with our ship, the ship and its crewmembers became her nation/family.

>>2597092
>Not Milos' raw animalistic sexuality

>>2597100
That's just the sales pitch, Anon.

>>2596902

Back in your cabin, you hold the ruined sword tightly and concentrate as Feanor speaks. He seemed uncommonly eager to speak at first, but then he left you waiting for a long moment before he appeared. Payback, perhaps, for all the times you've ignored him so far.

“I died once,” Feanor remarks, his lips forming the words with elaborate care, “That too, we have in common.”

“I didn't die, and neither did you. Maybe you came close to dying, but that was all,” you argue, pausing as you rethink your words, “Okay, admittedly you DID die once, but I don't think that's what you're talking about, is it? You confronted your death, and you had a good enough reason that it let you live. That's what happened.”

“If that makes you feel better, then so be it,” he sneers, “I was a young man then, but already I knew that I had a potent destiny – I needed only to learn the details. So, when I confronted my death, I had no doubt that I deserved to live. Not long after I woke in the land of the living, HE found me.” The ancient warrior touches his chest as he recounts these old memories, perhaps remembering the wound that brought him to the brink of death. “You have seen him, I think,” he adds, “The blind man. It was he who showed me my path.”

The blind man, of course. You've seen him three times now, each time witnessing a scene from Feanor's past. “Who is he?” you ask, and this time Feanor hesitates.

“A witch,” he answers cautiously, “I am certain of that. Their kind has always guided men such as us. That is their place in the order of things, to instruct but never to lead.”

He doesn't know either. A witch, he says... and even this is a guess, despite his claims of certainty. Perhaps the identity of your shared benefactor never mattered much to him, so long as the old man's words brought him closer to his goal. Rousing yourself from your thoughts, you realise that the apparition has vanished once again. Where does he go, you wonder, when he's not present here? Maybe he doesn't go anywhere at all, simply hiding himself from you. The idea that he might be watching you at all times...

A knock on the door mercifully ends that chain of thought. Letting go of the sword, you call out for the visitor to enter. Grace enters, her face unusually troubled. “Captain,” she begins, “I wasn't certain if I should speak to you about this or not. I feel that it's something you need to hear, and yet... It's Miss Lhaus, we've been talking for a while.”

And you've got a fair idea of what they were talking about. “Odyssey Point,” you guess, “She feels... conflicted about it.”

Grace's eyes widen. “She spoke to you already?” she asks, but you shake your head.

“Call it a lucky guess,” you reply, “Go on, what else did she say?”

[2/3]

>Sorry for the delay. I had to run an errand, and it took longer than expected.

>>2597128
Oh snap, the brainwashing is failing! Quick, we need to add Keziah's raw witching sexuality to ours!

>>2597128

“Well, ah, not much more than what I've already said. She mentioned feeling unsure of herself, of what she would be capable of doing if the worst should happen,” Grace sits down on the low bed, folding her hands in her lap and nervously biting her lip, “She's been thinking as best she can, trying to come up with some way of peacefully achieving our goals. I... I don't think it's going very well.”

“I see,” you murmur, “Does she know that you're here?”

“Not exactly,” Grace replies, “But... I don't think she'd be surprised. It may be that she told me, hoping that I would then tell you. It's not easy for her, to show this kind of uncertainty. Iraklins are taught to be unwavering, aren't they?” Sighing, the young girl looks up from her hands and gives you a frank look. “Do you think that we'll need to shed blood?” she asks bluntly, “I know that we have other things to focus on first, but-”

“I don't know. It's not something that we can know,” you admit, “Even if we could come up with a bloodless plan, something could go wrong. Nothing is ever certain in this line of work.”

“I suspected as much,” she nods sadly. Abruptly rising from the bed, she smooths down her clothes and gives you a stiff, formal bow. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you with this,” the young scholar quickly adds, “There is still time for the situation to change. Right now, we should be focused on Theon and his, ah... kingdom.”

“No, Grace,” you call out, and the girl pauses before she can flee your room. Slowly, she looks up from the ground and meets your gaze.

“Yes... captain?” she asks, as if fearing your answer.

>Just give her some time. She'll figure things out, one way or another
>I'll go and speak with Freddy. Thank you for letting me know
>Let's go and speak with Freddy together
>Other

>>2597174
>I'll go and speak with Freddy. Thank you for letting me know

>>2597174
>I'll go and speak with Freddy. Thank you for letting me know

>>2597174
>I'll go and speak with Freddy. Thank you for letting me know

“I'll go and speak with her,” you tell Grace, giving her what you hope is a reassuring smile, “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Ah, well, yes. I think that's probably... for the best,” clearing her throat, Grace nods a few times to herself and forces a smile. “After all!” she adds in a deliberately light voice, “I can hardly spend all my time running messages between the two of you, can I? I've got my own work to do!”

“Exactly,” you agree, “Leave this to me.”

-

You arrive at Freddy's room to find the pilot busy staring down at a small notebook, at a blank page. When she glances up at you, her lips draw together into a thin line. “What you said before made me think of a trade,” she begins, cutting straight to the point, “But I don't know what the military would want in exchange for the key fragment. Some kind of weapon, in all likelihood, and I... I don't think that you'd agree to that kind of trade. I'll think of something, I just-”

“I'm not here to rush you,” you interrupt, “We have ample time to plan something out. We're setting our own schedules here. Call it a perk of going independent.” Closing the door behind you, you lean back against it to keep anyone from intruding. “What I was more interested in was hearing how you felt about this,” you continue, “When you told me that a fight would be impossible... that was to take the idea off the table early, right?”

The Iraklin nods slowly. “I wasn't lying. A straight fight would be extremely difficult for us, and it's very likely that we would end up as wanted criminals,” she explains, “But aside from all that... I don't know if I could do that. As my captain, I owe my loyalty to you – but I also have a duty to my nation. If these two duties came into opposition, I would have to choose one above the other.”

Reaching down to the notebook, you pluck an Imago out from between some of the pages. It showed Freddy and Grace from when they were playing around with Grundvald's crown. In it, Freddy wears a bright and unburdened expression. Smiling a little at the memory, you offer the Imago out to her. She takes it without comment, studying it for a long moment. “I'm not a soldier any more,” she says simply, “This is proof of that. There wasn't exactly a lot of dressing up in the army.”

“I don't know about that,” you remark, “I've seen some of the parade uniforms you lot wear...”

A startled laugh escapes her, and you see the cloud briefly lift from her face. “Those are ceremonial!” she shoot back, “They don't count!” Laughing again, softer this time, she gently slips the Imago back between the pages of her notebook and then closes the small book.

[1/2]

>>2597281

The smile slips from her face as Freddy sets the notebook aside. “Sinclair was your countryman, wasn't he?” she asks, a question that you need not answer, “But when the time came, you hunted him down. Now that I'm faced with the same possibility... I don't know if I can do it.”

Sinclair. Given a choice, you would rather not have remembered that sorry episode. Maybe it's that thought which leads to your brusque answer. “You need to figure out where your loyalties lie,” you tell her bluntly, feeling your brow dip in an involuntary scowl. Freddy looks up, startled by your words, and you immediately feel a faint flush of regret. Not just regret, but a touch of contemptuous amusement courtesy of Feanor.

Then she nods, accepting your chastisement without complaint – no different than if you had been a superior officer in her old unit. “Yes sir. Captain,” she replies, her voice taut, “It won't happen-”

“I didn't mean it like that,” you interrupt, “I just mean... you're no use to me if your mind isn't focused on what we're doing, and I need every part of this crew to work perfectly. If we're not working like a well-oiled machine, someone might die. If you don't feel like you can do this, tell me – I can find another pilot.”

Freddy considers your words for a moment, then a hint of a smile forms at the corners of her mouth. “A well-oiled machine?” she repeats, scepticism in her voice, “Is that what this is?”

“It's what I'd like it to be,” you grunt, “There might be a few little... issues here and there, but it's still-”

“It's nice like this,” Freddy says, “It's a wonder that it works at all, considering the sort of people you tend to attract, but I like it. I've come to feel at home here, believe it or not.” This gives her a moment's pause, and you wonder if she's just realising that herself. “If my old unit looked at us - witches, churchmen, rogues of all kinds - they would think... well, they wouldn't think very highly of us. Despite that, I like being a part of this crew.” Straightening up, she squares her shoulders and gives you a firm nod. “But I'm still going to work on coming up with a plan,” she insists, “Not just for the sake of my countrymen, but for our sake as well.”

“We'll call it a work in progress,” you agree, reaching across to slap her on the shoulder, “There's plenty of work that needs doing before we have to worry about Odyssey Point.”

“No rest for the wicked,” she says with a sigh and a smile, “I'm glad that we spoke, captain. At the very least, I feel better for it. Was there anything else?”

>No, nothing else
>I would like to talk to you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2597428
>I would like to talk to you... (Write in)
Remember that we didn't have any way into Cloud Prison for awhile until Trice gave us the opportunity. Odyssey might look impossible now, but given time and a good eye we might be able to find our ticket in. So don't lose hope.

And thank you for being honest with me

>>2597474
this

>>2597428
>They wouldn't want anything other than weapons? Not even intel on Carth? I'd imagine our knowledge on Saint Alma's fate would be distressing if it were to be leaked.

>>2597492
That would ruffle Carth's feathers to point we wouldn't have any good will with them

>>2597564
We already got everything we needed from Carth. Just In case, we can make it the last fragment we get, so by the time they find out we've already won.

>>2597591
You gotta think about what happens after too. Burning a bridge with one of the two countries in the world isn't a good idea

>>2597608
Fuck those losers

“I wonder. Can you think of anything else the Iraklins might want to trade for? Maybe information they could use against the Carths?” you ask slowly, “Knowledge of exactly what happened to Saint Alma could be a potent weapon for them, if it was applied correctly.”

Freddy's eyes widen a little with surprise. “You would consider that?” she breathes, before she blinks back her surprise. “That may have some value to them, yes,” the pilot considers, “You would risk making an enemy of the church, of course. Doubtless, they would quickly realise who leaked the information. If we acted quickly enough, though...” She nods slowly, although the idea seems to leave her uneasy.

“I'm just considering all the options,” you assure her, “Right now, we shouldn't write anything off.” It really would be a last case scenario, you think to yourself, right down there at the bottom of your list with an overt attack. Either way, you'd end up making a powerful enemy. “I'll keep thinking on my end, and you should do the same. Remember that we don't have a way into Cloudtop Prison straight away – these things take time to organise. Odyssey Point might look impossible now, but given time and a good eye, we should be able to find our ticket in,” you add in a more cheerful tone, “So don't lose hope, okay?”

“I'll take that as an order,” Freddy replies with a smile, nodding solemnly, “Very well, captain. I won't disappoint you.”

“And thank you for being honest with me,” you conclude, “Find me if you feel like talking again.”

-

“That is the problem with working with your enemies,” Feanor muses, “They're never really your people, are they?”

Without dignifying that with an answer, you let go of the sword and banish his phantom. You don't know what you had been expecting him to say – certainly, it was never going to be anything pleasant. More and more, you're starting to regret taking the sword from its resting place. As useful as it is as a weapon, the side-effects are starting to wear on your patience. Pushing Feanor's crude words from your mind, you march up onto the top deck and glance up at the sky.

More birds now. Doesn't that mean that you're getting close to land? You're sure that you heard some of Berwick's crew talking about something like that. Then again, only a few of his men are experienced sailors, so...

The shrill squeal of a flute causes you to spin around and look up. Sitting atop some irregular block of metal – its purpose, if it has one at all, unknown to you – Caliban nods down to you. The flute, taken from Outside, sits easily in his hands. “Still getting the hang of this,” he explains, “I was thinking of quitting the crew once I have it mastered, taking up a career in music.”

“You can try,” you retort, “Playing like that, you'll end up with more people trying to kill you that way.”

[1/2]

>>2597615
Fuck Gunny, Blessings and Grace too, then. They won't look favorably on such actions.

>>2597621

“Rude, captain, very rude,” Caliban says, leaping down to the deck a moment later. Landing in a low crouch, he smoothly rises to his feet and glances down at the flute. “It's strange,” he muses, “To think that the last person who played this is long dead.”

“And they still play better than you,” you chuckle.

“You are in a foul mood today,” he jeers, “Are you really so sad to be getting back to work? I didn't know that you had taken to life at sea quite so well – maybe you and Berwick should swap places.” When his jokes fall flat, he throws a friendly arm around your shoulders and steers you over to the edge of the ship. “But there is something wrong, isn't there?” he guesses, his voice low, “Maybe not wrong, but it's bothering you whatever it is.”

“I'm curious. Answer me something,” you reply, “If you could get something that you wanted, that you desperately wanted, but doing so would risk plunging Carthul and Iraklis into war... would you do it?”

“Gods, yes!” Caliban replies immediately, “Those aren't my nations, captain. Hell, I don't have a nation – I don't owe Nadir any more loyalty than I do to Azimuth or Zenith. If it was something I wanted that badly, I'd do it without a second thought.” He lets out a curt laugh at the look that passes across your face. “But maybe you don't want to use me as an example,” he concedes, “I dare say that I'm the last person on this ship who should be giving anyone any moral advice.”

“...I don't know what I expected,” you sigh, “But still, I appreciate the advice.”

“Any time, captain,” the hunter tells you with a languid smile, “Any time.”

>I'm going to stop things here, I think. I'm aiming to continue this next Friday, but I may need to postpone. I'll see how things go, and I'll post updates on Twitter when I have them
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>2597883
Thanks for running Moloch.

Is Feanor going to play off airships as weak but in reality he is jealous he couldn't fly like we are?

>>2597939

I imagine he'd see them as an unpleasant necessity. You won't be able to do much if you're stuck down on Nadir for all your life, after all. Fighting with airships, on the other hand, that's not on - real men should fight eye to eye!

>>2597883
Thanks for running!

>>2597883
Thanks for Running Moloch. Does Claoimh Solais's blade only activate under certain circumstances or can we use it whenever?

>>2598158
Oh yeah how heretical is Feanor's sword compared to Maeve's trinket?

>>2598192
It activates in response to hostile supernatural beings, namely daemons or the Immaculate - the living statues.

>>2598204
Not quite as bad, but still pretty high on the "bad mojo" scale.

>>2598318
Huh, I thought it would be way worse.

>>2598318
So is Claoimh Solais metal or abrahad? Although either way, can we do anything with it?

Sharpen it to at least look somewhat effectual in its "off" state.
Engrave it to put a little bit of something else along with Feanor here.