>>2944155

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

“Tomorrow night,” Consul Hess begins, leaving those two words hanging in the air.

“Tomorrow night,” you agree, glancing aside to Sandoval who returns your look without expression, “What about it?”

“There is to be a meeting. Chancellor Wellager and Hierophant Milleux, meeting to finalise the agreements. Giving everything the rubber stamp, essentially – all the important talks have been concluded. I thought that you might have wanted to be there for some of the negotiations, but... I'm told that you were taken ill,” Hess studies you with a dubious eye, looking you up and down for any hint of a malaise, “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Taken ill... that's certainly one way of putting it. “Just a touch of the fever. Nothing that a few days of bed rest couldn't fix,” you lie, “I'm fit and healthy now, ready to take on the world.”

“Yes, well, that won't be necessary. Taking on one small part of it will be enough,” the consul remarks with a polite laugh, “The meeting is to be held at my estate. I only hope that the chancellor doesn't take offence at the frightful state of it – repairs have been slow going since the attack. Hardly a fitting venue for a chancellor...”

“But it's fine for a hierophant?” Sandoval snipes, shooting Hess a meaningful glare. If your gut instinct is anything to go by, their relationship might have been a little more than just professional at one point. Not any more, though – you've got a good eye for these sorts of things. Before the pair can bicker any further, Administrator Gehrard pointedly clears his throat.

“The point that we are trying to make is that our plans will need to be finalised by tomorrow evening. I don't anticipate that being a problem – we have the majority of the arrangements made already. Of course, Captain Vaandemere, I'm willing to listen to any suggestions you have in the meantime,” Gehrard explains, “Aside from that, I think you should be aware of one additional piece of information we've received. I don't wish to appear too cautious – it feels like we're all jumping at shadows at this point – but we have have a security risk. A changeling, if that is what we're calling them now. I have a trusted agent investigating the issue, however. We're taking any and all reports seriously.”

They'd better be. It seems like everything is under control here, but there will always be room for improvement. As much as you'd like to get back to the ship, to rest your still-aching head, you might be better served staying here. Business before pleasure, after all.

>Head back to the ship. Personal time is important too
>Go over the battle plans
>Ask after the potential security risk
>Other

>>2944156
>>Go over the battle plans
>>Ask after the potential security risk

>>2944156
>>Go over the battle plans

>>2944156
>>>Go over the battle plans
>>>Ask after the potential security risk

“Let's see these plans of yours,” you decide, holding back a sigh as you resign yourself to the drab necessities. Gehrard nods to Hess, and the consul fumbles behind his desk for a moment. You hear the clunk of a heavy lock, and then he passes across a hardy document case before leaving. “So Consul Hess won't be joining us?” you ask, glancing back as he leaves, “I didn't realise things were that secret.”

“He has his own business to attend to. Tasks he would normally defer to his aide,” Gehrard replies, “We owe you our thanks for resolving that, I should say. Faulkner has contacted us again since your meeting, but we've been stalling him with coded messages of our own. Carter has been cooperating, at last. To keep Faulkner safe, it would seem. Admirable loyalty, although sadly misplaced. Regardless, we can only keep this going for so long – hence the urgency.” As he talks, he spreads out a thick sheet of printed paper and taps it with a capped pen. “The Deep Forest,” the administrator begins, circling an area, “And this – roughly – is Eishin's territory. We plan to attack from three angles.”

“Three teams, each one consisting of three skiffs accompanied by one of my people,” Sandoval offers, “The Iraklin troops will be fronting the assault.”

“And taking the brunt of the casualties,” Gehrard mutters, “We're preparing a second line of Carth soldiers who will land further out and encircle the area to catch anyone who flees from the area. With that in mind, we shall be deliberately leaving a weakness in our approach – a route for Eishin's forces to flee through.”

“Bait,” you guess, “It looks weak, but you'll have soldiers waiting further out to encircle anyone who tries to capitalise on it.”

“Exactly. A simple tactic, I know, but it should serve us well,” Gehrard tells you as he scratches the fake escape route onto the map, “It is our hope that, in the heat of the moment, Eishin's forces won't have time to weigh up the odds. Of course, we're not even certain that his forces WILL break.”

“They won't,” Sandoval remarks with a casual wave of her hand, “Eishin is a fanatic, and his people are even more so. They'll fight to the death rather than running.”

Gehrard glares at her, and you can just imagine the hours they must have spent arguing over that point. Clearing your throat, you tap the map. “What about air support?” you ask, “You'll have ships in the area, I presume?”

“Correct. Two dreadnought class airships,” Gehrard confirms, “The Carths have... generously provided the Pagoda, under the command of Captain Samara while we'll be sending in the Thelema, along with her original captain.”

Strange. For a moment, you thought he just said that Captain DuPont would be taking part in this operation. He must have misspoken, else you misheard him. There's no way that-

[1/2]

>>2944177

“Yes, Captain Vaandemere, you're quite correct,” the administrator says lightly, “Captain DuPont will be given his chance to start paying back his debt to society. It wasn't a decision that we took lightly – it's very possible that our current dreadnought captains may be compromised, and we don't have the time to conduct a suitable investigation. Captain DuPont is much like you – a relative outsider.”

Slumping back in your chair, you grudgingly consider the decision. The Iraklins have something to dangle in front of DuPont, the promise of his freedom, and that might be enough to buy his loyalty.

“You won't need to work with him directly,” Sandoval points out, “I dare say that the first time you'll even have to look each other in the eye is at the victory dinner. The Thelema is a fine ship, and she's more than capable of bringing the full compliment of skiffs into battle. That's all we really need her to do.”

“No ground support fire?” you ask, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise. A few Pleonite cannon shots would go a long way to scattering Eishin's forces if they tried to muster a defence.

“Iraklin military doctrine prohibits the use of artillery when foot soldiers are in the field. The risk of collateral damage is simply too great. Additionally, we believe that Eishin's camp may be build atop a network of caverns – heavy fire would risk collapsing the entire area,” Gehrard explains, and you catch a slight hesitation in his voice. Before you can latch onto this pause, however, he continues on. “The landing skiffs themselves will be armed with support weapons, and they will remain in the immediate area to provide fire support,” he concludes, “According to everything we know about Eishin's capabilities, that will prove sufficient.”

“It's going to be a hard fight. Hard and bloody,” Sandoval murmurs to you, glancing across at Gehrard, “The Iraklin troops won't be holding back. Anyone who isn't wearing a uniform is to be considered an enemy soldier, and shot on sight. Now, there's some sense in that, but...”

Gehrard glares at her again. You get the feeling that she wasn't supposed to tell you that. You can understand why – she makes it sound more like a massacre than a military operation. “I'd like to hear about this security risk,” you tell the pair slowly, “A changeling, you said?”

“Potentially,” Gehrard nods, “I'll be happy to tell you more, if you wish to lend us your greater experience. Before we move on, though, did you have anything to add regarding our plan of attack?”

In truth, it's not much of a plan – encircle the area and shoot anything that looks at them funny. Still...

>I have nothing else. Let's move on
>I do have something... (Write in)
>Other

>>2944218
>>I do have something... (Write in)
We might be on the ground as well. Do we need to wear something so we don't get friendly fired?

>>2944218
>I have nothing else. Let's move on

>>2944228
Iraklin uniforms, apparently.

>>2944218
>I do have something...
>Volunteer to take out Eishin's witches
>Ask whether they're prepared for tunnel fighting, because a network of caverns sounds like tunnel fighting.

>>2944254
Who needs tunnel fighting when you have napalm?

>>2944272
If napalm could decide things there wouldn't be ground fighting at all.

>>2944218
>I do have something... (Write in)
Tell them how to identify and properly dispose of changelings.

“You say that you'll be firing on anyone wearing an Iraklin uniform?” you ask, gesturing down at yourself, “My people and I will likely be on the ground as well. Should we be worried?” You laugh a little at this, just to show that you're joking, but the question stands. Gehrard nods studiously, noting something down in the margin of his battle map.

“You could always wear an Iraklin uniform,” Sandoval suggests with a coy smile, “It might suit you, actually.”

Gehrard lets out a curt grunt of irritation, scowling at Sandoval before looking back to you. “Our soldiers will be wearing white capes – a nod towards our joint operation here. You and your companions will be provided with them as well. When the combat breaks out, you should be easily recognisable,” he explains, “Try not to get too muddy.”

“No promises. We might be skulking through some tunnels of our own. Eishin has his witches hidden down in those tunnels you mentioned. If they're allowed to operate freely, they'll be able to support Eishin's forces with conjured daemons. That's where Sandoval's people will really shine, but even they can only do so much. If they get overwhelmed...” you shake your head, “I can take them out ahead of the main attack, if you're prepare to hold back until I give you the signal.”

Gehrard and Sandoval trade a glance, and then the administrator nods. “That would help,” he agrees, “You'll be provided with a means of signalling the attack. A set of flares should suffice – a green flare to signal the attack, and a red flare to warn against unexpected danger. If we see red, we'll do our best to pick you up and evaluate the situation.”

“That works with me,” you agree, engraving the details into your mind. Green for attack, red for danger – easy enough. “Chances are, your forces will have to fight in the tunnels,” you add, “Are your men prepared for that?”

“I don't think anyone can really be prepared for tunnel fighting,” Sandoval admits, “But we have some equipment prepared, and a section of Gehrard's men are specially trained for these conditions. Light help us, that should prove sufficient.”

As much as you admire her optimism, you don't think the Light will be able to help them down underground.

-

“Changelings,” you begin after Gehrard has packed away his map, “Why do think a changeling might be involved in this security risk?”

“One of the local soldiers reported a strange smell when he was sweeping a trading ship. He claimed it was a wet, swampy odour,” Gehrard explains, “I've been ordering all arriving ships to be checked over for security risks, and the men have been ordered to be watchful for odours. Officially, it's because of improvised explosives or poisonous gases – often, they produce noticeable scents.”

[1/2]

>>2944296

As Gehrard takes notes, you go over what you know about changelings – their scent, like wet soil and decay, their instability that slowly reveals itself over time, and the only way that they can be destroyed. The administrator nods, reminding himself of the facts. You mentioned changelings once before, you recall, not too long before Carter revealed himself as a traitor. With everything that happened, though, you don't remember exactly what you did or didn't say. So, you cover everything just to be sure.

“So to slay a changeling, the black lodestone that serves as its heart must be destroyed,” Sandoval muses, her eyes widening as she hears this for the first time, “How... unclean. These things sound simply loathsome.”

Finally, something that all three of you can agree on.

-

Leaving Sandoval to her own devices, Gehrard shows you through to Carter's former room. Miata's room now – DuPont's jailer has found a new job here, keeping an eye on the sensitive business. She greets you with a sharp nod, gesturing towards an empty seat as Gehrard leaves. “You're here about the security risk. Very well,” she begins immediately, shuffling her notes and pushing her glasses up her nose, “The abnormal smell was detected aboard a trading ship called the Seventeen Horses. Don't ask me about the name – I don't know either. The ship is nothing special, just a common freighter, and the crew that I spoke with are mostly clueless. They're interested in getting their pay and enjoying their shore leave. That makes things difficult for me.”

“Because they've scattered far and wide, hiding in every drinking den from here to the other side of the city,” you finish for her, “I know how these things work.”

“I'm sure you do,” she jeers, one corner of her mouth twitching in a cold smile, “But the situation isn't quite so bad. According to Captain... Villenvue, I believe his name was, his crew have one bar in particular that they like to congregate at. That would be my first place to check.”

“Although this changeling might not know that,” you point out, “Do you have anything else?”

“Not much. Even if I had a description of the potential suspect, it wouldn't help us very much would it?” Miata snaps, her frustration showing for a moment, “The Seventeen Horses is still docked now, and I can get you clearance to search it if you wish. Frankly, I'd welcome the help – this is my first time dealing with something like this, and if we lose the trail now...”

Searching a busy city for something that can change its face at will. You can't exactly blame her for being intimidated.

>I'm sorry, but I can't help you
>I'll help. Give me the name of this bar, and I'll track it down
>I'll help. Get me clearance to search the ship and I'll get to work
>I have some questions for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2944399
>I'll help. Give me the name of this bar, and I'll track it down

Rather search a bar than a ship.

>I have some questions for you... (Write in)

>"How many crewmembers are there? Do you know?"

>>2944399
>>I'll help. Give me the name of this bar, and I'll track it down

We should bring Caliban

“I'll help you. Give me the name of this bar, and I'll track this thing down,” you tell Miata, before muttering a little extra under your breath, “I'd rather check a bar than some old freighter any day...”

“Easy there, boss,” Keziah whispers into your mind, her words like a finger trailing up the length of your spine, “You're supposed to be cutting back on the drinking, remember? Doctor's orders.” She laughs coyly, and you have to stop yourself from chuckling aloud. Miata looks up and gives you a sharp look of scrutiny before looking back down to the pile of notes that covers her desk. “But it's a good place to start,” the witch agrees, “You want me to send Caliban your way? If you're looking to sniff something out...”

“Tell him to meet me at the consul's offices,” you think back, before giving Miata a pointed look, “Having trouble finding it?”

“Things are rather disorganised at the moment. I was dragged out of my usual office and stuck here, tasked with handling reports from a dozen different...” she complains, scowling fiercely before plucking a single sheet of flimsy paper out of the pile. “Here we are. I don't know why this wasn't with the rest of my...” a pause as she clears her throat, “I was wrong, before, it's not a bar at all. It's a guest house – Florence's Rest and Fest. I assume that's supposed to be “Feast”?”

“No, “fest” is right. It's a local word, it means that you can buy a spot of companionship there. I know the place you're talking about,” you explain, hastily continuing when Miata gives you a look of utter disgust, “I mean, I know it by association. People talk, you know?” You give her an easygoing gesture here, but the silence simply draws out for a moment more before you ask the first question that comes to mind. “So, the crew of this airship,” you ask weakly, “Do we have numbers?”

“Fourteen crewmen who are currently unaccounted for, with an additional eight – including the captain – who remain on the ship itself,” Miata answers, “Mostly male, all young to middle-aged, a mix of Azimuth men and Nadir sorts. None of them were acting abnormally according to the captain, and he doesn't take on guests. He could not, however, rule out someone stowing away with the cargo. It has happened before, apparently. Before this, the ship was docked in Monotia – that's what brought it to our attention.”

Clear and concise information – unfortunately, it doesn't help you narrow down your search much. Once you reach the festhall, you can see about finding some of the crew and putting your questions to them directly. Thanking Miata for her time, you head out of the office and look about for Caliban.

You spot him – and what's left of his face – a moment later.

[1/2]

>>2944462
Ooof
It's gonna grow back right?
His boyish good looks aren't gone forever?

>>2944462

“Don't stare,” Caliban grunts as you approach, and you glance skywards. His wounds have started to heal quickly, but you can already tell that they won't heal well. Thick stitches are visible against the red-raw wounds, while one corner of his mouth has been permanently twisted down into a fixed grimace by the gashes. He won't be likely to attract many women with these scars – they're likely to make every smile into a sneer, and every scowl into something truly awful.

“Put down the mirror and let's get to work,” you announce, jumping straight into business rather than waste time with the pleasantries, “We're chasing after a potential changeling. Could be in a local... guest house. I'll explain on the way.”

With a coarse laugh, Caliban falls in beside you as you lead the way.

-

When you arrive at the festhall, you immediately notice a problem – the place reeks of cheap ale, cheaper perfume and sweat. Changelings have a very particular scent, but if it gets smothered in a tide of other smells...

“Like trying to pick out a single whisper in a busy party,” Caliban agrees with a low growl of irritation. His damaged face is drawing a lot of attention here, and even with the room being as crowded as it is, people give him a wide berth. At least it makes it easier for you to survey the area. The bar is down below, a pretty standard layout with tables, chairs and a long bar across one wall. In one corner, a sweaty woman bangs away at a piano as if she had some grudge against it. A well-used staircase leads up to the equally well-used rooms. A steady flow of people pass between the two levels, with new faces appearing regularly. Finding one single person here would be a nightmare at the best of times, when they were restricted to one face alone, but with a shapechanger?

“I suppose I'd best start sniffing people,” Caliban growls, glaring at a pair of young women who had been staring at him. Squealing, the pair hurry away to take shelter with a group of young toughs.

“Please don't,” you plead, “I'd prefer it if we didn't start a brawl.”

“Why not?” the hunter asks with a shrug, “Good fun, brawls.”

“We're here for business, not pleasure,” you point out, “Not violence either.” Sighing, you approach a group of harlots and ask after the crew you're looking for. It takes a moment for them to realise that you're not looking for a horse – you shudder to think what they must have been thinking – but eventually they wave you towards a corner table of six. Six people – you were looking for fourteen.

But it's a start.

[2/3]

>>2944462
>her words like a finger trailing up the length of your spine
L-lewd.

>>2944523

“Gentlemen!” you announce as you boldly sit down at their table, “I have a question – why is it seventeen horses and not, say, sixteen or eighteen?”

“First job that Captain Villenvue had, he was transporting horses. Twenty of them, only three died on the way. He still got paid, though!” one of the men replies, laughing as if it was the greatest joke he had ever heard. Slapping the table, he offers you a hand that is as broad as a shovel's head. “Ludolf,” he says to you as you shake his hand, “So you've heard of us, have you? Can't say I expected that – we're not as famous as we deserve!”

The others laugh heartily, and you see Caliban nod his head slightly. One of these men, then? “I like to keep informed,” you tell him vaguely as you take a cautious sniff. There, beneath all of the usual smells you might expect to find in a place like this, you catch a hint of rank wetness. It's probably not Ludolf, if they know that old story, but that still leaves five men. None of them seem particularly remarkable to look at – two of them are whispering to each other between glances at Caliban, one of them is eyeing up some of the companions, while the last two are drinking uncomfortably. Ludolf might have been happy to talk, but those two are more suspicious. If you don't say something soon, they might turn nasty.

“I was looking to hire a crew to move some freight. Some sensitive cargo – nothing you could bring into Carthul, you know?” you venture, watching for any reaction, “You think your captain would be interested? Good money?”

“You with one of the Nadir gangs?” one of the suspicious men asks sharply. Before you can answer that, his companion speaks up as well.

“Or are you with some other Nadir bunch?” he snaps, pointing at Caliban, “Your attack dog looks Deep Forest to me. Looks like he was dragged face down out of it!” He starts to laugh, but then the hunter explodes out of his seat and grabs him by the collar. You see the flash of a blade in Caliban's hand, the blocky shape of a pistol as Ludolf draws, the two gossips fall backwards in sudden panic. Yelping with fear, the lecherous man stumbles away from the table and makes for the stairs. More shouts now, from all around you, drunken shouts of protest and encouragement both.

You've got to do something!

>Try to calm everyone down, get control over the situation
>Get the gun out of Ludolf's hand before he does anything stupid
>Grab Caliban and run before this gets any worse
>You need to... (Write in)
>Other

>>2944566
>Try to calm everyone down, get control over the situation

>>2944566
>>Try to calm everyone down, get control over the situation

If it fails
>>Get the gun out of Ludolf's hand before he does anything stupid

>>2944566
>Grab the gun

Forgot about Cals nasty temper.

>>2944622
I think his dis figuration irritates him more than he lets on. I don't blame him.

Things can never just be simple, can they?

Cursing aloud, you lunge out of your seat and grab Caliban's wrist in a tight grip, squeezing hard until his hand convulses open and the knife drops from his hand. Even before it's hit the table, you're pushing the hunter back down into his seat. By the time Ludolf has his pistol fully raised and pointed, the blunt muzzle swinging between you and Caliban, the chances of anyone getting stabbed have vanished.

That doesn't mean things have calmed down yet, though. Ludolf's hospitality has vanished completely, replaced by a hard-edged urge to protect his comrades. A respectable trait to be sure, but you can't really appreciate it when you've got a gun stuck in your face. “Put that down, Ludolf,” you urge him firmly, your tone as calm as you can manage, “Or I'll make you put it down. I'm quicker than you are – and I'm willing to stake my life on it. Are you?”

“Bastard!” one of the other men snaps, waving his hand in Caliban's face, “You ought to be locked up! Like a rabid dog, you are. You-”

“Shut up,” Ludolf orders, hesitating a moment before cocking the hammer on his gun. “I don't think you're welcome here, stranger,” he warns you, “You or your dirty work. Best you leave before-”

A split second later, he's sitting back down with a stunned look on his face as his pistol hangs loosely from your grip. It's not just that you moved faster than him – you moved faster than your own thoughts. Instinct took over, and this is where you are. Frankly, you're just glad that you didn't hurt him... or worse. As he blinks in amazement, you slap the pistol down in front of him. “We are NOT done,” you tell him firmly, sitting back down and defiantly folding your arms. “I want to know about your crew,” you continue, “Has anyone been acting off lately? Not quite themselves, maybe they said something that didn't make sense?”

“You're not making much sense,” someone mutters, lighting up a cigarette and blowing a foul smelling cloud of smoke at you. The mood you're in, you could quite happily break every one in his hand, but... that wouldn't be very helpful, would it?

“Most everyone's been quiet. Bad business down in Monotia – couldn't find any decent work,” Ludolf offers, his voice tense and resentful, “Captain managed to make a bit of money, but he won't talk about it. Why we got so... defensive earlier, see?” Reaching out to touch his pistol, drawing strength from it, he meets your eyes and glares into them. “So unless you're here to ruin our day any further,” he concludes, “I think we'd all like some peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet. In a place like this.

[1/2]

>>2944663
Maybe we can name drop segharl, see if any react.

We should ask Sandoval about Project Pierrot.

>>2944663

“I want you to tell me about this business that your captain did. You can either tell me – here and now, in this comfortable bar with a drink in your hand – or you can tell it to an Iraklin investigator. I doubt they'd be anywhere near as charitable as I'm being,” you tell Ludolf, not letting your eyes roam away from his, “Who did your captain do business with? A man named... say, Segharl?”

“Don't know any names. I wasn't in on it. Captain didn't want me coming along, but he wouldn't say why. I figure he wasn't proud of whatever it was,” Ludolf recounts slowly, his hand never leaving the pistol, “He took along three of the boys. When they came back, they had a chest with them. Not a big thing, one guy could carry it, but it was heavy. I sneaked a look in the chest later. Old coins, you know? Couldn't read any of the writing on them. Well, I knew better to ask too many questions. Might have been a bad decision, on reflection.”

No kidding. “What do you think, Caliban?” you ask, glancing across to the hunter. He says nothing, his attention utterly elsewhere as he idly picks at the stitches running down his face. A thin ribbon of blood has started to leak out of his wound, but he doesn't seem to notice that. “Caliban!” you snap, and his eyes narrow as he jolts back to reality, “What do you think? Do you smell a rat?”

Realisation dawns, and Caliban sniffs the air. “I can smell something,” he sneers, looking pointedly at the man he nearly stabbed, “Piss, mostly.” The man opens his mouth to yell back, but Ludolf silences him with a gesture. Chastised, the man sits back down and sulks.

“Not helpful,” you mutter to Caliban, shaking your head and looking back to Ludolf, “These men who went with the captain. Where are they now?”

“Two of them stayed back on the ship with the captain. Said they wanted to “talk” with him. Whatever happened, I figure they're feeling bad about it as well,” Ludof says with a grimace, “Chester wanted to come with us. Said he wanted a woman. He's...” His words trail off here as he gestures to the empty chair. “Huh,” he remarks with a shrug, “Guess you scared him off with that little performance of yours. Always did scare easily, Chester.”

Briefly meeting your eyes, Caliban bluntly shakes his head. If the changeling knew you – a possibility, considering your past experiences with them – then it might have noticed you when things kicked off. It could have fled the scene, leaving you...

Leaving you with a dead end. What else can you do, save for returning to Miata and giving her the bad news?

>There's nothing more to do here. Head back to Miata
>Pay a visit to the Seventeen Horses and speak with Captain Villenvue
>There's something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>2944726
>Pay a visit to the Seventeen Horses and speak with Captain Villenvue

>>2944726
>>Pay a visit to the Seventeen Horses and speak with Captain Villenvue

>>2944726
>There's something else... (Write in)
Try asking the men here to recount some old memory that they share with at least one other person present.

>>2944726
>Pay a visit to the Seventeen Horses and speak with Captain Villenvue
>Talk to Caliban along the way
>You know, I dreamed about some REAAAAALLY weird shit while I was out. Blood that purposely transformed people. I think it's a shot at healing some scars up, but we're probably going to want to take some time making sure nobody gets a lizardface...

Sighing in frustration, you slump back in your chair. “I'm not done here,” you warn Ludolf, even if your voice is directed more towards the ceiling than to the man himself, “I'm going to have a word with your boss, to see if his story matches yours.”

“Then I'll take you to the ship. It'll go easier for you if I'm there,” Ludolf offers with a disgruntled tone in his voice, as if he himself couldn't understand why he was helping you. “Less chance of someone getting hurt, I guess,” he adds, answering his own question, “Still reckon this would be easier if we knew what this was all about...”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” you admit with a wan smile, “But maybe I'll share a little... if you help me with something else. I want you all to tell me a bit about yourselves. A memory that you share with someone else here. That's all. Ludolf, you want to start?”

“The hell is...” he begins, before shrugging incredulously, “Fine, whatever. Marcus, I remember when you first signed up with us. You got so drunk that you wandered off and almost boarded some other ship. We had to drag you back kicking and screaming, because you thought we were kidnapping you.”

“C'mon, don't share embarrassing stuff like that...” he complains, before pointing an accusing finger at the man next to you, “I only got that drunk because Hans here slipped me something funny. Poured something in my ale. Shudder to think what he would have done if I hadn't wandered off when I did!”

“Fuck off!” Hans snarls, “Damn it. Jo, I know that you've got kids in three different cities, and none of them know about each other. You write to them, but not often. Kind of an asshole, ain't you?”

And on it goes. Each man is able to give you a story of their own, and none of them raise any warning signs. By the end of it, they've turned it into a game of sorts – laughing at the sordid secrets they drag into the light. The deal you hinted at, your answers for their stories, is soon forgotten, and you take that chance to make your retreat. Ludolf joins you, to show you to the Seventeen Horses as he promised.

You'll find more answers there... right?

-

“Maybe we were on the wrong track in the first place,” you murmur to Caliban as you're leaving the festhall, “Are you sure that you smelled something?”

“No,” he replies sullenly, “Maybe I made a mistake. So many different damn perfumes in there that I could barely think straight. Maybe someone had something nasty stuck to the sole of his fucking boot. What do you want me to say, captain? I'm not perfect. Even if that damn thing WAS there, it could have been anyone – one of the whores, a patron... they could have been watching us all along and we never even noticed them. I hate those things.”

“I do too,” you agree, casting one last glance at the festhall.

[1/2]

>>2944765
...could always give him the root. Seems to have healed Eishin.

>>2944867
Nah Eishin looks pretty damn weird. All big and twisted around.

>>2944810

“You know, there might be a way to fix this,” you mutter as you follow Ludolf, “I've... seen things. I know things. I know that once, there was a way to sculpt flesh like clay. If someone could master that art, they might-”

“Don't,” the tracker interrupts, “I know what you're doing, captain, and... don't. Right now, I'm not interested in false hope. I've got my mind set on a more practical solution.”

“Well, practical is good,” you reply, “Feel like sharing?”

“Sure,” he grunts, “I'm going to start taking wardrobe advice from Masque.”

-

An ill air hangs over the Seventeen Horses, and you don't think it's because of the animals who once died here. You've heard talk of cursed ships, vessels with such an appalling history that misfortune sticks to them like rust on old iron – treachery, abuse, and the worst kinds of torture can leave a stain like that. Although you never placed too much stock in such stories, when you stand upon the bridge of the Seventeen Horses... you can believe them. Some of the stories, you recall, were less focused on the ship itself – it was the captain himself who brought down misfortune.

“Yeah?” Captain Villenvue slurs, looking up at you and waving a half-empty bottle about, “What you want?”

“They're here to ask you a few questions, chief,” Ludolf begins, “Questions about... you know. The business. They know something went down, and it's this or they take us to the Iraklins.”

“Fuck them. Bastards, fuck,” Villenvue curses, a broad Pastonne accent creeping into his voice as he swears. Straightening up, he studies you for a long moment as if he might know your face. When the faint glint of recognition fades from his eyes, you feel strangely relieved. “Gonna shop us to the dogs, huh?” he rambles, “Hell, we never broke any of their laws. Nothin' illegal about what we did...”

“So why do you feel so guilty about it?” Caliban sneers, snatching the bottle out of Villenvue's hand and taking a swig from it, “It's not illegal so it's fine, right?”

“You don't know!” the captain snarls, standing up on unsteady legs, “I don't know! Ain't none of us who know what happened in that room! None of us except for...”

“For Chester?” you suggest, offering the first name that comes to mind. It hits Villenvue like a fist, and he slumps back down into his chair. “What happened?” you ask quietly, “You got a chest of gold coins out of it. Couldn't have been easy, whatever you did. You don't get a payday like that for easy work.”

“I don't know!” he whines, reaching for the bottle that Caliban holds. The hunter keeps it away from him for a moment more before relenting, letting the captain take it back. The way he desperately throws back a mouthful of the liquor...

Well, it's enough to put you off drinking for life.

[2/3]

>>2944881
>“Sure,” he grunts, “I'm going to start taking wardrobe advice from Masque.”

;'(
desperate times indeed

>>2944881

“An hour alone. That's all what it was,” Captain Villenvue slurred, “We were drinking. A guy found us, said he heard we were looking for work – he had an opportunity for us, good money for quick work. Sure, I had my doubts, but I listened. Had my boys to take care of, you know?”

“Describe him,” you order, “This guy of yours.”

“Just... a guy!” the drunk protests, “Acted real shifty, but don't all these Nadir types act like that? Clothes didn't fit either, like he stole them from a bunch of different folks. Even more strange, I thought, like how was he supposed to have any money? But, sure as sure, he showed us the goods. Said we could take it all in exchange for an hour alone with one of my boys. We drew lots, and Chester drew the short straw.”

“So you left your man alone with this... suspicious character,” you wonder aloud, a horrible idea slowly dawning in your mind, “When it was over, how did he... seem? Was he normal?”

“Quiet. Real quiet. Like, I could guess why,” Villenvue shuddered, “Blanked all our questions. When we landed here, though...”

“He talked about wanting to pick up a woman,” Ludolf remarks, “He wanted it real bad, too. I thought he was just... you know how a man gets sometimes, you know? Gods, chief, you... you sold him like that? No wonder you-”

“Which one was he?” you snarl, grabbing Ludolf by the arm, “The men you were with. Which one was Chester?”

“Small guy, skinny. Never talked much,” Ludolf protests, squirming as you tighten your grip, “He was checking out the girls, you know? He wasn't interested in talking or whatever, he just wanted... he got scared when your buddy pulled that knife! I don't know what else to-”

Oh hell... You remember now – your attention had been focused on the knife and the pistol, but there had been that one man. The one man who fled upstairs, and never came back down. Breathing out a curse, you let go of Ludolf's arm.

“We need to go,” you hiss to Caliban, already turning and sweeping off the bridge, “We need to go back. Now!”

You just hope you're not too late.

>Okay, I think this is a decent place to pause for the night. I'll continue this tomorrow, although it may be a shorter session than normal
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>2944902
Thanks for running.

Sorry for not paying attention too much to catch that, I've been torn between playing this quest and IRL shit.

>>2944902
Thanks for running!

If the changeling only needed 5 minutes to copy and dispose of Chester, what did it do with the other 55? Swap diaries?

>>2944911
To be fair, I don't think anyone expected the changeling to be interested in boning hoes. Though it was probably just scoping out the next target to copy. Problem now is finding it, when it could look like anyone and almost definitely knows we're after it.

>>2944902
Thanks for running!

>>2944919
Essentially, yes. It spoke with him, studied his mannerisms and speech patterns, learned a little about the ship. A changeling is most effective at hiding its true nature when it has time to study its next target.

>>2944911
Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. It's more fun this way!

>>2944955
I'm glad I decided to go with swapping diaries and not playing go fish.

>>2944902
oh, you mean we could have tried pointing out the whole upstairs thing?

Damn, I didn't think of trying.

>>2945327
Write-in's are always available, but yeah, it's easy to miss details like that.

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

313 KB JPG

How could you have been so blind, so foolish? Right under your nose the whole time...

Rationally, you know that the fault is not yours – if Ludolf's friend hadn't taunted Caliban, if the hunter hadn't lost his temper in turn, if Ludolf hadn't drawn a pistol... countless factors all combined to ruin things for you, to sabotage your efforts, and now this is the consequence. It feels obvious to you now – what better way to cover your trail than to rent out a harlot? Go upstairs with one face and leave with another. Who really looks that closely at the customers coming in or out of a festhall, anyway?

You can scarcely imagine what the other patrons must think when they see you bursting through the front doors and immediately marching up the staircase. Your instincts cry out for haste, but a more rational voice urges you to slow down, to calm down before you cause a panic. If the changeling is still here, that kind of chaos would be the perfect time for it to slip out. So, you slow down and pause a moment for Caliban to catch up. He looks furious with himself – for his part in this mistake.

Offering no apology – knowing that it would be a waste of his breath – he presses a finger to his lips and nods down the long corridor. The owners of the festhall clearly wasted no expense on decorating the upper level, all too aware of why the patrons would be up here. Passing through bland, featureless corridors and glancing at plain, anonymous doors, you start to feel a sense of hopelessness welling up in you. Should you start knocking on doors and asking questions at random, then?

“I smell something,” Caliban murmurs to you, pointing towards one door in particular. Following him towards it, you quietly grasp the handle and push.

Unlocked. Inside, a woman lies sprawled out on the bed. Even before you've crossed over to her, you know exactly what you're about to find. Her flesh is cool – not quite cold yet – and marked by a lurid bruise around her neck. A belt, you assume, noticing the pile of discarded clothes nearby. Men's clothes, cut to fit a skinny young man. No wallet, nothing really useful or purposeful, but examining the clothes means you don't have to look at the nameless cadaver splayed out next to them.

You hear a rattle as Caliban opens a closet. “Missing clothes,” he mutters, holding out an empty hanger. Then, he pulls out a flowing dress and takes a deep sniff of it.

“Really?” you groan, trying not to yell out in disgust.

“Scent. Perfume. This thing probably knows we're following it, and I'll willing to bet that it covered up its own scent with this perfume. Problem is... I can track that. Probably better than I can track it normally,” the hunter explains, holding up an empty perfume bottle with a cruel, humourless sneer, “It must think it's so clever. Well, not for long.”

[1/2]

>>2946797

Luck is on your side, it seems, at least in some small way. You make it out of the festhall without attracting any further suspicion, without anyone crying out and accusing you of murder. A mad urge almost sees you ordering a drink, talking with the barkeeper and asking after the murdered girl – to learn her name, at least. You'd still like to know, but asking those sorts of questions would only bring an unwelcome degree of attention down upon you.

So you flee without asking, leaving the girl forever nameless in your mind.

-

“This trail makes no sense,” Caliban mutters as you walk, shaking his head in disgust, “Where are they supposed to be going?” Looking around at you, he gestures vaguely towards the maze of streets that you've already passed through. “You're the local here, captain, what do you think?” he asks, “Does this route make any sense to you?”

“Maybe if they were a tourist who had gotten lost,” you reply, “But if this really is their trail, then they're wandering about at random.”

“If this is their trail?” the hunter snaps, “So you're doubting me now, is that it? If you want, you can take the lead and show me how its done. I want to find this monster just as much as you do, you know!”

“Back off!” you hiss at him, “Right now, I need you to be on top form. We both need to be on top form. We're not going to catch this thing if we keep bickering like this. You understand me?”

Slowly, all the anger drains out of Caliban's eyes and he slumps sideways against a wall. “Top form?” he repeats in a low, bitter voice, “I don't know if I'll ever be on top form again. I feel... I think I've lost my touch. Before all this, I never would have missed this. As soon as that creep went upstairs, I would have noticed it. Now, though?” Reaching up, he touches his wounded face and sighs.

“Give me it straight,” he asks in a leaden tone, “Was this my fault?”

>We both dropped the ball. It was a bad situation for all of us
>You lost your temper. If it hadn't been for that, things might have been different
>This isn't over yet. You still have that trail, right?
>It was... (Write in)
>Other

>>2946800
>We both dropped the ball. It was a bad situation for all of us
>This isn't over yet. You still have that trail, right?

>>2946800
>This isn't over yet. You still have that trail, right?

>>2946800
>We both dropped the ball. It was a bad situation for all of us
>This isn't over yet. You still have that trail, right?

It would be the easiest thing in the world to lay all the blame upon Caliban's shoulders and absolve yourself of the guilt. Easy, perhaps, but far from honest. Even if you were willing to tell him that, would you be able to believe it yourself?

“We both dropped the ball on this,” you tell him firmly, “It was a bad situation for everyone – if I had chased after Chester, things could have ended badly for you or Ludolf. He had a gun, you had a knife... I had to stop the situation from escalating, even if this is where we ended up.” Shaking your head, you slap Caliban roughly on the arm. “Besides, this isn't over yet,” you add, “You still have that trail, right?”

Closing his eyes, Caliban tastes the air. “I do,” he confirms, “I still don't know where we're going, mind you. I think we might be walking around in a great big circle...”

Now that your head is clearer, you look about you and realise something – the trail has been doubling back on itself, but it's not leading you directly back to the festhall. “It's leading us to one of the poor districts,” you mutter, “The girl, maybe she lives... lived around here. The changeling might be going back to hide in her home.”

“Maybe,” Caliban agrees, already moving on ahead, “But why? So it can play the part of some common companion for a while more? I don't understand what it's planning.”

“They make good spies, these women,” you suggest, “Hiding in the background, listening to men drunkenly spilling their secrets... A good way to tap into the local gossip.” As you talk, you snap open your revolver's holster and rest your hand upon the grip. If the changeling is where you think it may be, you'll put a bullet right through its black stone heart.

-

“Here,” Caliban mutters to you, grabbing your arm before you can move on ahead. Pointing to the nearby tenement building, he sniffs the air. For the first time since leaving the murdered girl's room, you can smell her perfume again – a nasty chemical scent entirely unlike the delicate flowery scent that...

Focus. No time for that now.

Pushing through the tenement door, you look around the empty lobby. It's deathly quiet, with only the muffled sound of a radio broadcasting music in one of the rooms. Drawing your revolver, you let your nose lead you up the stairs to the third floor. At the edge of the stairs, something catches your eye – a set of deep gashes scored into the dry, crumbling plaster. Looking first at the scratches and then to Caliban's damaged face, you put two and two together – claws.

But if the changeling was trying to hide, why would it leave a mark like this?

“Because it's taunting us,” the hunter muses, “It knows that we're getting close.”

Wordlessly, you look ahead to one of the doors and spot another set of those gashes decorating the door frame.

[1/2]

>>2946817
WORRY

>>2946817

When you find the door to be unlocked, your sense of unease only increases – it's starting to seem more and more likely that you're walking into a trap. Certainly, you're walking into the beast's lair now. Before you do anything more than crack the door open a fraction of an inch, you look around to Caliban. “Any last words?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light, “I mean, any last suggestions?”

“Third floor apartment, only one door in or out,” the hunter murmurs, “The time for running is done. This thing wants to finish this.”

Nodding to yourself, you push open the door and step into the apartment.

-

Thick curtains have been drawn across the windows, casting a pall of darkness over the entire room. Through an ajar bedroom door, you see the flickering light of a candle and hear a soft, tuneless humming. Holding your revolver at the ready, you approach the door and yank it open, revealing the woman... the thing that wears a woman's shape... inside. It sits at the dresser, gazing into the mirror as it sloppily applies layer after layer of heavy make-up. When it notices you in the mirror, it turns.

No, it doesn't turn exactly. The flesh of its head simply flows around, smearing the make-up as the features reform to face you. Wide eyes fix upon you, and a long tongue lolls out of its open mouth. “Milos Vaandemere,” it coos, stretching your name out into an obscene parody. Even knowing what kind of monster this is, the sound of your name causes you to hesitate. “I'm surprised you're not too busy to play with me,” it continues, “Don't you have WORK to be doing?”

There's something in its voice that startles you – recognition. For now, the urge to destroy it is matched by a curiosity. “You... you were in Salim,” you mutter, “You called yourself Imelda, then. Are you following me?”

“Are YOU following ME?” it shoots back, slithering out of its chair and picking up the candle. “Come, lower that pistol. Don't you want to talk? To... catch up on lost time?” the changeling giggles, “I've got a lot to share with you, if you like.”

Cocking back the hammer on your revolver, you aim it at Imelda's midsection – where you hope their lodestone heart is hiding. “I've got something to share with you as well,” you spit, “You killed that girl, didn't you?”

“Oh yes. And the boy before that. I needed a new face, and... I was hungry,” the changeling giggles again, “Don't pretend that you really care about those little things. Beings of no consequence, both of them. Oh, why are we even still talking about them?”

Beside you, Caliban tenses up as he prepares to pounce. Waiting, you realise, for your signal.

>Attack the changeling immediately
>Talk for a while more. Perhaps you can learn something here
>Other

>>2946850
>>Attack the changeling immediately

>>2946850
>>Attack the changeling immediately
This thing is too crafty. I'd rather not give it time.

>>2946850
>Attack the changeling immediately

>>2946850
>Attack the changeling immediately
>Be prepared for it to move the core within its body

>>2946850
>Talk
>"Yo why u here?

So violence you guys

“Go to hell!” you snap, firing a snap shot into the creature's midsection before dropping your aim lower and firing a second shot that burst apart its knee before it's even had the chance to hit the ground. Shrieking with such shrillness that your ears ring, the changeling folds in half as its body warps. Its wounded leg splits apart into a pair of thinner limbs that buckle under its own weight. Before you can press the attack, it flips upright and hurls the candle over your shoulder. Involuntarily glancing away from the changeling for a split second, your eyes follow the flame as it arc over your shoulder.

The next thing you notice is Caliban shoving you out of the way. A split-second later, something long and white splits the air in front of you. The changeling's fingers stretch out to inhuman length, growing rigid enough to cut flesh although – thanks to Caliban's quick reflexes – they end up cutting through empty air instead. Off-balance from the hasty shove, you glance behind you again and balk as you see fire hungrily spreading across the rugs and carpets. Already, smoke has started to darken the air. Need to finish this quickly...

Kicking out, you sweep the changeling off of its three unstable legs. As it pitches forwards, Caliban grabs it by the throat and slams it back against the wall. “Talk!” he barks, slamming it against the wall again with enough force to cause plaster dust to rain down on both of you. “Enough games!” he continues, “Tell us-”

“Caliban!” you snap, pulling him back as the changeling's head lunges forwards, taking on the shape of a hound's jaws as it snaps at his face. As the flesh warps, though, you see what you've been looking for – the black lodestone, now hidden within its head. Yelling this fact out to Caliban, you see him nodding grimy as he bodily hurls the changeling into the fire. Another shriek pierces the air, but this time you don't allow yourself to be stunned by it. Punching forwards as the changeling flounders upright, you smash your fist into its skull.

The cold weight of the lodestone meets you, bruising your knuckles as you grab for it. As your hand closes around it, the changeling lets out one last cry.

“How dare you!” it screams, any further words cut off as you rip the lodestone free from its head. Convulsing one last time, the empty shell of a body flops down and immediately begins to lose cohesion. Stepping back, you start to breathe a sigh of relief before-

“The fire!” Caliban grunts, grabbing a sheet and flapping it at the fire in attempt at dampening down the blaze.

Cursing, you leap to join him.

[1/2]

>>2946920

“Hey, captain?” Caliban asks, a while after the fire has been taken care of, “You really think it was here to spy on things up here?”

You take a moment to think of an answer. “I don't know why else it would be here,” you admit, “But I know what you mean. It doesn't feel right to me either. If it was was here spying, it wouldn't have been toying with us like that. It would have taken the chance to hide as soon as it could. No, I think it was something more than that – but we won't ever know now, will we?”

“Not unless that rock is about to grow a mouth and tell us,” the hunter laughs, “Can it... do that?” When you shake your head, he laughs again – this time in relief. “Still, it's curious,” he thinks aloud, “You regret killing it like that?”

“Hell no,” you reply, dropping the lodestone into your deepest pocket and looking around the charred, blackened apartment, “Let's get out of here. This smell is giving me a headache.”

That's another thing you're learning about changelings – they smell bad when they're alive, but even worse once they're dead.

>Okay, it looks like I'm going to need to pause here for about an hour to take care of some family stuff. I apologise for the interruption, and I'll try and get things done as quickly as possible.

>>2946948

Miata listens in silence as you report back to her on the changeling situation. Occasionally she nods or toys with her spectacles, but otherwise she says nothing until you're finished. Even then, her silence draws out for a while longer. “Excellent work,” she says eventually, “So far, this has been the only report we've come across. With that taken care of, I'll be able to sleep soundly at night. You did very well.”

“Not well enough,” you point out, “A woman died, you know.”

“A single casualty is, all things considered, an acceptable outcome,” Miata replies with a shrug, “I had been prepared for far worse. Is that everything?”

Realising the futility of anything you could say, you silence a protest and rise to your feet. With your lips forming a tight line, you turn and march out of her office. Sandoval is standing outside, but you nearly walk right past without noticing her. It's only when she calls out a soft greeting that you pause and look back around. “Let's walk and talk,” she murmurs, gesturing for you to follow her. Without quite knowing why, you fall in beside her as she leads you out of Hess' office.

“I always loved this city,” she remarks, “I visited it once when I was a child, and I still dream about it. When I saw it after the war, it nearly broke my heart.”

“You were here after the war?” you repeat numbly, feeling foolish, “I'm surprised the Iraklins let a Carth in.”

“Well. It was political. A minor incident that needed smoothing over, and I was deemed the best person for the job. That's how I first met with the consul, although that's a whole other story,” Sandoval continues, sighing softly to herself. You nod, not quite sure where she's going with this. Maybe it's because of this recent changeling business, but you find yourself noticing her scent – a warm cinnamon scent, subtle and delicate. “I envy men like you and Captain DuPont. The freedom you have, I mean,” she adds, “My world can be a terribly grubby place at time. Would that I could just fly away to anywhere I wanted.”

Something about the weariness in her voice brings a question to your lips, one that you speak aloud before you've thought it through. “What was the Pierrot Project?” you ask casually, your words causing Sandoval to stop mid-stride. Her eyes widen with surprise before a soft, awkward smile tugs at one corner of her mouth.

“I'm really not supposed to talk about that,” she laments, “I'm not even supposed to admit that there was such a thing. So... I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm not convinced,” you laugh, causing Sandoval to shrug.

“Look, why bother digging up the past like that?” the former provost replies, “What do you stand to gain by it, now of all times? Just drop it, Vaandemere, and we'll both be happier for it.”

>Fine. Forget I said anything
>I can't just drop it. I want to know
>Other

>>2947092
>I ran into the guy, and now I'm curious. He made a lot of people miserable on his way out.

>>2947092
>I can't just drop it. I want to know
"I ended up having to fight one of the subjects."

>>2947092
>I would really like to know.
Then maybe drop some info that seems misinformed about the abrahad machine and soulsucking and the pierrots abuse of women.

“I can't just drop it,” you tell Sandoval, “I need to know about this. I ended up having to fight a man who claimed that Project Pierrot created him, and he... he left quite an impression on me. Not a good impression, either.” Sandoval's eyes close tightly as you speak, and a new realisation dawns. “You know exactly who I'm talking about, don't you?” you guess, “I'm guessing that he left his mark on you as well.”

“And here I was, thinking that we were getting along so well...” she sighs, “Yes, Vaandemere, we very likely are talking about the same man. If I tell you that, at least, will you leave it at that?”

Sadly shaking your head, you gesture towards a small shop – a Carth style teahouse. You'd really rather talk about this over a few dozen drinks, but that would hardly be the way to win Sandoval over. Allowing you to take the lead, she follows you inside and sits down at a quiet corner table. Once two cups of hot herbal tea are sitting in front of you, you press the attack. “He made a lot of people miserable before he died, you know,” you venture, “A lot of women. Churchwomen especially.”

Sandoval picks up her teacup and, just for a moment, you wonder if she is about to throw the liquid – steaming hot, by the looks of it – right into your face. Then, with a sigh, she takes a sip and places it down again. “If he's dead, then you've cleaned up one of our messes. One of our RARE messes,” she stresses, “We won't ever be able to recognise that officially, but I suppose I can give you a little... context. I don't see why that would help at all, but that's your business. Where to start, though?”

“The beginning?” you suggest, risking a sip of your own tea. It tastes like the scrapings from the bottom of a pond... not that you'd know what THAT tastes like.

“Fine. In the beginning, the Lord of Rising Light...” Sandoval starts, her voice trailing off when you fail to laugh. “I was part of a team, a research group. A theological society with the goal of picking apart the ideas of sin and virtue. It was headed up by a bishop named Worthington. It was about a dozen people in total. Are you bored yet?” she asks, pausing a moment before continuing, “Don't ask me about names – I have no desire to see my old colleagues dragged into this same mess.”

“Bishop Worthington was Rhea's mentor, wasn't he?” he ask, dredging the fact out of the depths of your mind, “Was Rhea part of this?”

Sandoval hesitates again before nodding very slightly.

[1/2]

>>2947176
I knew Worthington sounded familiar.

>>2947176

“Okay, look, I need to get back to work. I don't have time to give you every last detail – you'll have to be happy with the brief version. Common church doctrine says that Azimuth men are inherently clean – it's only later in life that they dirty themselves with impure acts or substances. Bishop Worthington didn't agree with that. He believed that men were born with their souls already stained, and it was up to them to purify themselves later,” Sandoval murmurs to you, leaning forwards and lowering her voice, “At first, Project Pierrot was intended to delve deeper into the matter. Over time, it lost focus.”

“When you started experimenting with Abrahad mechanisms,” you guess, “You didn't know what you were doing, did you?”

“That-” she begins angrily, biting her tongue before continuing in a calmer tone, “That's not fair. We were dealing with utterly alien equipment, doing work that nobody had ever done before, and...” Trailing off again, Sandoval gives you a glum frown. For a while more, she sips her tea and thinks. “Bishop Worthington believed that virtue and vice could be treated like objective qualities – measured, studied and eventually manipulated. To that end, we worked on three patients. Volunteers,” she stresses, “Two of them died. We never did work out how. The survivor... well, you met him, didn't you?”

“Every little bit of virtue had been purged out of his system,” you recall, “You created a creature of pure vice.”

“And when we saw what we did, we stopped everything. We shut it all down, even if maybe – just maybe – we could have reached our goal eventually,” Sandoval insists, “Bishop Worthington said that it wasn't worth the risk, that we were tampering in forces that we were not yet ready for. The project was disbanded, and we all went our separate ways. Rhea ended up in Cloudtop Prison, Bishop Worthington is retired now, I think, although he still writes and teaches. You know what I do, of course.”

“Only vaguely,” you agree, “But yes.”

“So there you have it. It was a damn waste of time, and it caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people. I wish I hadn't been a part of it,” the former provost concludes, “Knowing this, do you feel better now?”

Considering this, you shrug. “It's not a matter of feeling better or worse,” you answer, “I just like knowing these things. Loose ends have a way of irritating me.”

“Oh sure, I understand,” Sandoval remarks with a bitter smile, “It must be very unpleasant, having something that keeps nagging at you. Are we finished here, then?”

She clearly wants to be finished. You're not so sure, though.

>I think we are. Thank you, Sandoval
>Not yet. There was something else... (Write in)
>Other

>I apologise for the delay. My internet is being super unreliable today

>>2947297
>What made Worthington believe that even Azimuth men were already stained from birth?

Cause technically he is right if Dogma merely lifted Azimuth without creating new people. Everyone shares the same roots of the previous iterations. I'm just curious on how he figured that out or at least suspected something like that.

>>2947297
>I think we are. Thank you, Sandoval
What else do we even need to know?

>>2947297
Would you do if you could? Turn everyone into beings of pure virtue?

>>2947297
>Thank you very much, Sandoval.
Sometimes the price of virtue is too high huh?

>>2947297
>>I think we are. Thank you, Sandoval

“Where did Worthington get his ideas from?” you ask slowly, gesturing vaguely about you, “I mean, the idea that even Azimuth men were stained from birth. Like you said, it goes against church doctrine. Did he ever talk about his ideas?”

“I couldn't say if there was one single incident that planted the seed in his mind, but... we did discuss it once. According to him, he had seen people with excellent breeding falling into depravity and sin. He couldn't understand why these people – who, by rights, should have been pure and clean – were driven to commit such acts. They chose to do terrible things, yes, but where did those urges come from?” Sandoval explains, “Bishop Worthington saw those urges as proof of an inherent vice.”

Free will, you think to yourself, the gift that the Master of Impurity gave mankind... or so he claimed. “Would you do it, if you could?” you wonder aloud, “Would you turn people into beings of pure virtue?”

Sandoval pauses, as if the idea had never occurred to her before. “I don't much see the point,” she decides, “If there's no choice in the matter, what would be the point? Besides, I can imagine that not everyone would want to become something like that – a world of pure virtue isn't worth a damn thing if you need to spill an ocean of blood to build it.”

Nodding slowly, you consider this answer. More balanced than you had been expecting, perhaps. As you consider this, Sandoval drinks the last of her tea and rises to her feet. “One last word of advice,” she tells you, her fingers brushing against the axe head pin on her collar, “Don't try and dig any deeper into this. I'm sure that I don't need to tell you about this, but there are people out there who work to keep these things secret. I've already said too much on the matter.”

“I'll watch my tongue,” you promise her, “Thanks for the tip.”

Scoffing lightly to herself, Sandoval turns away and marches out of the teahouse, leaving you with nothing but the lingering scent of cinnamon.

>Okay, I'm going to have to close things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, hopefully with a more stable session
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>2947392
Thanks for running!

I don't really blame them for trying to experiment with these things, but... damn.

>>2947392
Thanks for running!

Now that we know two big church secrets, will alexander and sandoval have a hilarious misunderstanding that makes each think we leaked their info? Will we have fun times where they try to kill us while we talk them down and laugh about it over tea later?

>>2947496
Well, a misunderstanding is very possible - Alexander isn't really one for laughing about it, though. He's pretty okay with the killing, mind you!
>>2947455
I think the morale of the whole quest is "don't mess with ancient technology you barely understand."

>>2947555
yes, much safer to stick with demons.
Do the lodestones contain any memories of the changeling it formed? could this lodestone create the same changeling?

>>2947729
That's a pretty interesting idea. The lodestone can be used to create a new changeling, but it won't be a perfect duplicate of the original. It would possess the same knowledge, but in more of a "second hand" way. It might lack context, say, or a deeper understanding of what the original knew. Additionally, it would take about a week to grow the new changeling.

There may be a quicker way of learning what it once knew, however, but that might have its own share of complications

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

155 KB JPG

Your plan, such as it was, was to get everyone together and share what you've recently learned, everything about the nature of a true monarch and the Master of Impurity's scheme to chip away at Dogma's reign. That was the plan, but things just aren't working out the way you had hoped. While you were enjoying a nice spot of tea with Sandoval, damn near your entire crew has scattered off to enjoy their last moments before the attack on Eishin's camp.

Everyone, that is, save for Grace. You found her on the bridge, happily reading a book. Not one of her usual tomes, all proper and scholarly, but something pilfered from Freddy's quarters. You just hope it's not too adult for her. Some of those books looked a little...

“Captain, hello. Sit down, you look tired,” the girl urges, reaching across and patting one of the empty chairs. “It's strange, isn't it? Not seeing Dwight on the bridge, I mean,” she adds, “He went into town to do some shopping with Blessings. I really can't imagine what the pair of them are talking about!” Laughing delicately, she marks her place with a scrap of paper and sets the book aside. “So,” she asks, a teasing edge to her smile, “Are you feeling better now? I hear you had quite the party.”

“Not quite a party,” you correct her, “I was communing with the gods, and accepting the sacred wisdom they had to offer me.” It's a matter of seconds before your attempt at keeping a straight face fails, and you snort derisive laughter. “Not really,” you admit, “But something did happen. You might not believe this, but...”

Slowly at first, but with increasing confidence, you lay out everything that you learned from your glimpse into the past. Grace listens carefully, her face solemn and serious.

By the time you're finished speaking, she's convinced.

-

“Quite the conundrum we find ourselves in,” Grace muses, “Allow me to take a guess. You're looking to speak with us all, to see what we think about this and, dare I say, to find out where our loyalties lie?”

“I wouldn't quite put it like that, but...” you grumble, “Okay, say you're in my position. Dogma and Impurity both have their own schemes, and the battle lines are being drawn. Walking away, though... after everything we've been through, I don't think I could stomach that. So what would you do?”

“That, I suppose, would depend on exactly what these schemes are. I think I'd like to hear both sides out,” Grace thinks aloud to herself, “If the Master of Dogma truly wished to rob men of their free will, then I couldn't accept that. I would oppose that with any means at my disposal.”

“Even if it meant making a deal with the devil?” you reply, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Any means at my disposal,” Grace repeats, her voice firm.

[1/2]

>>2949438

“I should explain, I suppose, although I'm not entirely sure if I can suitably describe it,” the young scholar continues, “You see, I've come to realise that until recently, I never really had much free will at all – I merely did what I was told, whether it was my father or my teachers at the academy giving the orders. I never really thought about what I wanted to do. Now that I'm starting to enjoy my freedom, I couldn't bear to have it taken away from me.”

“Understandable,” you concede. In truth, you had expected her to be a little more... neutral. Ever since she first dabbled in witchcraft, suffering backlash in the process, it's been a little hard for you to guess what Grace might be thinking. It changed her, that little incident.

“But as I say, I'd like to hear both sides of the story first,” Grace adds with an indifferent wave of her hand, “It would be a mistake, I think, to act without all of the facts. Speaking of knowing the facts, I presume you're looking for the others? I believe Miss Lhaus and Keziah went to visit the Guild, although I'm not entirely sure why – an issue with the Eliza, I think? I did see Caliban earlier, and he mentioned something about going back to the bar. I'm not sure which bar he meant, though.”

The festhall, perhaps. You hope not – he made quite a scene there, and you don't want him getting in any more trouble. Considering that there was a dead body tucked away in one of the rooms when you were last there, “trouble” might be more severe than just a brawl. Nodding grimly, you gesture for Grace to continue.

“I think he had Mister Hotchkiss with him as well,” she recalls, “You know what those two are like. Boys will be boys...”

“What about Masque?” you ask, a vague idea forming in your head. What, you wonder, might a daemon say about the coming strife?

“Oh,” Grace frowns a little at the mention of the daemon, “He's... about. I never quite know where he likes to stay. I dare say that if you go looking for him, he'll find you before you find him. It's a little creepy, actually.”

If that's the worst thing she can say about Masque, then she's lucky. So that's the current situation – where first?

>Head to the Guild to look for Keziah and Freddy
>Return to the festhall to find Caliban and Gunny
>Go looking for Masque
>Talk with Grace for a while more... (Write in)
>Other

>>2949440
Eh they don't really need chaperones and I wouldn't want to interrupt girl talk.

>Talk with Grace for a while more... (Write in)
"Hey what did you think about Arah and the wyrm connection? I saved her in my little dreamworld but I don't know if she was that lucky in reality."

"Do you think the whole Abrahad relics we've been finding are from a society in the second iteration? Dogma's attempt at having worshipers before the Church of the Rising Light?

Then maybe
>Go looking for Masque
I wonder if he was around long enough for an iteration.

>>2949440
>Return to the festhall to find Caliban and Gunny

Been a while since we talked with Gunny, and he's always been the most doubtful.

>>2949440
>>Go looking for Masque
lets see if he know more

>>2949440
>Get some training in, ya doof
We just managed a looksee into channeling the sword better, and we definitely need to get gudder at shooting.

>Talk to Grace about wyrms and blood modification. Would she want to purposely mess with her own blood? Whether to remove or emphasize her impurities?

>>2949440
>Who was the first saint? It was Alma right?

Leaning back in your chair, you give Grace a shrug. “So what do you think about Arah, and her connection to the wyrms?” you ask, “I was able to save her in that vision, but I have no idea if she was as lucky in reality. Do you think she managed to escape?”

“I do have a theory about that, although I really can't be certain,” Grace admits with a bashful smile, “I believe that she did manage to escape, to go on to the mountain and become... something else. It's as much gut instinct as anything else, but if she wasn't able to escape in reality, I don't think she could have escaped in your vision. I simply have my doubts about how much you can change in these visions. So, yes, I believe she managed to travel to the Mountain of Faith. Whether or not she became a wyrm there... I really couldn't say.”

“And these Abrahad artefacts we've been finding,” you continue, accepting her answer with a nod and moving on, “Do you think they originate from some second iteration society? Dogma's first attempts at getting worshippers, before the church?”

“Yes, I think so,” she replies after thinking on the matter, “It seems to me that in this first iteration, the Master of Dogma remained distant. With each successive iteration, he has sought to take matters more and more into his own hands. At least, that's the impression I get.”

Perhaps that's his weakness – the more the Master of Dogma involves himself with the world, the more vulnerable he becomes. After all, how can you fight an enemy that you have no way of reaching? “Speaking about this Arah business, this business of manipulating blood,” you wonder, “Would you ever consider attempting it yourself? Altering your own blood, either to emphasise or remove your...” Leaving this sentence unfinished, you gesture down at her gloved hands.

“It sounds terribly dangerous,” Grace says with a delicate laugh, “But honestly? I'd be curious enough to try it. Part of being a scholar is experimenting with these sorts of thing, and I wouldn't wish to ignore such a fascinating area of study.” Her eyes widen as an idea occurs to her, and she laughs again. “But captain, please don't get me wrong,” she assures you, “I'm not about to do anything silly!”

That's a relief. “Well, I think I'm going to head out to the bar and look for those two troublemakers,” you decide, “If I spot Masque along the way, then I'll have a word with him as well. I'm curious about a few things.” Before you leave, though, an idea occurs to you. “Oh right, I wondered something,” you ask, “Who was the first saint? Was it Alma?”

“Hm, I'm not quite sure. She was among the first, certainly,” Grace replies slowly, “Although there were a few earlier figures that the church adopted, folk heroes who were reinvented as saints. Honestly captain, you ought to ask Blessings – he might know more about this.”

[1/2]

>>2949497

Leaving the bridge, you keep Grace's words in mind and wander a vague circuit of the ship, keeping an eye out for any sign of Masque. Stopping by the engine room, you see Stafford bathed in the blue glow of the Pleonite core. Keziah was right – the engines get a lot warmer now that the condenser is in place. That's why, when a chill runs down your spine, you know that something is wrong. Quickly turning around, you find Masque standing almost directly behind you.

“That's incredibly impolite,” you scold, trying not to show just how badly he startled you, “But I'm glad I found you. Wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Whatever it was,” Masque rumbles, “I did not do it.”

That just makes you more worried. “I wanted to ask you about your memories. Your old memories,” you stress, easing past him as you leave the sweltering engine room, “Daemons have good memories, don't they? Good enough to remember back to the previous iteration of the world? Things would have been pretty different back then, I reckon, not like this world at all...”

“My memory is excellent. Flawless,” the daemon remarks, “Except when it is not.”

“Okay...” you reply slowly, trying to puzzle out his vague answer, “The same could be said for most people. Mind explaining that a little better?”

“I have been made to forget,” he explains, a faint note of anger surfacing in his voice as if he resented the question, “When, I suspect, this world was remade. All of my ilk were made to forget the past age, that we might not speak of it to men. Irritating – I had thought my memories were all unsealed, and now I find that there is yet more that I do not know. Though, perhaps the seal is not complete, as I can recall... fragments. A memory of freedom that I do not feel in this age. Little else, it seems. Better that I remembered nothing at all.”

An unexpected pang of pity jabs at you, then. It reminds you of how you first felt when you lost the Manticore – that feeling of losing your freedom, your independence, your entire life... Forcing those thoughts aside, you quickly change the subject. “In the days to come, I may be forced to take a side,” you venture, “To stand with Dogma or Impurity... or to oppose both of them. What would you do, if you were in my position?”

“Nothing,” Masque tells you bluntly, “Stand aside and allow them to fight amongst themselves. Men ought not to meddle in the affairs of the gods. It would not be proper.”

Not even a hint of doubt in his voice, then. Apparently deeming the conversation over, Masque turns and begins to stalk off.

>Let Masque leave, and head off to the festhall
>You're not finished with him yet... (Write in)
>Other

>>2949527
>You're not finished with him yet... (Write in)
"If I found a way to break the seal regarding the other iterations, would you want me to?"

No promises but we are dabbling in stuff regarding these iterations and Dogma a lot now.

>Let Masque leave, and head off to the festhall

>>2949527
>You're not finished with him yet... (Write in)

>"You don't think we should meddle in the affairs of gods? Even when the gods are meddling in the affairs of men? I don't think I have a choice, this whole mission I'm on has turned out to be Impurities plan to break Dogma."

>>2949527
>>Let Masque leave, and head off to the festhall

>>2949527
>Let Masque leave, and head off to the festhall

>>2949497
> Blood experiments

Doesn't that sound very similar to the Pierrot project? "Purifying" one aspect? Same with the Alma saints, etc.

Definitely leaning towards taking both Dogma and Devil down, maybe becoming a third neutral balancing party. After all, instead of taking them down maybe it's better to force them to compromise and grow.

>>2949543
>>2949527
This. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

>>2949527
Also

> Describe our dream to Masque. Maybe it'll knock loose some memories.

“Hey!” you call after the daemon, “You really think that? That men shouldn't meddle in the affairs of the gods?” Masque pauses, turning around and giving you an unreadable look. “Not even when the gods seem intent on meddling in the affairs of man?” you continue, “It's starting to seem like I don't have much of a choice. Impurity's plan is to break Dogma, and this whole mission has been a part of that. We're already meddling in their affairs!”

It's impossible to know if Masque is truly considering this or not, but he remains silent for a while. “That may indeed be the case, that the gods have their larger game,” he concedes, “But I can predict only chaos from men raising arms against them. Your intentions may be good, Milos Vaandemere, but your actions may lead to greater loss. Consider that in the days ahead.”

Accepting this with a solemn nod, you start to make your own exit. “If there was a way to break this seal on your oldest memories,” you ask over your shoulder, “Would you want them back?”

“Of course,” Masque answers, “I would not hesitate. Do you think such a thing can be done?”

“Who knows?” you remark with a shrug, “I'm pretty much just making this up as I go along. I can tell you this, though – you're right to remember freedom. There was a time when daemons could freely roam the world. I had this dream, you see...”

You go on to outline the vision you had, in the hopes that it might stir something else up from within Masque's memories. Perhaps it does, as he nods slowly to himself. “Sanquir of the Pit sought to raise an army of walking corpses,” the daemon murmurs, “And so Grundvald of the Tower made a pact with corpse-eaters...”

Shaking his head sadly, he turns and strides away from you.

-

“Hey!” a voice hisses from behind you, causing you to jolt around. Hidden away in the shadowed alleyway opposite the festhall, Caliban beckons you closer with a secretive gesture. Stifling a laugh at the sheer theatricality of it, you join him in the gloomy passage. “Figured it was best that I didn't show my ugly face in there,” the hunter mutters to you, nodding over towards the festhall, “But I wanted some answers. Asked Gunny to do me a favour – they don't know him in there, after all.”

“I certainly hope not,” you chuckle, “So he's in there now?”

“Sure... for quite some time, too,” Caliban replies with a smirk, “Either he's being very thorough with his questions, or he's found some other way to kill time. I wonder what the church would say about all of this...”

This time, your laugh is tinged with uneasiness.

[1/2]

>>2949598

As you wait for Gunny to finish his... investigation, you tell Caliban the same story you've been telling everyone else. You tell him about your vision, your ideas about the future, about Impurity and Dogma. Caliban's answer, when he gives it, is blunt.

“Kill them all,” he decides with a cruel laugh, “Simplest answer I can think of.” As a startled silence descends, Caliban lights up a cigarette and takes a casual drag on it. “Look, I'm not what you'd call the religious type. I don't pay much attention to the gods, but I know one thing. These guys, Impurity and Dogma, they're playing with us and I don't appreciate that,” he continues, elaborating on his philosophy, “If they just stayed quiet like the other gods, we wouldn't have this problem, would we?”

“That's true,” you admit. The other four gods – the soil and the flames, the waves and the wind – have never shown any sign of intervening, or even any indication that they CAN intervene, in mortal affairs. Before you can continue this discussion, Gunny emerges from the festhall and hurries over to join you.

“Hell, I feel dirty just looking at that place,” he grumbles, brightening up a little as he spots you, “Milos, brother, I wasn't expecting to find you here! Do you know what this is all about? Cal here asked me to take a look about, find out what was going on in there.” He shudders a little as he glances back over at the festhall. “Ugly business, I hear. Sounds like a girl got herself killed, the poor thing,” he mutters, “Can't figure out why someone would want to do a thing like that...”

“They got an idea who did it?” Caliban asks casually, “Any suspects in mind?”

“Not a thing,” Gunny mutters, shaking his head sadly, “Seemed to me like they cared more about protecting their reputation than figuring out what happened. Took a while before I was able to pry anything out of them. Figured out they were hiding something straight away, but they weren't keen to talk. That's why I was in there so long, you see?”

“No other reason?” the hunter teases, although his twisted mouth gives the remark a far nastier tone.

“Very funny,” Gunny growls, “That all you wanted me to do? Don't see any reason why you couldn't have done it yourself. You ain't gonna tell me you're shy about going in a place like that, are you?”

“That's exactly it,” Caliban lies, “I was too embarrassed to tell you, but now that you've figured it out, I guess I don't have a choice. Don't laugh at me, please. That goes for you too, captain!” He finishes this jest with a sly look that leaves you incredulous. Of all the things to lie about...

>Play along with the ruse
>Explain what's really going on
>Other

>>2949673
>Play along with the ruse
"Sure Cal. We heading back to the ship?"

>>2949673
>Explain what's really going on.

>>2949673
>>Explain what's really going on

>>2949673
>Play along with the ruse

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>Looks like we've hit a tie, so I'll roll off for it. 1 for playing along, 2 for telling the truth
>Sorry for the delay!

>>2949673
>>Explain what's really going on

>Seeing as how we got a tiebreaking vote like 10 seconds later, I'm just going to ditch that roll. Never did like rolling to break a tie, anyway. Sorry for messing everyone about like this, and sorry for the delay.

“Come on, Caliban,” you sigh, “Since Gunny helped you... us... with this, don't you think that he deserves the truth?” Looking around to Gunny, you grimace as you find the right words for this. “There was a changeling,” you begin, “It came here stowed away on some trading ship. We tracked it down to this festhall, but... things got out of hand. It slipped away upstairs while we were distracted. The girl-”

“It killed her,” Caliban finishes for you, “Killed her, took her form, and led us on a merry dance before we were able to kill it. We were in the bar earlier, so I wanted to make sure that they didn't, you know, suspect us of anything. We made quite a bit of a scene.” Shrugging, he flips his cigarette away into the gutter. “It was a mess. Nothing to be particularly proud of, that's why I didn't want to tell you about it,” he concludes, “But now we're all on the same page. Good for us, huh?”

“What? No!” Gunny protests, his jaw hanging slack, “No, it ain't good! That girl died because of us!” Closing his eyes tightly shut for a moment, he forces himself to meet your gaze. “Milos, brother, you know what I'm talking about, don't you? This crap just follows us about, but it's always someone else that gets caught in the crossfire,” he continues, forcing the words out through clenched teeth, “Starting to feel like we're cursed, you know?”

“Weren't you listening? We cleaned up after ourselves!” Caliban snarls, throwing his hands up in disgust before skulking off. Silence descends, and then Gunny slumps back against the alley wall.

“Shit, brother, I never meant...” he mutters, running a hand through his thinning hair, “I guess this why Cal wanted to lie. Wish I'd never asked now.” Straightening up, he draws in a deep breath and peers around the alley corner, looking for Caliban's retreating back. “Guess I should catch up with him later, apologise for snapping at him. Don't even know why I said what I did, just been feeling tense lately. Feels like we're on the verge of something big, you know?” he continues, giving you a more careful look, “Seems like you feel it too. Got that look in your eye, brother.”

“You've got no idea...” you sigh. Of all your crew, Gunny was the one who you were most concerned about. What you've got to say isn't going to go down well with the churchman. That, you're certain about - it's more a question of just how badly he's going to take it.

[1/2]

>>2949885

When you're finished with your story, Gunny stares at you with pure confusion. “Now hold on, brother,” he replies slowly, “This Kegare thing you spoke with, it told you all this and that about... about everything?”

“That's one way of putting it,” you agree, “A little vague, but sure.”

“And...” he continues, “You believed it?”

Pausing a moment, you word your answer carefully. “Some of what they told me fits in with what I already know, so I'm inclined to believe that some of what it has to say is sincere,” you explain, “But I'm not just accepting everything it had to say. I know that it has an ulterior motive, that it's just using us to get what it wants, but I don't see any other way of moving forwards. What other choice do we have, save for turning our backs on all of this and walking away?”

“Maybe that wouldn't be so bad,” Gunny mutters, “But look, brother, you gotta promise me something – promise me that you'll find some way of hearing out the other side of this whole mess. The Master of Dogma, or whatever you want to call it, we've gotta be able to talk with it somehow. You were able to speak with that monster, so...”

Spreading your hands wide, you give him an earnest look. “I'm open to the idea,” you assure him, “But I don't know where to start. It's not like I meant to get in contact with Impurity. It just... happened. I don't think the Master of Dogma is going to come to be in a drunken stupor, do you?”

Gunny thinks on this for a moment, and then his eyes narrow as he grimaces. “Cloudtop Prison,” he offers at last, “That place is closer to the Light than anywhere else I can think of. Speak with Bishop Rhea, ask her if you can meditate there. If the Master of Dogma is ever going to come to you, he'll come to you there. Just try it, won't you? And if it doesn't work, we can... hell, I don't know. We can think of something else.”

“I don't know...” you groan, thinking of the time slipping away from you, “The attack...”

“After the attack, then!” Gunny insists, “Look, brother, I know better than anyone else how awful that place can be, but we need to give it a shot. You get me, don't you?”

It's a better idea than any you've had, but... knowing what you are, would the Master of Dogma really deign to speak with you? Would you even survive the encounter?

>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over
>I don't think I can promise that, Gunny. I'm sorry
>Other

>>2949924
>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over

It's worth a shot.

>>2949924
>>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over

>>2949924
>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over

>>2949924
>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over

>>2949924
>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over
Absolutely. For you, brother.

>>2949924

>I promise you, I'll give it a try once the battle is over

I always did want to get his side of things

Whatever dangers there might be, they're worth it. Perhaps not for whatever you might hear from Dogma, but for Gunny's sake. Whatever else happens, you want him to know that you did everything you could.

“I'll promise you that, brother,” you assure him, emphasising your words with a friendly slap on the shoulder, “I'll give it a try once the battle is over and done with. We'll fly up to Cloudtop, and I won't leave until Rhea has let me in. How does that sound?”

“Might be a little excessive,” Gunny chuckles, “But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

“You know it,” you agree with a laugh, “You'll be coming in with me, right?”

“What?” he splutters, his laughter devolving into a coughing fit, “Hell no!”

-

You arrive back at the Spirit of Helena at the same time as Blessings and Dwight, the pilot burdened by a heavy grocery basket. Your eye is immediately drawn to the bottle of wine sticking up out of it, but there are plenty of other ingredients there as well. “Cooking up something special for tonight?” you ask them, raising a curious eyebrow as you realise how little food is there, “I hope you bought enough for everyone.”

“Ah, hah, that's not...” Blessings replies, “It's just a single meal. I'm showing Dwight how to make up a nice meal. You see, he-”

“I wanted to cook up a nice dinner for my woman, just once before...” Dwight begins, his words trailing off as his expression clouds. The awkward silence persists, only broken when Blessings clears his throat. “Well, just before,” he finishes weakly, “Always something I've been wanting to try, but I never did get around to it. I figure that I should fix that, and sooner rather than later. We're cooking... what was it again?”

“Beef and mushrooms cooked in red wine,” the boy recites, “It's simple enough, but very tasty! It's a shame though, I don't make it very often because...”

“Because I had to buy the wine,” Dwight chuckles, tussling Blessings' hair as the boy grumbles under his breath.

>I think I'm just going to close things here for today, I feel pretty worn out. I'll continue this next Friday, and I should have an interlude prepared for mid-week.
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>2950074
thanks for running!

>>2950074
Thanks for running!

Did Dwight just get death flagged?
Does Maeve know how to fleshcraft? Does Lamia?
Who's better at sneaking up on us, Caliban or Masque?

>>2950074
Thanks for running!

Dwight is best boy, but he should really stop talking about the "woman back home" if he wants to survive.

>>2950115
but dwight isn't even going on the ground, the only way he will die is if the helena blows up.
and that would never happen of course!

>>2950074
Thanks for running!
Will we cook something for Keziah too?

>>2950125
Haha, of course!

>>2950109
The art of fleshcrafting has been lost in the modern age, but that might not always be so. After all, a lot was taken from mankind when Dogma reshaped the world!
I'd say Masque probably has the edge on us in sneaking terms, if only because he doesn't need to breathe
>>2950115
>>2950125
Oh, don't worry about Dwight, he's just a bit gloomy at times. Certainly nothing to worry about here!
>>2950152
You know, that's not such a bad idea. Things can't go too badly wrong, can they?

>>2950212
>Things can't go too badly wrong, can they?

>>2950212
Witching around seems to be her life, we should have Kez relay the info to her with a daemon and see if she can't rediscover it.

File: Elias Caldwell.jpg (114 KB, 800x1098)

114 KB JPG

The wheel of fortune turned quickly indeed.

After emerging from that last, harrowing night in the cage, Caldwell found his place in Eishin's camp to have changed, almost reversed entirely. No longer was he a prisoner, to be tormented and toyed with. Now, he was... one of them. Accepted into their company without a second thought. At first he had suspected a trick, but as the days crawled by – days that he spent learning from them and studying their ways – he gradually came to believe it. Even so, Caldwell never fully let his guard down.

And all the while, he nurtured a cold nugget of hate within himself. This wasn't a mission or a duty to his nation any more – he would see Eishin dead, one way or another, for his own sake. Having such a personal stake in a death... it was almost refreshing, and Caldwell had Hackett to thank. It wasn't a desire to avenge the uncouth tracker, as such, but an urge to make his death mean something. Right from the very start, Hackett had been callously marked out as a disposable asset, a meagre piece in some larger game. It was unfair, and there were nights when that unfairness gnawed at Caldwell.

Part of it, he supposed, was a resentment towards his own masters. It was a long time before he was able to put into words, but Caldwell had discovered a new hatred for those distant men – men who could happily move their pieces around without ever risking themselves. One day, perhaps, he would discuss this with Segharl over their usual midnight drink. Aside from Gorgon, the horned giant was one of the few people who Caldwell spoke with these days.

Well, there was that other visitor – a man that Caldwell had quickly identified as a wild card, an unexpected variable in whatever game was being played. A Free Captain by the look of him, and a strange one at that. Haunted, with an edge of madness in his tense eyes, the man had seemed – at least, in Caldwell's estimation – to be a few bad days away from disaster. Perhaps worse, he himself seemed unaware of it. Men truly could believe whatever they wished to believe.

But Caldwell was guilty of that sin as well, wasn't he?

-

Segharl entered as he always did, knocking briefly before taking care not to hit his head on the low doorway. One day, Caldwell secretly hoped that the giant would forget, although he knew that it would only be Segharl's pride that would be injured. Even so, it would be an event worth remembering.

Of all the things that had happened to him since accepting Administrator Gehrard's mission, becoming friends with the giant warrior was perhaps the thing that Caldwell had expected the least. The wheel of fortune turned quickly, and often in strange ways.

[1/3]

>>2956185

“Are you alone?” Segharl asked, skipping past even the usual greetings and pleasantries. The question caused the hairs on the back of Caldwell's neck to stand on end.

“No,” he replied calmly, “Gorgon is asleep in the other room. Don't wake her.”

Segharl grunted his agreement. “It matters not. We shall not be here for long,” he rumbled, “King Eishin has summoned you. He would speak with you regarding a matter of some delicacy. I urge you to be fully honest with him – know that you will suffer if you are found to be lying... and you WILL be found.” Even throughout the threat, the giant's voice never changed – it was always calm and respectful. Genial, almost.

“Then, I see no sense in delaying,” Caldwell decided, rising from his seat and pulling down a simple hide cloak. It was hard for him to close the clasp with just one arm, so Segharl did it for him – hands that were broad to the point of disfigurement moving with uncanny nimbleness. Arranging the cloak so that it covered the stump of his arm, Caldwell followed his captor out. An audience with the king, was it?

Well then.

-

Eishin made his lair within the ruined tower that looked out over the area, the same tower that Faulkner's skiff sometimes landed at. There was no sign of the rogue officer here tonight, something that Caldwell was glad for. Instead, there was only King Eishin, sitting by a crackling fire as he toyed with the golden crown in his lap. Segharl, ever the faithful attendant, lingered in the background.

“It occurs to me that you may bear ill-will towards me,” Eishin announces suddenly, “Murderous intent, even. Understandable – I have maimed you, murdered your colleague and now I keep you as my well-treated prisoner. Knowing this, and knowing that a lie may cost you more than your remaining arm, do you wish to kill me?”

It was a test, of course, a very deliberate question meant to provoke a reaction. “I do,” Caldwell admits, “I would happily see you brought low and destroyed. Had I a pistol, I would shoot you in the head here and now, if I thought that it would do any good. You have my answer, now do with me what you will.”

But Eishin just laughed. “That kind of defiance is seen as a virtue here,” he muses, “Had you NOT wished ill of me, I would have thought you a liar. Well, little assassin, by all means continue to draw your plans. Just know that when you chose to strike at me, I will strike back with all the strength I have. Be sure that you do not waste your chance.”

“I won't,” Caldwell promised, “Was that all?”

“No,” the king replied with a slow shake of his head, “Stay, assassin. Still your blade a while, and we can... talk.”

[2/3]

>>2956188


“When I first arrived here, all I could think about was reclaiming what was rightfully mine – the throne of Monotia,” Eishin lectured, striding past Caldwell as he exited the tower. Fixing his eyes on the king's exposed back, Caldwell followed. If only he had a knife to plant in that unprotected back... but even if he did have a dagger, it would surely do no good. “But now, I have no need for that petty throne,” the king continued, holding his head high as he marched out into his camp, “My sights are set on a far greater goal. Too long have my people been led astray by-”

“Eishin!” a reedy voice cried out, piercing at the night air. Both Eishin and Caldwell turned to see a sickeningly tall woman lurching towards them. Her limbs were bound with thorny cords and her clothes were ragged, but she barely seemed to notice. At the sight of the woman, one of his pet witches, Eishin's lips curled up into a contemptuous smile. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace her, but the woman was faster. Her hand lashed out, catching Eishin on the cheek.

In the quiet of the camp, the slap sounded as loud as a gunshot.

“False king!” she shrieked, her shrill voice drawing countless eyes to stare at the unfolding drama, “The winds have spoken, and they say that you will fail! You will fail, and you will fall! Your army will be scattered, this camp will be burned, and you dream will become dust – this, I have-”

Shaking off his surprise with a bestial roar, Eishin seized the witch by the throat and lifted her bodily up off of the ground. “Segharl!” he bellowed, pivoting around and hurling the witch down at the giant's feet. She landed heavily, crying out in pain. “Take her away!” the king snarled, before reconsidering, “Then bring me her hide – it seems that I must set an example. Those who spread their defeatist lies, no matter their status, will be punished!”

Those last words, he howled up into the sky so that everyone in his territory might hear their fearful message. Looking down, Eishin shot Caldwell a vile look. “We shall finish this later,” he hissed, turning and marching back towards his tower. As he retreated, Segharl let out a silent sigh and began to drag the groaning witch away to her unwelcome fate. Still not entirely sure what he had just witnessed, Caldwell lingered for a moment more.

At long last, he had caught a glimpse of the REAL Eishin, and he hadn't been the only one. By morning, word of this little incident would surely spread further still.

Eishin, it seemed, was losing his grip on the situation.

Perfect.

>This concludes today's bonus episode. Regular updates should resume on Friday as normal
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>2956191
Oooooh nooooooooooo
He's getting flustered. Poor Eishin. Hopefully he doesn't get desperate enough to go scorched earth.

>>2956191
Poor witch.

>Haunted, with an edge of madness in his tense eyes

Man, are we that far gone?

>>2956473
It's probably what Gunny has been seeing in us. And this is before Impurity gave us a field trip

>>2956396
I'm beginning to think our assassination job is going to turn into a rescue mission when it comes to the witches

>>2956515
Yeah, I just don't have the heart to simply kill them. They seem to have suffered enough.

>>2956515
Considering that witch told Eishin he was the "false king", I have the feeling they will prostrate themselves upon seeing Milos and try to follow him as he is the "true King".

Well, maybe. This whole king business is giving me a headache.

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

101 KB JPG

You can't remember the last time you saw Blessings so fired up. Maybe never, but then he's never had to deal with two amateur chefs and the threat of imminent disaster before. He bustles about in a constant state of borderline panic, juggling knives and pans as you and Dwight blunder about. Exactly why you agreed to join in with this little experiment is still something that you're not quite sure about. It's a break, you suppose, from the nagging matter of... basically everything else in your life right now.

“Okay, that's good, just keep stirring that so it doesn't burn. Then we'll-” Blessings lectures, yelping as he notices Dwight leaning down over the stove, “Dwight, don't smoke in the kitchen!”

“What? C'mon...” Dwight complains, straightening up and spitting out his cigarette. Had he really been trying to light it on the stove burner?

Groaning, Blessings hurries over to a smaller burner and tests the warmth of a small jug of brandy. Apparently satisfied, he pours a small measure into a cup. “Now watch,” he instructs, sloshing the heated brandy into his pan. It ignites, flaring up with a soft blue flame that all too quickly fades out. “It just finishes off the flavour, you see?” he explains, passing you an empty cup, “Now you... Not so much!”

Too late. With your almost-full cup of brandy in hand, you enthusiastically throw it into your pan.

The explosion nearly reaches the ceiling.

-

“So?” you ask, watching as Keziah forks a piece of the charred, blackened meat into her mouth, “How is it?”

As Keziah chews, her face grows pale and her eyes narrow with effort. You can really appreciate the determination on her face, although it doesn't make you feel much better about your cooking. “Certainly makes you work for it,” she replies eventually, swallowing hard and stifling a cough, “Well, it's just like I always said - if something's easy to do, it isnae worth doing in the first place!”

“I don't think I've ever heard you say that,” you recall, prodding at your own ruined meal as you lament the state of your lunch. A relaxing meal before the more formal evening at the Hess estate, or so you had been hoping, a nice way for you and Keziah to spend some time together. So much for that idea. Just as you're about to say something else, you notice the teasing smile on Keziah's face. It widens, and then she lets out a low giggle as she reaches forwards. Her finger swipes across your forehead, and when she draws it back her fingertip is black with soot.

“Gods, Milos,” she murmurs, still fighting to keep a straight face, “I dinnae even want to guess what you've been gettin' up to. Tryin' to blow up the ship?”

“Hey, that's not fair!” you protest, “When I try to blow something up, I don't mess around - I get the job done.”

[1/3]

>>2960847

“Well, so much for lunch. At least I gave it an honest cremation,” you sigh after a while, pushing your plate away and scowling at the remains. It's hard not to see this as an ill-omen for things to come. Still, you can't let that ruin your whole day. “Forget about the food, I got you a gift,” you continue, reaching into your pocket and pulling out the black lodestone, “You'll have to forgive me, I didn't have time to gift wrap it.”

Delight turns to unease and then to curiosity as Keziah takes the lodestone from you, turning it over in her hands as if the grooves in the stone might tell her a story. “Some folks might go for jewellery or somethin',” she jokes, “You dinnae like to be normal, do you boss?”

“Guilty as charged. Actually, I had an ulterior motive – I wondered if there was some way of learning what that changeling once knew,” you suggest, “You think Maeve knows any tricks?”

“I dinnae ken for sure, but I can send a daemon her way and ask. Might even ask Madame Lamia if that's what it takes. This wee thing was one of Eishin's pets, right?” she guesses, holding up the lodestone, “Might be it knows... knew somethin' about what he's up to. So, aye, I can... we can look into it now, if you want, since...”

Since lunch isn't going anywhere, you think to yourself.

-

Your conversation with Maeve was brief, potentially helpful, and strangely terse. She had promised to look into the idea, but that was it. None of her usual teasing, or anything else. The only hint of normality was at the end, when she urged you to talk to her again – in private. What was it, you found yourself wondering afterwards, that she didn't want Keziah to hear?

Having watched Keziah call up a messenger daemon several times now, you feel fairly sure that you could do it yourself if necessary. Not a bad skill to have.

“You know what I want to do? I kinda want to try ridin' a horse,” Keziah laughs as you walk through the Spirit of Helena, “When I was out at the Guild, I heard about a stables on the outskirts of town and it just made me realise – I've always fancied havin' a go at that.” Smiling coyly, she nudges you with her elbow. “So?” she teases, “Feel like goin' for a ride, boss?”

When was the last time you rode a horse? Not since childhood, certainly. Your father insisted that you learn, despite hating horses himself. His idea of nobility, you suppose.

“And after that,” the witch murmurs, “If we have any time before the big meeting, then maybe we can...”

“Captain!” Freddy interrupts, her voice echoing out through the ship, “Visitors for you!”

“Oh, for the love of...” Keziah curses, throwing her hands up in disgust.

[2/3]

>>2960850

When you arrive at the cargo hold, you find your “visitors” waiting for you – Khusraw, Al-Farabi and Sabin. Khusraw looks relaxed and genial, although his expression has a hint of a challenge about it. He looks more like someone preparing for an athletics competition than a battle, but you can't fault his confidence. Al-Farabi looks as tense as usual, her brow knotted with a firm frown. Sabin seems to swing violently between these two extremes, his attempts at looking casual quickly giving way to nervousness. Although their expressions differ all three of the churchmen are dressed similarly, wearing short white capes draped over one arm.

“Stylish,” you begin, “Is this the hot new look over in Carthul?”

“Very funny,” Al-Farabi grunts, dropping a heavy bag down at your feet, “Our uniforms. Here, we brought extras – there should be more than enough here. If you see white when the battle starts, you'd better hold your fire.”

“Now now, there's no need to be hostile,” Khusraw scolds, “Captain Vaandemere. We were heading out to do a little bit of last minute training. Just making sure that we're working like a well-oiled machine. Feel like joining us?” Al-Farabi looks like she's about to protest this offer, but the tall man silences her with a gesture. “Just a friendly offer,” he adds, “You needn't feel obliged to come along if you had other business to attend to.”

Other business, he says. Well...

>Spend your remaining time with Keziah
>Head out to train with the churchmen
>Excuse yourself and speak with Maeve in private
>Other

>>2960853
>Spend your remaining time with Keziah

Work on the fleshcrafting. She should be able to figure it out from our vague description right?

I guess we can also bone and do the romance.

>>2960862
She wants to ride some horses man. Put work away for a bit.

>Spend your remaining time with Keziah

>>2960863
>>2960853
Forgot to link

>>2960853
>>Spend your remaining time with Keziah

“Don't worry about it, I won't intrude,” you assure Khusraw, glancing aside to Keziah, “I've got some other business right now. Don't train too hard, though – the last thing we need right now is some last minute injury.” Stooping down, you pick up the bag of uniforms and toss it over to Freddy. “Make sure everyone gets one,” you tell her, before giving the churchmen a firm nod, “Thanks again for dropping these off. If I don't get the chance to speak with you again before the fight, good luck.”

“Oh, we don't need luck,” Khusraw boasts, his eyes flicking up towards the cargo bay's ceiling, “We've got friends in high places. I'll take them over a bit of luck any day of the week.”

Knowing what you know, it's hard to give that an honest reply. Instead, you give the tall churchman a slap on the shoulder and bid him farewell. As the white-clad group marches out, you turn to Keziah and smile. “So,” you ask her, “Where was this stable you mentioned?”

-

For someone born and raised in the rustic parts of Nadir, you had expected Keziah to be a little more... confident about horses. Instead, she clings tightly to you as you guide the obedient beast along a well-worn path. Not that you're complaining, mind you – it's nice, feeling the soft weight of her body pressing against yours and the constant pressure of her arms around your waist. The horse itself is a sturdy beast that the stable-hand called “Gregor”. The name of some old Iraklin noble, apparently, with all the horses named similarly. When he told you this little fact, the stable-hand had winked mischievously.

A petty act of rebellion, perhaps, but if you had to choose between mocking nicknames and anarchist bombings, you know which one you'd pick.

“This is... whoa!” Keziah murmurs, hesitating a little as the horse snorts and bucks its head, “This is nice, isn't it? A chance to get out like this, I mean. I can't remember the last time that work felt so... far away. Back in Brightpool, probably. Even then, we were supposed to be working.”

“Technically,” you chuckle, “I think Mara just wanted a beach holiday. Any excuse, and all that.” Your smile falters a little as you remember Mara's other job – a bit of thuggery that you were happy to leave in your past. Shaking off the unwelcome memory, you jab your boot heels into the horse's sides and set it galloping. Keziah squeals and clings tighter to you, and a carefree laugh bubbles out of you. Before now, you had just been reminding yourself of the basics. Now, though?

Now, it's time to have a little fun.

[1/2]

>>2960853
>Spend your remaining time with Keziah

>>2960890

Dust swirls around your horse's hooves as it powers across the dry dirt path, and the pounding pace matches the way your heart hammers in your chest. Although she had started off terrified, Keziah soon relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the speed. Now, when you glance behind you, you see a wide grin fixed on her face. With her wide eyes and the tangle of hair streaming out behind her, she looks more wild than ever. Wild, uninhibited... every bit the free and chaotic creature that Impurity made her to be.

That thought sours your mood, and you pull back on the horse's reins to slow it down. Spotting a small crop of trees ahead, you guide the snorting beast into their shade and dismount. When it comes to helping Keziah down, she practically leaps into your arms. “Hey, looks like we're all alone out here” she murmurs, her voice a breathless whisper as her face nearly brushes against your own, “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, you know,” you tease, “Work. The usual sort of thing.”

Keziah's smile collapses into a pout, and the punches you lightly on the chest. “You ass!” she cries out, her voice causing birds to rustle in the trees above you. Her scowl persists for a moment more, but then it fades as she realises that you weren't entirely joking. “Wait, what's wrong?” she asks slowly, a more cautious note entering her voice, “You know, if you're worried about what we're getting into, you can talk to me about it. I don't know if I can help much, but... sometimes talking helps, you know?”

Sitting down beneath the spreading canopy of a large tree, you glance up at the sky and shield your eyes against the late afternoon sun. “I don't know,” you admit, “It's not the attack I'm worried about, not really, it's what comes after that. I feel like things are only going to get more and more complicated from there.” Shaking your head abruptly, you dismiss the nagging concerns. It's getting harder and harder to keep your head clear these days. It's like the closer you get to your goal, the harder it is to see anything BUT that goal. It's...

Placing one cool hand against your cheek, Keziah turns your face until you're looking into her inhuman eyes. “You ass,” she whispers, “I'm right here, you know. If you keep drifting off like that, you're gonna hurt my feelings. Now c'mon, let's... let's have a race, first one to the top of this tree wins!”

“What?” you blurt out, her unexpected suggestion taking you off guard.

“Caliban told me that you climbed a tree, back when you were scouting out Eishin's camp!” Keziah explains, stretching out as she prepares herself, “So how about you show me what you can do? If I win, you'll have pay a penalty!”

She's really serious about this, isn't she?

>Play to win. You won't let yourself be beaten here!
>Let her win. How bad can this penalty be?
>Refuse to play. This is just undignified!
>Other

>>2960940
>Play to win. You won't let yourself be beaten here!
>If we do win, inquire after the penalty anyways cause we might do it anyways.

>>2960940
>Let her win. How bad can it possibly be?

We climbed one tree, we never claimed to be an expert.

>>2960940
>Let her win. How bad can this penalty be?
but only if we actually try and still lose

>>2960940
>Play to win. You won't let yourself be beaten here!

>>2960940
>Play to win. You won't let yourself be beaten here!
If Keziah wants this race to take our mind off our troubles, not giving our all would displease her.

“Penalty?” you groan, “What penalty? I swear, if you're expecting me to do something ridiculous, then-”

“C'mon, trust me, it'll be fun!” Keziah interrupts, wriggling her fingers as she waits for you to get ready.

“If it's fun,” you argue, “It wouldn't really count as a penalty, would it? If I win, will you tell me what it is, at least?”

“Oh, if you insist!” the witch sighs, dramatically rolling her eyes, “Now are we doing this or not?”

Humming aloud as you pretend to think the idea over, you look up at the tall tree. It's pretty tall, and the bark is especially coarse with plenty of handholds to make use of. You're no expert, but even you can tell that she couldn't pick a better tree to climb. “Oh, I don't know,” you slowly think to yourself, “If I got hurt here, then it could jeopardise the entire attack. I really don't think that this is a risk we should-” You sharply end your rambling thoughts here, cutting it short with a laugh as you launch yourself at the tree.

“Hey!” Keziah protests, scrabbling to catch up with you, “No fair!”

“I'm playing to win!” you call back, lunging upwards in search of the next handhold. Below you, you can hear Keziah huffing and puffing as she struggles to match your pace. It's no contest really, even without your head start – you're taller than her, stronger than her, and you've got a hunger to win. Besides, giving it anything less than your all... it wouldn't be respectful, would it?

It isn't long before victory is in sight, and you hear yourself laugh aloud. With one tremendous burst of energy, you push up through the topmost layer of the canopy and emerge triumphant. The brilliant sun meets you head on, seeming to pierce right into your eyes and blind you for a stunning moment. Suddenly dizzy, suddenly light-headed, you waver in place for a moment and feel your grip loosen. Just as it seems like you're about to lose your grip on the tree, you hear someone calling out your name.

Someone who isn't Keziah.

Craning your head around to look down beneath you, you see a figure garbed entirely in white. Her face is indistinct, hidden behind a misty veil, but you instinctively recognise her as kin – the source of your very own Nadir blood. “Milos Vaandemere!” she scolds, her voice seeming to come from a great distance away, “Would you so eagerly break your own neck?”

“Caoimhe...” you breathe, “Mot-”

Then your tenuous grip fails, and you feel yourself beginning to fall.

[1/2]

Wow good job tryhards. We embarrassed ourselves in front of mom.

>>2960987

Flailing wildly, you feel the fingers of your left hand scraping against coarse bark. Digging in, you feel chips of wood raining down on you as your fingers dig into the tree and slow your descent. Shaking off the last of your confusion, you grab onto a branch with your other hand and finally arrest your fall completely. Hanging there for a moment more, you slowly force yourself to climb back towards the top of the tree once more. As you climb, you notice the deep scars in the wood that were left in your wake. Like a beast had been sharpening its claws on the bark, you think to yourself.

When you reach the top of the tree again, Keziah is perched atop it. “I guess you win,” she admits, “Technically!”

“Nothing technical about it,” you gasp, “I got here first. I just got so bored of waiting for you that I decided to start over. I won so hard that I needed to give you a chance.”

“Hmph!” Keziah sniffs, “I suppose we can call it a draw. I'm generous like that, see?” Looking about at the trees around her, then, she lets out a low sigh. “So,” she adds, “I was thinking about returning the favour. You know, cooking for you some time...”

“Ah,” you realise, “So that was the penalty?”

Letting out a theatrical groan, Keziah gives you a sour look. “Dinnae forget, you're the one who incinerated lunch,” she scolds, “Nah, the penalty was... er...”

“You didn't think of one, did you?” you guess, wincing as the wind causes your head to spin a little. Taking it one foothold at a time, you start to descend the tree. Much safer to talk on solid ground, after all.

“I didnae think I'd need one!” the witch protests, “I figured you'd win either way, so I'd be in the clear.” Grumbling softly to herself, she follows you down the tree and dusts herself off. “Good exercise though,” she remarks, “Really gets the blood pounding, doesn't it?”

Nodding silently, you look about for any sign of the vision you saw. Of course, you know that you won't see anything. The time for that has passed. “Just lately, trees just make me think of my mother,” you hear yourself say, “One of the earliest things I remember is sitting beneath a tree with her. She was reading to me, and I could smell her perfume. Weird, huh?”

“Well...” Keziah replies with a shrug, “I can think of worse memories to have. Cannae say I've got many happy memories from growing up, so I gotta envy you there. I guess that awful tea Caliban fed you must have shaken some memories loose, right?”

You had these flashes of memory before that, but... “Forget it,” you remark, forcing a smile, “I won the race, so that means you have to do a penalty, right?”

Keziah's jaw drops. “It was a draw!” she protests, before blushing a little, “But... I guess I could allow it, just this once. What were you thinking?”

>Oh, nothing for now. You'll just owe me a favour
>I had an idea... (Write in)
>Other

>>2961017
>>I had an idea... (Write in)
"You have to try your hand at making dinner for the two of us for tonight. I set the bar pretty low."

>>2961033
>>2961017
+1

>Inb4 someone asks for something work related

>>2961017
I can get behind >>2961033
Except refuse to acknowledge our failures. Tell her she'll have a hard time matching our masterpiece.

“Well, I suppose you could always try out that idea of cooking for the two of us,” you suggest with a boasting smile, “I set the bar for you – now, we'll see if you can surpass my masterpiece!”

“Oh, hey, that's all?” the witch laughs nervously, “Sure boss, I can do that!”

“You're awfully relieved,” you reply with a sceptical frown, “What were you expecting, exactly?”

“I dinnae ken,” Keziah mumbles, coughing into her clenched fist, “But I was worried that you might want to stick it in my-” Perhaps mercifully, she is cut off here by a sudden churn of wind that pelts you both with dust and fallen leaves. From where you left it tied up, you hear the horse snorting with sudden fear. Gesturing for Keziah to stay put, you hurry off to calm the beast. It doesn't take long for you to placate it, and then you return to find Keziah crouched down in front of her messenger daemon.

“You understand, my daughter of mine?” Maeve's echoing voice asks, “It is possible, this thing you wish to do, but it may be dangerous. Be certain that you wish to do this.” These words seem to echo for a moment, the stillness aching with what Maeve ISN'T saying. “Madame Lamia sends her regards,” the elder witch continues after the pause, “She wishes for you to be safe, my daughter... and she wishes you to know this. The prophecy has never been closer – we are all within its jaws, now.”

“Hey...” Keziah begins to protest, but the daemon has dissipated before she can finish her sentence. Sitting still for a moment more, she blurts out a curse before kicking at a clump of dried leaves. Shaking off your trance, you call out her name and hurry over to join her. Looking sharply up at you, her eyes show a spasm of panic before she calms herself. “Good news, boss!” she announces gaily, “Maeve thinks she has somethin' that might get that changeling to spill its guts!”

“That... is good news,” you manage, disarmed by how swiftly she changed from distress to joy, “Do we need any kind of special tools or materials?”

“Just a good, stout knife,” the witch answers, fumbling in her pocket for the lodestone. Placing it down onto a patch of loose dirt, she scrawls a loose circle around it with the tip of her finger. “Now, I dinnae ken exactly how this will work,” she continues, “But Maeve said that it might be a wee bit dangerous. I'm thinkin', dangerous? This sorta thing is always dangerous! Even calling up somethin' as simple as a messenger daemon can go wrong if you... I dunno, if you sneeze while you're sayin' the words. You feelin' a need to sneeze, boss?”

“Uh...” you pause, trying to catch up with her rapid words, “Not really?”

“Great!” she chirps, “Let's get started!”

[1/2]

>>2961067

Whispering ancient words to herself, Keziah places both her hands palm down against the dirt. When she gives you the nod, you do the same. You feel... a pulse running through them, as if the soil beneath you was a living thing, with blood and a beating heart. As the ritual continues, you feel that pulse hasten until the individual beats can no longer be felt. The soil beneath you trembles, and then it begins to move – a pillar of the stuff rising up from the centre of the circle Keziah drew. The lodestone, borne aloft by the pillar, begins to smoulder slightly.

Flowing like the flesh of the changeling itself, the dirt writhes and takes upon the form of an arm, the hand closed around the lodestone in a tight grip. “The knife!” Keziah hisses, pointing down at the lodestone, “Hit it, like a chisel, see?”

Nodding, you draw the heavier of your two knives and jab the point into the lodestone. The tip sinks slightly into the stone, the black material seeming more like mud than rock. Feeling Keziah's eyes urging you on, you give the base of the knife's handle a firm smack with the heel of your hand. It digs deep, and the lodestone cracks open – not along the path of the knife, as you had been expecting, but with the top half of the stone sloughing away.

Left behind, the bottom half of the lodestone resembles nothing less than a bowl – a bowl filled with bubbling reddish-brown liquid. As both you and Keziah stare down at it, realisation dawns.

“Oh hell...” the witch groans, “So THIS is what she meant. Maeve said, “don't share it”. Wouldnae tell me what she was talkin' about, but...”

“One of us has to drink that?” you mutter, taking a sniff of the bubbling soup. It smells... you can't describe it. You just can't. As soon as you start to put a name to what you smell, the scent changes into something completely different. Not what you'd call appetising, but...

>Drink the potion yourself
>Have Keziah drink the potion for you
>Knock it away. Nobody should drink that filth
>Other

>>2961076
>Knock it away. Nobody should drink that filth.

We got choices here. One of the choices is to not go nuts with this stuff.

Prophecy can fuck right off.

>>2961076
>>Drink the potion yourself
This'll be something

>>2961076
>Drink it

Live dangerously!

>Okay, I'm going to close the vote here. We're going with drinking the world's most disgusting cocktail
>But hey, at least it's better than our cooking!

>>2961126
I'm hoping Kez's cooking will be able to get the taste out

File: King Eishin.jpg (79 KB, 736x1041)

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This potion, this... liquid is all that remains of the changeling that once called itself Imelda – although you're certain that it had countless names before that. Everything that it ever learned, contained within one bubbling pot of filth. Maeve called it dangerous, but perhaps Keziah was right – danger is part and parcel of this sort of thing. Even so.

Even so...

Before your nerve can fail you, you reach forwards and take the unnatural cup. There is a faint moment of resistance as the soil clings to it for a moment more, and then you tug it away. The pillar of dirt collapses down as you raise the cup to your lips, and you hear Keziah gasping in fear. She reaches out to you, but it's too late. The first few drops of the liquid burn your lips, and then it turns deathly cold in your mouth. More spices than you can name sting your tongue before, finally, you manage to choke down what feels like bubbling tar.

“Not so bad,” you rasp, blinking repeatedly as your eyes tear up, “Could use an ale to wash it down, but... but...”

That's all you manage to say before you slump back, dizziness swallowing you up. As your vision goes dark, you swear you hear Kegare's poisonous chuckle.

-

When you open your eyes, you see the night sky above you... along with the islands of Azimuth. You were up there when you passed out, and now you're down... here. Swallowing heavily, you rise to your feet and look about you. With a jolt, you realise that this is Eishin's camp – but this time, you're not peering into it from afar. You're right in the middle of it. The breath catches in your throat as your eyes fall upon a familiar face – Imelda, as you remember her last.

“Hey!” you call out, stumbling over to her, “Is this-”

“Shh,” the changeling hisses, pressing one finger to your lips to silence you, “This is the good bit.”

Her finger forms a bird-like talon as she points across to a ruined tower. At first you're confused, but then you see them – Caldwell, the maimed assassin, walking obediently at the heel of a looming figure. He's a monster, that one, and you immediately realise who it is. “Eishin?” you guess, squinting as you study him. The king is tall and broad, his hair and beard both long and matted with dirt. They talk, although you can't make out any words.

“I couldn't hear what they were saying,” Imelda laments, “But doesn't it look like they're getting along well? Oh look, and here's another familiar face...” Here, she points to Segharl as the giant obediently shadows Eishin and the assassin. When Segharl stops in his tracks, you turn around to see a new figure approaching the group – a tall woman, garbed in bloodied rags.

“I love this part,” the changeling whispers, clinging to your arm like a blushing lover.

[1/2]

>>2961156
Milos has been in and out of visions a lot lately. I hope he still has his fret firmly planted in reality!

>>2961156

You don't quite understand what happens next. The woman slaps Eishin, and the king staggers back in surprise. “False king!” the woman shrieks, her voice rendered thin by distance, “The winds have spoken, and they say that you will fail! You will fail, and you will fall! Your army will be scattered, this camp will be burned, and you dream will become dust – this, I have-”

You wince as Eishin grabs the woman, the witch, by the throat and hurls her down at Segharl's feet. He shouts some more, but the words start to grow indistinct as Imelda yanks you away. “I didn't stay long after that,” she explains, “Do you see, Milos Vaandemere? A prophecy was announced, that the king will fall. I had no desire to be on the losing side, and what I saw in the lands above, I found to be... intoxicating. Ah, here we are.”

Blinking, you see the scene changing into a dark, dank chamber. Heavy wooden chests are scattered about, and you see the dull gleam of gold from within them. Gold coins, you recall, Captain Villenvue had been paid with gold coins. “Where is this?” you ask as you look about the cave, “No, that doesn't matter. When is this? When exactly did this happen?”

“This is one of King Eishin's caches. His men speak of them, from time to time. Your world is not my world, a world where the strong can take whatever they so wish. In your world, things are bought and sold. This, I know, and so I sought the treasure here,” the changeling explains, closing the lid on one of the smaller chests and heaving it aloft. When you repeat your question, the changeling just stares blankly at you. It might understand money, but time is still a work in progress... and so it will remain.

“So you took this gold, bought yourself an airship crewman and fled to Azimuth,” you conclude, “Why? Just so you could live for a little longer?”

“To be free,” Imelda corrects you, “To grow fat and drunk on the pleasures man has to offer. To live a live as I saw fit. It was short, that time I spent, but I did not regret a single moment of it. To enjoy the flesh of a woman, and then to see the light fading from her eyes...” The changeling shivers with delight, and you turn away from it as your stomach knots. Never before have you been more glad to have killed it. If you had left the changeling to do as it pleased...

“You shy away from it?” the changeling hisses, her eyes yawning to a hideous size, “But this is the world you seek to create, is it not? An impure world where men obey no rules but their own... freedom for all with the strength to claim it!”

This, you leave waiting for a reply. Closing your eyes, you reach out in search for Keziah's thoughts. You find her there in the blackness, like a hand reaching out to pull you free from the memory.

>Pull free from the dream
>Seek more answers here... (Write in)
>Other

>>2961194
>Seek more answers here
Take the chance to scout Eishin's defences

>>2961194
>Pull free of the dream
>"Ideally man's own laws will still involve trading and civilization. "

>>2961194
>Other
"I saw what pure freedom can lead to in the first King's kingdom and can't say I was a fan. You'd make a mistake thinking I'm firmly in Impurity's camp."

>Seek more answers here... (Write in)
"What does Eishin have in the way of anti-airship capabilities? I believe we cut off his suicide daemon ship supply but he might have some hidden away."

"Those witches, how does Eishin treat them? They don't seem loyal, specially with his failure looming over him."

Nvm about pulling out, forgot how much.more we wanted to do in here.

File: let-us-make-good.jpg (102 KB, 840x521)

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>>2961246
Non-potato image.

>>2961252
>>2961194
> Ask about the location of other caches

> "I don't shy away from mens darker urges. I *choose*. Did you ever choose, or did you just let yourself be carried along? Did you ever try to be anything else than merely what you were made to be?"

> Ask if the Changeling has any requests to remembered in the world. We did kill them, after all.

I wonder what would have happened if we fed the potion to Masque. Double Demon?

No, not yet. Not yet.

Turning back to Imelda, you give her a cold glare. “It would be a mistake to assume that I'm solely on the side of Impurity,” you tell the changeling, “I saw what unfettered freedom created in the first iteration, in Grundvald's city, and I can't say that I was a fan of it. Men will have their freedom, but that does not mean that they will forget laws and civilisation.” Reaching out, you grab the creature's arm. Your fingers sink slightly into their flesh, like you were holding onto fresh dough. “Now show me more of his settlement,” you order, “And we can talk a little more. You like to talk, don't you?”

Tilting their head to the side, Imelda gives you a sickeningly flirtatious smile. “Oh yes, human, I would love to escort you,” she purrs, “Now then, where to start?” The cave is plunged into darkness for a moment, and then the veil lifts to reveal the camp. It looks different this time, more of a rough sketch than a perfect image. This is a memory, you remind yourself, with all the flaws and imperfections that involves. The various buildings you pass all look crude – more than usual, at least – while the few people you see aimlessly milling about are ugly, with smudged and indistinct features. Looking at them turns your stomach, and so you do your best to avoid them.

“What does Eishin have that can fight against an airship?” you ask as the changeling tugs you along by the arm, “His supply of suicide ships seem to be cut off, but does he have any more hidden away?”

“Machines? I know nothing of these, nor have I heard word of them,” Imelda shrugs, “I am glad. They were unsightly things, and they brought us much misfortune. King Eishin was warned, but he thought himself above such things. Now, perhaps, we are seeing his punishment. So you say that his death will come from above? I dearly wish I could see such a thing... it would be a fine sight, to see this camp burn.”

These words, and the venom in them, surprise you. “You hate this place that much?” you wonder.

“No,” the changeling replies with a sly giggle, “But it would amuse me regardless. When this one believed that Eishin would topple the works of man, he was worthy of obedience and reverence. Now that his defeat looms, he is... nothing. Nothing but trash.”

Again, you shudder as the creature's true inhumanity shows itself once more. It had a shot at freedom, and all it chose was to be monstrous. “Tell me,” you ask it, “Do you really believe that Eishin will fall?”

“It was foretold,” it answers immediately, without even a second of hesitation, “Once a prophecy has been proclaimed, it cannot be defeated.”

So it claims. You've got other ideas.

[1/2]

>>2961267

“That woman we saw, the one giving out this prophecy. She was one of Eishin's witches, was she not?” you recall, “Does he always treat them so poorly? I can't imagine they'd be very loyal if that was the case. That prophecy could have been fake, a lie to undermine their captor.”

The idea seems genuinely shocking to Imelda, who recoils from you. “Vile!” it hisses, jagged and crooked teeth pushing through its mouth and lips, “Vile, even to think of such a thing!”

“Oh come on!” you groan, “Now you've got moral standards?” Throwing your hands up in disgust, you turn away from the changeling. “Fine, forget about that. Just tell me about his witches,” you stress, “They're kept in a grotto east of here, right?”

“...Yes. Kept amidst filth and grime, blood and bitter tears,” the changeling grudgingly admits, “This one has seen them once before. Miserable, this fate that the king has imposed upon them. Fear is what keeps them loyal to him, for the king knows of many punishments to lavish upon those who displease him. It is true, yes, that they are his unwilling subjects, but what choice do they have?”

Resisting and being punished for it, apparently. Still, knowing that you might have an alternative to killing them... that's good information. The end results might be the same, but you definitely know which one you'd rather choose. “These caches,” you ask, dismissing the subject for now, “Where are they?”

“About,” Imelda replies with an indifferent gesture, “Close, I think, to the camp. Caverns beneath great and ancient trees, I think. Your kind cannot understand them as I do – these hollows sing to us, we can find them with our eyes gouged out and our ears burned away.”

So much for getting solid directions. Shaking your head in disgust, you turn away from Imelda. “Let me ask you something,” you tell it without looking back, “Did you ever really choose something for yourself, or did you just follow your most bestial of instincts? I don't shy away from the darker side of man, but that's because I CHOOSE my path. Can you say the same?”

The changeling cannot answer this, not for a long moment. “I was created to serve. To act as the eyes and ears of my king,” it hisses at last, voice taking on a reptile coarseness, “To slake my own hungers was of my choosing. I regret nothing of what I did.”

This conversation is going nowhere – the creature simply cannot understand you, much as you cannot understand it. “I killed you,” you tell it simply, “So I feel as though I owe you this much – do you have any last requests? Any messages you want brought back?”

Again, a thoughtful silence. “You,” Imelda finally requests, “You... live rapturously.”

>I think I'm going to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, for what may be a shorter session than normal
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>2961329
Thanks for running!

At least we know Imelda doesn't hold any hard feelings.
If her eyes were gouged out and ears burned off, couldn't she just grow new ones?
What fun events Rhea have planned for our next visit to Cloudtop prison? She does know we're coming right?

>>2961329
Thanks for running

>>2961354
It's true, changelings are largely unaffected by that sort of maiming. It might slow them down or stun them with pain, but they regenerate quickly enough. Still, it's a figure of speech - when it comes to seeking out dark, dank hollows, they have a natural instinct.
And let me assure you, Rhea will be a perfect host!

>>2961520
So they can seek out any dark and dank caverns and not just Eishin's in particular? Good to know.

>>2961520
I read that as Rhea being the perfect dark, dank hollow to host changelings in.

>>2961329
Thanks for running!

> these hollows sing to us, we can find them with our eyes gouged out and our ears burned away.”

We have Masqu, so . . .

>>2961873
He's a daemon, not a changeling. Unless changelings are a type of daemon which I think they are. Still, the hollow sense might be unique to the changeling subset of daemons, of which Masque is not a member.

>>2961067
>But I was worried that you might want to stick it in my-

LEWD

>>2963044
Does that mean she DOESN'T want us to put it in her asshole with lube

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

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Dinner, you're sad to say, was cancelled, on account of grave illness on your part. “Illness” doesn't really seem sufficient to sum up how utterly awful you feel right now – it feels like most of your body has been hollowed out and filled with live, biting ants. You had thought that your hangover after communing with Kegare had been bad, but this is a whole other beast. Rebelling against what you had forced it to consume, your body has been punishing you ever since you woke up from your fever dream.

No more visions, you tell yourself as a new wave of nausea assails you, that's a promise.

“Man, that smells good,” Gunny mutters, oblivious to your discomfort. Stretching out before you is a banquet table, piled high with a wide variety of foods. Ewers of wine are dotted about, singing a siren song that you can barely resist, although common manners help you stand firm. You know enough about etiquette to know that digging in to the food early would be a grave offence. For now, all you can do is watch.

You've got to admit, the unfinished repairs to his estate aside, Hess has put on a good show.

“Hey, look,” Freddy murmurs to you, nodding up to a balcony overlooking the main ballroom. A stern woman stands there, looking out over the area as she methodically slapped the head of her cane into one delicate hand. Back when you were roughing it in Monotia, you knew a small-time thug who had that exact same habit – he liked to break skulls open with his cane, or so he claimed. You don't get that same sense of violence from this woman, but she does have a far colder sense of menace – the hint that she could order entire cities to be razed with but a gesture, if she so wished.

“Wellager?” you guess, recognising the woman's face from the various portraits you've seen about. Belatedly, you realise that Freddy is wearing the jewelled hairpin she got from Penelope Hawthorne. Dress to impress, and all that.

“Chancellor Wellager,” Freddy corrects you, biting her lip as she looks back to the Iraklin leader, “I wonder if I could meet her. Maybe even shake her hand...”

“Never took you for a fan,” Caliban mutters, his mouth twisting in an unpleasant smirk, “You're not about to embarrass us, are you?”

“I have some manners,” the Iraklin shoots back, giving Caliban a quick scowl. It looks like their bickering is going to continue, but they'll have to carry on without you. Right now, you've got other things on your mind.

Like finding somewhere nice and quiet before you vomit yourself empty.

Again.

[1/2]

>>2963672

Sweat runs down your forehead as you grip the cool porcelain sink, your muscles clenching up in agonised knots. You've had muscle cramp before, and this is a similar sensation – similar, but far worse. Another spasm of pain wracks your body, and you feel a wave of something unclean bubbling up from within you. Leaning down, you retch and spit out a lumpy, brownish mess. Doctor Barnum wasn't able to find anything wrong with you, which just goes to show that he isn't always right.

“Better out than in,” you rasp, wiping your mouth and stumbling out of the bathroom. You're starting to feel concerned about these attacks – they've been coming and going ever since you drank that filth, and they don't seem to be getting any less serious. At first, you had been expecting them to end soon, once you purged your system, but that isn't looking likely now. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just vomiting, but your muscles lock up when it gets bad. If an attack hit during the middle of combat...

Dangerous – just like Maeve warned.

-

When you return to the dining room, you find a new face mingling with the rest of your crew. Still clad in a leather flight suit and reeking of engine oil, Lavinia Trice contrasts sharply with the fine surroundings. Judging by the cup of wine she holds, she wasn't as hindered by good manners as you were.

“Milos, good to see you,” she says by way of greeting, raising her cup before grimacing, “Uh, don't tell anyone you saw me drinking this. I'm still on-duty, I know, but I needed something to take the edge off. I've been tasked with flying Hierophant Milleux, and the stress is killing me. What's this all about, anyway?” Shaking her head quickly, she cuts you off with a gesture. “No, wait, don't tell me. I think I'm better off not knowing,” the provost sighs, “After tonight, I'm headed straight back to Cloudtop. At least it's quiet there...”

“Could you pass on a message for me?” you ask, sensing opportunity, “I need you to tell Bishop Rhea that we'll be visiting again soon. I'm... I need somewhere quiet to meditate, maybe even say a few prayers, and one of my people suggested Cloudtop. You reckon that would be possible?”

Trice looks confused by the idea, but not hostile to it. “Doing a bit of soul searching, are you?” she chuckles, “I'll ask Bishop Rhea, but I imagine she'll allow it. I think she likes you.”

“Can't imagine why,” Caliban drawls, reaching across and quickly taking the cup of wine from Trice. A moment later, Hess sweeps in and gives you a smooth bow. It's hard to keep a straight face as you see Trice in the edge of your vision, the provost breathing a sigh of relief before winking at Caliban. “Hope you don't mind,” the hunter remarks, raising the purloined cup to Hess, “But I had a mighty thirst.”

[2/3]

>>2963673

“What? Oh, do as you please,” the consul replies, waving the hunter away. What else is to be expected, that dismissive wave seems to suggest, from one such as Caliban? “Captain Vaandemere. I'm glad to say that everything is proceeding as planned,” he continues, turning his attention back to you, “The chancellor and the hierophant are just preparing in their assigned rooms now. We should be getting started in an hour or so. We-”

“Can we visit them?” Freddy asks, trying not to sound too eager, “I mean, if they're not too busy...”

Hess laughs at this, sensing exactly what the pilot had been trying to hide. “If you insist,” he decides with a long-suffering sigh, “At this point, I hardly think that you're aiming to sabotage the process. Very well, you may speak with them – on the condition that you leave immediately if they order you to do so. Remember your place in the hierarchy, soldier.”

“Yes sir, I understand sir,” she blurts out, wincing a little at the sound of her own voice. As she hastens away, you glance around the manor and consider your next move. A new burst of voices from the entrance signals the arrival of another group, and you see Captain DuPont amidst the various security staff. You knew he was likely to be here, but...

>Wait with the rest of your crew in the dining hall
>Visit Hierophant Milleux. It's been a while since you've spoken with him
>Visit Chancellor Wellager. You'll want to make a good first impression on her
>Take the chance to speak with Captain DuPont
>Other

>>2963676
>Visit Chancellor Wellager. You'll want to make a good first impression on her

Might as well get a chance to meet the other leader of this world. I wonder if Freddy is going to ask for an autograph.

>>2963676
>>Visit Chancellor Wellager. You'll want to make a good first impression on her
Please don't puke on her shoes

>>2963676
>Take the chance to speak with Captain DuPont

"We gonna have to fight against any of the airships you supplied to Eishin, traitor? How are you not in prison?"

>>2963676
>>Take the chance to speak with Captain DuPont
Tell him about the whole witches prophecy and false king thing, just to keep him honest.

>>2963700
How would that keep him honest?

>>2963676
>Take the chance to speak with Captain DuPont
We need to find out what's his deal here.

>>2963711
He's being forced to participate in the battle by the Iraklins since they caught him arms dealing.

>>2963676
>Visit Chancellor Wellager. You'll want to make a good first impression on her

It might be a good idea, you think to yourself, to meet with Chancellor Wellager – to make a good first impression, perhaps. That is, if you can avoid vomiting all over her shoes. Knowing the Iraklins, they would probably take you out and shoot you for something like that. As you start to follow Freddy, you notice DuPont staring your way. Your eyes meet, and the aristocratic captain begins to approach you. Stifling a curse, you force a neutral expression and meet him halfway.

When you get closer, you notice that DuPont isn't looking nearly so haughty as normal – a thin stubble clings to his cheeks, and his eyes are rimmed with red. Even so, he's desperately trying to project a confident front. Everything from his outfit – a fine uniform of deep blue, paired with a white, fur-trimmed cloak – to his arrogant sneer demands respect. As if in imitation of Chancellor Wellager, he carries a stout cane out in front of him like a sabre.

If you really had to vomit, you'd rather do it now. Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on how you look at it - your stomach is still empty from your last bout of sickness.

“Captain Vaandemere,” DuPont drawls, “I'm surprised they let you in here. The last time a man of your calibre visited the estate, he left... lasting damage.” Saying this, he gestures up towards the ceiling, and the battle scars that still remain from Sinclair's attack.

And here you were, ready and willing to be polite.

“You seem to have forgotten that I chased down that man,” you remind him, “And brought him to justice. What exactly did you do?” You leave a split-second of an opening here, continuing before DuPont can answer. “Oh, I remember what you did!” you remark, “While I was off bringing criminals to justice, you were selling weapons to our enemies. Are we likely to run into any more of those airships of yours, DuPont?”

As expected, DuPont's cheeks flush with anger. “You act as though you have never dirtied your hands before, sir,” he snaps, “Business is business – when the need arises, even unwelcome options must be considered. One day, you might understand what it's like to have people who rely upon you. I did what I could to keep my people from ruin.”

“The way I heard it, you were more interested in protecting your own reputation. How did that work out for you?” shooting DuPont a cruel grin here, you gesture around you, “You're lucky to be dining here tonight, rather than languishing in prison, you traitor.”

For a moment, you almost expect DuPont to strike you with his cane. Certainly, he looks like he wants to do it. Then, with a great effort, he pastes a sickly smile across his face. “I see that time has not changed you, Captain Vaandemere,” he manages, “But let us be civil, for today at least.”

He offers you his hand, and you react...

>Dismissively. You've got better things to do
>Cordially. You're the better man here
>Spitefully. To hell with DuPont
>Other

>>2963737
>Cordially. You're the better man here

>>2963737
>Dismissively. You've got better things to do

Don't talk to me

>>2963737
>Other
Look at him in the eyes and shake his hand, basic courtesy and nothing more.

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There's no need to be rude about this, but that doesn't mean you have to humour DuPont for any longer than absolutely necessary. “For today, at least,” you agree, taking his hand and shaking it briefly. As you do, you fix him with your gaze and consider what you see in his eyes. Anger, of course, and wounded pride, but also a brutal sense of determination. More than anything else, more than any petty rivalry with you, he wants this mission to succeed.

For his own selfish reasons, of course, but you can't entirely blame him there. After all, you're getting something out of this as well, aren't you?

“This mission is bigger than either of us,” DuPont remarks, his thoughts mirroring your own, “We'll both do our parts. You CAN manage that, can you not?”

Without dignifying this with an answer, you let go of his hand and turn away from him. As you march upstairs, you feel his eyes drilling into your back every step of the way.

-

When you knock on the door to Chancellor Wellager's assigned room, it is answered by a dignified elderly gentleman. A butler, by the looks of him, although the strength in his handshake is enough to convince you that he could break you over the back of his knee if he wanted. It's funny, comparing his demeanour with DuPont's. Both men were aristocratic and proud, but the butler has an absolute confidence about him that DuPont lacked. After sizing you up for a moment, the butler stands aside to admit you. Sitting at a plain desk, studying a folder of notes, you see Chancellor Wellager herself.

Up close, you're surprised by how... young she looks. With a small pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose and a distracted expression softening her face, she looks barely any older than Grace. As soon as she looks up from her notes, however, her expression changes as if some armoured visor had slammed down. Cold, closed-off and professional, she immediately snaps back to her true role.

“Captain Vaandemere, I presume? I've seen your file,” she begins crisply, nodding across to a low bench. For the first time, you notice Freddy sitting there with a rigid smile on her face. “Your colleague was just talking about you, actually. I'm curious to see how you'll live up to my expectations,” the chancellor continues, “Tell me. Is it correct that we owe almost all of this operation to your hard work?”

Held in place by her hard eyes, you find it unexpectedly difficult to answer this. “Well, that's...” you begin, “I didn't do it alone, but yes. More or less.”

“Hmm. Never be reluctant to accept responsibility for a victory,” Wellager suggests, “I have no desire to waste time with false modesty. You've done good work, and you should be proud of that.”

You think you like her.

[1/2]

>>2963765

“I'll admit to a certain curiosity,” you begin, “What, exactly, did my colleague tell you?”

“Some might consider it rude for a gentlemen to inquire into a conversation between ladies,” Chancellor Wellager remarks, a thin and frigid smile forming on her lips, “But, I think I can indulge you. Miss Lhaus told me that this attack will involve... unconventional forces, spirits and other such things. You have, in her estimation, some experience in dealing with such things. Is that correct?” You nod slowly, and the chancellor continues. “I have very little knowledge of spirits. Such things are simply not considered in Iraklis, or they are treated as some queer native superstition if they are thought of at all. A woefully outdated view, but ours is a conservative society. New ideas struggle to take root,” she continues, “So, I have a request. Would you tell me about these spirits?”

Where to start? “Down in Nadir, the term “daemon” is more common,” you begin, fumbling for a concise way to describe... well, to describe all the crap you've been exposed to. “They require someone to call them up using the appropriate rites,” you explain, “The correct words, offerings, even the alignment of the stars can be significant. If the ritual is performed incorrectly, things can go very wrong. Eishin will likely have people with the knowledge to summon daemons, but...”

“I believe you were to move ahead of the main attack and cripple this resource,” Wellager guesses, her eyes flicking briefly to the notes on her desk, “Will that remove any possibility of us fighting... daemons?”

“I can't guarantee that. It's very possible that Eishin will have others capable of calling up daemons. He himself might possess that knowledge,” you correct her, “But, by taking out his main group of witches, I should be able to swing the odds in our favour. In the event that he DOES call up some daemons, the church has provided us with some... specialists. They should be able to take care of the matter.”

You hope.

“Interesting. One day, I hope that such things will be common knowledge in our military,” Wellager smiles again, “Although I would prefer if we never needed to use that knowledge.” Turning away from you, then, she takes off her spectacles and pinches the brim of her nose. “Thank you for enlightening me,” she adds, “You can leave now, if that was everything, or did you come here to ask me something else? We can speak candidly here, I should think.”

>You've said all you came here to say
>Ask for her opinion on the Annexation War
>Ask about her expectations for the coming battle
>Ask for her thoughts on the church
>Ask something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>2963819
>Ask about her expectations for the coming battle
>Ask for her thoughts on the church

>>2963819
>>Ask something else... (Write in)
What do you think happens to Nadir after we take down Eishin?

>>2963765
... She's cute.

>>2963819
>Ask something else... (Write in)
Hypothetically if you could change the world utterly, what kind of world would you want to create?

Might give us some ideas when we potentially make that choice. Also curious.

>>2963819
>Ask about her expectations for the coming battle
>Ask for her thoughts on the church

“I'm curious about the coming battle. What do you expect from it?” you ask, “If we're speaking candidly, I mean.”

“I expect it to be bloody,” Chancellor Wellager answers simply, the hard edge of her voice growing more prominent, “A lot of good Iraklin lives will be lost. We will bear the brunt of the casualties – the church has made sure of that. With our superior forces, they claim, it is only right that we lead the attack. Logically, I can't fault their reasoning – our forces are better trained, better equipped and better organised than their rabble - but I dislike their motives. They wish to avoid dirtying their own hands.”

It saddens you to hear the venom in her words. You had hoped that this mission might foster a spirit of cooperation between the two great powers, but it seems like your sights had been set a little too high. “Speaking of that,” you continue, “While we're still speaking candidly, what do you think of the church itself?”

“Not a word of this can leave this room,” Chancellor Wellager warns you, pointing a stern finger at you. When you nod your agreement, she thinks for a few moments in order to find the right words. “I abhor the church,” she admits at last, “Not for their faith, if that is what you're thinking, but for how much power it holds. Consider Hierophant Milleux – he holds absolute power over the nation of Carthul. He has advisors, yes, but they hold no official power over him. Whatever law he wished to pass, he could do it with a snap of his fingers. I simply could not accept a system like that. Whatever you might think of our system, Captain Vaandemere, it ensure that no one person holds that much power.”

“So you wouldn't want absolute power,” you guess, cautiously probing for more information, “If you were to create a world... a nation in your own image, would it be exactly like Iraklis, or would you create something entirely new?”

“A curious question,” the chancellor muses, nodding to Freddy, “Does he always speak of such things?”

“Ah!” Freddy yelps as she jolts out of her starstruck trance, “Ah, well... more or less, ma'am. I can't always understand him either, but I just smile and nod.”

Fighting back a smile of her own – a more natural smile – Chancellor Wellager considers your question again. “I suppose it would be created in Iraklis' image,” she concedes, “I fear that I lack the imagination to create something from nothing. An Iraklis that was more open to new ideas, to art and beauty. That, I think, would be perfect.”

“Art and beauty?” you repeat quietly to yourself, marvelling at her answer.

“Don't forget, not a word of that leaves this room!” Wellager snaps quickly, pointing her cane at you, “Is that understood?”

“Yes ma'am!” you assure her. This time, you're the one who has to hold back a smile.

[1/2]

>>2963904

“Well, we can talk of more practical matters. Nadir, for one thing,” you tell her, “Once Eishin falls, what do you see happening to Nadir?”

“In the short term, little will change. The island will become safer, I hope, more peaceful for those living in Monotia and the other settlement outside of the Deep Forest. In the long term, I expect our forces will push into the Deep Forest itself in an attempt at establishing more permanent footholds,” Wellager explains, “Carthul will do the same, I expect, raising churches and spreading their faith. Currently, we are both bound by treaties, but there may come a time when we fight over control of Nadir.”

“Oh...” you mutter. You were definitely being a little too optimistic when you hoped for further cooperation.

“But perhaps I am being too pessimistic. We may be able to divide the land out equally, and that will be the end of that,” brushing her hands together, Chancellor Wellager rises to her feet as a distant bell rings out. “It seems that the meeting is about to commence in full,” she announces, “It was a pleasure speaking with you, Captain Vaandemere. I so rarely get a chance to speak openly like this.”

Before you can tell her that the pleasure was all yours, the chancellor sweeps out of the room with her bodyguard/butler following close behind. As you turn to leave as well, you glance around to Freddy. “So,” you mutter to her, “Did you get an autograph?”

“Shut up!” she hisses, her cheeks colouring, “I... yes. Yes, I did.”

-

Despite your amusement at Freddy's enthusiasm, you head towards the dining room in a surprisingly sombre mood. The idea of wild Nadir being divided up and given out to various individuals – men and women with no legitimate claim to rule - strikes you as vaguely obscene. Just for a fleeting moment, you can almost sympathise with Eishin.

Almost.

>Going to have to take a quick pause here. Next post should hopefully be up within an hour.
>I apologise for the unexpected delay!

>>2964022
Wellager is pretty awesome. Carter made a lot of mistakes, but he chose a good immortal leader.

>>2964022
Maybe if Milos took advantage of dark and pagan magic he could have won the Annexation War.
Or lost it still, but later.

>>2964022
>>2963904
Iraklin girls continue to be cute.

Hey I got a question. Does Milos (and us by extension) know exactly how much power becoming 'King' has? Grundvald and Feanor had kingdoms but that's all they were (or at least that's what they seemed to be) and it was Dogma who was reshaping the world enough to constitute real change.

>>2964215
>It's not something that we know much about, although I can clarify a few things. A true monarch's power is defined by their vision and the duration of their reign. Grundvald reigned for a fairly long time, but his vision was limited to a single kingdom. Feanor had larger ambitions, but he had very little time to put them into action. Someone with unhindered ambition and all the time in the world could achieve truly great things.
>And, I apologise for the additional delay. Writer's block hit kinda hard. Should have a post up soonish?

>>2964036
One that doesn't want to be an absolute ruler though.

The banquet that Hess so carefully prepared sits unnoticed and ignored in the background as Wellager and Milleux – along with a gaggle of other important figures – discuss the minutia of the plan. You've heard more than enough. The important matters were agreed upon within the first few moments, now they're just debating the most minor of details – which units to send down which flank, evacuation routes if a retreat should be called, what radio signals should be used...

The boring details. Leaning against a wall at the far end of the room, you slowly clench and unclench your fists as you fight back another wave of nausea. This time, at least, it isn't as bad as the others. Maybe you're starting to beat this affliction.

“Hey, boss?” Keziah thinks to you, her thoughts brushing up against your own.

“I'm here,” you reply, “What's up?”

“Nothing,” she murmur, hesitating a moment before adding, “Just wanted to hear your voice. I mean... uh, you know what I mean. Had a bad feeling for a moment, you know?”

“I call that waking up in the morning,” you joke, adding a quick farewell as Caliban hurries over to you. Your stomach lurches at the sight of the plate he carries, piled high with cold cuts of meat, and you hastily shake your head when he offers it across. “Hope you've not been getting up to any trouble,” you warn, “We're supposed be on our best behaviour here.”

“Please,” Caliban mutters back, “We're all professionals here, aren't we?” Setting aside the plate of meat, he wipes his hands on his breeches before continuing. “About our little scouting mission – the Eliza holds Lhaus, you and two others. I was thinking that Gunny and I would keep you company. Between the four of us, I figure that covers all of our bases,” he explains quietly, “Unless I'm forgetting something?”

Freddy and Caliban both have Abrahad weaponry, as do you, and Gunny has his staff to protect you against any hostile daemons. As he says, that seems to cover all of your bases. “What about Masque?” you ask, “You think he could... I don't know, cling onto the side of the skiff?” When Freddy moves over to join you, you ask her the same question.

“Absolutely not!” she replies, emphatically shaking her head, “That's not safe. A human wouldn't be able to hold on without-”

“But I am not a human,” Masque interrupts, his low drone of a voice causing all three of you to jolt around in surprise, “I will accompany you, Milos Vaandemere. The night wind carries the scent of blood and death – I would not want to miss this revelry.”

Suddenly, you're not sure if this is all such a good idea.

>Bleh, I think I'm just going to end things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, same usual time
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>2964401
Thanks for running!

Can Masque seek out dark and damp hollows the same way changelings can, or is his internal sense only tuned to the scent of blood and death?

Would he still pick that up if he lost his nose?

>>2964401
Thanks for running?

Can we blow up Eishin's tower with the Megido cannon? You know, just to rub salt in the wound.

>>2964477
>Thanks for running?
Thanks for running.

>>2964401
Thanks for running!

>>2964401
Thanks for jogging!

>>2964439
Unfortunately, daemons like Masque are more attuned to the winds. Changelings are creatures of the soil, which is why they can seek out dark places. The good news is, he can sniff things out even without a nose!
>>2964477
We certainly good blow it up. Just, you know, from a very safe distance.

>>2964022
We should send her a present if we find any old art. We seem to run into those things.

>>2964823
It'd have to be discreet cause it seems like she doesn't want that passion of her's getting out.

>>2964401
>>2964534
I wonder if it's really best for Carth and Iraklin to split Nadir.

Maybe we could take over and get Maeve to summon a Changeling for us, or capture one and get it to lead us to the caches.

Then use that to set up a reasonable Nadir that takes the best from the Iraklin political system but is more open in civilian life about allowing individual freedom.

And then retake our Homeland.

>>2964843
Spoils of War.

Cultural insight on her Nadir subjects.

Items of historical value.

Items of possible unique qualities.

One could say she would even have an obligation to study them.

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

430 KB JPG

The Eliza clanks and rattles as it plunges down towards Nadir, each wave of turbulence causing your stomach to lurch sickeningly. It's hard not to see it as a bad omen for what's coming, but you know that you're just overthinking things. This isn't even a storm – this is just a regular bit of turbulence. On any other day, you wouldn't even notice something like this. Now, though, it's just about the only thing you can focus on.

Leaning over, Gunny flicks you on the forehead with one grubby finger. “Milos, brother, you gotta wipe that scowl off your face. Think positive, my man,” he urges, “We'll make it through this. You have to – remember your promise?”

“I remember. Cleared it with Rhea and everything,” you assure him, “Well, I asked Trice to clear it with Rhea. That's basically the same thing.” Another blast of turbulence hammers the skiff, and you wince at the thought of Masque clinging to the outside of the ship. It's bad enough inside the skiff, but outside of it...

“Better him than me,” Gunny chuckles, rapping his knuckles against the Eliza's thin hull. A moment later, Masque replies with a thunderous blow of his own. “Shit,” Gunny mutters, “I think that left a dent...”

“I see a clearing up ahead!” Freddy calls out, glancing over her shoulder at you both, “Setting her down now. We'll go the rest of the way on foot.”

-

Jumping out of the Eliza, you feel the soft ground squelching beneath your boots. A thin rain falls, more a mist than anything else, and you hiss out a quiet curse. Rain hadn't been part of the plan – even the most pessimistic prediction you had been given had claimed clear skies. Thick clouds like this will help to hide the approaching airships, but visibility will be cut short as well. The harsh winds were one thing, but now if definitely feels like the weather is conspiring against you.

“Don't feel too bad,” Caliban whispers to you, “The rain should have helped hide our approach. Let's make the best of this opportunity.”

“The eternal optimist,” Freddy mutters, loading a magazine into her rifle and snapping off the safety. You're all burdened down by an assortment of weapons and equipment, but she's put the rest of you to shame. A heavy military rifle, the Abrahad glaive that she “inherited” from the Pierrot, both a bulky pistol and a number of grenades slung on her belt... she's ready for just about anything short of full-scale war.

The possibility of which, you have to admit, has never seemed closer.

[1/3]

>>2967724

The bile had already been high in your throat, but this new sight threatens to send you scurrying into the bushes. It had been a human body once, you think, before rot and scavenging birds made a ruin out of it. Red and skinless, crawling with maggots and flies, the sad remains have been nailed above the cave entrance with thick iron pegs. For a while, all you can do is stare up at the gruesome sight and think dark thoughts. Then, Gunny speaks.

“Well,” he remarks with a forced chuckle, “Almost seems like a “keep out” sign, doesn't it?”

“Whenever I see one of those things, I always get the urge to go inside and take a look. See what they don't want us to-” Caliban begins, before a sound of movement cuts him off. Something begins to emerge from the cave, but Masque is already launching into motion. A muffled squeal rings out as the daemon seizes the new arrival, slapping a hand over their mouth as he slams them back against the rocky outcrop.

“Stop it!” Gunny hisses, grabbing at Masque's arm, “She's just a girl!”

That might be pushing it a little – a young woman, certainly, but the revolver you see poking out of her belt hardly fits with the image of a defenceless girl. Otherwise, she's a slight thing – all sinew and sharp white teeth beneath a layer of dirt and grime. Looking at her, you can't help but think of a rat in a trap. Masque doesn't loosen his grip, holding the squirming girl pinned as Freddy frisks her, first disarming her before rummaging through the leather case she wears slung over one shoulder. “Medicines and salves, mostly,” the pilot reports, showing you an assortment of clay bottles, “Along with the gun, of course. You, girl, who are you?”

“B-branwen,” she stammers, the words choke by Masque's cruel grip, “Branwen Mac Hilborg. I... I serve the Mavens, I make them comfortable, I... oh na... na cuir thu marbh orm!”

“Did you hear that?” you think to Keziah, frowning as the girl reverts to a more primal tongue, “What did she say?”

“Uh...” Keziah replies, “She's pleading for her life, basically.”

Well now you just feel like an asshole. “And the gun?” you ask Branwen, catching her chin in your hand so that you can look into her wide, fearful eyes, “Not a way of making someone comfortable that I'm familiar with, but maybe I don't understand all of your ways.”

“Just in case they...” the girl whispers, worming out of your grip, “Please, do not kill me. I do not wish to die. Let me leave here, I'll go... I'll go anywhere. I will say nothing, please...”

“Milos, brother, it ain't safe to let her run free,” Gunny murmurs to you, “If she runs back to camp, she might get caught up in the attack.”

“Attack?” Branwen squeaks, her eyes yawning wider still.

[2/3]

>>2967726

“Now she knows too much,” Masque rumbles, “Allow me to silence her. I will make it quick, I promise. She will not suffer.”

“No!” Gunny protests, but you hold up a hand to silence him before he can disturb the quiet night any further. “No, brother, she's just a girl,” he continues, his voice low and desperate, “We could... we could tie her up, leave her in the skiff. I've got some cord here, see? Might not be comfortable, but...”

“Do we have time for that? Or what if she wriggles free and sabotages the Eliza? If she shouts out and some of Eishin's people hear her...” Freddy counters, “I don't know, I just don't think we can risk-”

“She's not a girl. Don't think of her like that,” Caliban interrupts, looking Gunny dead in the eye, “She's one of Eishin's people – no matter what else she is, she's an enemy.”

“No, no, no...” Branwen moans, closing her eyes and feverishly shaking her head, “I will not... I don't want... Oh please!”

Masque, silent and stalwart, looks around and pins you with the cold, expressionless gaze of his iron mask. Waiting, you realise, for your command.

>You can't risk letting Branwen leave. Silence her now
>Spare Branwen's life, and let her leave
>Keep Branwen alive, but as a prisoner
>Question the girl... (Write in)
>Other

>>2967728
>Question the girl... (Write in)
"Branwen, who was that on top of the cave?"

"How do you feel about Eishin? Nothing you say will reach him as we are obviously his enemies so you can be honest."

"What about the witches, what do they feel?"

>Keep Branwen alive, but as a prisoner
"You'll get through this if you do what we say and stay put. Otherwise I can't guarantee your safety, from both my allies and Eishin for failing him."

>>2967728
>Keep Branwen alive, but as a prisoner
The question is, do we bring her with us, or leave her in the Eliza?

>Question the girl... (Write in)
"You said you serve the Mavens right? Where are they?"

>>2967728
>>Keep Branwen alive, but as a prisoner

>>2967753
Bring her with us into the cave probably. The whole prisoner situation might change when we meet the Mavens.

“Branwen,” you ask softly, nodding up towards the ruined body pinned atop the cave's mouth, “Who is... who was that?”

“Aiseag. The... the spider,” Branwen manages, swallowing nervously, “She was punished by King Eishin. She spoke of his defeat, his ruin, she...” Hesitating here, the young woman lets out a low moan of dismay. “She spoke of you, did she not?” she guesses, “Your attack... Oh gods, then she spoke true! I must...”

When she stops herself from finishing this thought, you lean a little closer to her. “You must what?” you murmur to her, “You must warn Eishin?” Slowly, reluctantly, the girl nods. “I don't think you want to do that. Not really,” you continue, “What do YOU make of your king? Is he really a man you wish to be loyal to?”

“Those who disobey him are destroyed. If they run, they are hunted down. Those who resist are made to suffer. I must obey him – what choice do I have?” she whispers, “He is strong, he has the right to rule. I am weak, and so I must obey him.”

“What about the rest of his witches?” you press, “Do they feel the same?”

“I think... they resent him, just as he resents them. I know little, but I hear whispers. They wished him to rule, but not as he rules now. They were punished for their scheming,” Branwen offers, her brow furrowed with the effort of keeping calm, “Now, they obey him as I do – for fear of what he will do to them. He made an example of Aiseag, as you see her now. To leave her like that, bound within unburned flesh...”

Just native superstition, you tell yourself. The other alternative, that some remnant of the witches mind might be trapped within that ruined shell, is too hideous to consider. Shaking off those thoughts, you nod towards the cave. “The rest of the Mavens,” you ask, “Are they inside?”

“At the lowest chamber. They rarely leave,” Branwen answers, “Some of them... cannot. They are watched, always. Tarbh, the bull, guards them. I will... I can show you the way.”

Gunny silently offers out a small spool of rope, and you carefully bind Branwen's wrists. “You'll get through this if you stay quiet and do as you're told,” you warn her, “But if you try anything, you won't last long. Between Eishin's forces and my allies, this place is going to get very dangerous soon enough.”

Branwen gasps as Masque withdraws his arm, slumping down to the ground before tenderly rubbing at her throat. “I will lead you,” she whispers, “Be cautious. The caves are dark and wet, alive with all kinds of filth. Do not stray from the main path – I think that things... sleep here.”

“Things?” Caliban asks, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Things,” the young woman repeats, nodding gravely.

[1/2]

>>2967811
Before we leave we should burn Aiseag's corpse if we can.

Might just be a superstition, but it's the thought that counts.

>>2967868
Agree

>>2967811

A stern warning from Branwen stopped you from turning on a flashlight, and so you press on ahead by the sickly glow of the phosphorescent slime that clings to the cave walls. Bright light, she warned, might draw unwelcome attention. Water pools about at random places, rivulets of liquid running down the walls and turning the ground slushy underfoot. At one point, you spot a rotting human form peeking out from a muddy hole. Not rotting as meat might rot, but decaying away in a strangely vegetable manner.

“A stillbirth,” Branwen murmurs, “Don't touch it.”

Good thing she told you, otherwise you might have started playing with it. Grimacing, you allow her to lead you down the sloping pathway as it twists and turns. Somewhere off in the distance, you can something that sounds like the sluggish beat of a drum. At least, you think it's a drum. “Hey,” you whisper after a moment, “How much further do these tunnels stretch on for?”

“Forever,” the girl replies, her voice thick and dreamy. Tightening your grip on her leash, you reach out and grab her shoulder with your other hand, pulling her around so that you can look her in the eye. A bloated centipede clings to her face, segmented legs wavering perilously close to one of her eyes. Pulling back with a disgusted grunt, you snatch it from her face and hurl it away. As you look back to check on the others, you realise that the centipede was not alone.

Countless hundreds of the loathsome things squirm down the length of the walls and across the floor, most scuttling over or around your armoured boots as some of the more adventurous beasts begin to climb up the outside of your breeches. Your companions are equally troubled, frozen in place as the bugs squirm over them. Caliban's face is tight with a grimace, his lips moving in a litany of silent curses, while Freddy has both hands clapped over her mouth to keep back a moan of dismay. Gunny clings tightly to his staff for comfort, while Masque... well, he barely seems to notice anything at all.

“Just stay calm!” you hiss, hoping to shake the others from their fearful trance, “Just stay calm and keep moving forwards. This is...”

This isn't natural. That's what your gut is telling you, at least. Your words don't seem to reach the others, either. Even Masque, who you had thought to be oblivious to the bugs, is lost in some trance. For a moment, you almost shout for them to focus, but... who knows what else a loud noise might rouse?

>Press on alone. You need to get to the bottom of this
>Shout out to your colleagues. You need them with you!
>Try something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>2967970
>Step over and shake them by the shoulder

Goddamn hypnopedes. Good thing we've been taken under so often we built up a resistance.

>>2967988
>>2967970
This + get them to look us in the eyes and focus on us

>>2967970
>>2967988
>>2968012
this

>>2967970
>Ask Branwen what the hell is this
>Then shake our companions by the shoulders

“Stay calm,” you repeat, although this time you're pretty sure that you're just talking to yourself. Still, it's good advice. Fighting back a wave of revulsion, you step over the wriggling tide of centipedes and grab Gunny by the shoulder. Looking him in the eye, you shake him – gently at first, but then with greater vigour. Slowly, his eyes clear enough for you to see some sense in them. “Just some bugs, that's all,” you mutter to him, “You with me, Mister Hotchkiss?”

“Don't call me that, brother,” Gunny rasps, “You're making me feel old. You want to tell me what the hell that was? Last thing I noticed, I was walking through these damn tunnels. You all stopped, then I was alone and...” Shaking his head, he lets out a low groan of frustration. You know how he feels – these damn illusions.

You repeat this same process with the others, wincing when you occasionally feel centipedes crunching underfoot. Everyone save for Masque has the same story, they were walking through the tunnels with nobody else in sight. Masque, on the other hand, had no memory of what happened – it was just lost time. Branwen couldn't explain the visions either – they were entirely new to her. Why you were the only one who wasn't completely drawn under, you can't say for certain.

But you have a theory.

-

Once you're moving forwards again, you reach the bottom of the grotto surprisingly quickly. A larger pool of water takes up the centre of this chamber, twinkling with a halo of glowing flies that orbit it. A hunched shape sits, or perhaps lies, beside the pool – a shape that you cannot reliably call human, no matter how much you study it. Their lower half is bloated and swollen, the faint remnants of legs just barely visible beneath a fleshy sack. Weeping openings line that tumorous lump, and by the dim light of the chamber you see centipedes squirming in and out of those sores. Although the figure is draped in countless ragged shawls, its hunched back gives it the vague appearance of...

“Seilig, the snail,” the woman croaks, “We had names once, before the pretender king stripped them from us and rendered us as beasts. You have arrived... at long last.”

“I've been busy,” you mutter back to the creature, “You wanted me to come here alone, didn't you? Why is that?”

“To speak about matters of kingship,” a new voice answers. Stepping out of the shadows is a second witch, far more human in form than the first. Even so, you wince as you look at her face, and the twisted band of barbed wire drawn taut around the ruins of her eyes. “I am Rainche, the fox,” this second creature adds, “Tell me, stranger. We offered you this chance, to speak freely without the burden of your companions, and yet you spurn us. Why?”

>Because we're a team
>Perhaps I made a mistake
>I don't like your tricks, that's all
>Because... (Write in)
>Other