>>3124279

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

“Call this a hunch,” you announce, finally speaking up in order to get a break from Sandoval's aggressive pacing, “But there's some history between the two of you, isn't there?”

“Between me and Worthington, you mean?” she replies, yanking down her shawl so she can speak properly, “Good guess. You're not far off the truth. Worthington and I are ultimately working towards the same goal – the security and stability of the church. The problem is, we approach it from rather different angles. Worthington is a hardline traditionalist, while I see myself as more... pragmatic. A necessary sin when dealing with the other side, with men like Hess.”

Sandoval pauses, but not long enough for you to get a word in. Taking a deep breath, she continues with her rant. “He believes that the church needs to be defended from outside influence, that any dilution of the church's doctrine will weaken it. Naturally, he disagrees with just about everything that Hierophant Milleux has done since he took office. Still, that doesn't specifically involve me,” she shakes her head, a humourless smile twisting her mouth, “You recall my little pet project?”

“With Khusraw and Al-Farabi,” you agree, “Sure, I know what you're talking about.”

“Worthington had the same idea as me, but he was never able to put it together. He couldn't find the right people or the right tools, but I could. He resents me for that, I think,” Sandoval's bitter smile deepens, even as her eyes blaze with anger, “And then what was the first thing I did with my team? I sent them on a joint mission with the Iraklins, exactly the kind of thing Worthington has devoted his life to opposing. I don't know if that was part of the reason why Worthington ordered my death, but... oh, it just pisses me off!”

“Assassination attempts tend to do that,” you reply dryly, trying to placate the churchwoman before her temper can fray any further. The last thing you need is for her to do something impulsive here...

“It's not that. It really isn't,” Sandoval insists, shaking her head, “The church is supposed to above all of this! These petty grudges and rivalries, this infighting, it doesn't just destabilise the church, it makes us all look bad. I... we're better than this! You see that, don't you?”

Just who is she trying to convince?

>This isn't the time for that. Just stay focused
>I believe you. I wouldn't be helping you otherwise
>Maybe Worthington has a point. The church needs to stay strong
>I think you should stay behind. Right now, you'll just be a liability
>Other

>>3124280
>Other
"We're only human after all with all the imperfections that implies. Trying to better than some of our base temptations and pettiness is worthwhile though and for what it's worth I think your method of stability is the better one."

>>3124280
>I believe you. I wouldn't be helping you otherwise
>Also you need to relax a bit. You're a mercenary without a care in the world right now.

>>3124280
>I believe you. I wouldn't be helping you otherwise. But calm down a bit, you don't want the Hierophant to think you're deranged.

>>3124280
>That's what Blessings tells me.
>Still deciding if I prefer infighting and assassinations to things like Pierrot. Those tend to destabilize society in a very different way.

>>3124325
Rare ID!

“I believe you. I wouldn't be helping you otherwise,” you remind Sandoval, “But you need to calm down a little. If you march into the Hierophant's chambers acting like this, he'll end up thinking you're deranged. Just... try not to take this so seriously. Right now, you're a mercenary without a care in the world. Try and act that way.” Raising an eyebrow, you gesture around at the ship in general. “I figured you might have picked up a few tricks,” you add, “Giving the company you've been keeping lately.”

“Very amusing, Vaandemere, very droll,” Sandoval sighs, nevertheless heeding your advice. Before your very eyes, her posture changes again – less aggressive, more languid. You can see a bit of Dwight in it, actually. “It's easy for you to be calm, though,” she mutters, “If it was your crew trying to tear itself apart right now...”

“Listen. We've had plenty of disagreements here... although I'll admit, we're yet to see any assassination attempts. We're all only human, and that means we're not perfect. The point is, you're allowed to feel upset about all of this. Just try not to let it get the better of you,” you conclude, “Stability, remember? I think you're right about how to achieve that, but maybe we should save the rest of that argument for the Hierophant.”

Nodding, Sandoval pulls her shawl back up to hide her face. She's all business now - at least, you hope so.

-

Walking through the streets of Sol Carthul, you find yourself wondering about Sandoval. Your little talk should hopefully have curbed the worst of her excesses, but she still has an impulsive air about her. Not so long ago, she was considering the idea of running away and hiding. Now that you've decided to go on the attack – so to speak – she's not holding back. Hoping to distract her, you nod to a building up ahead of you.

“We're heading into the centre, right?” you suggest, “Shouldn't we stop at the ritual baths?”

“No time for that,” Sandoval grunts, hooking her thumbs into her belt and marching ahead a little. “Damn it...” you overhear her muttering to herself, “It's been too long.”

“Since you had a bath?” you joke, causing her to snort with curt laughter.

“Since I did any real field work,” she corrects you, tilting her head a little, “Although you're not entirely wrong. My point stands, though – we don't have time for ceremony. If you're that eager to get me out of this ridiculous costume, you're going to have to stay disappointed.”

Sighing with mock frustration, you notice Sandoval tensing up. Ahead, a pair of church militia approach you. Without even glancing around, the white-garbed men walk straight past and vanish around the next corner. Even so, it's enough to kill the faint attempts at good cheer that you had been nurturing.

No more joking about now.

[1/2]

>>3124333

Your destination is not some grand cathedral or stately residence, as you had been expecting, but a surprisingly plain building that Sandoval calls “The Keep”. It's certainly old, and probably the closest thing Sol Carthul has to a fortress, but it's not much to look at. This is where all the real work gets done, where all the real decisions get made. The scroll case from Deacon Soteria grants you access, along with a vague mention that he radioed ahead, although you do have to leave your weapons in the armoury.

“Damn,” you whisper to Sandoval as she leads you to the Hierophant's office, “So much for my assassination plans.” She turns, giving you a look of wide-eyed horror, and you wave away the idea. “I'm just kidding. We're here to keep things stable, not bring them crashing down,” you assure her, “Although all these plots and assassination attempts... I wonder if they're really any more dangerous than creating something like the Pierrot. A different kind of chaos, perhaps.”

“Don't even joke about that,” Sandoval scolds, “That's exactly the kind of thing I'm trying to prevent. Enough of these secret projects and schemes.”

“And yet here we are, operating in secret,” you murmur. She just gives you a dirty look.

-

Hierophant Milleux's office is surprisingly plain and modest, lacking in what you might call creature comforts. Nothing in the way of entertainment either – the bookshelves you glance at are crammed with drab looking texts about archaic law and ancient protocol. Decades of arguing back and forth about the exact interpretation of this passage or that proverb, past generations of Worthingtons and Sandovals bickering with each other...

Not light reading, in other words.

“Captain Vaandemere!” Milleux announces, rising to greet you with what seems to be genuine pleasure, “I meant to speak with you after the battle, but there were matters of state to distract me. By the time I had a free moment, my thoughts were somewhere else entirely. You'll have to tell me about the fighting – I've read the reports, of course, but they hardly capture the essence of the thing. Ah, but that's yet another distraction. I'm told you have an entirely different report for me?”

“I do,” you reply, holding out the scroll case, “A report from Monotia about-”

“My Hierophant!” Sandoval interrupts, pulling aside her mask to expose her face, “I must speak with you, about a matter of the utmost urgency! I fear that the future of the church itself may be at stake!”

Silence falls over the room, and you feel your heart sink a little. So much for being calm and rational. The silence draws out for a while longer, and you carefully set the scroll down on the Hierophant's desk. It rolls a little, then grows still.

“You'd best sit down then,” Milleux says eventually, gesturing to a pair of chairs.

[2/3]

>>3124370
Damnit Sandoval we told you to be cool. You're embarrassing us in front of the Hierophant!

>>3124374
For some reason, I imagined Sandoval shouting "Mein Hierophant!" and saluting him like a Nazi.

>>3124381
That seems more like an Iraklin thing to do. Then again, maybe Hess has rubbed off on her.

>>3124370

Making an attempt at calming herself, Sandoval sits and lays out a clipped account of the attempt on her life, as well as the events leading up to it. Milleux listens closely, occasionally picking up a fountain pen as if to scratch out some brief notes although he never actually puts pen to paper. When Sandoval is finished, he lets out a low sigh. “I'm afraid that this is a delicate situation,” he admits, “You see, Miss Sandoval, I've heard some rumours about your conduct. Rumours that you were involved in the recent disturbances in Nadir. That you sought to... profit from them in some way.”

To her credit, Sandoval doesn't immediately shout a denial. “It stands to reason that if they cannot take my life, they can at least ruin my reputation,” she points out, her voice tight, “Hierophant, Bishop Worthington has gone too far. You have to realise-”

“There is no proof, Miss Sandoval,” the Hierophant insists, his face solemn, “If I were to punish him based off of nothing but hearsay, I would also have to punish YOU based on the rumours I have heard.” Shaking his head, he gestures towards the door. “I could call Bishop Worthington here, so we can discuss this together,” he suggests, “He should be in his residence. I could send for-”

“No!” Sandoval protests, “I don't... I don't want him to know that I'm here. Not yet.”

Milleux pauses, seeming to look at her in a new light. “Miss Sandoval,” he murmurs softly, “You act as if you were a guilty woman.”

Maybe he really IS compromised. Certainly, he seems very keen to dismiss Sandoval's story. Before she can speak, he raises his hand to ward off another round of protests. “Regardless, I want to help you,” the Hierophant continues quietly, “If you wish to continue operating within the capital, I can assign Bishop Worthington to other duties. He has been inquiring after the Vau... after Zenith. I cannot imagine he would complain if I send him elsewhere. The two of you need never meet.”

Sandoval considers this for all of a second before jerking her head towards the door. “My Hierophant, I would ask a moment to think this proposal over,” she asks, forcing her words to be polite, “Vaandemere. Can we talk outside?” You glance aside to Milleux, you waves flamboyantly towards the door. As soon as she has permission, Sandoval practically drags you outside. “That son of a bitch is getting a promotion!” she hisses, “He's getting rewarded for this!”

“I told you to stay calm,” you whisper back, “Just let me think...”

Scowling, Sandoval waits to hear your proposal.

>Maybe you should take the deal. I can't see any other option
>Maybe I could take a look around Worthington's residence, see if I can dig up any evidence
>Maybe we should go back to Hess. This is looking like a lost cause
>Maybe... (Write in)
>Other

>>3124413
Did we go over D'aubiny (I probably spelled that wrong) and the mirror? Dunno if that would count as evidence though.

>>3124413
>I'm pretty sure you can show your bullet wounds. With both our testimony and even Monotia's interest in just who decided to hunt in their territory, we can prove it was an assassination and not just regular old Monotia shooting.
>After that.....let it go. Honestly, your best bet is to put it behind you and make a show of putting the church above your personal justice. Worthington's on pretty shaky ground even before he pulled this, he'll screw himself over one way or another, don't let yourself get dragged down with him.
>You SHOULD meet Worthington after you've cooled off, though.

>>3124413
>I could snoop around in his house, see if I can't find hard proof.

Aw shit Worthington has been asking about the Vault. Our Vault. He must be removed. Maybe we can make evidence if there isn't any.

>>3124413
>Worthington or not, the fact is church fighters tried to assassinate Sandoval. Milleux should at least take this seriously.
>Also, nobody should know Sandoval is alive. This could be used to lure the criminals out.

>>3124434
They are referring to the Vault of the Sun where we fought Alma I think, not the Throne vault.

Still it's a pretty dumb idea by the Hierophant to let a hardcore traditionalist that seeks to undermine him have access to Arhabad stone army and the ability to make more.

>>3124441
Worthington knows she is alive due to none of his soldiers coming back and the fact he's moved on to hurting her reputation.

What he doesn't know is that she is here.

>>3124427
>That was covered, yes, although it's currently just our word against theirs. Not conclusive proof of anything, in other words

>>3124413
>Maybe I could take a look around Worthington's residence, see if I can dig up any evidence

Guess we need hard evidence. Can't the Hierophant order an investigation? Just call Worthington over here and then have us look around at the residence while he is preoccupied?

>>3124457
We can suggest that but Worthington is a senior member of the church in good standing. This is the first hint Milleux has of his crimes so he probably won't agree, and might forbid us from breaking into his house and spying.

“Listen, we've got proof. You've got a bullet wound near your heart that hasn't even finished healing yet, and Worthington got plenty of church soldiers killed. That has to count for something,” you mutter to Sandoval, gesturing faintly to her chest, “I'm willing to vouch for you, and we might be able to get support from Monotia. I'd probably end up owing Mara another huge favour, but...”

“We have evidence that I was shot,” Sandoval points out, “But we don't have any bodies to show for it, any church items taken from the dead. I asked around while I was in the infirmary – according to your scruffy pilot, who heard it from someone else, there wasn't anything left behind. The Hierophant... he's made up his mind. He's decided who he's going to believe, and nothing I say now will change that.”

“Then maybe some evidence would change his mind,” you suggest, “Worthington has his residence here, doesn't he? I could see about slipping in, taking a look around for anything. Get Worthington here, keep him distracted, and I'll see what I can do.”

The idea brings a new hint of hope to Sandoval's eyes. “You must want something big from me. I can't see why you'd be suggesting such a thing otherwise,” she mutters, smiling a little as she considers it, “Okay. Do it. I'll do what I can here – maybe seeing me here will make Worthington break down with guilt and confess. I'm not holding out hope, though.” Taking out a notepad and a stub of pencil, Sandoval scrawls down an address and gives it to you. “Worthington's residence. He'll have guards, of course, so be careful,” she whispers, “And don't kill anyone. Please.”

Nodding, you allow Sandoval to return to the Hierophant's office. “I'm requesting an official investigation,” you hear her announce, “Call Worthington here. He has a right to hear the accusations in person.”

“Miss Sandoval...” Milleux stammers, taken off-guard by the sudden demand, “I... see. Yes, perhaps this is for the best. We can get everything out in the open this way.”

You certainly hope so.

-

Retrieving your weapons from the armoury, you hurriedly leave the Keep and reach out to Keziah with your thoughts. Thinking the address to her, you wait a moment. “Okay,” the witch replies, “I'm setting Herod loose now. He can keep an eye on things from the air. Not much use once you get inside, but I guess that's your problem. You're really going all out for this churchwoman – you're not sweet on her, are you?”

“She's old enough to be my mother,” you point out, exaggerating just a little bit, “I really don't think you've got anything to worry about there.”

“You say that, but...” Keziah replies, humour colouring her thoughts.

[1/2]

>>3124460
I suppose, but if one of his other senior members comes in with bullet holes and a testimony of someone of good standing with the church that doesn't have a major stake and he still doesn't do anything? That's on him.

Being impartial in the face of little evidence is a good trait in a leader but inaction is just foolish.

>>3124483

“We're seeing a carriage leaving the house now,” Keziah thinks to you after you've been walking for a while, “An actual carriage, the prick. What's he trying to prove?”

“That he can afford a carriage, I assume,” you think back, “Let me know if you see it coming back. What does his house look like, anyway?”

Rather than wording her reply, Keziah channels Herod's eyes for a moment. In flickering grey, you see a modest manor house encircled by a dignified garden. Not quite a sprawling estate, but still more effort to search than a cramped apartment. It definitely leans closer to decorative, though, with security playing second fiddle to aesthetics. There is a fence surrounding the garden, but it's not high or topped with spikes. You've hopped over tougher obstacles while blind drunk. The guards don't seem to be up to much either – two pairs of them circle the outskirts of the garden, trying very hard not to look like armed guards. Opening your eyes, you feel a wave of disorientation passing over you as you look ahead to see the manor from a new angle.

It takes some getting used to, this bird stuff.

-

Could it be, you wonder, that Worthington never imagined that his own home could come under attack? Certainly, you've heard that powerful men have a habit of leaving chinks in their armour. Grace would likely have a theory about exactly why, some lesson passed down to her by her father, but she's not here to give you a lecture. Caliban might have an entirely different theory – a trap, one that you're walking straight into.

Lurking in the shadowed path between two nearby tenements, you study the manor both with your own eyes and with Herod's. From the air, you spot an open window on the second floor with a rusty pipe scaling the wall nearby. The sight fills you with a sense of almost childish glee, although you temper it with caution. Rusty pipes might be able to support a child's weight, but you're not a kid any more. Up on the roof, you spot a radio antenna – just as old as the drainpipe, it seems.

A good excuse there, perhaps, although you'd need to stash your weapons somewhere – what kind of radio engineer would walk around carrying a sword and pistol? An Iraklin one, probably, but that won't do you much good in Carthul. Failing that, there's always forcing your way in – Sandoval asked you not to kill anyone, but she didn't say anything about knocking them unconscious...

>Sneak in via the drainpipe
>Bluff your way in with an excuse
>Force your way into the manor
>Other

>>3124552
>>Sneak in via the drainpipe
Test it's stability. If it's obvious that it can support us then we can try tech support

>>3124552
>Sneak in through the drain pipe

We're not a fatty. Also I'd rather not let anyone know we were here.

>>3124577
>can
can't*

Hell, you might not be a young boy any more, but that doesn't mean you're going to wreck the place. That drainpipe is probably stronger than it looks anyway, and you've got a chance of slipping in without being seen this way. Thus decided, you watch the patrolling guards for a moment. There's a brief break in their route while you can climb the pipe without fear of anyone noticing you, but it's not long. You'll need to move fast.

So that's what you do. As soon as your way is clear, you break from the cover of the alleyway and sprint across to the fence. Without breaking stride, you slam your hands down on the wrought iron and jump, heaving your body over and landing in a thick carpet of flowers. Gagging at the potent perfume that envelops you, you scrabble to your feet and hasten over to the pipe. Even rushed as you are, you don't immediately launch yourself at it. Instead, you give it a tentative pull. A few flakes of black paint crack and fall away, but the pipe itself seems sound.

All too aware of the clock ticking down, you laboriously start climbing the pipe. Too long, you think as you haul yourself up one handhold at a time, it's taking too long!

From the opposite end of the garden, you hear Herod screeching and an image forces its way into your mind. The familiar has landed in a small fruit tree with both teams of guards gathered around it, the men drawn the bird's cries. Snapping back to reality, you hear the men distantly talking amongst themselves. While their attention is elsewhere, you tackle the pipe with renewed vigour. Soon, you're edging in through the open window.

A soft carpet muffles your footsteps, and you glance around at the room you've found yourself in. A rich man's study, by the looks of it, although it seems dead and sterile by day. At night, with a bright fire crackling away in the fireplace, it would be quite the nice little den. Setting that aside, you begin a hasty search. Aside from a single Imago nothing catches your eye, and even that picture is more curiosity than crucial evidence. It shows a much younger Hierophant Milleux, clearly before he took office, with Worthington resting a paternal hand on the boy's shoulder. There's no blood relation there – just comparing the pair is enough to tell you that – but Worthington clearly has some history with the Hierophant. Not easy for a young man to suspect his father figure of misdeeds...

But that's not proof of anything. Leaving the Imago, you listen at the door before letting yourself out into the corridor. A marble bust of some saint awaits you on the left, with the rest of the house stretching out to the right. The next door is marked office – along with a firm “do not enter” added underneath it.

That's more like it.

[1/2]

>>3124626
Sorry we call you old and useless all the time Herod. You're a champ. We gotta thank him once this is over.

>>3124632
We can thank him right now, through Kez.

>>3124681
I think he's the midpoint of our mental connection, so we can thank him directly, and messages to Kez go through him. I meant face to face though.

>>3124626

But the door is locked, of course. Worthington might be willing to skimp on his home security, but he's not a complete fool. Forcing the lock wouldn't be too difficult, although it would definitely leave some evidence that someone was here – namely, a broken lock. As you're considering your options, Keziah chimes up. “I got Blessings here. He says that these houses usually keep a set of keys in the kitchen, the servant's quarters. If he doesn't have one of those, you could try by the front door,” she pauses, “He also asked why you're breaking into a nobleman's home. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him it's all for a good cause,” you reply, “And keep talking to him. Anything I see, I want him to know about it. Let me know if anything helps.”

“Um, sure. According to Herod, the guards outside have black armbands on. The household is in mourning, I guess?” the witch reports, “Does that help?” Leaving that question unanswered, you creep downstairs and look for the kitchen. “Oh, right, most servants are usually dismissed while the house is in mourning,” Keziah continues, “So that explains why it's so quiet.”

“So it does,” you mutter, snatching the heavy ring of keys from their hook on the kitchen wall, “Blessings Hawthorn... what would I do without you?”

-

Worthington's office presents a challenge – there's a lot to search here, and you hardly have time to search every nook and cranny. The bookshelves are too much of a challenge for now, so you focus on the desk drawers. Just blank paper and writing supplies in most of them, although one drawer yields... something. A pewter medallion in the shape of an axehead, an icon of Saint Nuada, obviously. On the back, it has a name engraved in tiny letters – A. Worthington.

“Blessings says to look for a bible, they usually have a family tree on the inside cover,” Keziah suggests, “No sign of that carriage returning, by the way. They must really be arguing up a storm, huh?”

Grunting, you scan the bookshelves and pull out the book – the bible of the Church of Rising Light. On the inside cover, exactly where you were told to look, you find what you're looking for. Arno Worthington, the bishop's son. In far newer ink, a small D has been penned in beside his name. That explains why the household is in mourning, you realise, but it doesn't exactly help you much. Still, you shove the medallion into your pocket for the time being.

But the rest of your search turns up nothing else. A private radio terminal sits silently in one corner, while the books you desperately flick through have nothing useful. Even the diary that you find is utterly useless – it contains nothing but the blandest description of mundane daily events.

A damn medallion. Is that really all there is?

>Just get out while you can. You'll figure it out
>There's something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>3124730
>There's something else...
Look for secret compartments in the table.

>>3124730
>Turn on the radio, check the frequency it's been tuned to.

>Take the diary as a reference for his handwriting

We can always have a note forged if we actually find nothing.

>>3124730
So Worthington's son was part of the Brotherhood of N and died recently. That could mean he died fighting Eishin, died in the Sandoval assassination attempt, or something else.

The former would be good motivation for hating Sandoval even more.

This might also explain his recent interest in the vault. He may be trying to res his son like Alma was 'revived'.

We could try playing with the radio. See what frequency is being used.

It won't be a thrilling read, but you want to take a closer look at the diary later. If nothing else, it might give you something to copy if you need to get creative with your evidence. Dropping the slender volume into your pocket, you crouch down and look underneath the table for any hidden compartments. You've got plenty in the Spirit of Helena, maybe Worthington has something similar here. Right away, you find a small automatic pistol stuck under the table with a thick strip of adhesive tape – amusingly, it seems to be Iraklin made.

Painfully aware of the noise you might be making, you knock on the underside of the table and listen. At one point, you hear a hollow thud and a triumphant grin spreads across your face. Pulling the main drawer out completely, you can ease out a thin panel to reveal a lacquered wooden box. Padded with velvet, the box has space for two of the automatics – both missing. One of them is taped under the desk itself, but the other? No sign of it. Tucked away in the box is a small scrap of paper, torn from a larger letter perhaps. The writing is penned in Worthington's neat hand.

“I'm sorry, Arno,” the note reads, “I had hoped that these would keep you safe in that heathen city. I was wrong.”

That's all. Not much to go on. He had the finely made guns commissioned for his boy, but they weren't enough to keep him alive. Putting everything back as it should be, you cross over to the radio.


“Keziah, anything catch your eye?” you ask, slowly panning your gaze across the buttons, “Any way of figuring out who he called on this thing? Or who called him?”

Silence for a few long minutes. Somewhere deep within the manor, a clock ticks away the seconds. “Sorry, had to fetch Dwight. I don't know radios very well, but he does,” Keziah replies eventually, “Uh, okay, . I'm describing it to him now. He says that it's an older model but this should work. Is there a key with an R on it? Hold down on that for a little, tell me what happens.”

There's no R key, but there is an “RE”. Holding that down, the machine lets out a groan before chugging into life. Paper spews out the top, printed with long strings of numbers. Sweat beads on your forehead as the machine rumbles – there's no way that that noise went unnoticed in a house as quiet as this. Even without servants around...

“That should be a record of the transmissions, incoming and outgoing. Not what they said, but it's better than nothing,” Keziah explains, “Dwight can tell you more, you gotta get out of there. Herod says that the guards are coming inside!”

Hissing a curse, you tear off the strip of flimsy paper – hopefully you have enough – and shove it into your heavy pocket. Thanking the soft carpet for muffling the sound of your boots, you hasten out of the office... only to return a moment later, locking the door behind you. The keys themselves, though, taken from their peg in the kitchen...

You'll think of something.

[1/2]

>>3124785

>Important addition - something I missed. We also took the scrap of note from the gun case. I forgot to mention pocketing that

>>3124785
Hmm. Monotia probably looted the shit out of the corpses, but I imagine Morey and Mara got the good stuff. We can ask them if they have a commissioned pistol like the one we found. That would implicate Arno in the assassination attempt and then Bishop Worthington as well.

>>3124812
I think Arno died before all that but it would definitely implicate Worthington. Not optimistic about those chances, more likely pistol two is on Arnos corpse.

>>3124785

Barely bothering to climb down the pipe, you let yourself drop from the study window into the flowerbed below. Waiting a moment, you listen for any shouts of alarm. None come, although the air crackles with a new tension. Creeping out from the flowerbed, you circle around to the front door. It's hanging open, left wide by the guards hurrying inside. Slipping back into the house, you make your way through to the kitchen and return the keys to their rightful place before making your exit.

The perfect crime.

-

Trusting the antiquated streets of the capital to cover your tracks, you enter a maze of winding alleyways and allow yourself to roam for about ten minutes. When you consider yourself suitably hidden, you take out the crumpled paper and smooth it out. The numbers mean just about nothing to you, but Dwight should hopefully be able to make some sense out of them. As you make your way back to the aerodrome, Herod speaks up into your mind.

“The carriage is returning,” the daemon announces, accompanying the thought with an image of the carriage pulling up outside the manor. A few troops and a uniformed aide get out, but there's no sign of Worthington himself. Presumably, he's still at the Keep with Sandoval and the Hierophant. A good sign, perhaps, a sign that they're actually giving him a serious questioning. That, or he's scheming something up with the Hierophant.

Maybe both, now that you think about it. You're still thinking about it when you return to the Spirit of Helena and present your findings to Dwight.

-

“You see, chief, these old radios are a lot like women. You push the right buttons, and they still yell at you,” the pilot begins, sticking a cigarette in his mouth, “But sometimes, just sometimes, you can get them to do some decent work.”

“I'm goin' to pretend that I didnae hear that,” Keziah replies, nudging Blessings forwards, “Here, you two should be able to work somethin' out.”

“Er, maybe,” Blessings continues, holding up a slim book, “These old radio frequencies all have a code number associated with them, and this should have some of them. The, ah, public ones. Useless without the frequency itself, they're more like bits of interesting trivia.”

“Interesting,” Branwen repeats from the doorway, sounding entirely unconvinced by the idea.

“You kids save the flirting for later, we've got work to do,” Dwight interrupts, his languid tone causing Blessings to flush red. Flipping through the book, Blessings passes it across. “So it says here that Worthy made a few calls to Senesca. That would have been to Faraday, right?” the pilot muses, “All talk about the mirror, I guess. Then here – and this came earlier – he placed a call to the grand archives. You think he was looking for a book?”

“The archives are more than just a library,” Blessings corrects him, “They handle all manner of administration. Storing records, paperwork, all official business...”

[2/3]

>>3124864
Hoped he had gotten a report from his assassination squad on there. Ah well, forgery it is. GRACE!

>>3124877
Don't forge shit. You're jumping the gun here. We didn't do all this just to make evidence that might not hold up under scrutiny.

>>3124889
It only needs to hold up long enough to get the rest of the dirt on him.

>>3124897
Once it doesn't hold up all of our evidence becomes unreliable as does our credibility in the eyes of the Hierophant and the rest of our relations with Carth

Besides Grace isn't here.

>>3124909
I dunno anon. Sometimes you gotta take risks.

>>3124864

There isn't much else you can get out of the radio records – Worthington received a large number of calls to and from one particular frequency, but the associated code isn't listed in Blessings' handbook. At a guess, you'd say that it was Rhea up in Cloudtop Prison. Worthington was her mentor, so you wouldn't be surprised if they stayed in contact with each other. That makes you uneasy – Rhea is a hard woman to read, and her motives are her own.

“So, what are we looking at here?” you think aloud, scratching down a few notes on a bit of scrap paper, “I guess I can understand why he was talking with Faraday, but why contact the archives? It looks like it happened... in the aftermath of the attack on Eishin's camp, if I'm getting my dates correct. Blessings?”

“Er, well, if he was registering a death in the family...” Blessings begins, pointing to a shorter string of numbers, “Is this the time of day?”

“Sure is. Looks like he called in the middle of the night. Grief does strange things to people, but that's pretty strange,” Dwight murmurs, puffing on his cigarette, “Are they even open that late?”

“Well, there would be someone manning the front desk. Or, ah, the radio,” the young churchman offers, “But normal business stops after sunset. Official business only by night. It's sort of a tradition, you know...”

“Yeah, it's a tradition for me as well. It's called sleeping,” the pilot grunts, leaning back in his chair. Frustration slowly etches its way into his face, and you wonder what he's thinking about. You all fall silent as you consider the scraps you were able to recover. Setting down the medallion, you gesture for Dwight to take a look at it. “Don't know what you're expecting, chief,” he replies with a shrug, “Just an ugly pendant as far as I can tell.”

“An icon of Saint Nuada, it belonged to Worthington's son. He might have been in the Brotherhood of Saint N. just like his father. It looks pretty new though,” you muse, rubbing a fingertip along the edge of the medallion, “Church secret police. Those men who attacked us in Monotia, they were probably Brotherhood. They wouldn't have been carrying icons like this, though, not if they were going covert.”

Branwen lets out a quiet laugh. “This is foolish. Just let them fight,” she suggests, “The winner is the one who is correct. That is how we do things in Nadir. Simple.”

Somehow, you doubt the church would agree with that. Still, what's your next move?

>Bring your gathered evidence to the Hierophant
>Pursue some new lead... (Write in)
>Discuss what you have with the crew... (Write in)
>Other

>>3124943
>>Pursue some new lead... (Write in)
We can check the archives. See if we can't find the casualty list of the Eishin fight and see if Arno is on there.

One thing I don't get though. Why would he write heathen city if Arno died in the Deep Forest? It sounds way more like Monotia. Also it's been awhile since the Eishin fight, is it normal for people to still be in mourning?

I also want point out there is a chance he had nothing to do with the assassination attempt. He has motivation, but we have no concrete evidence. He could merely just be the first person Sandoval thought of as a culprit and we could be potentially dealing with Rhea or another Brotherhood of N member like Alexander.

Just keep that in mind

>>3124943
>Pursue some new lead...
Try to track the second pistol in Monotia.

I think his call into the archives was to check something, not to register a death. And I think this something was what induced him to assassinate Sandoval. It was her team that was present at the battle, I don't think this is a coincidence.

>>3124943
>Radio up Rhea, ask if Worthington called her and what they talked about.

Also ask around our inner circle if anyone can copy handwriting.

>>3124943
Wait was there even any general infantry on Carths side during the Eishin fight? I thought it was just Sandoval and her specialists. And even then I don't know if a Brotherhood of N agent would even be on the ground.

“Okay. Listen up team. We've got two leads ahead of us – it's possible that the second pistol is down in Monotia somewhere. Worthington wrote about his son being lost in a heathen city – not the Deep Forest. If we hit up some of my contacts, we might be able to find it or at least learn about what happened to it,” you explain, tapping the scrap of note before touching the list of radio frequencies, “The other lead is the archives. If we can find out what Worthington was looking for there, it might lead us to a new bit of evidence.”

“I, ah, I really shouldn't say this,” Blessings admits, “But this is awfully exciting, isn't it? It's just like a detective story!”

“Dinnae get too carried away,” Keziah warns him, “That's how they get you!”

“Who are... they?” the boy asks, frowning to himself. Keziah just waves away his question and laughs. “Well, ah, I can see what I can do at the archives. Friends there, you know,” he continues, “Although I really don't think I should go alone. Like the chief engineer says, that's how... well, you heard her. I shall have to find someone to accompany me and handle the rough stuff. A shame that Miss Lhaus is-”

“I shall accompany you,” Masque rumbles, causing you all to jolt around in surprise. “If,” the daemon continues, “Your archives will permit one such as I to enter.”

“We can decide the specifics later. We'll need to take the Helena down to Monotia, seeing as the Eliza is still up in Zenith, and I want to do a spot of radio work myself before anything else,” you decide, gesturing for the others to give you some space. As the others are leaving, you call out Blessings' name. “I'm curious,” you ask, “How long do people here usually mourn for? It seems like quite a long time for Worthington to still be in mourning.”

“You know... that's a good question. When Aunt Miriam... well, we only mourned for a few days. Mother said that Aunt Miriam wouldn't have wanted us to mope about for weeks on end. I'll check my books, and if I can't find anything there then I'll see what the archives have,” Blessings tells you, a faintly petulant frown on his face, “I'll have a lot of work on my hands. I hope Grace gets back soon, the extra pair of hands would help out a lot. Well, um, anything else?”

When this is over, you'll have to thank Blessings for his local knowledge. “This might not be public knowledge, but see if you can find anything about how the church troops operated during the Eishin campaign. Did they have a leader? What about a list of soldiers?” you press, “This might be important.”

Sighing, Blessings nods before leaving you to it. When you're alone, you tune the radio to Cloudtop Prison. Time to see if Rhea is willing to talk with you.

[1/2]

>>3125034
>There were some church soldiers, but they largely played a supporting role. The main fighting was all Iraklin

>>3125056
Rhea will talk to us. She wants the V.

>>3125083
Rhea is an enigma

>>3125056

Trice gave you this frequency, and you're hoping that it still works. As if summoned by your thoughts of her, you hear Trice's voice crackling out of the radio. “Cloudtop,” she begins, almost groaning the word before falling silent. She sounds tired – ill, even.

“Provost, you sound like you should be in the infirmary,” you scold, “Captain Vaandemere here. I was wondering if I could speak with Bishop Rhea. I can't really come up right now, but a radio exchange is fine with me.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Trice replies, sounding a little better now that she's putting some effort in, “Don't worry about me, Milos. I'm just... going through some things. I'll see if the bishop is able to talk.”

Going through some things? You mull over that for a few long moments, getting lost in thought until a new voice snaps you back to reality. “Captain Vaandemere,” Bishop Rhea greets you, her voice cool and clipped, “A shame that you cannot come up here and see me in person. I do so dislike talking over the radio.”

“Even if it's Worthington?” you ask, the words automatically spilling from your lips. There is a silence, and then Rhea laughs softly.

“Exceptions can be made,” Rhea replies, an utter lack of surprise in her voice. “I owe a lot to Bishop Worthington. He taught me a great deal about the world. There comes a time, however, when the student must part ways with the teacher. These days, our conversations are a more equal affair. Give and take, you see?” she continues, “His schedule rarely allows him the time to visit, and so we talk like this. An acceptable substitute.”

Swallowing heavily, you find your mouth to be suddenly dry. It's almost as if she was expecting this call. “Two bishops swapping trade secrets,” you hear yourself say, “They must be fascinating conversations.”

“Oh, hardly. In all his time at Cloudtop Prison, Bishop Worthington never witnessed a soul finding true salvation. He likes to ask if I have. I've always told him that I have not,” a faint note of amusement steals into Rhea's voice here, “But perhaps I am not always entirely honest with him. Some secrets do not need to be shared. Of course, we don't always speak of such things. I believe he spoke recently about his son. A brave boy, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.”

“Ah,” Rhea adds suddenly, speaking up before you can say anything, “I believe there is a matter that requires my assistance. An inmate getting restless. Not a common occurrence, but one that I must handle personally. Do take care, Captain Vaandemere.”

“Wait-” you begin, only for the mic in your hand to fall silent, “Hell...”

>I'm going to pause things here for today, but I'll continue this tomorrow
>Something a little different today, so thank you for your patience!

>>3125145
Thanks for running!

Does Rhea prefer Worthington over us because his W is a double V? Is our single V just not good enough?

>>3125145
I think we really need to take Trice out for a drink before everything pops off. It's not like her to sound that drained. I hope Rhea isn't exposing her to the mirror or something.

Thanks for running.

>>3125159
Ah, but maybe Rhea is only acting like this because she likes us!
>>3125178
When in doubt, drink. Always a good plan, I'd say. It's worked well enough so far!

>>3125249
>When in doubt, drink. Always a good plan, I'd say. It's worked well enough so far!

Well it's more of an excuse to see what's up, but yes drinking is always the best plan! Never goes wrong.

>>3125145
Thanks for running!

I always miss the sessions, god damn it.

>>3125145
If Worthington's intention is to revive the son, then working with him will be our best shot at getting access to the son's body. Any evidence that he took part in the assassination will be there.

>>3125413
>Any evidence that he took part in the assassination will be there.

How so? Also remember revival in the Vault makes you a horrible monster.

>>3125428
Autopsies. We'll still need cooperation with Morey of course, but bullet wounds, time of death, etc. are on the body.

>How so? Also remember revival in the Vault makes you a horrible monster.
yeah, which is why we need access to it before that happens. I don't think we can make a big enough case to force Worthington to give up the body.

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

155 KB JPG

You're still thinking on Bishop Rhea's words several hours later, when the Eliza radios in to signal her imminent arrival. Judging purely by the weary tone in Freddy's voice, you don't have high hopes for their little research trip. Maybe there just isn't any information on Arah and any possible ancestors she might have had out there – even if there was, you're still not entirely sure what you'd do with it. The act of hoarding knowledge has simply become second nature to you now.

For the first time in a while, you find yourself seriously thinking about Miriam. Picturing her hunched over her journal, scribbling notes about the treasure that is almost within your grasp, you wonder what she would have thought about all of this. She had a powerful hunger for wealth and glory, Miriam, but she was no fool either. If she learned that there was more to this than met the eye, she'd pursue it as far as possible – to find a way of profiting off of it, perhaps.

Miriam Hawthorn with the power of creation in her hand – now that's a terrifying thought.

“Well now,” a soft voice complains, “Do pay attention, captain!” Jolting back to reality, you see Grace standing opposite you with a look of indulgent patience on her face. Blinking away your daydream, you gesture to the chair next to you. Sitting down, Grace lets out a thoughtful sigh. “Arah is a difficult woman to trace, captain. Some women like playing hard to get, and she's definitely one of them. Do you know why she was so difficult to find?” the scholar waits a moment, both teasing and testing you, “Come on...”

The answer comes to you in a moment. “She left her old name behind when she ascended the mountain,” you guess, “She left her whole life behind.”

“Exactly. So, the name didn't help. However, there was reference to a deformed woman seeking true salvation, and I believe that they were the same person. According to the records, she sought out the very peak of the mountain, rather than settling like all the others. Her story ends there, with the note that she kept moving higher,” Grace spreads her hands wide, giving you a weary smile, “But her brother, well, he settled down and had a family. They were quite well documented, in fact.”

She falls silent here, even when you give her a curious look. “Go on, tell him the rest,” Freddy urges, “Tell him what we found.”

Grace sighs, rolling her eyes slightly. “The lineage came to a very abrupt end, along with... well, along with a lot of others. The records are damaged, somewhat unclear, but it seems as though there was... an attack,” she clears her throat, “Men from the forest, come to raid and slay. Arah's bloodline ended there.”

It ended there, snuffed out by what you immediately know to be Feanor and his invading army.

Another dead end.

[1/2]

>>3127079

“So, no point crying over ancient history,” Grace continues with forced joviality, flapping her hand at the various notes scatted across the controls, “What have you been getting up to?”

“Well... Sandoval needs some help,” you begin, heaving a heavy sigh before explaining the situation. Grace listens intently, occasionally nodding as she takes in some fact or another. “So, we're going to try following up two separate leads. The archives, to see exactly what Worthington was trying to do there, and Monotia, to try and recover the missing gun. I know it might not seem like much, but it's a direct connection to Worthington – he's got the matching copy.”

“I understand quite well enough,” Grace agrees, “Monotia, though... I suppose you'll have friends down there. Caliban too, if you were in the mood to delegate.”

Nodding vaguely, you start to consider your options only to find yourself drawn back to earlier conversations. Both Grace and Rhea spoke of “true salvation”, and that just doesn't seem like a coincidence to you. Arah was seeking it, while both Rhea and Worthington were searching for evidence of it – not only that, but Rhea hinted at actually finding that elusive evidence. Then there was Trice, and her strange behaviour. Working in Cloudtop Prison can grind down even the best of person, but...

“Daydreaming again!” Grace scolds, reaching across and lightly punching you on the arm, “What about searching through the church archives, then?”

“I don't want to imagine that,” Freddy groans, “I've seen how nightmarish Carth paperwork can get. Barely a nod towards organisation, and things are always getting lost or misplaced. That kind of thing just wouldn't stand in Iraklis...”

Now there's an interesting idea. Things can get lost in the system, certainly, but perhaps things can also be MADE to get lost. When Worthington called the archives, was he ordering something to be hidden? This talk of paperwork, though, it does remind you of something. “Tell me, Grace,” you ask quietly, “Do you know much about forging documents?”

“Well... father did teach me a few things, mainly about recognising signs that something might have been altered,” the young scholar coyly replies, “I'm not sure if I should say much else, for fear of implicating myself.”

Freddy stares at her for a moment before sighing. “Well, I suppose it can't be helped,” the Iraklin decides with a shrug, “So what are our plans, captain?”

>Travel down to Monotia and see if the missing pistol can be found
>Investigate the church archives to see what Worthington was doing there
>Return to the Keep and check up on Sandoval
>Other

>>3127080
>Investigate the church archives to see what Worthington was doing there
I don't really see what the pistol could do besides be leverage against Worthington directly

>>3127080
>Travel down to Monotia and see if the missing pistol can be found

"I hate to ask after you two just got back from research but could you check the archives when you have a chance?"

>>3127083
It combined with the note would imply Arno was part of the assassination team and that the Bishop knew about it

>>3127080
>>Travel down to Monotia and see if the missing pistol can be found

>>3127080
>Return to the Keep and check up on Sandoval

“Freddy. Got a question for you,” you begin, “Would there be anything directly linking a pair of matched Iraklin pistols? Decorative pieces, made as a set. Custom work, by the looks of them, expensive work.”

“As part of a pair? They would share a serial number, then,” Freddy answers immediately, “That would be fairly solid. Other than that, they'd share the same maker's mark but...”

That settles it, then. “I'm going to Monotia, to look for this missing pistol. According to Worthington's note, his boy died in the city – it could very well be that he was part of the assassination team. His gun won't be concrete proof, but it should help make a few connections,” you explain, “We just need enough to convince the Hierophant that Sandoval is telling the truth. I hate to ask you this, seeing as you're just back from an errand, but...”

“The church archives?” Grace asks lightly, feigning a sigh, “You always work us so hard, captain. But, I suppose I can't turn down an opportunity to show off my skills. Together, I'm sure that we can turn something up!”

Giving you a wan smile, Freddy nods her agreement.

-

With Freddy escorting Blessings and Grace to the church archives, you turn your attention back to the Helena's controls. Savouring the healthy rumble of the engines, you take off and start the ship on its course down to Nadir. Below you, even visible through the thin skin of cloud, the land spreads out beneath you like a stain. As you fly, Dwight returns to the bridge and lets out a low yawn. “We're leaving?” he asks, “I don't know, chief, I don't feel good about leaving Sandy like this...”

“We're not leaving her,” you correct him, “We're just helping her from a distance. When we're done here, what do you say about heading back to the Keep to check on her? If we can find some good news here, that'll be sure to lift her spirits.”

“Huh,” Dwight mutters, slumping down into the seat next to you, “And what if we can't find any good news?”

Frowning a little, you wave away the idea. “That's defeatist talk,” you reply, “We'll find something. Call it gut instinct.” Falling silent, you listen as he tunes the radio to an Iraklin station and listens as the clipped voice rattles off the latest news. A high society marriage, a foiled anarchist plot, a speech by the chancellor planned for next week... nothing out of the ordinary. “At least they seem to have everything under control,” you point out, trying to lighten the mood, “That's good.”

“I guess they really can survive without us,” Dwight agrees, giving you a humourless laugh, “I was starting to have my doubts...”

With that, he tunes the radio to a new channel. The rest of your descent down to Nadir is set to slow and mournful music.

[1/2]

>>3127121

Monotia seems to be suffering from a collective hangover when you arrive, a sickly pall hanging over the entire city. It seems like you missed one hell of a festival, but you find yourself grateful for that. Right now, you're just not in the mood to celebrate. Maybe that's why you're doing this, you muse, not to lift Sandoval's spirits but for your own benefit. Still, if you both gain from it then where's the harm?

Overhead, Herod swoops through the air and circles above you and Caliban as you walk through the quiet streets. Having his eyes looking out over you is strangely comforting, and you remind yourself to thank the daemon later. Maybe you'll buy him some treats, a bit of scrap meat or-

“That will not be necessary,” Herod interrupts dryly, pushing his way into your thoughts, “Do not mistake me for some caged pet begging for scraps. In either case, I do not require food.”

-

The same pall hangs over Morey's bar when you arrive, the sour scent of vomit drifting through from some back room. The Morey himself is sitting behind the bar, grunting and spitting something to Mara in his own bestial tongue. When he notices you enter, he raises one hand and bellows a curt syllable. Hiding a shudder, you return his salute. If anything, his maw seems to have grown more hideous since last time you saw him, with a tusk piercing through the flesh of his lower lip and jutting towards his nose. The flesh around the wound looks septic, and the glassy look in Morey's eyes suggests heavy drug use.

It seemed like Mara was taking up more and more of Morey's duties, and now you've got an idea why. How much longer until the old monster can't function at all?

“Hello,” Mara coos as she saunters over to greet you, “This is no social call, is it?”

You hesitate for a moment, weighing up the possible answers to her question before shrugging. “How did you guess?” you ask eventually.

“It never is,” she replies with a pout, placing one clammy hand on your arm as she steers you towards a table, “Very well. Spit it out – what can we do for you?”

“Those men who were shooting at us a while back, you know the ones,” you explain, “What happened with them? The bodies, say, or their belongings?”

Mara raises an eyebrow. “The bodies were taken care of. We're not barbarians, you know! They were burned, or otherwise... disposed of,” she glances aside as she says this, and you watch as Morey picks at his jagged teeth with a slender dagger. You really don't like what she's implying here. A joke, surely?

“And their belongings?” Caliban presses, either less concerned about her implications or simply covering up his revulsion.

Tutting softly, Mara leans back in her seat as she pretends to think your question over. You know that smug look all too well – she's trying to figure out an angle, a way of turning this to her advantage.

[2/3]

>>3127155

“Well, what are you looking for?” she asks eventually, “Their valuables would have been divided up, bartered away, spread far and wide... but these things can always be found again.” Slowly licking her own jagged teeth – her fangs not nearly so prominent as Morey's, thankfully – Mara thinks for a moment more. “A few of them had valuables – little trinkets or bits of jewellery – and who knows where they are now? I DO know that we kept their guns for ourselves. Quite the boon, those.”

“That's what we're looking for,” you stress, “A pistol, specifically. A pocket automatic, quite decorative. Not a soldier's weapon, a nobleman's piece. You'd know if if you saw it.”

“A pistol?” Mara frowns as she repeats the word to herself, “No. We took rifles, nothing else. This pistol, though, I will find it for you – because we are friends. It may take some time, though. I will have to ask many questions to many people.” Grinning at you, leering really, Mara seems to think of something. Of course, this was what she had been getting to all along. “You will be bored waiting here, I am sure,” she suggests, “While I am searching, you can perhaps do a little job for us.”

And here you go. “What do you want?” you sigh, gesturing for her to get on with it.

Pouting, Mara sniffs before explaining her deal. “Last night, one of our messengers went missing. We think he fell into the waterway. Drunk, the idiot. We don't care about getting him back, but we DO want the package he was carrying,” she mutters, lowering her voice, “It was likely carried downstream. Scavengers like to operate there, picking through the refuse. He was carrying a metal case, sealed tight. Easy to recognise – about as easy as this pistol you're looking for. Will you do this for us? Just to pass the time, of course.”

And if you don't agree to this, the pistol will never be found. Then again, perhaps you could try something else – there has to be someone else in the city who can help you, right?

>Agree to Mara's deal
>Search for the pistol in some other way... (Write in)
>Question Mara about her job... (Write in)
>Other

>>3127174
>>Agree to Mara's deal
Let's get it done

>>3127174
>>Agree to Mara's deal
>Question Mara about her job... (Write in)
Is this package important enough to kill the messenger over?

>>3127174
>Agree to Mara's deal

Hell, anyone else you might ask would just send you on some shitty errand of their own. Best to just get this over with now, while you can. “Okay, sure, that sounds like a good way to pass the time,” you tell Mara with a thin, humourless smile, “I'm sure you'll be plenty busy as well while we're gone. So, I just wanted to clear something up first.” Mara smiles coyly, gesturing for you to ask your question. “This parcel,” you inquire, “Was whatever was inside it important enough to kill over?”

“Hmm... not really,” Mara concedes, “But that does not mean blood was not spilled. Sometimes, there will be those daring enough to shed blood for the thrill of it. However, we do not think this to be the case. A man was spotted falling into the waterway last night, and we believe this to be our man. Falsehoods can be spread, however, but...”

Past a certain point, you just have to accept things and move on. So far, this is shaping up to be more of an inconvenience than a difficult job, but it still needs doing. “Then we'd best get to work,” you conclude, nodding your thanks to Mara as you get up to leave.

“Don't get too filthy!” she teases, wiggling her slender fingers in a mocking wave.

-

The foul smell of the waterways hits you long before you see the actual channel. Pausing to tie thick rags around your faces, you and Caliban continue on in silence for a few moments more. Then, the hunter speaks. “So...” he begins, “How much do you want to wager that this won't be nearly as simple as Mara suggests?”

“What, you don't trust her?” you laugh, “I don't know, though. If she wanted us to kill someone, she would have come out and said that. She's many things, that one, but she isn't shy about a little violence.”

Caliban just grunts, leaning over the edge to gaze down into the waterway below. Dark and sluggish, the water flows towards the outskirts of the city. Past a certain point, you recall, it hits a barred exit that has, over time, grown even more blocked by years of garbage. Bodies often wash up there, along with all manner of things. Scavengers sort through the trash, and anything that can be recovered soon surfaces back on the markets. With luck, you'll find the case before anyone has a chance to grab it for themselves.

“Is that a house?” Caliban remarks, pointing down at the crooked dwelling down below, “Who would live...”

“Gutter Sut,” you mutter to yourself, shaking your head in disbelief. It's strange, seeing his place again. Of course, you should have been expecting this – he's not the sort to move his base of operations – but it slipped your mind completely. Now that you think about it, this all started with Gutter Sut...

Beneath your crude mask, you feel a wan smile forming on your lips.

[1/2]

>>3127213

Past Gutter Sut's festering manse, you spot the end of the waterway ahead and take the next ladder down that you come across. Down below, the smell hits even harder. You shudder to imagine what it's like for Caliban, with his keen nose. If he has any complaints about the situation, though, he keeps them to himself. Walking on for a while longer, you hear a shrill giggle drifting down from above you. Looking up, you spot a ragged figure sitting atop one of the wooden beams spanning the waterway.

“What do we have here?” the figure – androgynous in their baggy clothes and straggly hair – coos, “A right pair of sewer rats, and no mistake!” A reveller left over from the previous night, you realise, their mind still twisted by a dose of rhyming leaf. You'll never understand why the waterway draws these deranged fools, but they tend to congregate here for some reason. Maybe it's just because Sut does business here, peddling drugs to anyone with the coin to pay.

Ignoring the addict – you know better than to waste words on one such as them – you nod to Caliban and continue on. With a faint grunt of disappointment, the hunter tosses away the rock he was preparing to throw at the addict and follows you.

-

At the far end of the aqueduct, mud has piled up in places to form crude islands littered with trash and crudely-made totems. A little bit of theatre to scare off the superstitious, as you recall, nothing more than that. Monotia has not been home to any serious witchcraft in years... or so King Roegar likes to claim. Privately, you have your doubts. Setting that thought aside for now, you gesture reluctantly down to the mud and filth. “Well, here we are,” you announce, “Time to get stuck in.”

“Lovely,” Caliban sighs, “I think I'd be happier slaving away at a pile of paperwork with the girls.”

Sewer mud squelches underfoot as you hop down onto the closest patch of solid ground. A small group of scavengers scatters at your arrival, their unclean bodies blending in with the greyish mud as they slink back to watch from a distance. Neither overtly hostile or welcoming, they wait to see what you'll do. Rolling up your sleeves, you crouch down to probe at a blocky shape half-buried in the mud in front of you. Soon, you see wood and abandon your efforts. The case was metal, according to Mara, it should stand out from the usual detritus that washes up here.

“How big is this case?” Caliban wonders aloud, looking at the metal bars blocking off the waterway exit. They're tight enough that a grown man would struggle to slip through, but a bit of luggage?

“Don't,” you warn him with a shudder, “Don't even suggest that.”

[2/3]

>Sorry for the delay. Had a spot of computer trouble and lost a chunk of work.

>>3127255

Filthy scavengers watch with both curiosity and confusion – and, you can't help but think, amusement – as you and Caliban slog through the mud, digging at anything that looks artificial only to cast it aside as soon as you learn that it's not what you're looking for. Most of what you find is so damaged that it's hard to guess what it was originally supposed to be. Furniture once, perhaps, now little better than firewood.

“This is nice,” Caliban grunts, a faint note of irony in his voice, as he hold up a small wooden jewellery box. Opening it up, he curses softly to see that it's empty inside. Stolen, emptied of anything valuable, then tossed away. Tossed away for a second time, you think as Caliban drops it back down into the mud. “Hell with it, I'm taking a break,” he announces, lifting a crooked chair up and sitting heavily down on it. Producing a flask, he strips off his mask and takes a swig of liquor.

Taking the flask when he offers it out to you, you take a swallow of the burning spirit and look about. The pile of junk you've accumulated seems to be drawing a fair bit of attention from the other scavengers, but they don't dare approach you. Your presence here has them on their guard, and a few of them have even abandoned their efforts here. Scurrying away, they retreat into the shelter of a sewer tunnel. “Looks cosy,” you joke, “Maybe we should pay them a visit, see if they know anything.”

“You think?” Caliban asks, apparently taking your idea seriously, “Although they might not be in the mood to welcome guests. I wouldn't mind a few extra pairs of hands to help us dig, though.” Drinking again, he pockets the flask and wipes his hands on his filthy breeches. “Back to work, then,” the hunter sighs, prodding at some unsavoury lump with his boot.

>No point in delaying it any further. Time to get back to work
>Take a break and explore the scavenger tunnels
>Try and speak with some of the scavengers
>Some other plan, perhaps... (Write in)
>Other

>>3127280
>>Try and speak with some of the scavengers
Worth a shot.

>>3127280
>>Try and speak with some of the scavengers

>>3127280
>Try and speak with some of the scavengers

“Maybe we can get some local advice,” you tell Caliban, nodding towards a few of the scavengers, “Or even a few extra pairs of hands. Sure beats doing all the digging ourselves.” The hunter gives you a dubious look, glancing aside at the cowering, skulking creatures. With a thick layer of the sewer mud slathered across their bare skin and a medley of other Nadir disfigurements spread out amongst their number, they barely seem human at all. “Hey, trust me,” you add, slapping Caliban on the arm, “I'll win them over. Just you wait and see!”

Leaving him to watch, his scarred face set in a smirk, you slowly approach one of the larger scavengers with your empty hands spread out. He flinches back away from you, producing an iron hook from his crude belt and swiping it in your direction until you step back. “I don't want to harm you!” you snap, “I just want to talk. To talk!”

He can understand you, you're sure about that, but he makes no attempt to talk back. Just as you're reconsidering your options, you hear mud squelching from behind you. One of the smaller, younger scavengers was taking advantage of your distraction to creep closer to the pile of discarded salvage you had put aside, seeking to take something for himself. Freezing under your gaze, the scavenger lets out a low moan of fear.

An idea forms in your mind.

“Take what you wish,” you tell the young scavenger, before turning to look around at the rest of the group, “All of you can take whatever you wish. We're looking for one thing and one thing only – a sealed metal case. If you help us find that, you can take everything else that we find. Not a bad deal, wouldn't you say?”

Even these degraded primitives can understand this. You've scared off most of their competition, but you're not staking a claim on the bulk of their salvage – therefore, more for them. Seizing the initiative, the larger scavenger – what passes for a leader amongst them, you presume – painfully hauls its body straighter upright and nods firmly.

“See?” you tell Caliban, “Nothing to it!”

-

For two long hours, you dig through rotting filth with the equally unpleasant scavengers. At one point you find a bloated corpse, and the locals fall upon it with fearful haste. You recoil, uncertain of their motives, and yet they treat the corpse with care. Cautiously pulling it from the mud, a small group of the scavengers carry it up onto their shoulders and bear it away to the sewer tunnel. You start to follow them, only to stop yourself. Whatever this is, it has the air of a ritual ceremony. A private thing, not for outside eyes.

Besides, there's still work to be done.

[1/2]

>>3127344

After the brief excitement of the corpse's discovery, you sink back into the deep monotony of hard labour. You've told the scavengers what you're looking for, describing it in as much detail as possible, and little other communication is necessary. Every time that one of the scavengers finds something, they let out a short hoot of triumph and hold it aloft for the others to see. After one such find, Caliban approaches you and speaks up in a low voice.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I'm getting an ear for their language,” the hunter marvels, “Those shorter cries mean excitement, while the longer ones are disappointed. Fascinating really. Can you tell that I'm bored out of my fucking mind?”

A new peal of hooting cuts off your curt reply, the sound echoing out from the sewer tunnel. One of the scavengers returns from their grim task, and they have something held triumphantly above his head. When you see light glinting off his trophy, you feel a thrill of excitement gripping you. Held in clawed hands, the scavenger bears a sealed metal case.

-

A short distance away, the unwashed locals bark and snap at each other as they fight over the pile of trash you helped unearth from the waterway. You pay them little mind, instead running your hands across the dented metal case. “Best check it over,” Caliban urges you, “Just to be certain that it wasn't emptied. That jewellery box...”

“Right,” you agree. He's just curious, of course, and so are you, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have a point. If the case is empty, Mara will have no reason to honour your deal. You're not sure what you'll do if it IS empty, but you'll think of something. So, you click open the case's clasps and open it. Inside, held by a dense fold of sackcloth, you see a heavy syringe – the glass barrel filled with dark blood.

“Uh...” Caliban murmurs, unusually lost for words by the sight, “That wasn't what I was expecting.”

“Oh?” you ask, covering up your own confusion, “What were you expecting?”

“Hell, I don't know,” he replies with a shrug, “A pair of false teeth? I guess we should bring it back to Mara, but... I wonder what the doc would make of this.”

Now you're curious too. A few drops of blood out of the syringe, just enough to give Barnum something to study, you're sure that she wouldn't notice the difference...

>Bring the case back to Mara immediately. You've delayed long enough
>Bring the syringe to Barnum, see what he can discover
>Other

>>3127385
>>Bring the syringe to Barnum, see what he can discover

>>3127385
>Bring the syringe to Barnum, see what he can discover

Additional Nadir mutations unlocked.

>>3127385
>>Bring the syringe to Barnum, see what he can discover
Contaminated blood of some kind? A bio-weapon, maybe? Seems unlikely, but I'm curious too.

>>3127385
>Bring the syringe to Barnum, see what he can discover

>>3127385
>Bring the syringe to Barnum, see what he can discover
>Also take a shower. If Mara asks why we went to the ship first, say it was the reason.

“We're bring this back to Barnum,” you decide, closing the case and snapping the clasps back into place, “I don't know what this is, but I don't like it. Come on, we're getting out of here.”

“What a shame,” the hunter drawls, “I was just starting to like it here. Maybe I should start looking for a house in the area...” He nods though, and soon you're hurrying away towards the aerodrome. It isn't heavy, the case tucked under your arm, but you feel painfully aware of its presence. It's not quite a ticking bomb, but it certainly feels like dangerous cargo. Maybe Caliban was right, maybe this isn't as simple as Mara suggested.

You'll see.

-

“Well,” Barnum whispers, holding the syringe in a delicate grip as he studies it, “I cannot promise to find any conclusive answers, but there are some tests I can carry out. Even a drop of this liquid – I am not yet prepared to call it blood – can potentially yield a great deal of knowledge. My tests will take time, however. I will send for you when they are complete.” Taking out a small glass dish, Barnum allows a tiny drip of blood to fall into it. With his attention fixed on the experiments, you take that as your cue to leave.

While the doctor works, you spend a long time washing the scent of the river out of your skin and hair before changing into fresh clothes. A good excuse for Mara, if she learns of your little detour – after all, she wouldn't want you stinking up the bar. Allowing the hot water to pour over you, you concentrate on thinking of nothing at all. It's surprisingly hard, given everything that you've got going on. When this Sandoval business is over, you'll see about visiting Eishin's former territory. Communing with the heart, if that is even possible, might-

“Boss?” Keziah thinks to you, “The doc is looking for you. He said that you'll be very interested in what he found.”

-

“Poison,” Barnum announces simply, looking down at the syringe, “It IS blood, yes, but the blood has been laced with a high concentration of a paralytic poison. If this was injected into an individual, it would quickly cause their body to shut down. Their heart would cease beating, their lungs would cease drawing breath, and their muscles would lock up like steel cables. Death would come rapidly, and it would be almost unavoidable.”

“Oh,” you reply slowly, “That sounds pretty bad.”

“Yes,” Barnum agrees, nodding solemnly, “Very bad indeed.”

“Easier ways of killing a man,” you points out, “Just stick a knife in them, bash them over the head, shoot them down in an alleyway... are you sure that this is poison and not, I don't know, some kind of Nadir trick?”

“Perhaps the blood was intended for medicinal purposes,” Barnum muses, “Only for the poison to kill instead of curing the intended patient.”

He sounds uncomfortably familiar with the idea.

[1/2]

>>3127446
Well I hope Morey isn't trying to assassinate anyone we like.

>>3127446

The syringe sits on the table like a dead animal while the three of you look down at it. Nobody says anything for a while. Caliban reaches for a cigarette, but a sharp look from Doctor Barnum stops the hunter before he can strike a match. Eventually, you realise that you're the one who has to break the silence, although you really have no idea what to say. “So it's poison,” you sigh, “Where does that leave us, exactly?”

“It would appear to leave us with a syringe filled with tainted blood,” Barnum helpfully replies, “Perhaps your associates wish to quietly murder someone.”

“Too many damn assassination attempts...” Caliban mutters, toying with the unlit cigarette, “Hell, I say we bring it back anyway. If Mara doesn't get this back, we don't get what we want either. Chances are, whoever Morey wants dead is a real asshole anyway.”

Considering his advice, you glance around to Barnum, but the doctor just shakes his head. “I do not know enough about the local situation to offer an educated opinion,” he informs you, “And I cannot speak on the morality of using poison. It is a tool like any other. Perhaps these associates of yours will be willing to share their plans with you. Perhaps I am wrong, but you have a good relationship with them, do you not?”

Caliban lets out a curt snort, but otherwise says nothing. One way or the other, you'll have to decide what to do with the tainted blood.

>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all
>Tell Mara that you “lost” the tainted blood and dispose of it
>Other

>>3127473
>>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all

>>3127473
>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all
Maybe we can inquire after the target, maybe not. But we need that gun and the gang will just find another way to take down their target even if the poison goes missing.

>>3127473
>>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all
you idjits, it's for Mara to give to The Morey, end his suffering.

>>3127473

>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all


NO KILLING gutter sut

>>3127473
>>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all

>>3127473
>Bring the blood to Mara as agreed. You made a deal, after all

I don't think it's for an assassination at all. Even if they wanted to poison someone, why poisoned blood? Why not straight poison?

Sighing, you close the case again and snap it shut. Once the syringe is out of sight, the mood seems to lift somewhat. “I'm still bringing it to Mara,” you decide, “We made a deal, after all. I'm going to see if she's willing to share anything, but I'm not holding my breath. If they are trying to kill someone, they'll find some way of doing it either way. Like I said, there are a lot of ways to kill someone.”

“I understand, captain,” Barnum replies, bowing his head slightly, “If it is any consolation to you, the poison would be very quick, very efficient. I will not pretend that it is painless, but the pain would last but a moment. Perhaps they are being merciful.”

Maybe so. An idea is starting to take shape in your mind, and you're not sure how you feel about it.

-

Mara is waiting for you outside Morey's bar, sitting on a barrel and nonchalantly kicking her heels against the solid wood. When she sees you approach with the case tucked under one arm, her face brightens up. Hopping down, she hurries across to meet you halfway. “We found it exactly where you thought it would be, in the waterway,” you tell her, lowering your voice before adding, “I had to look inside – to make sure that it hadn't been emptied out by some thief.”

“Ah,” Mara pauses, tilting her head as she acknowledges this, “A sensitive matter. I would ask that you keep this between the two of us.” Reaching into her deep pocket, she pulls out a small leather bag and passes it across to you. “This came from Silas Crowe, along with a message for you,” she continues, “He said that normally, you might have to pay for this, but you returned something of his not so long ago.”

It takes you a moment to remember the thief you encountered at the night markets with Freddy. You could have let him bleed out in the streets, but you brought him back to his master. Now, that small kindness is paying off. Opening the bag, you take out the pistol and look it over. It's a little dirty, but there's no mistaking it – it's the perfect match to the one in Worthington's office. Wrapping it back up and pocketing it, you give Mara a cautious look. “This blood,” you ask, “What's it for?”

Baring her fangs, Mara runs her tongue across them. “The Morey believes that an infusion of certain blood can alter the course of his transformation,” she explains slowly, “Not reverse it, of course, but to guide it along a new path. Youth, strength, power... the ability to avoid biting your tongue...” She giggles a little as she adds that last part, teasingly sticking her own long tongue out at you before grabbing the case. “A pleasure as always!” she concludes, turning to retreat back to the bar.

>Let her leave. What happens next is none of your business
>Stop her and ask directly about the poison
>Other

>>3127545
>Stop her and ask directly about the poison
It would be very unfortunate if she didn't actually know it's poison.

>>3127545
>Stop her and ask directly about the poison
I'm not sure if she is aware of the poison or not. If she does...well I won't pretend to understand her and Morey's relationship or how succession works in the gang, but as long as we give an 'Are you sure?' and a chance to at least think it through.

>>3127545
>>Stop her and ask directly about the poison

>>3127545
>>Stop her and ask directly about the poison
Not saying we'll be sad to see the old bastard go, but a final "are you sure" for our little not-buddy Mara seems in order.

Gesturing for Caliban to hang back, you hurry ahead and catch up with Mara, grabbing her lightly by the arm. “Hey, wait,” you hiss, “Wait a moment. I need to talk with you, and this won't wait.” Looking around, you thank yourself for the quiet streets. Guiding Mara down into the alleyway beside the bar, you let go of her arm and take a deep breath. “How sure about this are you?” you ask her bluntly, “This could be dangerous, you know.”

Mara tilts her head to the side, considering you in silence for a moment. “I've made up my mind,” she says softly, “And we have... talked. The Morey is willing to accept a risk, and arrangements have been made. If something goes wrong-”

“Something WILL go wrong,” you interrupt, slashing your hand through the air, “You know exactly what's going to happen!” This wasn't supposed to turn into an accusation, but sometimes things don't go to plan. Regardless, Mara doesn't react to this – there are no outbursts of anger or wild protests, just a blank stare. “So what, is this mercy?” you continue, softening your tone, “He isn't looking good these days, and I'm guessing he's in pain as well. Better to end it quickly and quietly, is that it?”

Finally, Mara nods. “I owe him that much,” she states, her earlier cheer stripped away to reveal something as cold and hard as steel, “The Morey was a great man, a great leader, but he is growing old. Weak. Already, I hear whispers of doubt – if this continues, we will lose support like blood leaking from a wound. Better to be done with it now, before the damage becomes irreparable. Do not think that I have not agonised over this – it is... not an easy thing that I do.”

Finally letting out a pent-up breath, you step back and give Mara room to slip out of the alleyway. “I don't think this is going to end the way you think it will,” you tell her, “But I don't think you're going to reconsider. If you were going to change your mind, you would have done so before now.”

“Just so,” Mara agrees, tucking the case under her arm and creeping away. Pausing in the mouth of the alleyway, she turns to give you a solemn salute before adding: “Long live the king.”

-

You linger in the alleyway for what seems like a long time before Caliban approaches you. Eve before you say anything, he figures it out. “You could still stop her,” he suggests, “It's not too late for that.”

“No, I... I don't know,” you reply slowly, shaking your head, “I think she's got a point. This really is a mercy, like Barnum said. You saw Morey – he was falling to bits, ripping himself apart. I march in there now, trying to stop what's coming, it's not going to end well. For anyone.”

“And this IS ending well?” Caliban counters.

>Caliban's right. You need to put a stop to this
>No, this is how it should be. Morey's time is over
>Other

>I apologise for the quick series of votes, I just don't want anything to get out of control

>>3127640
>Caliban's right. You need to put a stop to this
Patricide (at least I think he is her father) isn't something anyone should do. There must be a better method to transfer power to Mara without murder. Let Morey retire.

>>3127640
>Morey's ultimately a bandit and a cutthroat. His fate shouldn't worry us.

>>3127640
>No, this is how it should be. Morey's time is over
I don't really think we should mess with this. Morey is probably suffering greatly, breaking down bit by bit. What even is the best outcome? What would we hope to achieve? For someone else who isn't Mara or Morey to be in-charge? For Morey to peacefully retire, so Mara takes over? Would he even want that, or is he expecting Mara to finally end his life so she can take over?

>>3127640
>No, this is how it should be. Morey's time is over.

He's old and in constant misery. This is a mercy. Even if he just retires he'll still want to die.

>>3127640
>No, this is how it should be. Morey's time is over.

He's old and in constant misery. This is a mercy. Even if he just retires he'll still want to die.

>>3127709
>>3127698
goddamn broken 4chan

>>3127640
>>Caliban's right. You need to put a stop to this

>>3127640
>>No, this is how it should be. Morey's time is over

“No, this isn't our place to interfere. Morey's time is up – he's not going to recover from this, not ever. Stopping this now would just postpone the inevitable,” you sigh, shaking your head, “This is how it should be. Quick, and... as clean as it can be. I don't like it much, but I don't like any of the other options here.” Drawing in a deep breath, you straighten up and look Caliban in the eye. “Morey is a criminal, a bandit, and worse things besides. His fate should be decided by his own kind,” you conclude, “It's not our place.”

Caliban weighs up your words, then nods. “Fine,” he states simply, turning and marching away, “Come on, we should get back to the ship. I want to know if the others found anything in the archives.”

“Wait, that's it?” you hiss, running after him, “Just “fine” and we're done here?”

“Yep,” the hunter agrees, looking around at you, “You made a choice, captain, and that's good enough for me. This way, you won't be able to make any excuses if this comes back to bite you on the ass. It seems to me like you'll be having a lot more choices to make in the days to come, and you'll be weighing up more than just one life. Best that you start getting used to the idea now. Standing by and doing nothing is not an excuse.”

Grumbling, you follow after him as he strides away. “Fine, point taken,” you concede, “But when did you become the conscience around here?”

-

Back at the Spirit of Helena, you give Dwight the signal to take off before slumping down into one of the bridge seats. Taking the pistol out of your pocket, you unwrap it and turn it over in your hands. You've got something that links Arno Worthington with the attempt on Sandoval's life, and yet... you feel uncertain about it. Worthington himself could likely spin enough of an excuse to rationalise it away. It's not bulletproof evidence of anything.

“But then, maybe we don't need it to be bulletproof,” you say aloud, “We just need to get Milleux to take us seriously.”

“You talking to me, chief?” Dwight asks, looking around in his chair. When he sees that your attention is fixed on the pistol in your lap, he looks away again. “Seems to me like the Hierophant has an awful lot of power here,” he continues, talking more to himself than to anyone else, “Say, is there going to be a trial or anything for this? Do we get to stand up and yell “objection” at people we find objectionable? I'll admit, I've always wanted to do that...”

Good question. Sandoval never really suggested anything about a trial – either she wanted to avoid anything formal, anything that might spill over into the public eye, or she had no expectation of one. The church does place absolute power in the Hierophant's hands, so...

“Scary stuff,” Dwight concludes with a sigh, “Hope he's got a good head on his shoulders, this Hierophant of theirs.”

[1/2]

>>3127640
>>No, this is how it should be. Morey's time is over
>>Other
Nadir rules, we know them as well as Caliban does. Mara has been Morey's voice and eyes for a while now. She knows best, and this is Monotia.

What we should do is back Mara up in this ploy. We owe her at least that much.

>>3127734
Too bad we couldn't help her fake his death while taking him to Maeve to see if she could help him.

>>3127733

When you land back in Sol Carthul, the others are waiting in the aerodrome for you. Grace looks smug, triumphant, while Blessings seems even more nervous than usual. Freddy just looks exhausted, like she might collapse at any minute. Between the others boarding the Helena and them arriving at the bridge, she vanishes – back to her quarters, you assume, to get a good day's sleep. She's earned that much, at least.

“We found something,” Grace begins, cutting straight to the heart of the issue, “It could be significant. Hard to tell. We're still debating it. Miss Lhaus was very helpful, actually. I'll do my best to explain her side of things. Where to start...”

“Bishop Worthington was arranging notices of death,” Blessings tells you, his voice low but firm, “They were separate from the other churchmen slain during the attack on Eishin's territory. A second group of bodies, apparently, missed during the first search. Among the dead was his son – that's why Worthington tried to handle it quietly, so he could be allowed to grieve in peace. There's just... one problem. The notices needed to be signed by a senior archivist. All of them. And they were.”

“Or so they seemed,” Grace gloats, “The signatures were forged – fake.”

“I know one of the archivists, Alfaro. You've met, I think, and... ah, well, I know what his signature looks like. It was on some of the new death notices, but it was faked,” Blessings takes over, “So, um, for whatever reason, Worthington wanted to note down a group of soldiers as being dead. Except, ah... we're not sure if they really DID die during the battle.”

“Miss Lhaus told us about this. A rumour she heard from her time in the military – some of the best soldiers would be removed from their normal units and placed in special training programs. Usually, they would be recorded as having died in some “training exercise” or another,” Grace concludes, her fists shaking a little with excitement, “Worthington made sure that these men vanished, so they could be used as... as his secret police, assassins even! The best bit is, Blessings' friend at the archives is willing to testify to this!”

The pieces, you realise, are starting to fall into place. You really might have something here, something that Milleux has to take seriously. A soft cough catches your attention, and you glance around to see Branwen standing in the doorway, listening in to your conversation.

“Big,” the Nadir girl declares, “If it is true.”

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

>>3127806
Thanks for running!

Yea, I guess the church would have had records of their agents. Silly us.

How likely is it that Morey absorbs the poison blood and becomes even more powerful? Going on to take Eishins spot as rebel king.

>>3127806
Thanks for running!

>>3127806
All the pieces fall into place.

I hope the Hierophant can get over whatever mentor relationship he had with the Bishop

Thanks for running.

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>>3127824

>>3127806
>“Big,” the Nadir girl declares, “If it is true.”
BRANWEN is saying this? She's just pretending, right?

>>3127824
Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. When has injecting dubious chemicals ever had any horrible consequences?
>>3127911
She's trying out one of those "joke" things, most likely. I like to imagine that she heard someone say it once, and she's repeating it without really understanding it

File: Dwight Hasenkamp.png (770 KB, 600x819)

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A ribbon of smoke coils up from the cigarette dangling from between Dwight's lips, slowly colouring the air a faint grey. You're not fully sure why he's taking so much of an interest in this, but he's been devoting most of his spare time to studying the evidence you've been gathering. So far, you're still waiting for his blinding insights. If he's got a theory of his own, he hasn't shared it with you yet. Maybe, you consider, he's just interesting in the whole procedure. Or maybe he's just sweet on Sandoval, despite having a woman of his own back home.

But then, this would hardly be the first time an airship man would have a woman in each port. It isn't the first, and it won't be the last.

“I just don't have a good feeling about this,” he announces at last, stubbing out his cigarette. Before he can elaborate on that, you spot a flash of colour outside the aerodrome. A bright red – and somewhat familiar - skiff comes down to land. That's Trice's ship, no other churchman would have such a gaudy vessel. You start to hurry out to greet it, but then Dwight speaks up again. “Take this pistol, I mean,” he remarks, “Worthington could claim that we planted it. He could have an answer to everything.”

“That may be true,” you admit, pausing long enough to assuage the man's fears, “I hate that it's coming down to this, but this could end up with our story against his.”

“Toss a coin, huh?” Dwight mutters, “Tough break...”

Nodding curtly to him, you hasten out of the ship and out into the aerodrome. But, by the time you find Trice's skiff, the ship is empty. You linger a while to see if she's likely to return, but the suspicious gaze of a nearby guard eventually drives you away. The last thing you need right now is to be mistaken for some kind of skulking thief. Trice being here, now of all times, though... this doesn't sit well with you. Some last minute change of plans?

You don't like this at all.

-

With the evidence prepared, and your theories... more or less put together, you head to the Keep in order to meet with Sandoval. It'll be good to share the news with her, and if there is some kind of official investigation, she'll need time to prepare herself. When you arrive, though, you notice a change. Before, it had been a calm and quiet place, but now there are many more guards stationed about. Church soldiers, tense and taut in their starched white uniforms. The whole place feels more like an Iraklin outpost than a church building, a comparison that only deepens your unease.

You're stopped there, at the front entrance, until a grim-faced man appears to escort you inside. Introducing himself as Provost Nereus, he says little else until your weapons are safely stored within the armoury.

Not taking any chances, this one.

[1/2]

>>3129314

“Say, friend,” Dwight asks the provost after a while, “What's with all the soldiers around here?”

“First of all, I'm not your friend. As Saint Duras the Warder said, beware the over-familiar,” Nereus replies, his tone flat and unfriendly, “But, to answer your question, there is a visiting bishop in residence. Precautions must be taken. Bishop Rhea has descended from her post to offer her assistance in the dispute between Bishop Worthington and... Miss Sandoval.” His lip curls a little as he says her name, stressing her lack of official rank. “Regardless, I have been briefed on the situation,” Nereus adds, “You are Vaandemere, correct? I've been told that you are to be allowed access. Miss Sandoval has named you as her aide in this matter.”

Rhea is here – that DOES put an interesting spin on things. She's hardly an unbiased party in all this, but you're struggling to guess exactly how she'll weigh in. A hard woman to predict, Rhea. As Nereus looks over you and your party, you feel strangely glad that Keziah opted to remain back on the ship. Dwight, Caliban, Blessings and Grace... none of them have any obvious disfigurements, nothing that would compare with the scales slowly claiming the witch's skin.

“I see. Thank you for your assistance,” you tell Nereus, trying very hard to remain polite. He's a young man with dark hair and a face as pale as a corpse, his features pinched and unkind. Not exactly the sort of person that encourages warmth or kindness, in other words. “I wonder if you could help us a little more,” you continue, “How exactly is this going to... work?”

You leave this vague, allowing the provost to come to his own conclusions. “There will be an inquiry. Miss Sandoval and Bishop Worthington will present their claims, along with any supporting evidence. Hierophant Milleux and Bishop Rhea will judge their words and decide who is telling the truth,” Nereus explains, “As her aide, you have been given leave to meet with Miss Sandoval. You will also have access to Bishop Worthington, although I will have to be present with any interaction – to ensure that nothing untoward happens. The Hierophant can answer any other questions you have, I can escort you to his office if you wish. However, your companions...”

“We'll be around,” Dwight assures you, gesturing back towards the atrium, “We can get some tea, relax a little, it'll be fine. Come find us if you need us.”

You've got to admire his optimism – at least, you think it's optimism. Maybe getting worried is just too much like hard work for the pilot. Seeing as how you won't have the freedom to wander the Keep, though, you're going to have to get used to the sullen provost.

>Meet with Sandoval to prepare for the inquiry
>Visit Bishop Worthington. You can hear his side of the story, at least
>Speak with the Hierophant about the inquiry
>Other

>>3129315
>Visit Bishop Worthington. You can hear his side of the story, at least

>>3129315
>>Visit Bishop Worthington. You can hear his side of the story, at least
I can already tell this is going to be a shitshow.

>>3129315
Kinda wanna check in with Sandoval, but

>Visit Worthington

“I would like to speak with Bishop Worthington, yes,” you tell the provost, nodding for the rest of your team to hang back, “Does he know...” Again, you leave this question cautiously incomplete, waiting to see the limits of what Nereus can or will tell you. He waits a second more to see if you'll narrow down your comment before sighing and gesturing for you to follow him. That, you suppose, is an answer of sorts.

“Bishop Worthington has been made aware of the accusations levelled against him,” the provost finally answers, “Although certain details that Miss Sandoval shared with us have, naturally, been held in confidence. The opposing parties have met for an initial round of discussions, in the hope that this matter could be... neatly cleaned away. The Hierophant yet hopes that this is all a misunderstanding.”

You're going to guess that the matter was NOT cleaned away. Quite the opposite, in fact. Nereus says nothing more for a while, leading you on in silence before you arrive at a nondescript door. Knocking firmly, he shows you in. The room is small, plain as to avoid any distractions, and Bishop Worthington sits in hushed conversation with a young churchwoman. Discussing his side of the story, you assume, as he falls silent as soon as he realises that Nereus isn't alone.

“Miss Sandoval's aide,” the provost announces, bowing his head slightly, “Captain Milos Vaandemere.”

“I see,” Worthington muses, studying you with cold and analytical eyes, “I believe we've met once before, in passing. Saint Alma's Academy, was it not?”

Searching your memory, you nod. A fleeting encounter with him in the shrine, hardly enough to give you any insight into his true nature. Back then, he had just seemed like a regular – if senior – member of the church. His hair has only gotten greyer since you last saw him, and the seams in his face look more pronounced. His eyes, though, are still sharp and cunning. His garb is modest, plain white robes common to members of the church, and he wears a stone pendant at his throat. That, you're fairly sure, is new. He gestures for you to sit with an unhurried wave of his hand, while Provost Nereus leans back against the only exit with a deliberately casual air.

Well. This is nice.

“I must say, you're an unconventional choice for an aide. I myself chose a former student of mine, just to assist with any menial tasks that needed done,” the bishop continues, nodding slightly to his unnamed assistant, “But then, Sandoval was always unconventional. It has been said that the Lord of Rising Light speaks to open minds, but He isn't the only one. I fear my colleague has fallen under the influence of... well, I wouldn't wish to speculate!”

Not in public like this, at least. In private, you wonder about the kind of conversations he might have.

[1/2]

>>3129343

“Now then, perhaps you could tell me exactly what I'm being accused of. Miss Sandoval was rather... vague with her accusations,” Bishop Worthington continues, only to hold up a hand before you can answer, “Ah, no, don't say a thing. I'm really not supposed to ask for details such as these. I imagine that our system must seem rather... strange to an outsider like you. In fact, I'm still getting my head around some of the rules myself! Provost Nereus, perhaps you can enlighten us?”

“Vaandemere. You can volunteer details if you so choose, but the bishop has no power to compel an answer. As Miss Sandoval's aide, your primary duty will be to relay messages and look up archive information. While the inquiry is underway, neither Miss Sandoval nor Bishop Worthington are permitted to leave this building – barring any unexpected circumstances,” Nereus recites, “Outside of details pertaining to the inquiry, you may converse freely – of course, I will need to be here to ensure everything remains orderly. I am, after all, an impartial party here.”

Nodding with satisfaction, Worthington gestures for his aide to leave. “Rules give us strength. Without formal proceedings such as these, where would we be? Standing in a ring of dirt, swinging blades at one another, I don't doubt,” the bishop muses, toying with what you now see is definitely an Abrahad pendant. A perfectly formed slate of white stone, carved with a single character. “I suppose Miss Sandoval would be more familiar with that sort of thing than I,” he continues, a touch of irony suffusing his words, “And now, it seems that she has suffered because of these... associates of hers.”

“Sir...” Nereus warns, only to fall silent at a gesture from Worthington. So much for him being impartial – he's the Bishop's man, no doubt about it.

“Speaking of associates...” you begin, “I hear that Bishop Rhea will be assisting with the inquiry. That doesn't seem entirely fair to me, considering your past history.”

“Bishop Rhea is a fine woman, and a paragon,” Worthington replies promptly, a harder note entering his voice, “I have every faith that she can look upon this case with objective eyes. It is true that I was her mentor, yes, but that sets a higher standard for me to adhere to – even the slightest lapse would be proof of guilt in her eyes.” Smiling then, the bishop spreads his hands wide. “In either case, it was not my decision that brought her here,” he concludes, “Come, let us speak of other things. I do have a question that I might ask you, but... common courtesy would dictate that you say your piece first. I will answer what I can – I have nothing to hide.”

Questions always have a bit of give and take involved, so...

>You've got no questions
>Ask after his son's death
>Ask about his history with Sandoval
>Ask about... (Write in)
>Other

>>3129371
He doesn't even know what he is accused of yet huh?

>Ask about his history with Sandoval

>>3129371
Ask about... (Write in)
Ask about the pendent he is wearing and the laetter on it.
As we had have good working making them work/finding out there real names.
Mybe as we leave we metion sorry for his loss

>>3129371
>Ask about the history with Sandoval, and the Abrahad pendant.

>>3129371
Supporting >>3129393

“First, I think it would be best if we're all dealing on the same level,” you begin, “What exactly do you know about the accusations levelled against you?”

“Sadly little. I'm told that an attempt was made on Miss Sandoval's life, and she believes me to be responsible,” Worthington answers, “She certainly does seem to have been wounded, and rather recently, but I know little else. It happened down in Monotia, did it not? I cannot imagine why a woman in her position would have cause to venture down there – in secret, no less! Ah, but I have answered your question. I know little else.”

So you've still got the upper hand in terms of specific details. That's good – you'll have something to surprise him with. “Tell me about your history with Miss Sandoval,” you ask, “I understand that you have some... issues with each other.”

Worthington sighs heavily. “I had hoped that you would not ask this. I fear that it will be impossible to answer you in full without delving into... petty matters. Gossip, in other words,” the bishop laments, “But yes, it is true that we have had our disagreements in the past. We both aim to protect the church, and Miss Sandoval believes that the church must adapt in order to achieve that. That, I fear, is the easy path – the path of least resistance, you might say.”

“Seek hardship, and your spirit will be strengthened from it,” Provost Nereus adds, “From the words of Saint Alma, supposedly shortly before her martyrdom.”

“What I mean to say is, changing the church in order to better suit the age may appear to strengthen it, but how much can the church change before it ceases to be what it was meant to be? If we “adapt” to the point of sullying our spirits, what point is there?” Worthington continues, his voice growing cold, “No, the harder path – to remain true to our traditions – is the only real way for the church to survive. Miss Sandoval, and I mean no offence when I say this, does not have the strength to stay the course.”

A strange answer. Before Nereus interrupted with his quote, Worthington had seemed to be far more confident. Perhaps he's worried about such an overt show of support – so overt that it ended up undermining him. Sensing a vulnerability, you press deeper. “I've heard rumours of my own,” you think aloud, “About a more personal rivalry. Sandoval has a project in the works, and perhaps you'd prefer if you were in command instead of her.”

Worthington laughs at this. “It would be in better hands, at least. You see, Miss Sandoval has a tenuous position within the church – that is to say, she has no “official” position. To make up for this, she has become grasping and vicious, clinging to whatever power and influence she can gather,” he explains, “She guards her pet project from the rest of the church, fighting off any attempts at outside help. A selfish urge, no?”

[1/2]

>>3129418
So instead of having a joint operation he'd pray Eishin away?

>>3129418

“That's why I was rather unsurprised when I learned that Miss Sandoval was injured in Nadir. Shunning the church, she makes deals with all manner of disreputable character – pursuing some rumour or another, some secret that might lift her higher within the church,” Worthington concludes with a regretful shrug, “She has been playing with fire for a long time. She was burned, yes, but I am glad that she survived. If she is wise, she will mend her ways from now on.”

Meaning, you silently translate, she should shut up and behave herself from now on. “You're saying that Sandoval is chasing secrets,” you ask, pointing slightly to the Abrahad pendant, “Secrets like that stone you wear? They have power too.”

“Yes, they do. I hope that this too holds some blessing – this character here, can you read it?” the bishop asks, the faintest hint of an insult dancing at the furthest reaches of his voice. He knows that you can't. “It means “bountiful labour”, although our language can hardly grasp the full meaning. It is the hard work that paves the way to true salvation,” Worthington explains, “I wear it as a reminder.”

So he doesn't know exactly what it does yet. With control over Sandoval's project, and the research she's been doing, though...

“Now, if I may, I have a question for YOU,” he begins, glancing briefly up to Provost Nereus before continuing, “In all your interactions with her, and all that I have told you, can you say – without a shadow of a doubt – that Miss Sandoval is beyond reproach? That her unfortunate injury did not leave her... unbalanced?”

Mad, in other words. Still, you have to admit that his suggestion isn't completely without merit. From the restless anger you saw in her earlier to this talk of paranoid secrecy... could you really make the claim that Sandoval was fully worthy of trust?

“Well?” Worthington prompts, “To doubt is to be human. There is no shame in it.”

>No, I trust Sandoval. I wouldn't be here otherwise
>You might be right about Sandoval, but that changes nothing
>So you've got a point. What would you have me do?
>I'm not answering that. This meeting is over
>Other

>>3129468
I don't see what we have to gain from any further talks with Worthington. Say something like "sorry for your loss" when leaving.
>I'm not answering that. This meeting is over

>>3129468
>She's upset, rightfully so, someone DID try to kill her. In a church no less. Monotia's chapel looks like it had been in a warzone, which means it wasn't Monotia natives. If they wanted her dead she'd not have gotten there in one piece.

That leaves only a few possibilities of who has the power, reach and desire to actually strike at her in such a way. Sadly the corpses of the assassins were already stripped bare and burned to ashes by the time I could investigate.

>>3129468
>Other
"No one is beyond reproach Bishop Worthington. Not her, not I, and certainly not you either. As you said, doubt is to be human and we are all human here."

>>3129468
Backing >>3129484

“She's upset right now – understandably upset after just barely surviving an attempt on her life,” you reply in a cold voice, “I saw the chapel where she was attacked, and it looked like a warzone. The local gangs couldn't have managed something like that, and the Iraklins wouldn't have failed. That doesn't leave many other possible suspects.” Behind you, you hear Provost Nereus approaching you in warning, and you hold up a hand to stop him. “Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to make any accusations. With the bodies stripped and reduced to ash, there wasn't enough evidence for that,” you assure the pair, “All I'm saying is that nobody is beyond reproach – not any of us. You said it yourself, to doubt is to be human. Do YOU have any doubts?”

Worthington considers this, a faintly victorious light entering his eyes as you mention the lack of evidence – a slight falsehood on your part, but if that makes him overconfident...

“Think about that. I'm finished here,” you conclude, rising from the table and allowing Nereus to lead you away. “Oh yes,” you add, looking back over your shoulder, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

Let him think THAT over.

-

Nereus says nothing as he leads you to Sandoval's quarters, and you like to think that you can sense the anger radiating off of him. As you walk, you spot a familiar face approaching from down the corridor. Even with a heavy stack of documents piled up in front of her, you recognise Provost Trice at a glance. “Hey, Lavinia,” you call out, causing Nereus to scowl and pause, “Can I talk with you for a minute?”

“Can't,” Trice replies bluntly, “I'm on duty right now.”

Again, with that uncommonly brusque attitude. “Later, then,” you tell her, leaving her to hurry away with her burden. Then again, you consider, you wouldn't be very talkative if you were weighted down with a fat stack of papers either. Gesturing for Nereus to lead on, you idly wonder if he'll ask you about the brief interruption. He doesn't, sparing you the need to explain your unlikely friendship, and soon you arrive at Sandoval's quarters.

Inside, the small woman is sitting with her feet leaning on the desk, a slender pipe balanced between two fingers. There's a certain defiance in the way she takes a draw on the pipe, and you hear Nereus scoffing in quiet disdain as he closes the door behind you. At least now you can have a little bit of privacy. Sandoval's boots scrape against the desk as she moves aside, allowing you the space to sit.

“Vaandemere,” she sighs, “I was starting to think that you'd abandoned me. I wouldn't blame you, considering – I hear Rhea is here too. I was a fool to expect them to play fair, to expect the pretence of fairness. Give me some good news – are you here to break me out?”

“No,” you reply, “I've got even better news.”

[1/2]

>>3129545

Sandoval listens with increasing curiosity as you lay out the evidence you've gathered together, only for her face to darken when you mention Worthington's comments on their shared history. Setting aside the pipe, she stabs the surface of the table with one rigid finger. “That's bullshit!” she snaps, “I had to protect my people. It's just like I said, my project is very new – until the attack on Eishin's camp, there was little belief that I could get results. If I had allowed it, the whole thing would have been dismantled!”

“So there's some truth to what he said?” you ask, your question causing Sandoval to whisper a curse. “Fine, it doesn't matter,” you sigh, “If I had been in your position... Let's just focus on the inquiry. You understand what we're looking at here?”

“Worthington used the Eishin Campaign as cover to declare a number of soldiers as killed in action, his son among them, and then he had their forged death notices inserted into the church archives. We've got a man from the archives willing to testify to this,” she recites, “In reality, Worthington was moving the soldiers into his own private unit. They were the assassins we encountered in Monotia, and the pistol you found is proof of that. It belonged to Worthington's son, one half of a matching pair – the second pistol remains in Worthington's possession.”

“And a note that Worthington himself wrote said that his son died in a heathen city,” you add, “Not in the Deep Forest.”

“Right, there was the note,” Sandoval agrees, nodding to herself, “Is that what we're going with? If we try and change our story when we get into the inquiry proper, we might look like we're lying.”

Is that everything? You're not exactly in a position to run out and gather more evidence, so...

>That's everything. It's time to get this show on the road
>There's something else to add... (Write in)
>Other

>>3129601
>There's something else to add... (Write in)
With the serial number on the gun can we trace the commission back to Worthington via the people who made it? I'm afraid of the Bishop just throwing away his gun and claiming there is no matching pair.

>>3129601
>That's everything

Kinda wanted to forge some notes but oh well

>>3129608
He's stuck here for now, if they raid his house he won't have a chance.

>>3129601
>>There's something else to add... (Write in)
>Have them look at the chapel. It was still wrecked so they can't brush the whole army trying to kill you under the rug bit.
>Also Sandoval he was wearing an abrahad amulet
>Also Nereus is completely the man of Worthington, so plan accordingly.

>>3129627
>Kinda wanted to forge some notes but oh well
Famalam you don't do that when you're the one getting to the truth. It's counter intuitive.

If we were the ones trying to get away with shit like stealing an airship or forging IDs to infiltrate somewhere I'd be for it but this ain't the right situation for it.

>>3129601
>>Other
If this goes wrong somehow you still want that ticket to Hess? I can still give you a ride.

“I've got a few ideas to add,” you tell her, “Although I'm not sure how practical they are on short notice. Is there any chance that the inquiry could get postponed?”

“Doubtful. From what I've been hearing in here, Hierophant Milleux is trying to get this matter resolved as quickly as possible. That's... actually vaguely encouraging. He could have dismissed the matter completely, but he hasn't. He wants a quick investigation, but that's still an investigation,” Sandoval answers, “But give me what you've got. If we end up in a stalemate, I could push for a more thorough investigation.”

“The pistols, first of all. If we send someone to Iraklis to track down the gunsmith, the serial number might confirm that Worthington bought them. A spot of insurance, just in case he found some way to get rid of his own pistol,” you tell her, “Although I suppose he might play it off as an Iraklin scheme – some of your dubious allies, obviously.”

“Right now, you're the only dubious ally I've got,” Sandoval laments, “Not that I'm trying to sound ungrateful, of course...”

“Second of all, the chapel itself might have some evidence left. I'm less sure about this, considering how long it's been since the attack, but you never know what a careful investigation might dig up,” you suggest, “Besides, the chapel itself is evidence – it shows that a lot of attackers were involved, using the kind of firepower that the local gangs just don't have. Maybe seeing it with his own eyes might sway Milleux.”

Sighing, Sandoval slumps forwards across the desk. “It's not Milleux that I'm worried about,” she complaints, “It's Rhea. All she needs to do is deny everything, and she can force an inconclusive result. The whole matter would be dismissed.”

Rhea, of course. The flaw in your plan, the one factor that you have no way of accounting for. “Well, if the case does get thrown out, there's always Hess,” you tell her, trying to keep your tone light, “I could give you a lift over, if you want.”

“It feels like running away with my tail between my legs, but... sure,” she mutters, shaking her head as she looks up at you, “Hey, you spoke with Worthington. How did he seem?”

“Confident,” you admit, “He thinks he has this one in the bag. With Rhea here, I can understand why he feels that way. I did notice one thing though – he had an Abrahad pendant on. Carved with the character for “bountiful labour”, apparently.”

“That... hmm,” Sandoval frowns sharply, “We had an item like that in our collection. If Worthington has it now, he might have turned one of my people. Damn it – he's got reach, that one. Every time you think you've got a good thing going, he manages to find some way of worming his way into it. I'll have to do a little investigation of my own when I get out of here... if I get out of here.”

She adds that last part in a softer voice, her expression darkening.

[1/2]

>>3129685

“Speaking of Worthington's reach, you should watch out for that Provost Nereus. He's one of Worthington's people, I'm sure of it,” you tell her, “How did he manage to get such a wide reach, anyway?”

“Hell, you know how it is. You know the right people, you pull a few strings, suddenly everyone wants to be your friend. Personal reputation is very important in the church, although you'll never hear anyone else admit it so openly. Getting a senior figure like Worthington to vouch for you does great things for your standing. It's part of the reason why I went unofficial like this – you get more done without needing to please the right people,” Sandoval explains, “Of course, it has its drawbacks.”

As you're coming to learn.

-

The inquest, you soon discover, is not going to be held in some grand court or ceremonial chamber. Instead, Trice leads you to a small and strangely intimate room that reminds you more of a gentleman's study. A set of tables and chairs have been set up. One long table at the far end of the room, with two chairs for Rhea and Milleux, while another pair of chairs sit facing each other. Apparently, you'll be left standing. As Sandoval sits and closes her eyes, whispering one last prayer to herself, Trice touches you on the arm.

“I think I can get the evening off,” she mutters, “Depends on what happens here, really.”

Nodding your thanks, you let her return to her duties – whatever they are – as the others file in. Milleux looks sad and thoughtful, Worthington masks his smug satisfaction with a dignified guise, while Rhea is as impassive as always. She's the only one who glances around as they enter, fixing you with a cold gaze that seems to last for far longer than the few seconds it must have really been. Shivering, you move to stand a measured pace behind Sandoval's chair.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think we should begin,” Hierophant Milleux declares, “Drawing this out any longer will only harm the church more. I'd like to put an end to this here and now. We all know each other by now, I should think, so I won't waste any time with the introductions. Miss Sandoval, I believe you were the one making the accusation here – perhaps you and your aide would like to begin?”

All of a sudden, you have a violent craving for a drink – maybe a dozen, just to be on the safe side.

>I'm going to need to pause here and check a few things over. So, the next post should hopefully be up in an hour or so
>I apologise for this delay. It looks like my notes weren't as complete as I thought

>>3129734
No problem, an hour is enough time to emulate Milos and get properly drunk for this experience.

>>3129734
I wonder what they would say if Gunny entered the room right now.

The procedure is simple – either you or Sandoval make a statement, then Worthington counters it. His own aide might as well not be here, as she seems to do nothing but hold a few papers and look vaguely official. Maybe she pours his tea. Either way, she quickly fades into the background as Sandoval makes her first accusation. “Operating under the belief that I was acting against the church's best interests, Bishop Worthington did send his men to attack me, with intent to kill, in Monotia,” she declares, pointing a cruel finger at the older man, “This, I will prove in due time, but I will give you one chance to confess now.”

“I will confess to nothing that is not true,” Worthington replies calmly, “My Hierophant, this is a tragic situation, but these accusations are nothing more than a fantasy, and an ill one at that. There is little else I can say to this, other than to ask my colleague one question – WERE you acting against the church that night?”

Sandoval's mouth hardens into a firm line as she takes this snide blow in her stride. “As a matter of clarification, we have no record of these church soldiers – or any others - operating within Monotia,” Provost Nereus adds, “Furthermore, no evidence of their existence has been provided.”

“We believe that these men were part of a secret unit, men officially declared dead by the church. It was Bishop Worthington who ordered the death notices filed discretely, under forged signatures,” you counter, “His explanation was that he wished to avoid causing a public outcry, as his own son was amongst those falsely declared dead.”

Muted though it is, your words provoke a murmur of outrage. Worthington's face tenses up with anger, the mention of his son cutting a deep wound in him, and Nereus raises his hands to keep the peace. “We have an archivist willing to testify to the bishop's instructions, and to the fraudulence of the signatures,” Sandoval spits, “Bishop Worthington, can you refute these allegations?”

“I would like to protest – in the strongest possible terms – the underhand use of my son's death,” Worthington snaps, rising from his chair, “Miss Sandoval, I wanted to think of you as a respectful woman, but this sick fantasy of yours is-”

“Bishop,” Rhea interrupts, her voice as soft as silk, “You are not answering the question.”

Silence. Worthington slowly sits, rubbing his brow as his confidence starts to falter. “Lies. The word of one archivist cannot be taken as proof of anything – a single witness can be bribed or threatened, induced to lie on cue. Miss Sandoval is not without friends here,” he rasps, “I did not realise that I would need evidence of my innocence. If I could return home, I may be able to find documents that-”

Hierophant Milleux shakes his head simply, and the bishop falls silent.

[1/3]

>>3129789
"We didn't see that coming"

>>3129855

“I'm sorry, but you know that that is impossible,” Hierophant Milleux replies, a polite but firm refusal, “When this first session is concluded, we can discuss further evidence. Miss Sandoval, please continue.”

“We have further evidence that places Arno Worthington, the bishop's son and one of the soldiers included in the fraudulent death notices, at Monotia,” Sandoval says carefully, “An automatic pistol, expensively made by a skilled craftsman. Captain Vaandemere, if you would?”

Withdrawing the pistol from your pocket, you check that it's empty before approaching the main table and setting it down before Milleux. As you do, you meet Rhea's eyes again – is that amusement glinting out from deep within their pale blue? “Half of a matching pair,” you explain, “The second pistol remains in Bishop Worthington's possession. The serial numbers will match perfectly.”

“I object to this!” Worthington roars, “This... this man could not know this without breaking into my residence. This evidence could have been planted, intended to smear my-” A gesture from Milleux cuts this protest short, and the bishop slowly sinks back into his chair. He really does look worried now, you notice.

“Bishop Worthington,” Milleux asks gravely, “If we were to search your residence, would we find a matching pistol?”

There is a long moment of stillness, and then Worthington nods. “They were a gift to my boy. I gave him the pistols when he was promoted to the leader of his militia unit,” he explains slowly, “It seems obvious, to me, how the weapon found its way to Monotia. One of Eishin's men must have taken it as a trophy when they fled the battle.”

Milleux starts to nod, accepting that point, and then Sandoval clears her throat. “That may be so,” she begins, “But then I would ask my colleague to explain the note found within the pistol's case. It said – and my aide will correct me on any mistakes here – that Arno Worthington passed away in a heathen city. Not, as you are claiming, the Deep Forest. This note, written in your own hand, tells me that you knew. You KNEW, Worthington, about how your son died. Please, I urge you to refute this... if you can.”

“I see,” Worthington breathes, “Hierophant, Bishop, I ask that you look at this so-called evidence with a careful eye. Is there anything here that proves, beyond any doubt, that Miss Sandoval's accusations are true? Or is it the case that every bit of this evidence could have been fabricated, planted, carefully arranged to present a very specific image? I ask that you consider this before reaching your decision. Is what you have heard really conclusive enough to condemn a man of my position?”

Hierophant Milleux is silent for a long moment, and you can practically hear the cogs grinding in his head. He's never looked quite this young before, not even when he was taking his nation into that brief war in Nadir.

[2/3]

>>3129901
>One of Eishin's men must have taken it as a trophy when they fled the battle.

That doesn't hold up with the death certificates forged, but I get he has to find any excuse. Also I'm pretty sure that Eishin's Deep Forest soldiers do not get a long in the slightest with Monotia and wouldn't likely flee there.

>>3129914
True they eould just go soemplace deeper into the trees.
They wouldnt fly up

>>3129901

Eventually, the Hierophant reaches his decision. “In truth, Miss Sandoval, the evidence that you have presented here is far more significant than I had been expecting,” he begins slowly, choosing his words with agonising care, “But, Bishop Worthington, I accept the merit of your counter-claim. Given their severity, I am not prepared to fully accept the accusations that Miss Sandoval has levelled against you. As such, I would ask my esteemed colleague to offer her opinion. Bishop Rhea?”

“Here we go...” Sandoval whispers, her voice so low that only you can hear her.

Rhea leans forwards, tenting her hands in front of her and studying Worthington with her cold eyes. Then, she sits back. “I believe her,” the bishop concludes simply, giving Sandoval the tiniest of nods, “Too well do I know the look of a guilty man, and you, Bishop Worthington, have that look about you. Hierophant Milleux, I would ask that you release the accused into my care while a full investigation can be carried out.”

“Cloudtop Prison, then?” Worthington breathes, slumping back in his chair and letting out a hollow laugh.

“This may be for the best,” Hierophant Milleux murmurs, “It will give you time to rest, to... reflect. There will be no distractions there, and we can look deeper into this matter. In time, your guilt or innocence may be proven beyond doubt.” Clearing his throat, Milleux bows his head in a brief prayer. “Miss Sandoval, Captain Vaandemere, you may leave,” he concludes, looking up and gesturing at you both, “In fact, I insist. We have... other matters to discuss.”

Sandoval nods, although you don't think the news has sunk in yet.

-

“Oh Light,” Sandoval whispers a few long moments later, as you're walking back to the atrium, “We actually did it!”

“Well, sort of,” you warn her, “This isn't what I'd call a complete victory.”

“No, you don't understand, this is the best we could have hoped for. This “investigation” will never go anywhere, but neither will Worthington. He's going to be stuck up there in Cloudtop, a guest of his old student, until the day he dies. Up there, he's nothing – he'll have no influence, no sway over the Hierophant, nothing. He's out of the picture completely,” Sandoval gloats, “Oh, I owe you more than you could ever know. In return...”

You're still not sure about this. She might just be setting herself up for disappointment.

“I don't mention this often, but I have a small estate in the countryside. Inherited, from my family. Quite a charming place, actually, although I rarely visit it these days,” Sandoval continues, “But now, I think I could use a break. Will you join me out there for a few days? A little hospitality is the least I can do to repay you, you and your whole crew, for this.”

A few days in the countryside...

>Accept the invitation. You could use the time off
>Decline the invitation. You don't need the distraction
>Other

>>3129941
>Let me make sure I can actually AFFORD it first. I am still running a business. IF I can though, sure.

>>3129941
>Accept the invitation. You could use the time off
Still want to spend some time with Trice and see what's up with her before we go though.

>>3129941
Accept the invitation. You could use the time off
My crew are coming along as well

>>3129941
>what do you know about mirrors?
>I was hoping you could have a look at Gunny. Youre the expert on abrahad after all

>>3129941
>Accept the invitation. You could use the time off

Part of me thinks that we should keep moving, but then I remember all the shit everyone went through to get the mirror. Couple days can't hurt.

“Sure, I'll accept that invitation,” you reply after a thinking it over, “You've got room for my whole crew, right? They deserve this just as much as any of us.”

“Absolutely. It's been too long since I hosted a proper gathering like this,” Sandoval agrees, nodding keenly, “I'll need to arrange a few things beforehand, though. So... I'll send word to your ship tomorrow, and we can sort out any last details. I'll need to have the staff air out some of the guest rooms and stock up on supplies. Maybe even a little wine – the Hierophant wouldn't approve, but these things can be permitted now and then. Besides, I don't want to be a bad host!”

You never thought she'd get so excited about the idea. Before she can get carried away, though, you lightly grab her by the arm. “Got a few questions for you, before you go rushing off,” you ask, “First of all, what do you know about sacred mirrors? Second of all, would you be able to... talk with Gunny for a while? We've got something of a problem, an Abrahad related problem, and you might be able to help. Your research...”

“Oh,” Sandoval's excitement falters a little, “Sacred mirrors. I think I know what you're talking about. I have some notes tucked away, but I'd need to fetch them from my office. My Zenith office, I mean. I'll be able to give you some proper help after I've checked those over. Consider that a promise!”

-

After sharing the news with your team, you start back to aerodrome with their relieved voices forming a background hum. Tuning them out for a moment, you reach out to Keziah to spread word back. An idea occurs, and you add an extra question onto the end of your report. “How are we doing for funds?” you ask Keziah, “Can we afford to take some time off? We've not been doing much business lately, so...”

“Uh...” the witch thinks back, the question taking her by surprise, “I've not heard any complaints, which is a good sign... I guess? I'll ask around a little, see what I can dig up.”

Her thoughts fall silent as you enter the aerodrome, and then you spot a figure lurking about by the ship. Restlessly pacing back and forth, Provost Trice stalks from one side of the aerodrome to the other. When you call out her name, though, she jolts up and looks around at you. There's relief, on that pallid face of hers, along with the deep scars of exhaustion. “Looks like you were able to get the evening off,” you tell her as you approach, nodding towards the Spirit of Helena, “Come on in. You look like you need...”

She looks like she needs a lot of things, actually. A chance to sit down, a long nap, and probably a stiff drink. Maybe not that last one, considering her position.

[1/2]

>>3130022

Then again, sometimes even devout churchwomen need to drown their sorrows. Sitting with Trice in your quarters, you pour yourself a glass of brandy and set the bottle aside, but before you can actually take a drink, Trice snatches the glass up and throws back half of the liquor. “Okay,” you laugh, taking out a second glass and filling that one up, “So it's something bad. I'm no good at guessing these things, so... just tell me?”

Taking a second, slower sip of her drink, Trice mulls this over. “You remember Alexander, right?” she asks, “He was at the consul's party.” And he was at the Vault of the Sun. Oh yes, you remember Alexander. “Well, I think... something bad might have happened to him,” the provost continues, “We're not exactly friends, but we stay in contact. Sometimes he asks me for advice, sometimes I ask him for advice. Only, he's been out of contact for... I don't even know how long. I tried asking around some of the other provosts, and anyone else who might know him, but they either know less than I do, or...”

“Or?” you prompt.

“Or they tell me to stop asking about it,” she concludes, giving you an almost savage shrug, “So I think he's dead. I know, I know, I shouldn't take it so personally – hazard of the job, something we all expect. If I had to, I'd give my life for the cause as well. What bothers me is... no closure, no explanation. Nothing.” Sipping her drink again, Trice runs a hand through her fluffy hair and loosens her collar, the potent spirit already lighting a fire in her cheeks. “I don't want to die somewhere, alone and forgotten,” she admits, “But more and more, I can't stop thinking about it. You've got it easy, I'd say, having a crew around you. Wherever you go, you've got people by your side.”

Whereas she often works alone, plunging into danger again and again at the behest of her masters. Her frank admission – motivated more by desperation than by liquor – leaves you speechless, and you cover up your unease with a sip of brandy. Then you take another sip, just for the hell of it.

>Keep drinking, keep making small talk. That always works
>Try to change the subject – the topic of Sandoval's inquiry, perhaps?
>Approach the issue directly. Maybe there's something you can do
>Talk a little about... (Write in)
>Other

>>3130132
>Approach the issue directly. Maybe there's something you can do

>"I kinda hated that guy, but I could ask around myself. Bishop Rhea has a crush on me, and Sandoval owes me huge after today. Hell, even the Hierophant likes me."

>>3130132
>Other
"You could always resign. I've never felt that there is any point in doing something if it makes you miserable. Or at least petition to make having back up a normal part of your job? Is there any reason why you guys work alone?"


>Approach the issue directly. Maybe there's something you can do

I swear Carth gets more and more dirty every time we take a closer look.

>>3130132
>Approach the issue directly. Maybe there's something you can do

Maybe later
>Bring up Sandoval's inquiry

Trice knows that Alexander was a Brother of N right Moloch?

>>3130132
Who's willing to bet Alexander was one of the assassins?
We should ask the archive team whether his name was among the fabricated deaths.

>Approach the issue directly. Maybe there's something you can do
And if he wasn't an assassin, then by saving him we could obtain an ally.

>>3130171
>Who's willing to bet Alexander was one of the assassins?

I thought of that, but if he was in the fabricated deaths Trice should've been able to track that down since it was public knowledge. Guess we'll see.

“Hey, slow down,” you caution, taking the glass out of Trice's hands before she can throw back the last of it, “You keep drinking like that, you'll end up passing out before we can reach some kind of solution.” Setting the glass down, you tent your hands and regard the provost for a few moments as you think. Unused to drinking, she's already looking somewhat worse for wear. “Listen, I was never all that friendly with Alexander. In fact, I might have hated him a little, but I might be able to help you dig a little deeper,” you continue, “I've got a few sources I can hit up. Your boss, for one thing – I think she's got a soft spot for me.”

“She doesn't have a soft spot for anyone,” Trice murmurs, shaking her head slightly.

Filing that curious statement away for later, you press on. “Rhea might know something, or Sandoval, or even the Hierophant himself,” you tell her, “I've been busy making friends. If they know something, I might be able to coax it out of them. Who else have you asked?”

“Some of the other provosts, and... this guy I saw him talking with once. Never got a name, but I ran into him a few days back and asked. He had one of those axehead badges, just like Alexander. Brotherhood stuff, whatever that means,” Trice winces, as if struck by some bitter memory, “You know, he tried to get me to join them. Just before that Eishin thing, he said I'd be good for the job. Well, I wasn't sure what kind of job he was talking about, but I had my suspicions. Turned him down then, but now I'm wondering... maybe I should have signed up. Could have kept him out of trouble.”

Pushing the glass back across your desk, you watch as Trice turns what started off as a hungry gulp into a more cautious sip. So she's not that foolish, at least. “Why not quit?” you suggest, shrugging a little, “It sounds to me like flying solo isn't working out for you, and if you don't enjoy what you do... why do it? At least put in a request for a partner, someone to watch your back out there. Is going solo part of the job?”

“They try and partner us up, but it's... tough. You need someone you can work with, for one, and there's never enough people. Too much work to go around,” she shakes her head, “Nereus, the guy I was paired with today, he's not a bad guy but I couldn't work with him long term. He quotes the saints too much. Does it instead of thinking, I reckon. Seems like that's the kind of guy the church is looking to recruit these days...”

“Which brings us back to the original point,” you remark, “Why not resign?”

“Because I love the church,” Trice replies simply, “Always will. I'll do damn near everything I can to keep it strong. Resigning might be nice for me, but it won't help anyone else will it?”

She really is devoted to her work, this one.

[1/2]

>>3130250
We should probably explain what the Brotherhood is

>>3130250

You drink in silence for a while, the low mood lifting somewhat. Eager to chase it even further away, you raise a new subject. “So, this inquiry,” you begin, “What were you expecting?”

“Well... when I first heard about it, I just couldn't believe Miss Sandoval's story. It seemed so wild that there had to be some kind of mistake. From what I was able to pick up, though... I guess there really was something there. One thing or the other, I could accept as a coincidence, but not all of it put together. This is some good brandy,” Trice replies, that last bit slipping in as an afterthought. Pouring a little extra into her glass, you fill yours up as well for good measure. “But Rhea... I mean Bishop Rhea surprised me,” the provost adds, “I thought she might try to... to defend Worthington, I guess.”

You wonder about that. It's hard to guess what her motives were – by coldly cutting down one of the Hierophant's major advisors, she quite neatly set herself up to take his place as an influential player, but you somehow struggle to accept such a prosaic motive. “I guess Worthington will have an easy time of it up there in Cloudtop,” you venture, “Given his history with Rhea.”

“Oh no. No way,” Trice sloppily shakes her head, “Bishop Rhea said something to me on the way down. She said that... that when someone rises higher than the rest, it's only right that they fall even further.” Shuddering a little at the idea, the provost sets down her glass and glances wistfully towards the door. “Mind if I get something to eat?” she asks, “You've got supplies in the kitchen, right?”

“And a good cook to make them edible,” you assure her, “Help yourself. It might soak up some of that brandy.”

-

While Trice is busy seeing to her meal, you pay Grace a visit. The girl is busy doing nothing when you arrive, studying the way her scaled hands glint in the lantern light. No, not just studying them – admiring them. The sweet smell of some intoxicant colours the air, and you feel the chemical lure tugging at your senses. It's hard to know if the young scholar is even listening to you, but you explain the situation regardless.

“Alexander Serafini...” she purrs after a moment, “No. His name wasn't included with the forged notices. I would have remembered it. However... I would be cautious about placing too much weight on that. You see...” Holding up her empty hands, Grace mimes an imbalanced pair of scales. “You have men like Arno, men who do not officially exist, and then you have men like Alexander – men who exist in plain sight, leading a double life in the shadows,” she explains, “Or perhaps not. We are, after all, just indulging in speculation.”

That's starting to seem like one of your major hobbies these days.

[2/3]

>>3130326

As you wander back to the kitchen, you wonder about Alexander. Had he been there, on that rainy night in Monotia? Could he have been among the church soldiers who had surrounded the chapel, or could he have even been the one to pull the trigger on Sandoval herself? It's hard to know if you'll ever have a solid answer, but... you've got a feeling like a lead weight deep in the pit of your stomach, and that's never a good sign.

Trice is alone in the kitchen when you arrive, gnawing on a lump of salt pork and stale bread. Then again, she doesn't look like she's really tasting what she's eating – it's just something to fill a hole. Must have been some time since she last had a decent meal. “That job offer Alexander gave you,” you ask her, “What did he say about it? What kind of things did he say you'd be doing?”

“I'd be doing what I did normally, pursuing the guilty, but in a more... assertive way,” Trice recalls, frowning as she searches for the exact words he used, “We would hunt down criminals who thought they had escaped the church's reach, or those who were planning to harm us. The work would be subtle and swift, but vital to the... you can guess the rest, can't you?”

“I'm pretty sure I can,” you agree with a weary attempt at a smile, “Sounds to me like he was an assassin.”

“Yeah,” the provost laments, setting aside her humble meal, “That's what I thought at the time as well. I've heard rumours about the kind of agents they have over in Iraklis, and I guess... I guess we decided to follow their example. How did it come to this?”

“If I had an answer to that,” you sigh, “You'd be the first one I told.”

>Okay, I'm going to pause things here for today. I'm going to try and have a bonus interlude prepared for midweek, but that might not be possible given the holidays. If not, I'll try to continue this next Friday
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>3130357
Thanks for running, Moloch.

>>3130357
Thanks for running!

When do we find out that Alexander partied up with Caldwell to beat us into the Vault?

>>3130357
Maybe Masque can give a description of the man who shot Sandoval, the one he tracked down.

Thanks for running.

>>3130375
I wonder who else they'd get in their alt-universe party. Maybe one of the witches, like Ashtoret. That would be make our party seem sane and functional by comparison!
>>3130395
In fact, that's a pretty good idea

>>3130439
Hey! We may not be sane, but we're definitely functional.

>>3130439
>That would be make our party seem sane and functional by comparison!

Yeah but we put the 'fun' in dysfunctional! They'd be so anti-fun.

>>3130357
Man, I gotta say Bishop Rhea is someone we should talk to about our . . . options.

For her viewpoint at least. Honestly it's all gotten a bit big for man, let alone A man, but I mean we live in the world too and so we should have a say in how it functions.

Maybe offer to let her use the vial with the mirror.

>>3130326
Grace really worries me. I think she's becoming a pro-Impurity extremist.

>>3131116
More so that shes hitting that pipe everytime we see her

>>3130856
You aren't worried that she could just a Dogma fanatic?

>>3131455
Yeeeeaaaah, see, the thing is that's not necessarily a bad thing?

If she's willing to cut it both ways, she could see this as "healing" dogma and finding a balance instead of having the pendulum sway back and forth.

I see her as more a counterpoint to Caliban who wants no gods at all.


After all, can't have redemption without the opportunity to fall. Men gotta be tested.

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How long had it been? Out here in the dark heart of the Deep Forest, time lost all meaning. Since the attack on Eishin's camp, Caldwell had been constantly moving from one place to the other, constantly hunting for answers. Even before the first flare had scorched the sky, signalling the attack, he had been planning his escape. The urge to leave had started shortly after he had eavesdropped on Segharl and Eishin, their talk of the southern sanctuary. The very next day, he had seen a party leaving the encampment – a small group of fighters burdened down by a covered litter. To follow them was impossible, with their rearguard preventing even Eishin's own men from getting too close. So, Caldwell had returned to Gorgon and his humble dwelling to wait.

He had not needed to wait long. When the attack came, the chaos gave him cover to take Gorgon and flee. Now, his goal was to find the southern sanctuary that Segharl mentioned – a task that had seemed simple at first, but soon proved far harder than expected. He simply could not find it. One of Eishin's men would have the answer, he hoped, and so he had turned to hunting.

Perched in the branches of a great tree, Caldwell listened as the group of men passed underneath him. Four of them, to judge by the whispered voices. When the last of them drew near, Caldwell raised his long dagger and leapt forwards, crashing down onto the man and snapping his neck beneath his boot. The others turned quickly, but not quickly enough. Before he could even raise his rifle, the next man in line died with a dagger thrust through his heart. Ripping the blade free and shouldering the dying man aside, Caldwell twisted around and drew the blade across an exposed throat. Blood sprayed, and then only one man was left alive, frozen in place with the tip of Caldwell's dagger resting lightly under his chin.

In his time since slipping away from Eishin's camp, Caldwell had grown stronger. The undergrowth rustled as Gorgon revealed herself, studying the bloodied bodies with dead eyes. “We should not linger,” she hissed, “The Maw will be here soon.”

“I'm going to ask you a few questions,” Caldwell murmured to the captive man, “Answer them, and we'll let you go. Maybe you can get away before the spirit comes to feed. First of all – where is the southern sanctuary?”

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously from side to side. “You won't ever find it,” he said eventually, “It is protected by witchcraft, it cannot be found. Only those who have been there once before can find their way back. You will need a guide.”

“A guide, I see,” Caldwell mused, “Have YOU been there before?” Another moment of hesitation, and then the man started to shake his head. Before he could even finish that gesture, Caldwell thrust his dagger up and ended the man's life in an instant.

[1/2]

>>3134183

“That was unnecessary,” Gorgon said slowly, watching as the blood soaked down into the soil. Caldwell glanced around her, his mouth forming a hard line, but said nothing. Of late, their relationship had grown strained. He needed her hands, to do what he could not, but she needed something less tangible from him. Security, protection, perhaps just a reason to keep moving forwards. Like beasts themselves, they spoke little most of the time. Gorgon would spend long hours alone in the forest, hunting with clever snares and her bare hands, while Caldwell would train his weakened body.

Not once had he considered turning back, returning to Eishin's former territory and handing himself over to his masters – his former masters, as he had started to think of them. They would welcome him back, but he-

The air turned cold.

“It has come!” Gorgon whispered, lurching forwards to clutch at Caldwell's arm. A moment later, the first tendrils of smoke boiled out from the trees and started to coil around the corpses. With sharp, savage bursts of motion, the tendrils stabbed into the bodies and roughly dragged them back into the trees. Even as the bodies were spirited away, a larger tendril of smoke slashed out towards Caldwell. Holding his ground, the assassin allowed the smoke to reach out to him. There, it paused.

“Take me, then,” he dared, staring directly into the swirling core of the smoke. It almost seemed to stare back at him, hovering in place for a long moment before it turned and drifted away. Retreating slowly, slow enough for the assassin to follow, it fled towards the south.

Deaf to Gorgon's protests, Caldwell followed his new guide as it led him deeper into the woods.

>This concludes the first of today's bonus interlude episodes. I hope to have the next one up in a few hours – next up is Bishop Rhea!

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An ill silence hung over the pair of bishops, but then it was always silent here in Cloudtop Prison. Even when one them spoke, which happened rarely, the silence never seemed far off. Bishop Worthington sat slumped in the hard wooden chair, his face set in a mask of bitter amusement, while Bishop Rhea faced away from him, her gaze boring into the back wall of her office. Her expression was empty, impassive.

Worthington spoke up, finally tiring of the silence. “Home sweet home,” he murmured, sarcasm dripping from his words, “Tell me, Rhea, do these wretched sinners still fascinate you? I remember when you first came here – you found no end of pleasure in studying them, the depths of their corruption...” His words trailed off here, with Rhea maintaining her stoic silence. “I gave this place to you,” he spat, “And this... this is how you repay me.”

At first, there was no reaction to this. Then, without turning around, Rhea began to speak. “Allow me to tell you why you failed,” she stated, her voice as cold as ice, “You failed because you could not see the pattern unfolding before you. I can. There are great trials approaching – not just for the church, but for all the land.”

“And I would have seen the church approach these trials as a bulwark, a fortress against the world!” Worthington hissed, “But you... you chose to destroy that hope. Have you spent so long amongst the damned that your own soul has become unclean?”

With a sudden and savage motion, Rhea seized the pendant Worthington wore and ripped it from around his neck. She held it for a moment, considering it, and then she slipped the pendant into her pocket. “Patterns, Worthington, repetition and recursion,” she lectured, “Everything that happens has happened before, and everything that has happened will happen again, all according to the same pattern. This corruption and in-fighting, these are but the prelude to a greater collapse. Your blind and grasping avarice, cloaked in the pretence of righteousness, achieved nothing but to drag this land closer to ruin!”

Rhea's words seemed to echo, to hang in the air for a long moment before Worthington let out a hollow laugh. “Isolation has not been kind to you, Rhea,” he lamented, “I see now that you were not strong enough, this place has robbed you of your balance. There is only one pattern, and it is that which the Lord of Rising Light has crafted for us. This talk of yours reeks of pagan superstition.”

“Believe what you wish. I see no reason to waste my time on convincing you,” Rhea stated bluntly, “You have lost everything, Worthington – your status, your influence, even your legacy, and for what? Because you believed that you could crush a rival and face no repercussions?”

To this, Worthington remained silent.

[1/2]

>>3134250

Later, as Rhea was escorting him through the corridors of Cloudtop Prison, Worthington spoke up again. “Tell me, Rhea,” he whispered, “This pattern you spoke of - where does it lead?”

“The end,” Rhea replied simply, “But you need not concern yourself with that. After all, you do not believe in these... pagan superstitions, do you?” The bishop allowed herself a tiny smile, although Worthington – trailing a pace behind her – saw nothing. “I will confess, I was not fully honest with you. When I said that everything that happens has happened before, that was not the entirety of the truth. There may yet be the possibility of a new outcome,” she continued, “That was what you were thinking, was it not? That our path was a pointless one if it always led to the same end. I am no fatalist – although the path is hard, I believe that we will prevail.”

Worthington's answer was muttered, so hushed for Rhea to hear, and she felt no sadness at that. There was nothing that he could say to change things now, nothing he could tell her that would change her mind. When she led him past the cells without stopping at any one chamber, Worthington hesitated and looked back. “Come along,” Rhea told him, “A man of your position should not languish in a common cell. I have your quarters prepared already.”

She said nothing more as she led Worthington to his fate – to the lowest point of Cloudtop Prison, and to the mirror that waited there.

>This concludes our second bonus interlude for today, and the final part should be finished in another hour or so. Next up is Eishin himself!

>>3134253
Rhea scares me.

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>>3134253
>>3134288
See like on one hand she is making sense and seems pragmatic/understanding. Then she straps people to chairs and forces them to look at the mirror.

I can't read her.

>>3134294
Its a soul mirror or some shit

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There was little to do in this cell, save for ruminating on his failure. Eishin – who still thought of himself as the King in Exile, even now – thought that it was quite deliberate, an act of spite on behalf of his captors. Boredom, they likely thought, would make him more inclined towards cooperation. They were fools, and their idea of cooperation was a joke – the questions they asked were pointless, the blind fumbling of men who were out of their depth. When they asked about daemons, the answers that Eishin deigned to give them only confused them further. When they asked about his plans, he gave them vague and often contradictory answers.

Petty, perhaps, but he had to find some way of amusing himself.

The Iraklins called this place Odyssey Point, prizing it as one of their most secure locations. Faulkner had mentioned it in passing, although he had mentioned a great many things – often boastfully exaggerating the military might of his nation. At least, Eishin had assumed that he had been exaggerating. The idea that he might have been wrong still ached like an open wound, but it was a pain that he embraced. Segharl had often said that new opportunities arose from disaster and ruin. In his memory, Eishin swore that he would learn from his error.

It would have been easy to blame the defeat on other factors. He could have blamed the Mavens for their betrayal. He could have blamed Faulkner for not preventing the attack – that had been one of his duties, to use what clout he had to stall and hinder any invasion. He could even have blamed his men for not fighting hard enough. Yet, Eishin did none of this. He was the only one who was to blame for the defeat. His... inaction.

Not indecision, but inaction – a far more insidious flaw. Too often, Eishin had learned through the benefit of hindsight, he had obsessed over his plans and finding the perfect moment to set them into motion. Ironic, then, that he was now in a state of enforced inaction.

“The perfect must not be made the enemy of the good,” he rumbled, allowing his words to bounce off the walls of his empty cell. Perhaps there men listening to him even now. Let them ponder on those words, Eishin thought to himself, let them dissect them for any trace of a hidden meaning. Perhaps it would give them a fleeting moment of amusement – it was strange to imagine men watching him, as bored as he was.

If defeat was Eishin's most common thought, escape was the next most common. His cell had a thick steel door, but he was keenly aware of his own strength. If he wanted to leave, he could likely break the door from its hinges. The two armed men stationed outside would be dead before they realised he was loose, but then what? On this land, he was as mortal as anyone else. A single bullet could end him.

A curious thought, after all this time.

[1/2]

>>3134426

A deep groan rang out as the door's heavy lock cycled, allowing it to grind open. Immediately, two armoured men swept in and aimed their rifles at the defeated king. Raising his hands, Eishin stared back at the soldiers with a cynical smirk, almost daring them to fire. Stepping aside, the soldiers parted ways to allow a slender woman to enter the prison cell. She lingered in the doorway for a brief moment, studying Eishin with a cold gaze before finally allowing herself to approach him.

As soon as she was within arm's reach, her life lay in Eishin's hands. Her neck, he knew, would snap with a most delightful sound. Her face was unknown to him, but he had heard the soldiers talking. He knew exactly who she was.

“I wanted to see you with my own eyes,” Chancellor Wellager mused, “To see what you really were. The rumours would have painted you as a monster, yet... I think otherwise. Without your armies and your spirits, without your precious forest, what are you really? Nothing more, I think, than a man.”

Beneath the steel of her mask, Eishin could sense something brittle, something weak. She would not have the stomach for a real war, he judged, for the weight of the slaughter that true conflict would demand. Knowing this, her attempts at goading him were utterly powerless. “It is true that I am a man,” Eishin replied slowly, lacing his words with a contemptuous barb, “But under the right circumstances, even a man can kill a god. This knowledge, I could share with you...” To his surprise, Wellager shook her head in a mute denial of his offer. “Foolish girl,” the fallen king continued, clicking his tongue with irritation, “You may refuse this wisdom, but it will be your people who suffer for it. A great disaster is coming, and countless thousands of your subjects may die. Would you be so willing to throw their lives away for the sake of your pride?”

This was the dagger that pierced through her armour. “I find myself reluctant to believe you,” Wellager told him firmly, “Not on the base of such vague warnings. Perhaps that would pass for a threat in Nadir, but we keep a higher standard here. If you cannot provide me with any evidence, then I must assume that you are wasting my time. I have little patience for wasted time, and there are many who would happily see you hang. Right now, I see no reason to deny them.”

“There is proof, but not here. There is a text, a certain collection of prophecies and predictions, but I know not where. All I know is that it was last held in an ancient collection on some distant isle,” the king lied, the excuse coming easily to his tongue, “Find this collection, and we can continue this... discussion.”

The next move was theirs to make. For Eishin, it was back to inaction.

>And this concludes our special episode for today! Regular sessions will continue on Friday
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>3134427
I wonder if that collection is on the same island that Caliban got scarred at. We weren't able to explore it further.

Thanks for the triple interludes Moloch. Merry (late) Christmas.

>>3134437
That colelction is a lie. It says so in the very same sentence.

>>3134253
Is Worthington going to make a fine Immaculate?

>>3134447
Whoops, guess I was speedreading

>>3134294
Have you ever read Aynn Rand?

Because she is simply an objectivist. Any atrocity that acts to prevent a greater atrocity is a good action in the greater context, but only by objectively measurable qualities.

>>3134447
But is it? we did find lore off of the coast multiple times..

>>3135199
This only works if you know with absolute certainty that the lesser atrocity is necessary to prevent the greaster one. Such certainty is not typically achievable in real life, and the people who think they know for certain are dangerous. It's the kind of people who consider themselves above everyone else, think they're always right and can justify any kind of despicable actions to themselves.

>>3135641
Yes, there is that problem.

File: Provost Trice.jpg (88 KB, 1024x1024)

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For a churchwoman, Trice sure can hold her drink. Between the two of you – and Caliban, when he joins in – you kill most of the brandy. Past a certain point, it just doesn't seem worth keeping the dregs of the bottle around, so you just finish it off. You're not quite sure when it happened, but you ended up moving down into the cargo bay at one point. So Trice can examine the Eliza, perhaps? It's hard to keep track.

“You think you've got a heart job?” Caliban snarls to Trice, his words so slurred as to be almost incomprehensible, “We've got to talk to a hard. I mean, wait...”

“I think you got that a little mixed up,” Trice says, laughing at the mistake, “Although with you people, I can never really tell.” Leaning back against the Eliza's flank, she runs a hand through her increasingly messy hair. Then, as if realising what Caliban just said, she jolts around to stare at him. “Did you just say that you were talking to a heart?” she yelps, touching a hand to her chest, “You mean... a heart heart?”

“A really big heart,” you explain, “But yes, a heart. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Well... I hate to break it to you, but hearts don't talk,” the provost points out, “You've got a doctor here, don't you? I thought he might have given you the bad news by now.”

Caliban snorts at this, shaking his head in amusement. “Forget it. Long story, and I don't have the patience to tell it,” he grunts, brightening up as an idea strikes him, “Hey, you want to see something weird?”

-

It's not the most obvious problem, but there's one thing about Gunny's condition that really bothers you – it's so hard to tell whether he's sleeping or awake. In the gloom of the gunnery deck, he sits slumped against the wall and stares off into space – really just pointing his head in no particular direction. If not for the steady sound of his breathing, you might have taken him for a corpse. As it is, he's either fast asleep or deep in a meditative trance.

“Oh...” Trice breathes, squinting to peer through the gloom, “His eyes...”

“I told you it was weird,” Caliban whispers back, his grin rendered cruel and mocking by the scars that twist his face. Touching a finger to his lips, he silently guides Trice a little closer to Gunny. It's impressive really, you've never seen two drunkards move so quietly. Crouching down, Caliban reaches out to tap on one of Gunny's cold stone eyes. He reaches out, and-

“Good lord!” Gunny bellows, his head snapping around to face them, “Can't a man get some rest around here?”

Trice lets out a small shriek and falls away onto her backside, while Caliban madly cackles to himself. After a short moment, Gunny joins in with the laughter. Your own merriment is stilled by a strange feeling, and you turn to see Masque looming behind you. The daemon silently turns to walk away, and you follow him out.

[1/2]

>>3137786

“That woman carries a potent scent of death,” the daemon intones, his voice grating against your nerves, “Something she has done, or something she may yet do. It is often difficult to tell one from the other. Perhaps it is not even her, but one whose life she has brushed up against. One of us, even.” He pauses, turning to stare down at you with the pitiless glass lenses that hide his equally lifeless eyes. “Does it bother you?” he asks suddenly, “Being surrounded by the potential for so much death?”

That's a hell of a question. “Do you mean literally?” you reply, gesturing back towards the gunnery stations, “Because if we had a mind to, we could probably level a large chunk of this city before they had a chance to react. We're not going to, obviously, but we could still do it. I'd call that the potential for death.”

“Hmm,” Masque muses, the single syllable curt and clipped, “Interesting.” He sounds anything BUT interested, although you decide against pointing that out. After a moment, the daemon speaks up again. “Ask it,” he rumbles, “That question you have.”

“The assassin you chased. The man who took poison to end his own life,” you sigh, the words reluctantly coming to mind, “Short hair, dark colouration, thin beard... was that him?” Masque nods once, a blunt and certain confirmation. A pretty vague description, you'll admit, a description that could be any number of men... but it fits Alexander Serafini perfectly. Not quite a confirmation, but it's about as close as you're ever likely to get. The question, then, is what to do with that knowledge.

Is it better to give Trice the unpleasant truth, and the closure she's looking for, or to leave her searching for an answer that may never come?

>Tell Trice about your suspicions. Unpleasant or not, she has a right to know
>Keep your suspicions a secret. They're little more than a theory at this point, after all
>Other

>>3137787
>Tell Trice about your suspicions. Unpleasant or not, she has a right to know
Girl needs closure.

>>3137787
>>Tell Trice about your suspicions. Unpleasant or not, she has a right to know

“She needs to know about this,” you breathe, “For the sake of closure, if nothing else. Hell, I'm not looking forwards to this conversation...”

“I hope,” Masque rumbles, “That you are not asking me for help with that.”

Somehow, you get the feeling that his advice would only make things worse for everyone involved. Shaking your head, you turn back to the gunnery deck. When you return to Gunny's little den, the small group have settled down for a cosy drinking session. Most of them are drinking, at least – Gunny sticks to cigarettes as Caliban and Trice pass a small flask between them. The provost speaks in a low, theatrical voice, and you have the absurd sense that you're intruding on something private. Foolishness, of course – you're the captain here, you can go where you like.

“It reminds me of an old story I heard once. A... a parable, I think you'd call it. There was a monk, you see, a hermit up on the Mountain, and he spent countless days in meditation and prayer,” Trice whispers, “He fasted for a dozen days, just to rid his body of any impure food, and then he-”

“He passed out because he wasn't eating enough?” Gunny butts in, chuckling to himself, “No way I could do that, sister. I like my big meals far too much.”

“Don't interrupt!” Trice hisses, composing herself before continuing, “Anyway, so one day the monk achieved true enlightenment – he had purged his soul of all flaws and impurities, achieving unmatched perfection. Only... he realised that it couldn't last. Sooner or later, something would cause his pure soul to be stained with mud. Despairing, he cried out to the Lord of Rising Light for salvation, and BANG!” She claps her hands together loudly, causing all of you to jump. “He was transformed into an unchanging statue,” she concludes, “A statue that was said to wear a smile.”

“...Okay,” Caliban grumbles, “I can see the similarities, but what does it mean?”

“What do YOU think it means?” she counters, “Some say it's a “beware what you wish for” kind of thing. Others say that only the Lord of Rising Light has the power to make the transient into something permanent. It's one of these things that you need to interpret for yourself. I can't tell you what to... oh, Milos! What did you think of my story? Come down and get a drink, we can talk about-”

“Actually, I wondered if I could have a word,” you tell the provost, nodding back towards the relative privacy of the corridor. Trice frowns – your expression must show some of your unease – but follows you out. “I've got news,” you begin, keeping your voice low, “News that might relate to Alexander's current... situation.”

“Hey, that was quick!” Trice laughs, only to fall silent as she studies your face, “This... isn't good news, is it?”

[1/2]

>>3137801

“I'll stick to the facts. At the attempt on Sandoval's life, there was a sniper. After taking the shot, they fled. I sent one of my people after them, but they couldn't take the shooter alive. Cornered, he took a dose of poison instead of getting captured,” you explain, choosing your words with care, “He died, and his body was very likely recovered and burned. But, my man got a look at his face, and the assassin was... he matched Alexander's description.”

Your words seem to sober Trice up in the space of a few short seconds. Her lips form a silent gasp of fear, and she raises a hand to her mouth. Fumbling for something to say, the provost runs a hand through her hair as she thinks. “Your man...” she manages eventually, “Is he... reliable?”

“I trust his judgement,” you hazard, saying nothing more.

“Then Alexander is dead,” Trice murmurs to herself, “You... killed him.” You'd dispute the details of that, seeing as Alexander chose suicide over capture, but pointing that out would likely only upset the provost further. Hanging her head low for a moment more, Trice glances up and looks you in the eye, a new and conflicted light in her eyes. “I think I should leave now,” she apologises, “I don't think this is... appropriate. I think we...”

But she never finishes that thought, turning and hurrying down towards the ship's exit. Shaken by her sudden retreat, you falter in place for a moment before chasing after her. When you catch up with her in the cargo bay, she spins around and points a harsh finger at you. “Don't follow me!” she snaps, her expression fraught, “I... I don't want...”

“Just wait!” you insist, “We can talk-”

“No!” Trice interrupts, forcing composure just long enough to add a few more words. “I... appreciate you... telling me this. Your honesty,” she forces herself to continue, “I know what happened now, I can...” Leaving this thought unfinished as well, she flees out of the ship and into the streets of Sol Carthul. You start a few paces after her before hesitating.

Don't follow, she said, but considering the condition she's in...

>Follow her anyway. She's in no state to be alone
>Let her leave. Chasing after her will only make this worse
>Other

>>3137816
>Let her leave. Chasing after her will only make this worse

>>3137816
>>Let her leave. Chasing after her will only make this worse
Have Herrod keep an eye on her for the night. Make sure she stays safe.

>>3137816
>Tell her you asked that he be taken alive before she's put of earshot
>Let her leave

>>3137839
We already said that basically

> Cornered, he took a dose of poison instead of getting captured,” you explain

>>3137842
Just want to drive the point home, since she said we killed him.

From our perspective there wasn't much time to really reason out anything. Sniper shoots Sandoval, we send Masque after the unknown shooter while cover a bleeding out woman while taking fire from every direction.

Your hesitation turns into a dead stop as you grow still, allowing the provost to run out from the ship. Before she can get too far, though, you call after her. “I didn't want it to end like this!” you call, “I never wanted him to die!”

Trice slows a little as your words reach her, and you can practically imagine her indecision – the urge to flee warring with the idea of turning back. In the end, though, flight wins the way. Trice soon vanishes for good, leaving you with the sound of your voice echoing around the aerodrome. Slumping your shoulders, you let out a low sigh. Hopefully, she won't end up in any trouble – a woman alone at night, drunk and behaving irrationally...

“Keziah, Herod,” you think, “Can I ask a favour? I need you to-”

“I can follow her,” the familiar replies to you, an unspoken sigh – the distilled essence of a sigh – heavy in his voice, “I will do this.” A few moments later, a port opens high up in the ship and the bird flits out. Taking off after Trice, the daemon vanishes from sight.

Nodding slowly to yourself, you return to your quarters and lie down, closing your eyes to see though Herod's gaze. From above, you watch as Trice runs for a while more, her pace slowing as she tires out. Pausing, bending double as she gasps for breath, Trice limps ahead a little and looks about her. Herod circles above as she staggers through the streets, eventually ending up at a vaguely official looking building. A guardhouse, you realise as you recognise the sign. They probably have bunks to house visiting officials.

That, or she's about to report you for some heinous crime. That would be a nasty surprise to wake up to.

-

Herod flies for a while more, enjoying the freedom to roam all over the holy city, and you allow his flight to lull you into a deep sleep. Some of his sight seems to creep into your dreams, as you imagine yourself soaring though the open skies without even so much as a skiff around you. Swooping lower in a wide circle, you see a spreading stain beneath you – the dark blot of a city built by men. Hunger gnaws at you, and you plunge lower down towards a tall tower. Piled up atop the tower are countless dead bodies. Rotting, ripe with decay, you bare your fangs and-

Jolting upright into the waking world, you clutch your head and groan as a terrible headache drills into you. A knock on the door sounds, and you realise what woke you up. Lurching over, you open it to see Freddy waiting.

“Someone here to see you, sir,” she announces, “Captain, I mean.”

Even after this long, she still gets those two mixed up sometimes. “Is it the guards?” you ask, rubbing your aching eyes.

“No, it's...” the Iraklin replies, frowning a little, “Actually, you'd best see this for yourself.”

[1/2]

>>3137871

Standing just outside the Spirit of Helena, so close that they could crouch down at touch the edge of the cargo bay door, a ragged pilgrim waits. Swathed in a tattered robe made for a larger man, the pilgrim has their face hidden by the deep hood. You've seen impoverished pilgrims like this before, men roaming from one temple to the next in search of divine guidance or fulfilment, but they've never really... approached you like this. You sort of assumed it was forbidden, like they weren't allowed to speak with anyone not of the church.

Marching down the ramp to greet the pilgrim, you realise that their face – what little of it that you can see, that is – is not unknown to you. Painted with a fine grey dust, a gesture of humility as you recall, the pilgrim's face is young and well-bred.

“A good disguise, is it not?” Hierophant Milleux remarks, smiling to himself, “I got the idea from Miss Sandoval. While I would like to think that there is more to me than my finery, I've found that a change of garb is all it takes to render me more or less anonymous. Part of it, I think, is the expectation. Who would expect the Hierophant to be roaming the streets in a pauper's robe?”

You're still struggling to catch up, last night's excesses rendering your head thick and sluggish. “You certainly had my people fooled,” you reply eventually, “What can I do for you, then?”

“I thought we might talk a little. I so rarely get a chance to seek counsel outside of the church. This business with Bishop Worthington has left me feeling rather restless. Oh, you needn't worry – I'm not here to bother you with vital matters of state. I just thought we might chat for a while,” Milleux continues, snapping his fingers as an idea strikes him, “Oh! Why don't we go somewhere... different. Somewhere you might go, when you needed to unwind.”

This, at least, gets you to laugh. “I don't think you'll find anything like that here,” you explain, “I'm more of a dirty drinking den sort of guy, and I don't think you should be skipping off to Monotia right now. I don't think-”

“Actually, I know a place here. Not exactly legal, but it's there,” Caliban interrupts from behind you, “Our guest mentioned it last night. The church knows about it, but shutting it down would be too much trouble. I reckon I could find it easily enough, and the fresh air would do my head a world of good.”

With a thoughtful expression on his face, Milleux takes in this little fact and files it away for later use.

>Send Milleux away. You're too hungover to babysit the Hierophant now
>Visit the illicit bar with the Hierophant. It could be fun...
>Invite the Hierophant aboard to talk. It'll be more private this way
>Other

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>>3137904
>Visit the illicit bar with the Hierophant. It could be fun...
Honestly no one who goes there would recognize him, specially with the disguise.

>>3137904
>>Visit the illicit bar with the Hierophant. It could be fun...
Unless he's not okay with drinking which I'd expect but you never know.

If he isn't down for it then
>>Invite the Hierophant aboard to talk. It'll be more private this way

>>3137904
>Visit the illicit bar with the Hierophant. It could be fun...
This is the only real choice here.

“An illicit bar, of course. You know, you'll look pretty out of place there in that pilgrim outfit,” you point out, gesturing to the Hierophant's ragged cloak, “On the other hand, someone going to a place like that and not drinking might be even stranger. So...”

“Ah, hm, I really shouldn't,” Milleux muses, “But, on the other hand... I suppose I can take a little wine, if it's a matter of politeness.”

“Fantastic!” Caliban agrees, clapping his hands together, “A spot of wine in the morning, that's starting the day out right!”

-

“You know, it's a hard job being Hierophant,” Milleux muses as Caliban leads the way, cutting through the older streets of the capital. You're far out from the centre now, delving deep into districts that haven't seen even the pretence of renovation in a great many years. “I mean, it's really hard,” he continues, gesturing around him, “It's more than a matter of faith. It's being the head of state as well, and the head of... well, everything else! Take these dismal streets, for example. To repair them would demand funds, but there are a great many other causes that cry out for resources. The responsibility of deciding where these funds go is mine and mine alone, to say nothing of deciding how to raise those funds in the first place!”

“Keeping track of a ship is hard enough,” you agree, “And that's a small matter compared with an entire nation.”

“Yes, exactly!” Milleux nods eagerly, “Ships, that's another example! I have advisors telling me to order the construction of more ships, to build up a fleet to protect against the Iraklins, and I have other advisors telling me that a fleet would only provoke them. Who must I believe? I can only choose the people I trust, and take their words on faith. Bishop Worthington was one of those people. Now, I'm wondering... ah, no matter.”

“We're close, I think,” Caliban announces from up ahead, pointing towards a heavily damaged monument, “Trice mentioned something about that statue. She said the bar was near “a creepy statue”. This certainly looks the part.”

Pausing for a moment, you look up at the decapitated sandstone statue. Some image of a long-dead saint once, you assume, but now it just looks eerie. “I've never seen this before,” Milleux muses, peering over at the statue, “I wonder where the head went...”

-

It isn't long before you find out. Down in a gloomy basement, the mournful head gazes out from atop a high plinth. In the evening, you can only imagine how strange it must seem, to have the stone head holding court over a surging crowd of drinkers. Now, though, the hollow eyes stare out into a mostly empty space. Only a few of the tables are occupied, and the meagre patrons you see seem to be lingering from the previous night.

Suspicious eyes follow you as you slink down to a corner table and sit. They'd be suspicious of anyone, though.

[1/2]

>>3137945

As Caliban fetches a bottle of wine from the surly barman, Milleux lets out a wistful sigh. “Bishop Worthington was the closest thing to a father that I've ever had,” he admits suddenly, “I suppose you don't know the story. You see, I was abandoned as an infant – a lone child found on the streets of the hidden city, Senesca. It's a good story, isn't it? Now, though, I'm wondering how much of it really happened...”

“Uh,” you begin, unsure of what Milleux expects you to say. He waves a hand at you, dismissing your attempts at filling in the gaps.

“What I mean to say is, I was part of the church from my very youngest days. Marked for greatness, some said. Bishop Worthington mentored me, but it was more than that – he shielded me from those who would have been more... direct in their attempts at manipulation. That was one of the first things that he taught me, that others would try and use me for their own gain,” the young Hierophant laughs humourlessly to this, “I never imagined that he would end up being the same threat he tried to warn me against...”

An interruption comes in the form of Caliban returning, setting down a dusty bottle of wine and three goblets. “Paid about three times what this swill is worth,” he announces cheerfully, speaking loudly enough that the bartender can surely hear him, “But you take what you can get, can't you?” Yanking the cork free with his teeth, he sloshes a generous measure of the dark wine into each goblet. “So,” he adds, “What were we talking about?”

“Worthington, I suppose,” you venture, watching as Milleux takes a brave swig of the wine. He coughs and splutters, nearly spitting out the rough alcohol. Tactfully pretending not to notice, you pick up the bottle and study what little remains of the paper label. “A herbal infusion intended to invigorate the body and revitalise the spirit,” you read aloud, watching the syrupy wine ooze as you tilt the bottle this way and that, “How perfectly horrible.”

“You're still going to drink it though,” Caliban points out, “Aren't you?”

“Well, it's bought and paid for now,” you admit, taking a sip of the dreadful wine, “No point in wasting it.”

Conversation falters for a moment as you start to drink. Although it starts out as just rough and pungent, the wine soon takes on a cloyingly sweet taste. When your goblet is finished, you don't immediately go back for more. Milleux seems to be getting used to it though, quickly finishing off his first cup and casting suggestive looks at the bottle – looks that Caliban gleefully ignores for a while before giving in and sloshing some more into all three goblets. Taking up his, Milleux raises it in a toast.

“To Bishop Worthington,” he announces, only slurring his words a little bit.

“You're kidding, right?” you counter, your goblet sitting untouched before you.

[2/3]

>>3137977

“Well... not as such,” Milleux replies, awkwardly lowering his goblet, “I still owe a great deal to him. I DO believe that he is a good man. He simply... strayed from the path. He was led astray by his own sense of duty, duty to me and the church. He believed that he was defending the church, and I cannot condemn him for that. I dearly wish that he had chosen a less violent path, of course I do, but...”

“And you don't think that maybe, just maybe, he was out for himself?” Caliban suggests, “It's a cold hard world out there. Maybe you don't notice it so much in your palace, but there are a lot of people out there with a hunger – a hunger for status, for influence, for any kind of power. Maybe your man Worthington was just out to screw over some of the competition.”

You don't fully disagree with Caliban, but still – those are harsh words to be slinging around over your morning wine. Throwing back the rest of his drink, Milleux pouts. “You are a cynic, sir,” he accuses, “Perhaps your upbringing has taught you to expect the very worst.”

“Actually, you're entirely correct there,” the hunter agrees. His voice is genial enough, but you don't like the look in his eyes. It's a look that you've seen before, the nasty look of a man looking to lash out and wound someone. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe it was never a good idea in the first place...

Huffing, Milleux pours himself a new drink. “I still think he's a good man, even with this... lapse of judgement,” he insists, stubbornly raising his goblet again, “To believe in the inherent goodness of man... is that really so foolish?”

>In my experience, yes it is
>No. I think it's good to be optimistic
>I think... (Write in)
>Other

>>3138008
>No. I think it's good to be optimistic
"You just need to temper that optimism with experience and the person's actions."

>>3138008
>I think... (Write in)
It's good to never lose that spark, but you shouldn't let optimism blind you. Try to always keep a pragmatic view.

>>3138008
>Maybe not, but in my experience a person's actions are what define them.

Sighing, you pick up your goblet and tap it against his. “It's good to be optimistic,” you agree, “But you can't let yourself be blinded by it. Temper your optimism with experience and wisdom, but never let that spark go out. Without hope, the world would seem like a far bleaker place. Without pragmatism, though, you might never get the chance to see your hopes realised.” Pausing here, you laugh. “Get a load of me,” you joke, “I probably sound like one of your advisors!”

“Yeah, you kids can have fun. I'm going out to get a smoke,” Caliban grunts, emptying his cup in one gulp before wandering out of the basement bar. Milleux watches him leave, curiously tilting his head. When the hunter is gone, Milleux slumps a little as he relaxes.

“Pragmatism, you say,” the Hierophant muses, “To be honest with you, I hate that word. I hear it so often, and it always seems to stand for being horrible and getting away with it. Oh, I understand the concept, and I know how wise it is, but... I find myself yearning for something higher, some loftier ideal. Do you know that Chancellor Wellager gave me a book on Iraklin philosophy? It was a gift, to celebrate our joint battle. It speaks very highly of pragmatism, praising it as though they worshipped the idea instead of a god.”

You're not really sure what he was getting at there. The wine seems to have loosened his tongue, while whatever invigorating herbs it was mixed with seem to have given him the strength to talk without end. Still, that can be useful to a man looking for information. “You must have other advisors, men and women who hold ideals of their own,” you venture, “People like... Bishop Rhea?”

“Light, she frightens me sometimes!” Milleux blurts out, “She's... I've heard it said that the Lord of Rising Light made a place for everyone. If so, Cloudtop Prison and Bishop Rhea were made for each other. Did you know that she's watched over that place for longer than anyone else? Longer even than Worthington, and he was... happy there. I wonder if Rhea is happy there. She always seems...” He pauses, shaking his head as he drinks. “But she gives good advice. She only wishes the best for the church, and those who belong to it,” he concludes, “But then, don't we all in our own ways?”

As Milleux slumps forwards, his abundent energy giving way to a yawn, you consider his vague answer. “I think Rhea might be sweet on me,” you think aloud, “Whenever I need help from the church, she's there to put in a good word or pull a few strings. I wonder why?”

“Oh, well, you're a useful sort,” the Hierophant mumbles, “Maybe that's it. Or maybe she...”

But the rest of this is lost, his words murmured into the notched table he has sprawled out across.

[1/2]

>>3138008
>No. I think it's good to be optimistic

But Worthington squirreled away his own private kill squad and attempted to assassinate a rival. My optimism can only cover so much, and he's gone well beyond that line.

>>3138069

Oh no, this won't do. Reaching across, you gently lift Milleux's head up and look him in the eye. “Mind repeating that?” you ask quietly, “I don't think I quite caught the last part there.”

“Uh... what were we talking about?” he replies, rubbing his eyes, “Maybe I need to take a drink. Invigorating...” Sighing, you pour a little of the herbal wine into his cup and wait as he drinks. When Milleux's eyes clear, he nods. “Rhea. She said something before Bishop Worthington's inquiry. I didn't really understand it at the time, and I still don't. She said that, um, that when the time to make a real difference came, the church would be powerless. We were too big, too slow to react. She said that men like you would be the ones to decide the course,” Milleux continues, tapping you on the chest, “So we would be wise to keep you friendly.”

That... makes sense. In the same way that the Iraklins can be paralysed by their endless debates and discussions, the Carths can be brought to a halt by the bickering of advisors – Milleux's example of building a fleet comes to mind. The question, then, is whether Rhea was speaking generally or if she's working off specific information. Where she got that information would be the next question, but you're not thinking that far ahead yet. You don't get the chance, either – Milleux jolts around as something occurs to him.

“What time is it?” he yelps, “I was supposed to meet with...” Fumbling out an expensive looking pocket watch, Milleux flips it open and squints at the tiny numerals. Groaning softly, he lurches out of his chair and stumbles for the exit. Grimacing, you start to follow the drunken young man before something can go wrong, but you're too late. A deep shout of anger sounds out as Milleux bumps into a large aerodrome worker, his swaying hand swinging into the large man's expansive gut.

“You got a problem with me?” the worker snarls, shoving up his sleeves like a man preparing for a fight. Milleux freezes, his mouth flapping as he tries to figure out what to do. Other eyes are turning this way, and you feel your nerves grow taut. These don't look like peaceful churchmen in here – if they recognise Milleux, things could escalate quickly. Rational men might not get violent, but these aren't rational men. You need to end this quickly, but how?

>Just knock the man out, quick and easy
>Turn on the charm and defuse the situation
>Grab Milleux and run. He's too fat to chase you
>Other

>>3138132
>Turn on the charm and defuse the situation
"My friend and I were just thinking you could use a drink on us."

>Other
If we get out of this, do we have anything to sober the Milleux up a bit before he goes back to business?

>>3138132
>Grab Milleux and run. He's too fat to chase you

HA! FATTIES BTFO!

>>3138132
>Turn on the charm and defuse the situation

>>3138132
>Grab Milleux and run. He's too fat to chase you
Just fucking wing it.

>>3138132
>>Grab Milleux and run. He's too fat to chase you

“I don't like the look of your face!” the fat worker grunts, drawing back his fist to strike Milleux. The Hierophant shrinks back, his feet frozen to the ground, and you wonder if a punch to the face might improve Milleux's circumstances. Certainly, he might be harder to recognise through a mask of blood. On the other hand, do you really want to be the man who lets the head of the Church of the Rising Light get punched in the face?

So, when the aerodrome worker swings his sluggish punch, you lash out and grab his hand. He pauses in surprise, and you push his hand lower. “Now now, there's no need for any of that,” you warn, tightening your grip just enough to make the fat man gasp with pain before you push him away. Then, grabbing Milleux by the wrist, you drag him up the rest of the stairs and burst out into the street above. Sunlight blinds you, and you hear Caliban blurting out a startled curse.

At long last, you've finally managed to take the hunter by surprise. No time to gloat, though, as you can hear angered voices roaring up from down below.

-

Caliban leads you back to the aerodrome at speed, taking a far more direct route than the first half of your journey. The scenic route, apparently, but now you're not taking in the scenery. Milleux starts laughing as soon as the immediate danger has passed, and even a dirty backwards look from Caliban isn't enough to silence him. You can't really blame him for laughing. He's lived a sheltered life, and this kind of mischief must be utterly alien to him.

“What a rude man!” he pants, still laughing to himself, “Oh, we're almost back to the airy... ero... aerodrome!” Chuckling, swaying with every step he takes, the Hierophant wanders a few paces ahead. There's no way he can go back to his office like this. The Hierophant of the church, drunk out of his mind? It really would be a scandal. Caliban notices your expression, then lets out a crude laugh.

“He's really wasted, isn't he?” he sneers, “Impressive, considering he just had a few cups... of a non-alcoholic herbal tonic.” You turn around in shock, and the hunter laughs again. “The power of suggestion is a very impressive thing, isn't it captain? You could even call it faith,” he continues, “Just a little trick. Get the doctor to give him a sugar pill and tell him it's a miracle cure, he'll be sober by the time he's walking out of the aerodrome.”

The power of suggestion, he says. True enough, you certainly don't feel even close to drunk. The herbal tonic has left you with a slight buzz, a pleasant contrast with your earlier hangover, but nothing more than that. “Okay, you got me,” you sigh, watching as Milleux slumps against the wall ahead, “You got us both.”

“I do try,” Caliban agrees, a sly smile on his scarred face.

[1/2]

>>3138221
My sides rofl

>>3138221

To your amusement, Caliban's suggestion of a “miracle cure” works almost as well as he had predicted – it just takes a little longer. Barnum provides a glass of some fizzing liquid, water spiked with something to give it a faintly medicinal flavour, and Milleux lies down for an hour. That's all it takes. When he wakes, he leaves with a spring in his step and a mouth full of praise for Barnum's talents.

“It occurs to me,” Barnum murmurs as he watches the Hierophant leave, “I could easily have given that man poison to drink.” You look sharply around, giving the doctor a hard look. He just stares back blandly, shrugging after a moment. “I should not joke about these things, I know,” Barnum concedes, “But it amuses me.”

“Right,” you mutter, “A joke.”

-

Word from Sandoval arrives a while later, her cool tones crackling out from the radio to fill the bridge. She sounds a lot better for getting a night's sleep – calmer, more stable. The jagged anger that had previously lurked just barely beneath the surface is gone now, or at least buried so deep as to be gone. You're glad about that, and no mistake, but you don't ever think you'll be able to forget about it. You'll have to be careful with Sandoval, careful to stay on her good side.

“I forgot how empty this place feels when I'm here on my own,” Sandoval laments, “I've sent word to some of my people, and they'll be coming down to join us. Khusraw said that he's looking forwards to seeing you again. You've been making friends, Vaandemere. Making contacts. You're not thinking of trying to lure my best and brightest away from me, are you?”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” you assure her, “But you know me. I make friends wherever I go.”

“Friends in high places, I hear,” she muses. Before you can ask her what she's getting at, Sandoval continues. “Well, no matter. I've got some information that you might like to hear, so stop by my study when you arrive at the estate,” she tells you, “Now, you should be able to find it easily enough, but that scruffy pilot of yours looks like the sort who needs precise directions. Listen closely now...”

Pretending not to notice the sour look on Dwight's face, you scrawl down the directions that Sandoval recites to you. “Simple enough,” you remark when she's finished, “You got that, Dwight?”

“You know, chief, I think I'll manage somehow,” the pilot drawls back.

>Okay, I'm going to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, although it might be a slightly shorter session
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>3138296
Thanks for running

>>3138296
Thanks for running!

Khusraw is her best and brightest? Ooof. Who does she consider do be the bottom of the pack then?

>>3137801
I feel like Masques advice gets short shrift. It's always honest and a different perspective, it's rude to be offended at him for doing his best.

Not that he should offer it to people on Trice' state.