>>3170096

All is quiet in the estate when you return back from your wandering. The first face you see is that of Keziah, a welcome sight. Sitting out in the sun on a beautifully crafted wooden chair, her legs awkwardly thrown across one leg of it, the witch's attention focused on the slender book she holds. Not just any book, you realise, but the rare volume that Sandoval had been looking for. Strange, to see her reading it again – the last time she mentioned it, Keziah had been less than impressed.

“Trouble sleeping?” you ask, “I can't think why else you'd be reading that stuff.”

“Maybe I'm just losin' my mind here, but some of this is actually startin' to make sense,” Keziah replies, looking up and giving you one of her smiles – a bit proud, a bit sly, and even a little awkward. “The world we see reflected in the mirror's blank face reveals the truth,” she reads aloud, “Nothing, not even heavenly grace, is truly permanent. All things reach their end, and come to a path with three forks – to begin anew, to ascend into something greater, or to plunge into decay.”

That last word is what really jumps out to you. Decay – a slow and creeping breakdown of what was once a harmonious order. Men turning on one another, scheming and plotting to claim whatever fleeting power they can grasp. You've seen this, in Iraklis and Carthul both, and one thought comes to mind. Without needing to speak aloud, Keziah nods as her expression darkens.

“It's only going to get worse, isn't it?” she whispers softly, setting the book aside, “It's going to be one thing after another, a downward spiral-”

“Until we put an end to this,” you interrupt firmly, “We're almost there.”

Keziah hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Right, yes,” she murmurs to herself, looking back up at you and forcing a smile. “Right, boss, what's our next stop?” she continues, her voice bright and bold once again, “I dinnae ken for sure if goin' to see the heart again would help much, but you understand all this better than I do. Kinda curious to see what sort of mess the Iraklins are makin' of their wee outpost, not gonna lie there, and the Mavens might be there if you need to talk with them about anythin'. Else, I figure we'd be headin' down into the barrow. One key fragment left, so...”

So you're close. You're not entirely sure what you're close to, but you're close. Sandoval's mural feels like the last piece of a puzzle, and you remind yourself to thank her before you leave. When you DO leave, your destination is...

>Eishin's former encampment, with the Mavens and the heart itself
>The Nadir barrow, with the final key fragment
>Somewhere else... (Write in)
>Other

>>3170097
>The Nadir barrow, with the final key fragment

>>3170097
>The Nadir barrow, with the final key fragment

We've put it off for way too long.

>>3170097
>>The Nadir barrow, with the final key fragment
Don't need to go to the vault right after, but it'll be good to have it in our possession. I feel like our objective is becoming less and less secret

The Nadir barrow, definitely. It's been a long road that brought you here, and now it's time to take one more step towards the end. If you don't act soon, the opportunity might slip through your fingers. That would be the crowning irony – to descend into the depths of the barrow, only to find that some other adventurous soul had stolen your prize out from under your nose. Unlikely? Maybe so, but considering your luck...

“Got it, boss. I'll tell the others to get ready,” Keziah agrees, nodding and hopping out of her chair, “I'll, uh, borrow a sack of salt from the kitchen as well. Dinnae think Sandoval will miss it – she's got enough supplies to feed an army tucked away in there.”

Salt, of course, to repel the guardian spirits. Leaving the witch to her work, you go off in search of Sandoval herself. You find her in the ballroom, standing high up on the balcony and gazing out across the empty hall. Raising a solemn hand in greeting, you stroll up to join her. “We'll be leaving shortly,” you begin bluntly, trusting Sandoval to appreciate your direct approach, “Duty calls. Too bad about your people, though. Do you know why they weren't able to make it?”

“I've been in contact with them. Some new discovery back in Zenith, apparently, something they weren't willing to discuss over the radio. Good news for me, then,” Sandoval answers, “Good for you too, I imagine. Much easier to work on the chapel without a mob of churchmen getting under your feet. I'll keep the chapel closed off from now on, to keep prying eyes away from the mural. That's what you wanted to ask, wasn't it?”

Not exactly, but you appreciate her discretion. Nodding your thanks, you leave Sandoval to her ruminations. It's time to make a move.

-

“Got a message for you,” Dwight announces as he's guiding the Spirit of Helena on her ascent, “From your provost friend. She dropped us a line earlier. I offered to fetch you, but she didn't want to talk. Just wanted you to know that she's okay, and she'll be going back to work. From now on, she said, it might be better if you keep things professional.” Glancing briefly around, the scruffy pilot raises a curious eyebrow. “Now, I'm not one to gossip...” he adds, “But what happened with-”

“I was the bearer of bad news,” you reply curtly, thinking back to the ugly business between Masque and Alexander, “That's all.”

“Not cool,” Dwight mutters, shrugging once before letting the matter drop, “Been checking out some charts, chief. I think I can set the Helena down close enough to where you want to go. Not right on the doorstep, but you won't need to hike for a week.”

That, at least, is some damn good news. Murmuring thanks, you lean back in your chair and let your eyes drift shut.

[1/2]

>>3170116

The soft jolt of landing rouses you from an unsightly dream, and you peer out through the front observation window to see... nothing, just a blank canvas of grey. Closer inspection reveals the dark and indistinct silhouettes of trees, but little else. Rubbing the grit out of your eyes, you turn to Dwight and shoot him a curious look. “Thick fog, chief,” he explains, rather needlessly, “Had to use my backup plan, a second landing zone – a little larger, easier to set the ship down, but not quite so close. Sorry, but when the alternative was risking fiery death...”

“No, this is fine,” you grunt, “How far out are we?”

“About half a day's hike,” Caliban answers, causing you to look around in surprise, “By my guess, we can make it the the Eclipse Circle before camping for the night. It'll be safe there – beasts tend to avoid the stone circles. After that, we can head on to the barrow.”

So much for that good news. Resigning yourself to the unwelcome hike, you prepare to depart.

-

“I don't really get it,” Freddy admits as you trudge through the mist-shrouded forest, “The man who built Sandoval's chapel, why was he...”

“Judged and found wanting?” Grace finishes, “Well, it's a little unclear. Translation issues, a lack of full and proper context, a dozen other little factors that I shan't bore you with. My best guess is, the heart demands purpose from those who confront it – so, when he had no reason or intent guiding his actions, he was driven away in defeat. There's a lesson there, captain – indecision will destroy you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply quietly, keeping your gaze fixed ahead of you. The fog isn't quite so bad once you got out into the midst of it, but you still dislike having your vision cut short like this. Then again, the Deep Forest never really allows for clear line of sight. “Are you sure that we're headed in the right direction?” you ask Caliban, glaring at his back, “We should have reached the Eclipse Circle by now, and-”

Caliban interrupts you with a raised fist, and you all fall silent. A moment passes, and then the hunter raises his voice. “Come out, wherever you are!” he shouts, calling out into the wilderness, “Show yourself!”

The undergrowth rustles, then, and a figure emerges from the tree line to your left. Snapping around and raising your weapons, you keep the new arrival in your sights as he slowly raises his hands above his head. Clad in rust-red leather armour and armed with a pair of short blades on one hip, he has the clear makings of a warrior about him. Not just any warrior, either – he has the look of Eishin's elites about him, one of Segharl's followers. A pair of common fighters emerges to join him, their hands raised in surrender as well.

“Pardon,” the warrior begins, his voice surprisingly mild, “I did not mean to startle you.”

[2/3]

>>3170116
>From now on, she said, it might be better if you keep things professional.

Kinda lame, it's not really our fault her boyfriend frienemy took up assassinating a church member while we were meeting with her, but at least she got some closure.

>>3170142

He's a strange one, this new arrival, a man of contrasts. He looks savage, with his barbaric armour and a red stain across his face, a stain that gives him the appearance of a skinned skull, but his voice is polite and almost scholarly. Keeping your revolver pointed at his head, you gesture for him to remain at a distance. “You're one of Eishin's men,” you accuse, “Are you here to pick a fight?”

“I WAS one of Eishin's followers, yes, but Eishin is undone,” he corrects you, “Now, I am my own man. I am Pilgrim Lama, and... let me see. If you seek the Eclipse Circle, that would put you on the path to the barrows, would it not? The circle is a common landmark for those wishing to visit the tombs. We were headed that way ourselves, to pay our respects. I assure you, we have no intention of fighting with you.”

“He could have ambushed us before now, but he didn't,” Keziah thinks to you, “We've got him outnumbered, too, but... a pilgrim? I don't know about this...”

“The Eclipse Circle is very close now,” Lama continues, nodding ahead of you, “Why don't we travel together? The road can be lonesome, and this meeting may be more than just a mere coincidence.”

Travelling together with a former servant of your enemy, even if he is claiming to have no ill-will...

>Travel together with Lama and his men
>Keep your distance and travel alone
>Attack Lama and his men. They're still your enemies
>Other

>>3170161
>Travel together with Lama and his men
Have Masque pull up the rear of our convoy so he can keep an eye on them.

>>3170161
>>Travel together with Lama and his men

>>3170161
>Travel together with Lama and his men

I'm sure Eishin didn't give him much choice about service.

Pausing for a moment more, you lower your revolver and return it to its holster. “Very well,” you offer, “We'll travel together, if that's really what you want. I'm warning you now, though – don't try anything. It won't end well for you.”

Lama slowly lowers his hands, hooking his thumbs into his belt and giving you a grin. Not an especially pleasant grin, with one cheek peeling open into a grotesquely wide mouth, but a grin nonetheless. “Fortuitous for us both,” he decides, “The Deep Forest has grown more dangerous of late. There was a time when I would have walked it without fear, but that time has sadly passed. Well, I shall lead – this is a land that I know well. Follow, please.”

There are a few grumbles from your companions, but nobody complains too loudly. As you're starting to follow after Lama, however, you feel the uneasy prickling of eyes boring into you from behind. Eyes that seem to strip you bare and tear through you, eyes that seem to stab into the deepest parts of your mind and-

You turn hurriedly, looking out for the ambush that – just for a fleeting moment – seemed almost inevitable. Yet there is nothing there, nothing looking at you save for a few of your own men. Shaking off the uneasy feeling, you gesture for Masque to keep close... and to keep a close eye on your new travelling companions. You're not about to take any chances with them.

-

Lama's claim that your destination was close proves accurate, and a sparse ten minutes of walking takes you into the wide clearing. With the mist still clinging to the ground here, coiling around looming standing stones, the ritual site has an eerie air to it. The thought of spending a night here isn't one that you cherish, but it's better than walking on through the deepening night. As you're setting down and getting a campfire underway, Keziah walks a circuit of the stone circle and gives you a firm nod of satisfaction. Apparently, the stone circle meets her approval.

Whatever THAT means.

You might be willing to travel with Lama, but there are limits to your trust. When it comes to get a meal started, you task your own people with preparing the food despite his offer. Judging by the relieved looks on the faces of his men, Lama is far from a distinguished chef. As Branwen returns with the fruits of her foraging and Blessings flips through the pages of a small book - “hearty meals for humble travellers” - you catch Lama gazing at the boy.

“Books,” he explains quietly when you confront him, “He is lucky, to carry them so casually. I delight in such things, but they were always forbidden under Eishin's rule. Of course, he had books of his own. His rules were not our rules.”

“You didn't like him,” you guess, “Right?”

“No,” Lama answers simply, “But Segharl was sworn to the king, and I was sworn to Segharl. My feelings towards Eishin were irrelevant. Now both are gone, and I am a masterless man. There is value in that, I think.”

[1/2]

>>3170236

With the hearty meal over, and the humble travellers feeling well-fed, you lie back and consider your new companions. Sleep remains distant yet, and all three of the newcomers have split off to occupy themselves. Lama himself has stripped to the waist and prostrated himself before one of the standing stones, bowing and murmuring curious prayers to himself. His bare back is covered with dark red marks, stains etched deep into his skin like the marks of some old disease, and you find your gaze drawn back to them again and again. Looking for some pattern or meaning in them, perhaps.

Although they introduced themselves, the other two men say little. Ailill, a heavyset man with a bulging paunch, sits by himself and quietly practices notes on a bone flute. Eoin, a lean and somehow frantic looking chap, sits alone and cleans his scavenged rifle down with a rag. Hardly a social pair, them.

When the ground trembles, everyone looks up in alarm. Somewhere distant in the forest, something screams. Taking that as a signal, everyone draws closer together and crowds around the flickering campfire.

-

“Tell me, Mister... ah, Lama,” Blessings begins weakly, his voice trembling a little as he tries to speak, “What did you do for... er, well, you know.”

“In Eishin's service, I had many duties,” Lama answers smoothly, “I was a warrior foremost, as we all were, but I was also a storyteller. I travelled from village to village, listening to their elders speak and learning their tales. My memory is excellent, you see. You think of us as one people, a single entity with a single mind, yet that is far from the truth. One settlement, only a day's march away from their neighbours, can have a completely different record of history. I believe that once, long ago, our people were scattered by some vast calamity. We grew too proud, too complacent, and so we had to relearn the old ways.”

Leaning forwards, Caliban stabs the campfire with a long stick and sends a whirl of sparks dancing up into the sky. “Tell us a tale, then,” he urges Lama, a hard note to his voice, “I'd like to hear the kind of stories they told in Eishin's camp.”

“A tale? Very well... but only one,” Lama stresses, holding up a single finger, “What would you wish to hear? Tales of heroic men are common, of course, but perhaps you would rather hear tell of a beast. Or maybe... a wyrm?”

Again, that awful smile as he stares into your eyes. Returning his gaze without fear, you give your answer. A tale of...

>Heroic men
>Terrible beasts
>Enigmatic wyrms
>Other

>>3170267
>Enigmatic wyrms

>>3170267
>Enigmatic wyrms

Still the biggest enigma.

>>3170267
>>Enigmatic wyrms
Oh yes

“You have tales of wyrms?” you ask, faintly surprised by the suggestion, “Then by all means, entertain us with one.”

Lama nods across to Ailill, who starts to play a long and haunting note on his flute. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Lama begins to tell his tale. He talks in a deeper voice than his usual tone, a low and musical timbre that winds in and out of the flute's wavering tune. “This tale harkens back to a more savage time, a time when men were great and daemons roamed freely. In this age, there were many ways for a man to die. Swords and arrows, the claws of beasts, a myriad of curses laid upon their flesh... yet there were also things that would not die. Daemons, or men gifted with strange enchantments,” he intones, “One man sought a means to end that which mortal weapons could not end. He roamed far and wide, searching for an answer to his question, and yet time and time again he was defeated.”

Waiting for him to get to the important part, you nod for Lama to continue. “His search took him to the very edge of the world,” Lama declares, “To a land with no stars in the sky, a desert of dust and salt that stretched out without end. No sane man would come to such a place, and yet this man had long since left sanity behind – in its place, there was naught but a burning lust for death. Driven by his lusts, he found it.”

“It?” Gunny repeats, the reddish firelight giving his frozen eyes the look of something horrible.

“A great tree, about which a vast serpent had wound itself. A monster that men would, in time, come to call a wyrm. The man fell to his knees and cried out a prayer to the wyrm, pleading for the weapon he sought. He pleaded, and the wyrm answered,” Lama continues, “It told him that there was nothing that it could not kill, be it man or daemon or stranger things aside... but it would not kill without cause, for it served a different master. This creature, this wyrm, served to maintain this master's design. When men escaped their fate, the wyrm would seek them out and destroy them. When men failed to meet their fate, the wyrm would guide them to their appointed destination.”

Silence here. Even the flute falls silent as Lama waits for his words to settle in. “Then, at last, the man dared to ask what HIS fate was, where HIS appointed destination lay,” he breathes, “The wyrm answered. It told the man that he had reached his destination, his end... and it proved to him that all things must die.” Leaning back, Lama smiles and the spell is broken, the story is over.

“Now hold on,” Caliban complains, “If he was killed there, then how did his story come back to-” The hunter's words are cut sharply off as Branwen, sitting next to him, stamps on his foot. He grumbles, but he keeps the rest of his complaints to himself.

[1/2]

>>3170321

Morning finds you marching again, heading on towards your destination. Spurred on by Lama's tale, your dreams that night had been alive with coiling serpents that hissed secrets to you – secrets that, infuriatingly, remained out of reach when you woke. In all likelihood, they were of no worth, simple fantasies conjured up by your dreaming mind, but you can't shake the feeling that they were something more. Even outside of that odd feeling, you find yourself haunted by the idea of wyrms cultivating some greater destiny – sometimes bringing destruction, sometimes bringing salvation.

“Tell me,” you hear yourself say aloud, “Lama. Why are you going to the barrows?” The question surprises you, but you're glad of the distraction.

“The barrows are, in part, a sacred place. A temple to the Mistress of Flames, and of all the dead who rest within her embrace,” Lama explains, “I wish to pay my respects to all those who died in the attack. I knew many of the men who were killed defending Eishin. It sadden me, to think of them going unmourned. Their bodies were burned, at least – I saw that, hidden from the trees. A good thing to do.”

The Iraklins, you know, did not burn the bodies out of respect – it was to get rid of them, to prevent them from decaying, and nothing more.

-

Shortly before noon, you arrive at your destination. A deep pit, an inverted tower of broken stone that plunges down into the bowels of the land, the barrows have dozens of doorways carved into the rock face. Tunnels leading down into the tombs, you figure, a tangled maze of passages and junctions. “Delightful,” you sigh, looking down into the pit, “Where do we even start?”

“The lowest point?” Caliban suggests with a shrug, “It's the least convenient place to get to, so that's probably it.”

“Now that I think about it, you never mentioned why you wished to come here,” Lama muses, “Strange, for outsiders to seek out this place. Once, perhaps, there was treasure for the taking, but those days are long past. The upper tombs have surely been pillaged by now, and the lower tombs... there are easier ways for a man to make his fortune. You must have some reason to come here. Is it perhaps... you still walk the path that King Eishin set out for you, Captain Vaandemere?”

His face peels back in that hideous smile as he says this. Eishin's path, of course... he had always planned for you to assemble the key, to open the vault in Zenith and usher in an age of transition. It rankles at you, but his guess isn't entirely wrong. When Lama continues to gaze expectantly at you, you realise that he's not going to just let the matter drop without an answer.

>Admit the truth – you're here following Eishin's path
>Lie – you're here to pay your respects as well
>Evade the question – you're just here looking for treasure
>Other

>>3170321
>“It?” Gunny repeats, the reddish firelight giving his frozen eyes the look of something horrible.
Gunny's face is scarier than the horror story

>>3170370
>Other
"Yes and no. I still need what's down there but I don't plan on receiving the fate Eishin expects me to have. After all, he didn't have the full picture. He never bothered to look closer or farther than his ambition."

>>3170370
>>Admit the truth – you're here following Eishin's path... kinda

Im surprised our involvement wasn't a secret

>>3170370
>It's not his path. I was doing this long before I ever communicated with him.

>>3170370
I'll support this.
>>3170383

“That's not a simple question to answer,” you reply slowly, “Am I still walking Eishin's path? I'm not sure if I was EVER walking his path – I was walking my own path, and sometimes they covered the same ground. I still need what's waiting down there, but I have no plans on meeting the fate Eishin had in store for me. He was blind to all but his ambition, but I have a higher goal now.” Pausing here, you watch Lama's reaction. One hand rests casually on the hilt of one of his swords, but he makes no sign of attacking. “Do you have a problem with that?” you press, “Do you mean to stop me?”

Lama waits in silence for a moment more before taking his hand away from his swords. “I will not stop you,” he replies eventually, “But I will give you a warning. The lower tombs are guarded by spirits, bound to undying bodies. Docile normally, yet of late they have become... disturbed. I know not what caused this, but the guardians are more dangerous than they used to be. There may be worse things down there, too, the source of this change.”

“When did it change?” you ask, but Lama just shakes his head. Rumours and gossip have a way of getting twisted as they spread, so he likely knows little more than you do. “We'll keep our guard up,” you assure him, “What about you?”

“I will remain in the upper tombs. The guardians do not come up this far,” Lama promises, “If you do learn of the cause, do tell me. I am quite curious about this.”

And this, perhaps, is why he was so keen on having some “travelling companions”. He wanted someone to do his dirty work for him.

-

Taking Caliban's advice to heart, you decide to start at the bottom of the pit and work your way up. You walk in silence for a while, keeping your weapons to hand and watching the tunnel entrances for any signs of movement. The wind moans through hollow rock... or perhaps the moans have a less natural source. Certainly, they seem to have a hungry edge to them that you dislike intensely. Another tremor hits as you're descending the narrow path that winds down the inside of the pit, and loose pebbles rattle down off your shoulders as they tumble down from above.

More than just loose pebbles, actually. An alarmed cry slips from your lips as a lump of rock the size of your head slams down into the path before you, bursting apart and showering you with rubble. With the tremor showing no sign of abating, you point towards the closest tunnel entrance. “There!” you order, “Everyone move, we'll take cover inside!”

That's one order that you certainly don't need to repeat. Darkness swallows you up as you retreat into the tunnel, only to be banished a moment later as Freddy lights up her flashlight.

Lighting up the wizened, hollow-eyed corpse that looms up in front of you.

[1/2]

>>3170426
Tomb of jump scares.

>>3170426

Your sword is drawn back for a strike before you realise that... well, that the killing blow was struck decades ago. Some of the bodies in this place might be animated, but this one is just a regular cadaver. Dried out and mummified, bound to a wooden post to that it stands upright, the corpse seems to serve as a warning. At least, that's what Keziah claims. Holding one grubby sleeve over her nose and mouth, she leans closer to read the ancient letters carved into a wooden board slung around the corpse's neck.

“Go no further,” she reads aloud, “So, I figure the lower tombs are below us.”

“That is what “lower” usually means, yes,” Grace sighs, bracing herself against the wall as another tremor grips the chamber. Dust sifts down from the ceiling, and she fussily brushes it out of her hair. “I think that was the last one,” she adds a moment later, the tremor fading to nothing, “And not a moment too soon, I must say. I don't much care for the idea of being trapped in here, or – worse yet – being crushed by some collapsing roof. It doesn't bear thinking about.”

“What do bears have to do with this?” Branwen asks as she explores the chamber, poking about in the gloom and kicking loose pebbles about.

“That's not...” Grace begins, only to give up with a sigh. Some battles just aren't worth fighting.

-

Cautiously peeking out through the doorway, you look about at the pit and the downward path. A few larger rocks have fallen down to litter the path, and some parts of the path itself have broken away to fall into the pit below, but you still have a clear road down to the bottom. Mostly clear, at least. Looking back, you give your crew a firm nod. “Let's move,” you tell them, “Just be ready for any other tremors, and get a light ready. The tunnels are going to be dark, and you heard what Lama said about the lower tombs.”

“Just hope this salt trick still works,” Keziah mutters to herself as you walk, “If they're actin' funny, it could be because their bindings have been messed with. If that's the case, we cannae assume anythin'.”

“So we destroy them instead,” Masque rumbles, “A far more reliable approach than to rely on the work of perfidious witchcraft.”

Gesturing for the pair to keep quiet, you look about you with a scowl. The rock walls here have been decorated with looming carven figures, their forms ground down by the weight of countless years. Some of the figures are human, but more of them are... not. You see the suggestion of grasping hands, clamped tightly around clusters of smaller bodies, and all manner of tangled shapes. The further down you go, the more chaotic the carvings seem until they hint at nothing less than an unbroken see of wavering limbs.

Silently, Grace raises the Imago device and snaps a picture.

[2/3]

>>3170466

When you reach the lowest point of the pit, you see old bones poking out from decades of fallen rock. Closing your eyes for a moment, you can practically imagine captives being hurled from the top of the pit in some cruel sacrificial rite. Once, the thought would have left you shaken but now... you take these things in stride. Nadir has been unkind to you, hardening you to the worst of excesses. The tunnel entrance here is a little grander than the others, with the remnants of an ornate archway still visible on the rock.

Freddy lights the way with her flashlight, while Blessings holds a lantern high. Already you can see movement inside, a stiff-limbed form shuffling from one end of the tunnel to the other. Masque crouches low and picks up a pebble, sharply hurling it inside the cave. As the hard clack of stone against stone rings out, the corpse drops down onto all-fours and lets out a savage growl, charging out towards you. Blurting a curse, you start to draw your sword as the daemon steps forwards, thrusting with his thinner blade. Meeting the corpse's charge head on, he spears it down through the head, through the neck, and all hint of movement leaves its body.

“They are slain easily enough then,” Masque intones, letting the body slide off his blade. Covering your mouth and leaning down, you take a closer look at it. Sexless and naked, the corpse carries nothing that could be called a weapon save for its teeth and fingers. It would be a slow process, being killed by such a creature or even a pack of them. Still, it's good to know that they die quickly. If salt doesn't drive them away, you'll have another option available to you.

“Well then,” Grace sighs, nudging the wizened corpse with the toe of her shoe, “I shan't eat dried meat ever again after this.”

“Funny,” Caliban drawls, “I was just thinking that I was getting hungry.”

>Okay, I think I'm going to pause things here for now, my focus is pretty shot. However, I will continue this tomorrow
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>3170524
Thanks for running! Why Caliban gotta be so nasty?

>>3170524
Thanks for running

File: Branwen Mac Hillborg.png (1.34 MB, 749x1049)

1.34 MB PNG

The bag of salt forms an awkward lump against your side as you advance into the tomb, close at hand just in case any more of the animated corpses appear. The opening tunnel gives way to a wider chamber, and Freddy's flashlight illuminates a statue carved into – or perhaps growing out of – the stone wall. The statue forms the upper half of a woman's body, the remains of a beatific expression still visible on the decayed face and her hands cupped into a crude bowl. Branwen steps forwards, rummaging in her pockets for a moment before pulling out – along with a shower of loose salt – an old gold coin.

“Hey,” Caliban hisses, “Where did you get that?”

“Found it,” Branwen replies in a flat voice. As your crew start checking their pockets for anything else that might be “missing”, the healer drops her coin into the statue's waiting hands. Almost immediately, light flares as deep alcoves carved into the walls light up with flame. Freddy looks about her in amazement before clicking her flashlight off. So much for needing to worry about light.

-

Moving around the statue, you enter the next part of the tomb. Lit by more of those unnatural fires, you see a heavy stone door sealing off what is surely the heart of this place. Two other corridors lead further inside, but your attention is – for now – focused on the main door. No matter how hard you try, you can't get it to move. None of you can, even with every member of your crew throwing their weight behind the task. Eventually, you have to admit defeat.

“I don't understand,” you mutter, “Barrow Jackson never said anything about a sealed door. How did he get inside?”

“The witch was here,” Masque growls suddenly, “The illusionist. This place reeks of her handiwork.”

“Forlorn Ashtoret?” Keziah wonders aloud, “Aye, if this door is sealed with some kind of enchantment, then maybe she was able to temporarily break it open. Though, she would have needed to come here herself, so why no grab the crown while she was here? Unless... ah, unless she wasnae willin' to disturb the body itself. She broke it open, then sat back while Jackson did the proper lootin'.”

Freddy lets out a hushed laugh. “That's a loophole if I ever heard one,” she mutters, “So she wasn't willing to loot a tomb, but she was willing to let someone else do it?”

“I doubt she had any moral complaints about looting the tomb,” Grace points out, “No, I rather imagine she feared some kind of retribution should she be the one to disturb the body. Anyway, perhaps we should focus on the practicalities. How do we get this door open? Ashtoret was able to break the seal, if only for a short time, but can we do the same?”

“I dinnae think so. You'd need some pretty special knowledge for that,” Keziah sighs, “Chances are, that knowledge died with Ashtoret. Seems like we'll be doin' this the hard way. There are some carvings here, give me a minute to see what they say...”

[1/3]

>>3172410

Before his death, King Sanquir of the Pit decreed that is burial chamber would be sealed to all those unwilling to offer up a sacrifice of blood and tears. The tomb was built with that intention – two side chambers waiting for those who dare to take up his challenge. Her expression bleak, Keziah leads you down the left branch of the passage to the chamber of blood, and you wince as you see what's inside. Waiting at the far end of the hall is a pair of bladed iron poles, with a stone basin waiting underneath. It's not hard to guess what they're for.

“Maybe the other room is better,” Freddy mutters to herself as you're walking back to the central chamber. You pause along the way, listening as a chorus of howls ring out from somewhere deeper below you. They sound muffled, deadened by a thick layer of stone, and you write them off as a problem for the future. Deal with opening the main door first, then worry about the risen dead.

The chamber of tears is next. A more unusual concept for a sacrifice, and the apparatus that confronts you offers little hint as to what you should expect. The far end of the chamber has a stone throne partly surrounded by two curtains of mouldering hide. Someone sits there, you assume, and then... something happens.

You're pretty much making this up as you go along, but what else is new?

-

“As much as I hate to admit this...” Grace begins, a sigh in her voice, “This would all be so much easier if we were, well, if we were on speaking terms with Eishin.” When Caliban turns to glare at her, the young scholar holds up her hands. “Now, I'm not saying that we should have been working with him,” she cautions, “Just, he had a way of avoiding all this nasty sacrifice business. We could have used that knowledge.”

“No,” Branwen argues, “This is a sacred site. We should respect this place.”

“Oh, that's good,” Grace shoots back, “So you're volunteering for the sacrificial block, are you?”

Branwen remains silent to this, casting a nervous glance back towards the throne sitting at the far end of the room, and Keziah hurriedly speaks up. “Now, dinnae get too worked up about this. I didnae read anythin' about needin' to sacrifice yourself to death. Just... a wee little bit, that's all,” she points out, “I've been readin' the inscriptions here, and I reckon I understand it. Tears... someone needs to sit in that throne, and stay sittin' in it to keep the door open. They get up, the door closes again.”

“Yes, but what happens to the person sitting in the throne?” Grace presses, “Something horrible, I should think.”

“Well... sort of,” Keziah falters, “Nightmares were mentioned. Visions of, uh, some terrible fear.”

[2/3]

>>3172411

“I fear that I will be of no use here,” Masque states bluntly, “I have neither blood nor tears to offer up. Someone else must face this trial.”

Hard silence greets this. “Well, I'm going to ask the question that nobody wants to hear,” you say eventually, “Does anyone want to volunteer?”

Unsurprisingly, there is no immediate rush to answer your question. Eventually, Gunny slowly raises his hand. “Hell, brother, I guess I can give it a try,” he offers, “I don't hear anyone else putting themselves forwards. If they really want to show me some horrors... well, I guess it'll be nice to see anything again. So-”

“No!” Blessings protests suddenly, his voice echoing off the stone walls, “No, you've done too much for us already. You can't... Captain, let ME do it.” Drawing in a deep breath, the boy looks you straight in the eyes. “If it's just a nightmare... I can endure it, I think. I have faith – that might not mean much to you but, ah, it... well, you know,” he continues, tugging nervously at his clothes as he tries to explain, “Besides, Mister Hotchkiss, you might be needed down below. Me, I... don't really have any other use here.”

“You're kidding, right?” Caliban sneers, “Just how long do you think you can last in there?”

This is an ugly situation, and not one that you can handle yourself. If the door only stays open so long as someone is enduring the trial, you'll need someone to stay up here. In your heart, you know what you have to do – give the order, and offer someone up. Yet, it's not such an easy order to give when you're fond of the people involved. What choice do you have, though?

>Send Blessings to sit on the throne
>Send Gunny to sit on the throne
>Order someone else to sit... (Write in)
>Other

>>3172413
>Send Blessings to sit on the throne
Well this is shitty. We'll have to move as fast as possible.

>>3172413
>Find a huge fucking rock to jam the door with as soon as it opens.
No one will sit in that thing for longer than a few seconds.

>>3172413
Well, why the fuck not?>>3172423

>>3172423
>>3172413
Worth a shot too

>>3172413
If there's a rock or other implement suitable for
>>3172423, do it. Otherwise Blessings. Thanks for your sacrifice little buddy.

>>3172423
>>3172413
Addendum: If we find the rock, sit in that chair ourselves while the others jam the door.

No, you're not going to just meekly play Sanquir's ancient game. You'll find some way to work around this. “If we prop the door open with something, we'll only need someone to stay in the throne for a few moments. Just long enough to get it open in the first place,” you begin, kneading your brow as you think, “If we can move a heavy rock in place, that should do the job. Maybe some of the rubble that got shaken loose by the tremors...”

Caliban lets out a harsh laugh. “Damn me, it might actually work!” he announces, “Good call, captain, that'll solve one half of our problem. I'll go looking for something to prop the door open with. Masque, want to help with some of the heavy lifting?”

“I will do this,” the daemon agrees, his grating voice echoing strangely off the tomb walls. Branwen watches as the pair head off on their search, a querulous frown on her face. This might not be the “proper” way of doing things, but as far as you're concerned, it's the RIGHT way of doing it.

-

As Masque and Caliban search the upper tombs, you head across to the opposite side of the hall and examine the chamber of blood. Up close, the bladed iron poles look even worse. Rows of hooked blades corkscrew their way down the poles, just waiting to shed blood. Reaching out, you touch the tip of one hook with your finger and wince, pulling quickly back. “Still sharp after all these years,” you mutter to yourself, looking around at Keziah, “We definitely have to do both parts of this?”

“Aye, sure seems that way,” she agrees sadly, “I figure we do this one first, then we try and prop the door open. We need blood in the basin, and a sacrifice on the throne to get the door open. He didnae make it easy for us, did he?”

“It's all part of the job,” you sigh, pausing as you hear heavy footsteps echoing out from towards the tomb entrance. Hurrying back to the main room, you arrive just in time to see Masque entering with a large stone casket balanced on one shoulder. The daemon staggers under the weight, even his inhuman strength just barely proving enough for the task. Calling out for Freddy to join you, you help the daemon to set the sealed casket down. “Good work,” you pant, slapping the damp stone, “This should do it. If it doesn't hold the door, nothing will.”

Blessings joins you a moment later, kneeling down to examine the casket. “This does feel a little... disrespectful,” he admits, “But I suppose it's for the best.”

“The dead don't care,” Caliban grunts, “Might even be an empty casket. I never heard any bones rattling about, at least. Right, we'll stay here and get ready to move the casket into place once the doors are open. What's next?”

With your mouth set in a grim line, you gesture back towards the hall of blood.

[1/2]

>>3172492
If we prop the casket upright in front of the door, we'll need only to push it for it to fall into the doorway. This can save some time.

>>3172509
If they expected someone to sit there for minutes to hours, a few extra seconds can't hurt.

>>3172577
If we can shave off these few extra seconds with little effort, why not?

>>3172492

Seeking to delay the inevitable for as long as possible, you discuss the casket's arrangements for a while more. Another spot of heavy lifting sees it propped up against the stone doors, braced so that it will fall into place as soon as they open. Quicker this way, less time for the unlucky sacrifice to sit upon the throne. Once you're satisfied with the arrangements, you force yourself to head through. When you arrive, Freddy is examining the second altar.

“So... how much do we need?” she asks, looking down into the stone basin. The faded remnants of dark stains mark out a rough line around the bottom, and the Iraklin leans down to take a closer look. “Taking these marks as a rough estimate, I'd say... two pints or so, maybe a little bit more. That's survivable, but it won't be pleasant,” she judges, “If we all contribute a little, though, it should be easier. Everyone sacrifices a little for the good of the whole – they taught us SOME useful ideas in the military.”

“I have bandages,” Branwen adds, shaking off her sulk long enough to speak up, “I can bind the wounds.”

“Then let's not waste any more time,” you order, rolling up your sleeves and drawing your knife. Shedding blood is one thing, but those old iron blades look anything but sterile. You'll do this your way.

-

Biting down hard on your lip, you run the keen blade across the palm of your hand and split the skin, allowing a ribbon of blood to pour out and splash into the pool below. You've all done your part, and the basin is almost full now. Gunny swore loudly and complained when it was his turn, but he let more blood than anyone else. Freddy was cold and professional about it, while Keziah was careful not to look weak by comparison. Even Grace offered some of her blood, although she fussily ordered everyone to look away while she stripped off one delicate glove and pricked her palm with a tiny knife of her own.

It's the thought that counts, you suppose. Now your blood is last, and you only have to squeeze out a few dribbles more before you hear something in the main room – something like the roar of a fire, perhaps. Pausing only so that Branwen can wind a strip of clean medical gauze around your hand, you hasten back through. One half of the doors is lit up with letters of cold fire, their form twisting and dancing before your very eyes.

“Just the tears to go now,” you announce, tearing your eyes away from the letters, “You lot stay here, just in case something goes wrong. I'll be back in a few moments.”

“Captain?” Blessings asks, tilting his head to the side, “I thought I... oh, but you won't need to stay there. Of course not. Um, I suppose this is for the best as well, but...”

It's almost as if he wanted this chance – to prove himself, perhaps?

>Take the throne yourself
>Allow Blessings to take the throne
>Other

>>3172587
>Allow Blessings to take the throne

>>3172587
>Go for it Blessings

>>3172587
>Take the throne yourself
Blessings doesn't even have a stake in our quest.

>>3172587
>Other
"But what? This change in plans doesn't erase the bravery you showed volunteering like that."

>>3172656
Our entire inner circle does. It ain't just about us anymore.

>>3172656
Yes he dose
And this is more for him then anything.
As all he dose is tell us how the prist do things and cooks.
Let him have this

What is it with these church types and throwing themselves at an opportunity to sacrifice themselves? You're not sure if you'll ever understand that, but... well, if would be rude to turn down his offer. He couldn't have made it lightly. “This change of plans doesn't change anything, you know. It doesn't erase the bravery you showed in putting yourself forwards,” you tell him, “But there's no need for you to put yourself through this now. Can I ask why you want this, at least?”

“Well, ah, I said it before. I want to contribute,” the boy replies, “And... I'll admit to being curious. About myself, about what I'll see. This is a kind of training as well, something to toughen me up a little. That, ah, that sounds awfully selfish when I put it like that, but... well, you know what I mean, I hope.”

“Lad, this isn't like running a lap of the ship,” Gunny cautions, “Take it from me – you shouldn't be too quick to jump into these things. Sooner or later, you might end up doing something you regret.”

Blessings considers this, but then he shakes his head. Shrugging, you slap the boy on the shoulder and wince a little as your cut palm cries out with pain. “If you've made up your mind, then I won't stop you,” you tell him, “But don't force it. If you need to get out of there, do it. I'll be ready to take over.”

Nodding firmly, Blessings marches through to the second chamber. You follow close behind him, holding back the mouldering hide curtain so that he can take the throne. As Blessings is settling down into place, he looks up at Keziah. “Um, I was curious,” he asks, “Those letters on the door. What did they say?”

“They said that he knew what we were tryin' to do, and he was very disappointed in us,” Keziah jokes, her words causing Blessings to laugh aloud. “Dinnae worry about them, kid. They were just blabbin' about the power of blood. Bad poetry, that's all – didnae even rhyme!”

“For shame,” he murmurs, leaning back and closing his eyes. When you next whisper his name, he shows no sign of hearing you. Sitting rigidly on the throne, Blessings is still for a moment before twitching, his lips forming a silent prayer. Behind his tightly closed lids, you can see his eyes darting back and forth. As he shudders and squirms, you hear stone grinding from back in the main room. It gets louder, but not so loud that it drowns out the moan of dismay that forces its way from Blessings' lips. Haunted, harrowed, it's a moan of dread that sends a shiver down your spine. Any other sounds he makes are drowned out by the heavy crash of the casket falling forwards, and Caliban calls out to you.

Grabbing Blessings by the hand, you haul him up and out of the throne. “Come on!” you snap, pulling him back towards the main hall, “This is no time for sitting around!”

But the boy is still, silent and unresponsive.

[1/2]

>>3172740
>But the boy is still, silent and unresponsive.
Every time.

>>3172740

With Blessings slumped against your shoulder, you hasten back through to the main room. The door is closing as you arrive, grinding to a halt against the stone casket. There is stops dead, held open by obstacle. Holding your breath, you watch and wait for something to go wrong, for the stone to shatter and break, but it holds firm. Despite your unease about Blessings, you feel a smile breaking out over your face as Caliban laughs triumphantly. As if responding to the cheers, you feel Blessings stirring against your side.

“What's going...” he mumbles, “Did it work?”

-

You rather think that the tomb doesn't quite understand what's going on. Lit by the glow of Freddy's flashlight, you see more alcoves lining the spiral staircase you find past the stone doors, but no flames burn in the hollows. Resigning yourself to descending in darkness, you take a few careful steps after Freddy. The stone steps are slick with condensation, and you can hear the sound of running water far below you. Worse are the scrapes of footfalls on the stone – more of the risen dead are here, aimlessly roaming the stairs.

“Oh, I hate this,” Gunny mutters to himself, “Worn steps, damn slippery, and it's pitch black...”

“You're blind,” Caliban points out, “It's always pitch black for you!”

“You're not wrong there, brother,” the older man agrees cheerfully, giving Branwen a clumsy pat on the head, “You won't steer me wrong, will you lass?”

“Steer?” Branwen repeats, confusion creeping into her voice, “I am not a carriage!”

Hushing them with a hiss, you listen for any indication that the voices have roused the dead beneath you. Aside from a few echoing moans drifting up from the depths, you sense no imminent threat. Even so, you keep your sword drawn and gesture for the others to do the same. If nothing else, the killing light of your sword serves to illuminate the darkness that little bit more.

Blessings walks silently beside you as you descend, holding a lantern close as if desperate for its light. He's not said much since stirring from his reverie, although that could be down to caution as much as anything else. This isn't the sort of place to engage in casual chatter, despite what some of your companions might think, but still... that silence nags at you. “I appreciate what you did,” you whisper to him, “It was good work.”

The boy looks around, his features pale and pinched. He nods once, but makes no effort to carry on the conversation. Then again, it wasn't much of a conversation, was it?

>Let the boy stay silent
>Press him for answers. What did he see?
>Change the subject, and talk of better things
>Other

>>3172867
>Change the subject, and talk of better things
"So you still want to be an airship captain after all this? I haven't been a great example of 'Normal' Free Captain life I know, but I hope the normal day to day stuff has been a good experience for you."

>>3172880
>>3172867
+1

Talking about a good future after all this might help

>>3172867
>Let the boy stay silent

“You know, I don't think I've been a very good example to you,” you sigh as you walk. Blessings looks around in surprise, which is a damn sight better than the blank-eyed fugue that you had seen before. Encouraged, you continue to ramble on about the first thing that comes to mind. “What I mean is, I've not really shown you what life is like for a “normal” airship captain,” you continue, “It's probably been tough, but I hope you got something out of it. What about the future? Are you still aiming for a ship of your own?”

A ship to replace the one you conned him out of, in other words. There are still times when you feel guilty about that. Unaware of what you're thinking, Blessings slowly shakes his head.

“I think... I would be better suited to a quiet life,” he ventures, “I don't think I could do the things you do. I mean, ah, I mean deciding the fate of a crew. I don't think I could give people orders that might see them hurt or killed.” Thinking for a moment more, he nods to himself. “When all this is over, I'm going to think about getting a job in the capital. In the archives, maybe,” he continues, his words picking up speed as he shakes off the last of his haze, “When we were helping Sandoval, I felt like... that was good work, work worth doing.”

“Huh,” you murmur, weighing up his words, “They'll welcome your help, I expect.”

“Ah, well, I don't mean to say that I'm ready to give up the adventuring life,” the boy laughs weakly, “No, I want to see this through to the end – even if things get bad, I can't just give up now. It's... closure. Does that make any sense?”

Closure. Trice wanted closure as well, and look how that ended up for her. Before you can think of what else to say, Freddy holds up a clenched fist to stop you. Falling silent, you listen to the chorus of moans – now much closer. Leaning over the edge of the stairs, you spot – at long last – the bottom of the pit. Resting in the middle, atop an island surrounded by shallow water, you spot a body sitting atop a throne. The outside edge of the room is littered with an indistinct sea of metal – swords, perhaps, ancient blades hoarded away here. The key fragment must be somewhere down there as well, mixed in with all the rest of the loot. Finding it, though...

A hoarse roar signals the arrival of a more pressing concern, and you see the first of the corpses charging up the stairs towards you. It scampers like a hunting hound, racing on all fours towards you. Freddy, at the head of your party, is the first one to meet it, and she splits the thing in two with a swipe from her Abrahad glaive. Even before the two halves of the body have hit the ground, more of the dead appear from behind the first.

“We need to get down there!” you hiss, pointing ahead with your sword, “Push through! We'll cut a path, if that's what it takes!”

[1/2]

>>3172968

It never gets quite bad, fortunately, but the chaotic descent is not one that you'd care to repeat. Slavering like feral beasts, the undead creatures throw themselves at you with no concern for their own safety, meeting their ends almost as soon as they get close. Lama spoke of them as being disturbed, and they certainly behave erratically – some of them pause to tear apart the bodies of their slain fellows, pulling the dried flesh apart and scattering it about. These distracted ghouls are easy prey, easily slain with a quick stab or simply ignored, yet there are always more of them.

You keep moving. That's all you can do, really. When you reach the bottom of the pit, Branwen plunges one hand into her pocket and hurls salt in a wide arc. Enough of their bindings remain that the creatures pause at the border, skulking around it instead of crossing over. One of them slips from the edge of the stairwell in an attempt at circling around the line of salt, but a pile of ancient swords is there to meet it.

“Okay,” you pant, watching as the ghouls pace restlessly on the other side of the barrier, “I think we're good for now. I think we've got time to search. Freddy, keep watch for now – shout if they show any sign of breaking through.”

“Yes, captain,” she replies, shouldering her rifle and taking aim at the skulking ghouls. They have no reaction, no sign of even knowing what a rifle is. Then again, why would they? These are remnants of some bygone age, a time before such things. Turning away, you focus your efforts on the search. The sooner you're done here, the better.

-

For all your talk of hurrying, you can't help but take a moment to examine the body sitting atop the throne here. King Sanquir of the Pit... it's strange to think that you have the remains of some ancient figure of legend resting before you. If you didn't know who he was, though, he would just be one more withered corpse. He has a few more pieces of jewellery perhaps – although time has corroded them beyond any semblance of worth – but other than that... nothing. Grace splashes through the ankle-deep water to join you, peering thoughtfully at the body.

“How unsightly!” she murmurs, “Do you think we should salt it a little, just to be certain?”

“No need for that, I think,” you reply, “I doubt the king would have allowed himself to become one of those things. No, I-”

“Captain!” Caliban hisses, and you turn to see him standing beside a decaying statue. The crumbling stone has its hands outstretched, and you see your prize resting in its loose grasp. Haste wins out over caution, and you find yourself rushing over to claim it. Hungrily reaching out for the ancient relic, you grab it and feel-

[2/3]

>>3173058
Rip Milos.

>>3173058

You feel cold snow slashing against your bare cheeks, your mind whisked back to this place that exists beyond dreams. Rising high before you are the great stone gates that seal the vault closed... or used to seal the vault closed, at least. Now they stand open, but a pair of figures stand between you and the prize. Feanor and his witch await, and you feel a hot burst of anger gathering in your chest. Drawing your sword, the killing light flashing into life, you tramp through the snow to confront him.

“The city down below us,” you spit, “Your people destroyed it. That place was special, and you tore it down without a care.”

“Yes. And?” Feanor shoots back, spreading his hands wide, “Do you expect me to apologise? They were our enemies... no, they were in our way. If I regret anything, it was that my “loyal” army stayed to feast on the corpses. How many men have you trampled over to get where you are now?”

His argument is so tired, worn so thin that you have to laugh. “Far fewer than you, Feanor. I tried my best to avoid needless killing. I take no delight in it. We're not the same, you and I, no matter what you might like to think,” you tell him, giving him one last weary look before marching on, “Now stand aside. I have no interest in wasting my time with your petulance.”

“Wait!” the barbarian cries, and this time there is an edge of desperation in his voice, “Let me accompany you. I wish to see it again, to enter this place once more. This time, I can...” He stops himself short, gritting his teeth against a wave of frustration. His rage is so strong that you can almost feel it, and one realisation hammers home. Though you cannot name what kind of curse holds him here, Feanor simply cannot enter the vault alone.

“Well then?” he hisses, his brow furrowing with anger as he holds out his blade to bar your passage, “You and I, together?”

>Enter the vault with Feanor
>Reject Feanor and enter the vault alone
>Other

>>3173092
Tough choice, but I think I'll go with:
>Reject Feanor and enter the vault alone
His anger might lead to rash decisions while inside, with unfortunate consequences.

>>3173092
>Reject Feanor and enter the vault alone
He had his time and made his decisions. Now it's our turn.

>>3173092
>>Reject Feanor and enter the vault alone

>>3173092
Enter the vault with Feanor

>>3173092

>Enter the vault with Feanor

He's helped us out, even if we didn't like how he did some things.

>>3173092
>Reject Feanor and enter the vault alone
Dude's judgement is very very suspect.

The wind howls around you, filling the cold void left by his words. Slowly, you meet Feanor's eyes. They smoulder with an anger born from countless years of holding a grudge – a grudge against Dogma, against the people of the mountain, against all those he feels have wronged him. Standing before you now, you see a man who died in ignominious exile, a man desperate for a second chance at things. Yet... a second chance to do what? To raid and pillage to his heart's content, to become another Eishin?

“No,” you tell him bluntly, grabbing Feanor's wrist and pushing his sword hand aside to clear your passage. “No, we're done,” you continue, “You've had your time, but this is my chance. Our paths diverge here.”

Feanor's face twists in a vicious scowl, and his witch lets out a rattling hiss of anger. She's a hideous creature, her face hidden behind a curtain of lank hair so that all you can see is a mouth of jagged fangs and a long, forked tongue. Her hands clench rhythmically by her sides, twisted fingers tensing up. Strangler's hands, you'd say. Hands made for crushing and squeezing the life out of a victim. She spits something in a language you cannot understand, and Feanor grabs your arm to stop you from marching on ahead.

“Reconsider,” he urges, “You cannot go on alone. You cannot!”

“I will,” you counter, shaking off his grasp, “Do not mistake me for an indecisive man. I've given you my answer.” You step back, and snow crunches as Feanor slumps down to his knees. Turning your back on him, you trudge forwards the open doorway. The cold wind harries you every step of the way, but when an entirely different kind of chill creeps down your spine, you stop. Frozen in place for a moment, you twist around and raise your blade to parry the strike that slashes towards you. Light flashes as your sword clashes against Feanor's blade, and you find yourself driven back a pace. Feanor withdraws, but his witch lunges forwards before you can recover.

Before the monstrous woman can reach you, something strikes her from the side. With her braid and beaded cloak flapping in the cruel winds, the Zenith warrior-woman twirls her glaive and falls in beside you, guarding you against the second prong of the attack. A long time ago, you spared her life in this fantasy – now, she's come to repay the favour.

“If I cannot enter, then nobody shall!” Feanor snarls, madness lighting up his green eyes, “This mountain will be your grave too!”

If this is where your choices have led you, then so be it!

[1/2]

>>3173208

There's an art to fighting with weapons like these, swords with blades of killing light. They slide off each other, snarling and spitting sparks with every second of contact, and you often feel like a man with an untamed hound is straining against its leash. Feanor is not slowed by the unfamiliar pace of combat, and you feel yourself being pushed back step by step. When he thrusts, you have to throw all your weight behind diverting his attacks. When he slashes, the strain of stopping his cuts feels like it might shatter your wrists.

“You dance like a woman,” Feanor snarls as you jump back from a wide slash that could threatened to cut you in half at the waist. Even before you've regained your balance, he's thrusting again. Meeting his blade with your own, you pull it down and around, cutting a wide arc though the snow between you. The scar is almost immediately trampled underfoot as you lunge forwards in a desperate attempt at seizing the initiative. Your fist meets Feanor's face with a crunch of bone, but instead of the pained cry you had been hoping for, you hear only mocking laughter.

Then he spits, hot blood spraying into your eyes and blinding you for a few precious seconds. With no idea where the next attack is coming from, you stumble away and slip on the melting snow. Rolling hard and swiping a hand across your eyes, you rise to your feet just in time to see Feanor's blade plunging towards you like a spear. He's fast, faster than ever before, and one question flashes through your mind – was he toying with you before?

But before his attack can find its mark, a rattling scream splits the air as the witch is struck a mortal wound. His eyes widening with shock and horror, Feanor looks away from you as his focus is broken. Wasting no time, you lunge forwards and slip lithely around Feanor's thrusting blade. Your momentum carries you into him with a thud, and a shudder runs up your arm as you run him through. With your sword buried up to the hilt in his chest, Feanor wavers for a moment before falling back.

It takes a moment for your mind to catch up with your body, for you to realise that you're not dead yet. Wiping the last of Feanor's blood from your face, you approach his body and gaze down at him.

“It is... unfair,” he rasps, blood bubbling out of his mouth with each word he forces out, “This world. This... prison of ours. I would have... torn it down. Burned it to ash. You... what can YOU do?”

Snow crunches softly as the warrior-woman stalks closer, nudging Feanor with the tip of her bloodied glaive before shooting you a questioning look.

>Keep moving. There's nothing to gain by talking with a dying man
>Answer Feanor's dying question... (Write in)
>Other

>>3173262
>Answer Feanor's dying question

>"Transform it. Hopefully into a paradise, but I can accept falling short of that. As long as it's better than it was."

>>3173262
>Answer Feanor's dying question... (Write in)
"Break it's chains and unlock the 'prison' hopefully. There is a whole lot of space out there as you've seen and I don't see why we should be confined to our bubble. Failing that I'll strive to make this world a better place."

>>3173262
Do what i want

>>3173262
>Talk with a giant heart and two gods about their problems.

“What can I do?” you repeat, “I can do something to make the world a better place, not just burn it all down! I can break the chains that were set upon us, and throw open the gates of this prison. There's a wider world out there, Feanor, you should know that better than anyone. Men should not be confined to one tiny corner of it, and if they are to be held there... then at least we can make it a good corner to live in.”

The warrior-woman gazes at you with impassive eyes, and you dimly wonder if she can even understand you. Feanor looks up with a different kind of confusion, his eyes growing duller by the second. His silence rankles, as if it was one last taunt he had to throw at you. Crouching down, you lean closer.

“And perhaps I can't make a paradise for men to live in,” you concede, “But that doesn't mean I won't try. This isn't a path laid out for me by the gods, either. It wasn't whispered to me by some blind mentor. Do you know why I'm doing this?” Looking Feanor in the eyes, you grab his shoulder and squeeze, making sure that he has enough life left to hear your words. “I'm doing this because it's what WANT to do,” you hiss.

The dying man smiles, then. Not a mocking smile, but one that holds a firm approval. Even after the last trace of life has left his body, that smile remains fixed upon his cold face. Closing his eyes, you rise to your feet and set your sights on the vault ahead. Shaking snow from your clothes, you force your aching body to take a step forwards. One step and then another, and then-

-

And then you're back in the pit, feeling yourself being shaken from two different directions. Keziah is shaking you awake, and the ground beneath you is shuddering with some powerful tremor. From above, loose rocks and dust rain down upon you. When a fist-sized lump of rock hits the ground and explodes a few feet away, you shake off the last traces of your dream. “Come on, boss!” Keziah yells to you, “This isnae the time or the place for a nap!”

Water has soaked into your boots, and you feel them squelch as you stumble onto solid ground. It feels like a strange thing to complain about, considering, but you can't shake that tiny inconvenience from the forefront of your mind. Yelling for your companions to fall in behind you, you ready your blade and run for the stairs. The ghouls have scattered, fleeing back into their holes and hissing at you from the shelter. Clawed hands pluck at you as you race past them, but you cut away the limbs with barely a second thought. Something feels different, and you realise that it's the sword itself. For the first time since you recovered it from the Outside, it truly feels as though it belongs to you. It's not a borrowed weapon any more, it's YOURS.

You can appreciate that later, when the tomb isn't about to collapse around your ears.

[1/2]

>>3173370
I can't believe the do what I want vote was what Feanor liked the most. God damn barbarians.

>>3173390
I laughed. I suppose in the end doing what you want and not being beholden to other masters is pretty important.

>>3173370

The tremor only seems to get worse as you climb higher up the spiralling staircase, the slick stone steps constantly threatening to trip you up or – worse – send you into a tumble back down to where you started. Worse are the chunks of rock falling from above, forcing you to weave from side to side. Keziah wails in panic as an especially large piece slams down into the steps before her, causing an entire section of the stonework to crumble and fall away. Grabbing her wildly flailing arm, you pull her back onto safe ground – comparatively speaking – and push her to get her moving again.

Then, the inevitable happens. Gunny catches his foot on the uneven steps and pitches forwards, hitting the ground hard and dragging Branwen down with him. His yells cause you to pause and jolt around, even as the others are carried on ahead by momentum alone. Turning back, you start to descend to help him, and that's when the wall explodes outwards. Flinching back, you throw up one arm to shield your eyes from the spray of broken rock. With your face turned away, you hear it before you see it – the harsh clack of talons digging into rock, and a dull roar of laboured breathing. The creature is already moving away by the time you look back, and so you only catch a fleeting glimpse of it.

A fleeting glimpse is enough, though. What you see is like no other animal that you recognise, with perhaps a dozen legs of differing size and a bulbous head outside of any sane proportions. Teeth or claws or strange things beside bristle at the tip of the head, gnashing and carving their way through the rock as the monstrous thing burrows back into the tomb wall, leaving nothing but crumbling and collapsing rubble in its wake.

But the walls aren't the only thing that crumbles. As Gunny struggles to rise, you see flecks of stone breaking away from the steps beneath him. He rises to his feet, only for a fresh tremor to send him tumbling back down again. Stone groans as it collapses, tearing away an entire section of the steps. Separating you from Gunny, a chasm yawns wider by the second.

>This seems like a good place to pause for the night. I'll continue this tomorrow, hopefully at the same usual time!
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>3173449
I'm beginning to think we should keep Gunny on the ship.

Thanks for running.

>>3173449
Thanks for running!

>>3173449
Thanks for running!

Did we just have a lightsaber fight with Feanor?

>>3173449
Thanks for running!

Why does the universe hate Gunny?

>>3173472
Pretty much, now that I think about it!

>>3173478
Maybe it's a test of faith? If so, he's certainly on track to pass with flying colours!

Hey, Gunny is doing pretty damn well going into all of these places blind.

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

430 KB JPG

“Jump!” you yell, reaching out your hand to the pair, “You've got to jump!”

Branwen almost jumps, almost throws herself to the other side of the collapsing stairs, but then she stops herself. If she jumped, and Gunny fell back down to the bottom of the pit, he would be trapped down there, alone and without her to serve as his eyes. It's obvious to know what her Nadir upbringing would suggest, yet she refuses to leave Gunny's side. You can respect that... although it may yet end in two deaths rather than one.

“Jump!” she adds, pushing Gunny to his feet with all the strength that her sinewy form has to offer. Somehow, that seems to make the difference, and Gunny manages to lurch upright. With his face frozen in a mask of confusion and uncertainty, he risks a step back.

“I hate jumping!” he groans, before running a pace forwards and hurling himself over the edge. He has the distance, and his aim was mostly right, but neither of you were expecting the force of his landing to break a step off from beneath him. From relief to terror, his face yawns open in a yell of panic as he falls. Lunging forwards, you grab him with both hands and wince as his weight pulls you down. How many times has he helped himself to a second portion of dinner? How many times has he ambled to the kitchen at night for a midnight snack that turned into a midnight feast?

Every one of those little indiscretions is coming back to haunt him now, the added weight damn near pulling you off the edge of the crumbling steps. You barely notice Branwen jumping across, just as you barely notice her lending her strength to the task of pulling Gunny up. It seems futile, and then...

And then some massive strength closes around your collar and pulls you up, lifting both Gunny and Branwen with you. Grunting softly, he turns and dumps you all down onto more solid ground, steps that – for now, at least – don't seem to be crumbling away. Behind you, the lower half of the stairs continue to collapse down into the bottom of the pit, crushing ancient weapons under tonnes of broken rock.

“Well?” Masque urges, his voice no softer than the fallen boulders, “Do you plan to remain here and enjoy the view?”

“Oh sure, brother, that's what I was doing,” Gunny pants, clinging to you with trembling hands, “That's it, I'm done with field work. I quit, I'm retiring, I'm...” His shoulders slump, and he just about falls to his knees. He probably would have collapsed, had you not been here to help keep him upright. As you start to help him back up the stairs, Masque freezes and looks back. A low growl escapes him, like a guard dog sniffing out some unknown intruder.

“What?” you ask, looking around at the daemon, “What is it?”

But the daemon just shakes his head.

[1/2]

>>3175741

When the tremors settle down – they never quite stop, but they gradually diminish to the point where you barely notice them, a constant background noise to your explorations – you hurry back up the spiral stairs to rejoin the others. They meet you halfway, a wave of relief passing through the group once they see that you're all still alive. Relief soon turns to caution as a dry and dusty groan echoes out from the chamber above you. This is still hostile territory, after all.

The stone doors are still propped open when you reach them, the fallen casket serving you well. Through them, you spot the source of that moan. One of the risen dead is trapped here, caught under a heavy rockfall that has crushed its lower half, yet still it lives – rasping and groaning, it paws desperately at the ground before it. Grimacing, Caliban approaches it and finishes the wounded creature off with a stab to the back of the head. As he turns away, Branwen scurries over and prepares to burn the body, sprinkling some of her flammable resin over the body before striking a match.

“The dead should be respected,” she intones, nodding solemnly to herself, “Even these wretches should be-”

A fresh rumble of breaking stone cuts her sentence short, and more dust falls from the ceiling as the cavern trembles. This time, the source of the tremors came from nearby – one of the side chambers, most likely. Hurrying towards the chamber of blood, you arrive just in time to see the burrowing creature retreat back into its cavern. All you see is a flash of reddish, raw-looking flesh before the creature vanishes into a newly dug tunnel. Blinking in amazement, you cautiously approach the tunnel and touch some of the sticky mucous still clinging to the broken rock.

“Well, I wish I hadn't done that now,” you mutter to yourself, wiping the tacky gunk off on your breeches, “What IS that thing, anyway?”

“It is a part of the madness that has infected this place,” Masque rumbles, approaching to examine the hole, “Although I cannot say if it the cause, or just another symptom.”

“Lama might want to learn about this...” you mutter, crouching down to peer into the hole. It's not quite large enough to walk through without ducking your head, but you wouldn't need to crawl either. Reporting back to Lama might be easier said than done, though – he could be anywhere in the upper tombs, if he hasn't come down to investigate the lower levels already. Maybe you should just get out of here as soon as possible. You've got your prize, after all, there's no sense in seeking out further trouble. Unless...

>Follow the burrowing creature through its tunnels
>Search for Lama and share what you've learned
>Leave the barrows and head back to the Spirit of Helena
>Other

>>3175743
>>Search for Lama and share what you've learned

>>3175743
Search for Lama and share what you've learned

“Come on, we're getting out of here,” you tell Masque, gesturing for him to step away from the tunnel, “We can tell Lama about this, see what he says... if we can find him, at least.” Shaking your head and resigning yourself to the possibility of a lengthy search, you return to the main chamber. As you walk, you continue talking with the daemon. “How do you know that that thing is related to all this?” you ask him, “Something you're not telling me?”

“It is not something that I can easily describe. It would be like describing the colour of the sky to a man born without eyes,” Masque replies, “There is a scent – a poor choice of words, but nothing else comes close – that they share. That is all that I can say.”

“A scent, right,” you murmur to yourself, “Like how you caught a hint of Ashtoret's scent before?”

“Yes,” the daemon agrees, “Like the signature placed upon a letter, although-”

“A poor choice of words,” you finish for him.

-

You won't lie, it comes as some relief to emerge into the open air once more. You might still have falling rocks to worry about, but the possibility of being buried alive in some collapsing cavern no longer feels likely. Stretching and reaching your hands up towards the sky, you take a long moment to appreciate the sense of freedom before turning your attention to the path ahead.

Finding Lama might prove easier than first suspected, as the reedy sound of a flute offers you a trail to follow. Allowing the eerie tune to guide you forwards, you stop outside of a tunnel and gaze inside – a light burns from deeper within, and you hear the muffled sound of voices peeking though when the flute grows hushed. You've taken a few steps forwards before you realise that you're creeping, sneaking through the gloom as you close on the source of that murmuring. In a secluded chamber, kneeling at the foot of some looming statue of a raging warrior, you spot Lama reciting a long list of names. Segharl's name is last, and then the man falls silent.

“A great many of my friends lost their lives in the battle,” he announces suddenly, speaking without looking around at you, “But that was the fate they chose. When they chose to stand with Eishin, they bound themselves to his fate. Your own followers have done the same, Milos Vaandemere. Whether they know it or not, they have shackled their lives to your own. Come, do not lurk at the threshold. I would talk with you, face to face.”

Feeling vaguely foolish for your eavesdropping, you approach him and nod a greeting. There is no malice on Lama's face when he turns, just the lingering remnants of sorrow. “These tremors. I have never felt their like,” he complains, “Perhaps there is some truth to what they say, that these are the end days. Eishin believed that... at least, he spoke of that. He was a man who wore many faces, Eishin.”

[1/2]

>>3175796

Falling silent after this, Lama sits back and leaves you to fill the void by telling him what you learned about the lower tombs... what little there was to learn. Describing the burrowing creature as best you can, you mention Masque's obscure senses and conclude with a shrug. Said aloud, even you struggle to believe it. You saw a tunnelling creature, like an insect bloated to the size of an armoured car, swimming through solid rock as though it was water. Who would take something like that seriously?

Lama, apparently. He nods slowly, considering all that you've told him. “I know not what manner of creature that was,” he confesses, “But the soil gives up many strange things. One thing is clear to me - this is a rot that should not be allowed to fester. I thank you, Milos Vaandemere, for looking into this, but it is only right that we handle the rest of this matter ourselves. I shall gather men for a hunting party.”

It's something of a novelty, you muse, seeing someone willing to handle his own dirty work. “Just be careful down there,” you warn, “Those tunnels are likely to be unstable, and some of the ghouls might still be roaming about. That's not even getting into the creature itself...”

“I will prevail,” Lama assures you, “Although I would feel happier were my old comrades here with me. A strange though, knowing that I may very well be the last of our band left alive.” Noticing your curious look, Lama lets out a mournful laugh. “We were the best, once. Eishin's red right hand. Segharl the Broken, Vissan of the Four Winds, Forlorn Ashtoret, Firekeeper Koumakan... and me,” he recalls, a nostalgic smile warming his face before his eyes clear, “Ah, it seems that my tongue has wandered. I am a storyteller, after all, and sometimes it gets the better of me. I will do my duty and remember them all, while you... you have your own duty, do you not?”

A duty? You're not sure if you'd call it that, but your goal is waiting far above you. With the last fragment of the key held in your grasp, the Mountain of Faith awaits. After that? That remains to be seen. Soft footsteps from behind you cause you to glance back, just in time to see Ailill approaching. He moves quietly for a man as fat as he his. Calling out a single word in his own barbaric tongue, he rejoins Lama and bows his head in a prayer of his own.

“Will you join us?” Lama asks, nodding up to the statue before making some small adjustment to the lantern sitting by him, “This is a sacred place. Speak, and the gods will listen.”

As the lantern's flame glows a hint brighter, you realise that the statue is not unknown to you. The horned, mask-like face is that of Kegare, of the form Impurity has often chosen to wear. A coincidence?

Perhaps not.

>Kneel, and offer up a prayer of your own
>Decline the offer and leave
>Other

>>3175873
>Kneel, and offer up a prayer of your own
Kegare is going to throw shade ain't he?

>>3175873
>>Kneel, and offer up a prayer of your own
this might be super important

>>3175873
>Decline the offer and leave

>>3175873
>Kneel, and offer up a prayer of your own

>>3175873
Decline the offer and leave

>>3175873
>>Kneel, and offer up a prayer of your own
We've literally communed with every spirit or god every other time. Why stop now?

Even as you kneel down before the statue, you wonder if this is really such a good idea. Kegare, Impurity, whatever you want to call him... if he know what you're aiming to do, he can't have many kindly words for you. Ever since you deigned to hear out Dogma's side of the story, you've been straying further and further away from the path he laid out for you. Ironic, from a god that was so quick to champion free will.

Lama murmurs a prayer in his own feral tongue, but you find yourself struggling for something to say. Instead, you wait in silence before looking up to see a mirage shimmering before you – the stone cavern one minute, a steaming primeval swamp the next. A thick fog hangs over that latter place, so heavy that you can barely see further than a dozen feet or so. A vast shape squirms around you, shrouded in the mist so that all you can see is its outline – but that's all you need to see. That long, sinuous body could only belong to a wyrm. Brackish water splashes somewhere distant to you as the wyrm swoops around in a wide arc, and then it turns a sharp corner. This time, it rushes straight towards you.

You can't move, you can't even cry out as it lunges forwards, yet what pierces through the thick shroud of fog is not what you had been expecting. With her shrivelled wings flapping weakly before drawing tightly back against her spine, Arah steps lightly towards you. Walking atop the filthy water that rises up to your knees, she approaches and lets out a low breath.

“You should not have come here,” she whispers, “It is not safe for you here. Soon, I fear that nowhere will be truly safe – for you, or for anyone else.”

“What are you talking about?” you reply, hesitating as some deep rumble echoes out from within the fog, “Is it the disaster that everyone keeps talking about? How can I stop it?”

“You cannot. It is necessary that this thing happens,” Arah assures you, reaching down and cupping her hands around your face, “The path ahead will be rough, it will test you. All you can do is have faith – faith in yourself, and your purpose. You ARE doing the right thing. I have been watching you for a long time now, even before you knew that I existed, and I believe in you. There is little else that I can tell you, little else that I am permitted to tell you, but... should you ever lose your way, I will find you. Perhaps it was only a dream, but you were kind to me. I do not forget.”

Your mind whirls, countless questions bubbling up from the depths of your mind, but Arah's expression grows fearful before you can speak. A muffled roar echoes out, and she flinches before pushing you backwards into the mire. Cloyingly warm water splashes around you, and you see...

You see Lama leaning over you, his expression dark and unreadable while his hand hovers close to his swords.

[1/2]

>>3175988
Wow. Kegare is THAT pissed, huh.

>>3175988

“I think I prayed a little too hard,” you rasp, saying the first thing that comes to mind. Lama laughs hard at this, his inhumanly wide mouth peeling all the way open to reveal sharp white teeth. Offering you his hand, he helps you upright and stands by as you dust off your clothes. “This really is a sacred place,” you add, thinking aloud, “But I never thought that I'd end up... No, never mind.” These last words, you hurriedly add when you notice Lama staring strangely at you. Before he can question you on that, Branwen appears at the mouth of the tunnel.

“I heard a noise,” she announces, looking cautiously at you, “Is there something wrong?”

“It seems that fatigue got the better of your master,” Lama tells her, slapping you on the back, “You are a healer, are you not? Take better care of him in future.”

Taking the excuse to make yourself scarce, you nod thanks to Lama before hurrying back out into the open air. Despite everything, you feel a new lightness within your heart. Arah's words were like a balm for your lingering doubts, an assurance that you're not simply setting yourself up for a more grandiose doom. It's not all good news of course, she had plenty of warnings to give you as well, but... you'll take whatever you can get.

-

The hike back to the Spirit of Helena is an uneventful one. All the while, you keep touching the key fragment in your pocket as if to reassure yourself that you've not somehow lost it in all the excitement. Forcing yourself to relax, you slow your pace and draw level with Gunny. Nodding for Branwen to hurry on ahead, you start to lead the older man yourself. As you do, you speak up in a hushed voice. “Were you serious?” you ask him, “About what you said?”

“You'll have to be more specific there, brother,” Gunny replies, a pained smile on his face, “I say a lot of things.”

“True enough,” you admit, “About quitting. Or retiring. You weren't entirely clear on that point.”

“Oh, well, I guess it would be the smart thing to do. The lass does a fine job at steering me right, and I'm getting a feel for moving these old bones of mine about without looking where I'm going, but still...” he sighs, “I'm just fooling myself about being as good as I used to be. I reckon I've got enough luck left in me for one last job – the vault itself. I've come this far with you, I want to see... to FEEL it for myself. After that, I'd say I'm about done with field work. Might as well go out on a high, right brother?” With that, Gunny sticks a cigarette in his mouth and grins at you.

Sighing, you take out a book of matches and light his smoke. “I think I'd rather not go out at all,” you admit, “But you've got a point there.”

“Well, you know what they say about a stopped clock,” Gunny chuckles, savouring the first draw of his cigarette.

[2/3]

>>3176123
Dammit Gunny, stop raising flags.

>>3175988
>Assurance that we're doing the right thing, and that we're good people

thanks god

>>3176123

Back at the Spirit of Helena, in your locked cabin, you lay the pieces of the key out before you. When you nudge two of them together, they stick together as if magnetised and no amount of your strength can pull them apart. With your heart pounding within your chest, you slowly connect all six pieces together. When it comes to slot the final piece into place, you hesitate for a few long seconds before snapping it home.

Nothing happens. There is perhaps a faint tingle that runs through you skin, but even that might just be your imagination. But then, what else were you expecting? For the sky to split open and the world to catch aflame? Dramatic, perhaps, but it would make your job that much harder. You much prefer the world when it isn't on fire.

A knock on the door causes you to jolt up from your desk. Just for a moment, you've got the terrible feeling that this is bad news – that the sky might be opening up after all. Laughing at your own foolishness, you get up to answer the door. Keziah is there, her face set in a crooked smile. “Hey boss,” she begins, “I, uh, I just finished talkin' to me mam. I was tellin' her abot things, and she invited us all around. Dinner again, you know?”

Maybe it WAS bad news after all.

-

Keeping Keziah's news in mind, you head to the bridge to check on Dwight. He's fiddling with a note when you arrive, folding and unfolding the little slip of paper. More news from the radio, you presume, wearily gesturing for him to speak. “Got another call from your provost buddy. For someone who wanted to keep things professional, she sure does call a lot...” the pilot begins, “But anyway, it was from her boss really. Just a quick message. Rhea said, uh...” Shrugging, he passes the note across to you.

“I was pleased to see you well, and I regret that we could not talk at the inquiry,” you read aloud, “It gladdens me to see that you continue to work for the benefit of the church.”

“Strange message, huh?” Dwight remarks, “I mentioned it to the doc. Dunno why, it just came up in conversation. Anyway, he said that maybe the message wasn't meant for you. Cunning ears might have been listening.”

Meaning that any Iraklin listening stations who intercepted that message will know that you've been working with the church, and Rhea wanted them to know that. It's not something you were really trying to keep a secret, but this feels more like a game she's playing. Either way, it seems like a lot of people are trying to get your attention right now. It's nice to be popular, but...

“Well, that's all I've got,” the pilot concludes, “Where to, chief?”

>Monotia, to gather supplies and prepare for the Mountain of Faith
>Cloudtop Prison, to see what Rhea is up to
>Sybile, to answer Maeve's dinner invitation
>Somewhere else... (Write in)
>Other

>>3176271
>Sybile, to answer Maeve's dinner invitation

I'd say we're due some relaxation.

>>3176271
Bleh sounds like we've got a few more things on the agenda before we kick things off. Well we are already in Nadir so

>Sybile, to answer Maeve's dinner invitation

I'm giving good odds that whole eating prophecy is going to come to a head here.

>>3176271
>Sybile, to answer Maeve's dinner invitation
Free food must not to be ignored.

>>3176271
>>Sybile, to answer Maeve's dinner invitation

“We won't be going far. Just a quick hop across to the coast. Got a dinner invitation to answer,” you tell Dwight. He nods and turns his attention to the controls, ignoring you as you slump down into one of the other seats and let out a heavy sigh. Coming from Maeve, the idea of a dinner invitation always has a faintly sinister undertone. You'd like to say that you have perfect trust in her, but... well, that would be a lie, now wouldn't it?

If you're flying into some awful mess, the least you can do is rest up beforehand. Leaning back and closing your eyes, you let the rumble of the engines ease you into an unexpectedly restful sleep. No bleak dreams, nothing jolting you awake. It's almost as if Arah is still looking out for you.

-

When you land at the coast, it's clear that the tremors – all too frequent now – have reached this far out as well. Several of the huts and houses here show signs of damage, while the cliff itself appears to have lost a fair amount of land. Maeve's house, precarious at the best of times, now seems to cling desperately to the crumbling cliff. Keziah hesitates when she sees the sorry state of her childhood home, but then she forces a laugh.

“What a bloody mess!” she jokes, “She really needs a strong man about the house, me mam, someone to help keep things neat and tidy!”

“Maybe so,” you muse, shooting her a teasing smile, “Maybe I should volunteer. Settling down into the domestic life... that might not be so bad.” Keziah cries out at this, half a laugh and half a scandalised scream, and slaps you on the chest. As she keeps slapping at you, you look up and spot a figure standing at the doorway. As motionless as a statue, Maeve watches you with an impassive, mask-like face. When Keziah feels you tense up, she pauses and looks around to follow your gaze. Yelping softly, she pulls away from you and smooths down her clothes in a last ditch effort at appearing presentable.

“Um...” Blessings whispers, drawing close to you, “Why is she just... standing there?”

That seems to break the spell, and Maeve gives you a deep nod of greeting. Lifting her trailing skirts so they don't get stained by the mud underfoot, she strides out to join you. “I welcome you to this home, Milos Vaandemere,” she says, her voice formal, “Drink deep of this hospitality that I have to offer you, and may no harm come to you beneath this roof.” Without waiting for your reply, she turns to lead you back inside. “I fear that dinner will be a sparse affair tonight,” she adds, “I had little time to prepare.”

“Oh, well, you should have said,” Keziah offers weakly, “We could have arranged something, come sometime later, or-”

“No,” Maeve interrupts, “It has to be now. No later than this.”

Meeting Keziah's eyes for a moment, you see her uncertainty growing deeper still.

[1/2]

>>3176452

Maeve's house was never meant for your entire crew. With so many bodies crammed into the small house, you can barely turn around without knocking your elbows against something or bumping into someone. It doesn't help the uncomfortable air swirling around you.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Maeve insists, politely oblivious to the cramped confines, “I will be preparing the meal. Fish. I hope that is acceptable.” With a murmur of agreement – or indifference at the very worst – sounding out, she vanishes though to the other room. A tense air remains behind, with Keziah predictably suffering worst of all. Sitting with her hands in her lap, clenched into fists, she constantly shoots uneasy glances this way and that.

“Um, Miss Keziah, I wondered if you might know,” Blessings speaks up, noticing the witch's discomfort, “Are we prepared for the Mountain? I mean, ah, the ship. Will she fly?”

“Oh, aye, she shouldnae have any trouble with the altitudes,” Keziah answers quickly, the subject of engines serving to soothe her nerves. Smiling, she leans forwards and launches into the minutia of airship maintenance. With that, the tension diminishes... a little bit.

-

Time draws on with no sign of Maeve, and you start to wonder what could have gone wrong. Either the others haven't noticed, or they're pretending not to notice. Whatever the truth may be, they barely glance around when you murmur an excuse and slink over to the kitchen door. Creeping again, you bitterly note, creeping about and spying. Still, you can't bring yourself to do the polite thing and knock on the door. Cautiously opening it a crack, you peer inside.

The first thing that strikes you is the faint smell of spoiled meat, sour and sickly. Maeve stands at a scored wooden table, so close that you could reach out and touch her if you so chose, but she gives no sign of noticing you. Her attention is fixed upon the large fish she holds out before her – uncooked, without even the slightest suggestion of preparation. Trembling, she raises the raw meat to her face and opens her mouth, her teeth almost seeming to bristle in anticipation. Frozen there, warring with the urge to bite into the raw flesh, Maeve lets out an almost inaudible growl.

Then... perhaps it is the door that creaks, because the spell is broken. Maeve drops the fish back down to the counter and steps back. The last thing you see before hurriedly closing the door is Maeve reaching for a heavy cleaver. Waiting with your eyes clenched shut, you listen to a dull thud of blade meeting flesh. That sound rings out again, and again, and...

>I'm going to pause things here, I feel pretty dead today. I'll aim to continue this next Friday, with an interlude episode on Wednesday
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>3176626
[heavy breathing]

Thanks for running!

>>3176626
It begins

Thanks for running.

>>3176626
Thanks for running!

Yeah, I feel pretty drained too. Must be something about this week.

Is Maeve trying out a new sushi recipe? I'm sure everyone would be willing to play along as long as she gave us a heads up.

also if she could just chop off a hand so kez can get started on eating her that'd be swell

>>3176650
I'm hoping by the end of this there will be no kin cannibalism. I hope.

>>3173370
I know I'm super late, but

> “I'm doing this because it's what WANT to do,” you hiss.

Gave me flashbacks to dealing with Corruption when we had to justify continuing to live.

>>3176626
So. It seems like Dogmas grip is fading and that Corruption is starting to flow through the world.

I wonder if that amulet Maeve gave us that repels corruption and Abhad would help her out here.

>>3178859
Does it repel corruption? I thought it was just the deepest heresy in the eyes of Dogma and his creations.

>>3178862
We still really have no idea what it does physically.

>>3178862
It was also to keep our corruption in check.

File: Elias Caldwell.jpg (124 KB, 800x1098)

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Of course, Caldwell had considered the possibility that following the trail of smoke would lead him towards his death. Like most of the ideas that came to him, he had acknowledged it, studied it from all angles, and then filed it away for later reference. Although his body was in no condition to validate his confidence, enough of his training remained that he felt certain of his success. That had been one of the earliest aspects of his training – a sort of calculated arrogance that treated failure as an impossibility. Now, pushed to the brink like this, he was falling back on these almost subconscious teachings.

A different kind of smoke, then, coming from up ahead, coming from under a dome formed by weirdly spreading trees. A bonfire was burning there, the flickering flames illuminating a large figure. He looked up at the sound of Caldwell's arrival, and although his face was covered by a brazen mask, nothing about his posture suggested surprise. As he clumsily floundered to his feet, Caldwell felt a chill down his spine as the smoke daemon twisted around, splitting in half and forming a tight circle around the two men. Standing, the man revealed himself to be a hulking brute, while the stone mace he hefted up seemed as large as a boulder lashed to the trunk of a tree. All of a sudden, Caldwell's blade looked terribly inadequate.

“I know why you have come here, assassin,” the warrior rumbled, swinging his heavy mace up to rest across one broad shoulder. His mask was sculpted in the image of a handsome youth, but his bloated body was anything but handsome. One leg in particular was grotesquely swollen, the cloth of his breeches cut away to reveal pale flesh that bulged out like fresh dough. He would not be light on his feet – Caldwell could use that. “Segharl the Broken said that you might come,” he continued, “But I cannot let you pass.”

“It's over,” Caldwell replied coldly, “There was an attack, Eishin was defeated. Stand aside, and you won't have to die for no reason.”

“I swore an oath that I would defend this place. I would rather die than to break my word,” he sneered back, “I, Firekeeper Koumakan, will see victory or death upon this spot!”

The time for talking, such as it had been, was over. Koumakan's first swing cut a wide arc through the air, with the craggy rock at its tip grazing across Caldwell's shoulder despite his best attempt at jumping clear. Even that fleeting contact was enough to knock him back, to spoil his balance and send him tumbling to the ground. Blinking away tears of pain, Caldwell gazed out beyond the swirling ring of smoke that surrounded him. Visible only by her silhouette, Gorgon lurked beyond that threshold. The smoke parted for but a moment, gifting Caldwell a fleeting glimpse of her face. Except... something was wrong. SHE was wrong, her features drooping like melted tallow.

[1/2]

>>3182397

The deep rumble of laughter dragged Caldwell back to the present, and he rolled aside just in time to avoid the mace's downward swing. The stone head slammed into the dirt, showering the assassin with an explosion of loose soil as he scrambled to his feet. Before Koumakan could rip his weapon from the ground, Caldwell lunged forwards and slammed his knife into the warrior's flank. Hot blood flowed out over the assassin's hand and the warrior grunted in pain, but he pivoted around and smacked Caldwell away with an almost casual backhand.

He stumbled back, but the dagger remained buried in Koumakan's side. Unarmed, the assassin's chances of success seemed that much lower, and so Caldwell cast a wild eye about for anything that he could use as a weapon. Circling around Koumakan, Caldwell reached down and snatched up a burning branch from the bonfire, jabbing it at the larger man as he advanced. Heedless of the flames burning brightly, Koumakan grabbed the piece of wood as Caldwell thrust it forwards and stopped it fast.

With a sharp twist of his wrist, Caldwell snapped the branch in half and ducked low, leaving Koumakan staring stupidly at the broken off piece of wood. With a cry of exertion, the assassin drove the remaining half of the branch – all jagged points and splinters – into Koumakan's bare, swollen leg. The soft flesh tore easily, gushing forth a vile fluid that seemed more akin to dirty water than blood, and he roared in pain. Throwing all his weight behind the next attack, Caldwell barged his shoulder into Koumakan's broad torso and sent the unbalanced warrior stumbling backwards.

Back into the whirling smoke that surrounded them. Koumakan had just long enough for his eyes to widen before the smoke tore into him, stripping the flesh from his bones and filling the air with a misty haze of blood. It happened so quickly that it was over before Caldwell fully knew what was happening. Blinking away his amazement, and wiping a few errant drops of blood from his face, he watched as the smoke coiled away from the gristly remains. Still breathing heavily from the fight, he then turned back to look for Gorgon.

But the witch was nowhere to be seen.

>This concludes today's brief bonus interlude, regular updates will continue on Friday!
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>3182399
So Smough, Goug, Artorias, and Ornstein are dead. Only Ciaran is left.

>>3182399
RIP Eishins right hand crew. Only Lama the pinky finger remains. I was thinking of telling him Koumakan might still be alive, but now...

File: CaptainAmerica1_zps8c295f96.jpg (79 KB, 600x611)

79 KB JPG

>>3182397

>>3182399
Didn't his hands get cut off?

>>3182618
He's fine now.

>>3182618
Just the one hand I thought.

>>3182620
Oh great. Now we're gonna meet a guy who got turned into a Newt by a witch, once.

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

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It's strange to admit this, having seen what you've seen, but Maeve's cooking is hard to fault. The thick chunk of fish – likely cut with the heavy cleaver you saw her wield – are seared to perfection and served with a peppery sauce. Fresh vegetables, almost certainly picked this very same day, fill out the meal and put a lie to her claims of a sparse meal. There's more than enough to fill your stomach here. No wine though, and you wonder about that omission. Could it be that she's concerned about a loss of control, of inhibitions?

Troubling. Almost troubling enough to distract you from your meal. All the while you eat, you sneak glimpses at Maeve out of the corner of your eye. It makes you feel like a nervous boy on his first date, but you can't help it. She eats with unfeeling, mechanical motions and talks little, a far cry from her usual self. Sitting there, you find yourself missing her sly insinuations and enigmatic pronouncements. Anything, you think, would be better than this.

“We may have a problem with Maeve,” you think to Keziah, cautiously describing the scene you saw. Her eyes widening, Keziah almost chokes on a mouthful of food and only a hasty swig of water keeps her from making too much of a scene. “Sorry,” you add, “I should have warned you.”

Scowling at you, Keziah drinks again before clearing her throat. “So, how have you been keepin'?” she asks her mother, her accent exaggerated to a provocative extreme, “You look a wee bit tired. You havenae been stayin' up all night partyin', have you?”

This breaks through Maeve's armour. “Keziah, my daughter, must you be so vulgar?” she asks. Her voice is cool, but you can see one of her hands clenched into a tight fist. “But I AM tired. These are trying times,” she continues, delicately dabbing her lips with a cloth, “The land recoils, and the townspeople are most disturbed. They see omens and portents in all things, and I do what I can to comfort them. It does not leave me with much time to... rest. The blame, of course, lies with you, Milos Vaandemere.” Saying this, the older witch leans forwards and fixes you with a probing look. That's closer to normal, but... it feels hollow, like a token gesture.

“I'm sorry... I think,” you reply, with what you hope is a passable imitation of a wan smile, “But you shouldn't have to put up with these tremors for much longer. We're almost at the end of the road.”

“Perhaps so,” Maeve murmurs, “But this brings me to the reason why I asked you to come here. You see, Milos Vaandemere, I fear that I have not been fully honest with you.”

Frankly, you'd be more shocked if she HAD been fully honest with you. Still, in the interests of being a good guest, you try and look surprised.

[1/2]

>>3186274

Dinner is all but forgotten now, as you silently await Maeve's confession. “You see, it is a terrible thing to leave a task half finished. You were not the first man who entered the barrows in search of that prize, Milos Vaandemere. They swallowed up a man I knew. A man I... cared for,” she explains slowly, “Keziah, my daughter, you already know of whom I speak, do you not?”

It takes Keziah a moment to put the pieces together. “Father?” she guesses, “You never... told me that he-”

“What would it have changed?” Maeve counters, “It would have been a distraction to you, nothing more. No, I merely wished to thank you for finishing what was started a great many years ago. This is why I wished to see you again, to convey my gratitude in person while we still have the chance.” There is a heavy note of finality in her voice here, but she rises up before you can comment. “Now please, excuse me,” she adds, “I have to run a short errand in town. My home is yours until I return.”

Bowing her head briefly, she slips out of the room and – a moment later – you hear the front door banging shut. A faint tugging on the edge of your mind follows this and, upon closing your eyes, you see Herod's view from above. Through the familiar's eyes, you spot Maeve wandering away from the house. Rather than heading into town, though, she starts trekking aimlessly down to the shoreline. Opening your eyes, you realise that Herod showed Keziah the exact same thing. She bites her lip, unsure of what to do next.

“What? What's gone wrong now?” Gunny asks, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. Despite everything, he's barely stopped eating since sitting down. As he chews, you explain the situation to him. A brief version, at least. You might be here all night if you tried to give him the full story.

“And now I dinnae ken what to do,” Keziah finishes for you, “I ken that something's wrong, but she willnae tell me anythin' if I ask. That's just not the kind of woman she is. I was thinkin' of headin' into town and askin' about, seein' if she really HAS been busy helpin' folk here, but now I don't...”

“Maybe try searching the house,” Caliban suggests, “If there's anything out of place here, you'd recognise it better than anyone. Frankly, damn near everything here looks suspicious to me.”

“I cannae go rummagin' through her things!” the witch protests, her eyes widening in horror, “What if I find anythin'... gross? Ugh, I cannae stand it! Hey boss, c'mon, dinnae just stay silent like that! What do you think we should do?”

>Get out of here. Just get in the ship and GO
>You'll venture down to the beach and speak with Maeve
>Head into town and speak with the locals
>Stay home and help Keziah with her search
>Other

>>3186276
>You'll venture down to the beach and speak with Maeve
>"The rest of you can take a look around, but don't ransack the place. We are still guests after all."

Rather get the issue straight from the goat's mouth.

>>3186276
>Go down to the beach and speak with Maeve.

>"Don't worry Kez, I'll seduce it out of her."

“I'll head down to the beach and speak with Maeve myself. At the very least, I can see what she's willing to say,” you decide, “The rest of you, stay here and take a look around. Don't ransack the place, though. We're still guests here, no matter what else happens. Just see if you can find anything that doesn't quite... fit.” One by one, you look your crew in the eyes to make sure that you're in agreement. When you come to Gunny, you hesitate for a moment before awkwardly moving on. Still something you're not quite used to, that.

“Aye, well, I guess someone else can rummage through her unmentionables. Dinnae expect me to go...” Keziah stops short with a shudder, looking up at you and hastily changing the subject, “Boss, you really think she'll talk to you?”

“Come on, give me some credit,” you joke, “I'll just seduce her. If that doesn't loosen her tongue, I don't know what will.”

Keziah's eyes bulge wide at this, and you hastily exit before she can yell something at you.

-

As the front door rattles shut, you feel the smile dropping off your face. The night is far from cold, and a swollen moon peeks out from between the islands hanging suspended above you, but a nameless dread hangs in the air. Pausing at the edge of the cliff, you find yourself staring out at the waters and watching the waves slowly beating against the shore. Something out there seems to be moving through the water, and you can't quite convince yourself that it's a trick of the light.

Down on the beach itself, it's easy to follow Maeve's tracks across the sand. Faintly glowing insects hover above the surface of the water, while small scurrying things cling to the shallow pools scattered about. Maeve herself has stopped at one of the larger pools, stooping down to examine it. Your approach is quiet, footsteps muffled by damp sand, yet you see her tensing up as you draw near to her.

“I consider this beach to be part of the town,” the witch announces without turning around, “So you see, Milos Vaandemere, that I did not lie. I merely allowed your own preconceptions to lead you astray... except you are here, now, in spite of that. Curious.” Rising to her full height, she casually flicks seawater from her fingers before turning. “I came here looking for a piece of jewellery. It has gone missing of late, and I thought that a child might have brought it here,” she continues, “Sometimes valuables are left in these pools. An offering – a sacrifice, given in return for good fortune.”

“Nice excuse,” you reply quietly, “I suppose there was no other time you could have come here. It had to be now, right in the middle of dinner.”

“The ways of the initiated can seem mysterious to those on the outside,” Maeve counters, the brittle hint of a teasing smile surfacing on her face. Lifting her skirts so they do not trail through the sand, she steps towards you.

[1/2]

>>3186329

Eye to eye, your faces barely a handful of inches apart, you hold the witch's gaze for a long moment. Her eyes are so dark as to be almost black, but there is a keen brightness in them that seems to stab right through you. “There is no relief for me now,” she whispers, “Food does not quell my hunger. Water does not quench my thirst. At night, I dream but I do not sleep. I have spent many years fighting against this, but now I feel my resolve beginning to fail. You know of what I speak, do you not?”

“Lamia's prophecy,” you answer, words coming from a dry throat, “The mother will devour her daughter, or be devoured in turn.”

Maeve nods solemnly. “I am closer to the land than my daughter, and I feel it keener than she does, but she too will feel this curse in time... if she is not already caught in its grasp,” she explains, “We men and women of Nadir, we are not used to fighting against our urges. When we hunger, we eat. When we grow thirsty, we drink. When there is something in front of us that we wish to possess... we reach out and claim it.”

Her voice is low, husky with a raw sensuality quite at odds with this bleak talk of curses and prophecies, almost as if she sought a distraction, an escape from what lay ahead of her. With a deliberate effort, you step back and break away from her gaze. That seems to puncture the tight bubble that had formed around you, and Maeve herself seems to snap out of some waking dream. “Prophecies don't have to control you,” you tell her, searching for something to say, “They don't mean anything. They're just words.”

“And yet every strand of my being is urging me towards this fate,” she counters, turning away from you and starting the trek back towards her home. You start to say something more, but then a vivid image forms in your mind. Seen through Keziah's eyes, you see a cloth bundle laid out across the wooden floor that superimposes itself over the beach at your feet. Disorientated by the two clashing images, you hesitate.

Closing your eyes, you watch as Keziah's trembling hands unwrap the bundle of cloth. Inside is a newly made sword, the crudely beaten steel sharpened and ready to spill blood. If Maeve returns and finds Keziah with the weapon...

“Wait!” you call out, thinking a curt warning to Keziah and hurrying forwards to distract Maeve, “Do you really mean to meekly accept this?”

The witch pauses, turning back to you. “I will fight against it. I will leave this place soon and travel north, to meet with Madame Lamia,” she answers, “I may not survive, but... I accept this. I have but one request for you... do not tell Keziah of this. If we have only a short time left, then I would not wish it to be mournful. All of you, stay for this night – I can endure this for a little while longer. Will you do this for me?”

>I will, if you think it wise
>I will, but Keziah must know
>I can't. The risk is too great
>I... (Write in)
>Other

>>3186416
>I... (Write in)
"How much time do you have left? I'm about to deal with both gods and a heart, which may include kicking Kegare's ass, along with potentially taking a world changing piece of furniture. I don't have any guarantees but there might be *something* I can do for you."

>>3186416
Backing
>>3186427
Depending on her answer we may need to start hurrying.

>>3186427
>>3186416
Seconding.

>Other
How did this curse even happen in the first place? This doesn't seem normal even by Nadir standards. We are missing the big 'Why?' here.

“How much time do you have left?” you ask her, sending Keziah another jab of warning, “I mean, how much longer do you think you can resist this for? I'm close to something big, dealing with both gods and the real power behind them. I can't guarantee anything, but there might be some way of helping you. Just... I need time. How much can you give me?”

Maeve considers this for a moment, her eyes revealing no hint of what thoughts might be passing through her mind. Then, slowly, she turns her gaze upwards and towards the moon. “I had planned to remain here for a while longer, perhaps three days. There is a child here who is sick, perilously so. I have been performing healing rites, but this is no simple ailment. It will take time, and I will not allow myself to leave until they are completed,” Maeve tells you, “But past that, I cannot say. Just as the land rebels, so too have my wits begun to turn against me. It will be soon, one way or the other.”

Three days... that's no time at all. What can anyone achieve in just three days? Pinching your brow, you try and think. Information. You need to know what you're dealing with here. “This curse is too cruel, even by the standards of your land,” you breathe, “What caused it in the first place?”

“I too have tried to learn that. Madame Lamia speaks little of it, but her guard has slipped of late, and her tongue has grown looser. This curse of ours, I believe its roots lie with our ancestors. They made some fatal error, some terrible mistake that caught the ire of a great and powerful daemon. For their impudence, this luckless ancestor of ours was struck down with this curse, and her entire bloodline with it,” the witch thinks aloud, her dark eyes peering out into the distance from the shade of her hood, “But the identity of this daemon eludes me yet. Nothing I have done has granted me answers. It... frustrates me deeply.”

You can imagine. High up on the nearby cliff side, you spot a figure emerging from Maeve's house. Too distant for you to see who it is, they wave down to you. “Go, then. Rejoin your friends,” Maeve sighs, “That is what you wish to do, is it not? And time is shorter than you thought. Wasting it here will help neither of us.”

“Wait a moment,” you argue, “What if we-”

“Ventured north to face Madame Lamia with me?” Maeve interrupts, shaking her head lightly, “No. I would not accept it. This is a matter to be settled by those of our line. Allow this woman her foolish pride – I will be the one to end this matter, one way or the other.”

Again, that note of bitter finality. Is this to be farewell, then?

>Return to your mission. You need all the time you can get
>Stay in Sybile for the night. You should make the most of the time you have
>There's something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>3186537
>There's something else... (Write in)
"Give me what you have on the daemon. Impurity might know when I 'talk' with him."

>Return to your mission. You need all the time you can get
We need to swing by Rhea to see what her deal is and then kick this thing off finally.

>>3186541
>>3186537
+1

Our choice in waifu makes this a huge concern for our bloodline as well.

>>3186537
>Return to your mission

Never give up!

>>3186464
>There's something else... (Write in)

The amulet she gave us. One of those islands with pleonite that drains your emotions. Cloudtop Prison.

We have *options*, she just has to be brave enough to actually fight her fate instead of martyring herself.

This is the first time I've been disappointed in her, which isn't really fair because ultimately she isn't an all powerful witch but just . . . Human. Like us. And sometimes humans need help. She's helped us so much, and us and Keziah have accepted it despite our pride because we know it comes from a place of love.

Why won't she accept our help, accept her daughters love . . . And ours too. Platonic love, like for an aunt - or a mother.

We lost our mother once already.

>>3186625
I think the implication is that she *has* been fighting for years now.

>>3186625
Ok you got really weird near the end there but the start is promising. Keep in mind that she's under some pretty heavy mental influence right now, no doubt impacting her decision making.

>>3186625
Dogma husk doesn't seem like a great alternative

That foolish pride of hers... perhaps it's blinding her to anything other than this cursed path. “I think you're giving up too easily,” you tell her quietly, “There must be other options. I've searched long and hard, and I found a path to something better. You could do the same, there has to be some other way to-”

“Are you really so certain of that?” Maeve interrupts again, “I have lived this life. As you have searched for your answer, so too have I searched for mine. I found nothing, and perhaps now I know why. This daemon is a thinking thing – it undermines all attempts at escape, any attempt at subverting this fate. This is why I do not wish for you to intervene. I fear for your safety, should this spirit turn its malice against you.”

“I don't fear a daemon,” you argue, resting one hand on the hilt of your sword.

Maeve turns and looks at you for a long moment. “Then you are a fool,” she murmurs, “Although I seem to have a weakness for fools. No, if there IS any way out of this trap, it lies in your path. My daughter has spoken to me of this, of a world where everything can be changed. This, I think, is where hope lies.”

Then it isn't hopeless. “So tell me everything you can about this daemon,” you insist, “We might be able to dig up some more information and send it your way. Something, anything, that can help you oppose it.”

“The daemon... I fear that there is little I can tell you. I have emptied my mind, hoping that the gods will grant me a revelation, but they have been silent. I have called up every spirit of knowledge that I can, but none of them could grant me the answers I sought. The daemon is hidden, even from its own kind, and that speaks of a certain power. All they could do was place a word within my mind,” Maeve stoops down here, drawing an oddly hooked symbol in the sand, “It means many things. From one reading, it means “manipulator”. Inverted, it means “hidden in plain sight”. I find myself wishing that I did not know this. Paranoia can eat away at even the strongest will, like acid consuming stone.”

A manipulator, hidden in plain sight... that's certainly far from reassuring. Engraving the symbol onto your memory, you reach out and touch her arm. “I suppose this is goodbye,” you tell her slowly, offering her your hand as she rises to her full height, “I hope that you... no, I hope that we're both successful. You do what you can, and I-”

“You will do what you can. I am thankful to you, Milos Vaandemere,” Maeve bows her head, her forehead brushing lightly against your own. Then she leans closer in, her voice whispering into your ear. “And I grant you my blessing. Though I tried to harden my heart against her, for fear of this moment, she is a good child. I am proud of all that she has achieved,” she whispers, “It is right, that you and her walk this path together. May it grant you a measure of strength, wherever it leads.”

[1/2]

>>3186659
Well, I mean she's Keziahs mom and we're hooking up so . . . It's not uncommon to refer to your wife's mom as mother.

>>3186776
It was more how bizarrely mushy and mournful that tone was.

>>3186726

Pulling back, you see that her eyes have hardened. Her mind is made up, and nothing you can say now will change that. It's... a bitter tonic to swallow. You almost want to reach out and shake her until she sees sense, but what good will that do? All it would do is make a hypocrite out of you. You're following your path, and Maeve is following hers – even if that path leads her to her doom. The witch turns away from you, setting her sight on the torpid ocean, and you realise that further words are futile.

“I hope that I can see you again,” you tell her simply, turning and heading back to join your crew. It's only by the faint stiffening of her shoulders that you can tell she heard you at all.

-

“We're leaving,” you announce, stepping into the cramped dining room, “As soon as possible.” Your words are met with a confused silence, all eyes turning towards you. Even Branwen looks a little puzzled, although you can't really blame her there. She's still an outsider to all this, relatively speaking, and it's no easy situation to explain. Then again, she IS a Nadir girl. She might just accept the situation without understanding. Either way, that's a conversation for another day.

“Leavin'? Just like that?” Keziah blurts out, “What did she say to you, Milos? Why did she have a sword hidden upstairs?”

“Home defence, you know,” you reply vaguely, “A woman living alone in a time like this, she's just being cautious...” It stings you to lie like this, but you recall what Maeve asked. Don't tell Keziah... not now, at least. The last thing that she needs right now is to be getting distracted. Maybe you'll raise the issue later, when you can talk things through in private, but that's a matter for another time. “Come on, I said that we're leaving!” you add, clapping your hands together, “Unless you lot want to sleep here tonight?”

“No thanks, chief. I don't want to imagine the sort of dreams I'd get in a witch house like this,” Dwight mutters, shrugging his shoulders heavily and slouching towards the door. The others follow him out, none of them seeming particularly enthusiastic about this. It's frustrating – here you are, about to embark on your biggest mission yet, and the mood is desperately low. This should have been a triumphant moment, not... this.

“Where first, captain?” Blessings asks softly, “Are we stopping...”

“Cloudtop Prison. I want to see what Rhea is up to,” you grunt, recalling her curious radio message, “But we won't be staying there long. After that, we're heading straight for the prize.”

“Unless we get distracted by something else,” Caliban drawls, causing Freddy to shoot him a dirty look.

“Hush, you,” the Iraklin hisses.

[2/3]

>>3186803

Dwight snores in the seat beside you, the hoarse sound of his breathing mixing in with the rumble of the engines. You're almost at Zenith now, although Cloudtop Prison seems to wait at a much greater distance. In a sharp contrast to the calm weather down in Nadir, a frightful blizzard fills the Zenith air with mist and whirling snow. More than once, you've seen things moving through the blizzard out of the corners of your eyes. Rubbing them, you fight back a yawn. You're tired, but not tired enough to be seeing things.

You've had to cut your speed because of the blizzard, for fear of a fatal collision with some other fool risking the skies. The delay rankles at you, even though you know that it will make little difference in the long run.

When the blizzard parts for a moment, you realise that you're closer to Cloudtop Prison than you thought. The imposing structure is dark, with no lights to hold back the stormy night. Caliban's warning of a delay comes back to haunt you, but the radio crackles before you can investigate any further. “Identify yourself!” the voice demands, “I repeat, this is Provost Nereus in the Saint Hector. Unidentified airship, name yourself!”

Nereus. You remember him from Sandoval's inquiry. Why did it have to be him?

“This is Captain Vaandemere, of the Spirit of Helena,” you reply, “I was going to request permission to land, but it looks like you've got some problems down there. What's going on?”

The provost seems unwilling to answer straight away, or maybe he's talking with someone else on his radio. Either way, it takes him a long time to get back to you. “Minor power failure, nothing more. Hold your position and wait for my flare, I'll guide you down to the landing strut. I repeat, hold your position for now – it's not safe to attempt a landing unguided!”

A power failure? The idea of a place as mystical as Cloudtop Prison falling victim to something so mundane as generator troubles seems strange to you, but you're not in any position to argue with the provost. Resigning yourself to waiting for his signal, you hear the bridge door creaking open. Looking around, you see Keziah standing in the doorway. Nodding towards Dwight as she approaches, you touch a finger to your lips. Silly really – you don't need to speak aloud if you don't want to.

But she speaks aloud anyway. Thinking at each other, you suspect, would be too intimate. “Hey, I wanted to talk,” she whispers, “I guess you know what it's about. When you were with Maeve, what were you really talking about? You two looked awfully cosy down there...”

“Don't get any funny ideas,” you warn her, “We were...”

You were what, exactly?

>Tell the truth. Maeve might not have much time left
>Keep Maeve's secret. She was just wishing you luck
>Tell her... (Write in)
>Other

>>3186884
>>Tell the truth. Maeve might not have much time left
Sorry Maeve but she needs to know.

>>3186884
>>Tell the truth. Maeve might not have much time left

We weren't exactly subtle with our haste anyways. Maeve might not want her daughter to worry, but as a couple lying to Kez's face about something this important is pretty bad

>>3186884
>Tell her the truth, and explain that's why we're in such a rush now.

Well, you knew this had to come sooner or later. It just happened to be a little sooner than you guessed. Maeve might have wanted you to keep this to yourself, but... you just can't. You'd hate it if Keziah was keeping a secret like this from you, so it's hardly fair to hold your tongue now. As you think about how best to begin, you gesture to the chair beside you. Ignoring it, Keziah perches down on the arm of your chair and leans against you.

“There's a reason why we're in such a hurry,” you tell her simply, “Maeve explained why she was acting so strangely over dinner, and why she wanted to see us in the first place. Why she really wanted to see us, I mean. It wasn't because of thanking us, or anything like that. She said... she's not sure how much longer she has left. Her curse is catching up with her.” Pausing here, you feel Keziah tensing up against your arm. Reaching around to hold her, you continue. “She couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep, she's almost at the end of the road,” you murmur, “She wanted to see you before the end.”

“The... end?” Keziah breathes, “She's not planning on... doing anything to herself, is she?”

Closing your eyes, you skim a picture off the top of Keziah's thoughts – the image of Maeve stepping off the edge of a cliff and plunging down into the waves below. Feeling the guilt of an unwilling voyeur, you pull back and shake your head. “There's one last throw of the dice,” you sigh, “She plan to go north and fight with Lamia. I guess... she's expecting that only one of them is going to walk away from it.”

“Mother devours daughter, or vice versa... it would fulfil the prophecy, I guess,” Keziah mutters to herself, “But Lamia is an old woman, she can barely stand up straight. That's no fight, that's butchery!” Dwight grunts a little in his sleep, and you both fall silent until his breathing returns to normal. “It's just so... disgusting!” the witch groans, clinging to you for comfort, “If she's doing this for me, for US, then why couldn't she just tell me?”

“I think she didn't want you to be... distracted,” you offer, all too aware of how little difference the excuse will make. It didn't exactly convince you, either.

“Well I'm bloody distracted now!” she protests, her eyes lurid with anger and grief, “She... she's going to be alone down there! She doesn't even have a familiar with her, she never...” Slumping down as the energy bleeds out of her, Keziah leans heavily against you. “Her stupid pride...” the witch whispers, “She's insufferable, she's awful, and... and I don't want her to die!” Holding firmly onto you, Keziah buries her face in your shoulder and silently sobs. When you see the red flash of a flare being launched into the air, it comes as something of a relief.

A guilty relief, but still a relief.

[1/2]

>>3186884

>Tell the truth. Maeve might not have much time left

>>3186978
"She gave us everything she knows on the daemob causing this, we might be able to track it down and kill it. That's unlikely though, so I'm trying to remake the world without the curse before she leaves on this journey."

>>3186992
>daemob
Damn you phone

>>3186992
>>3186978
I wonder if we've come across this daemon without knowing.

There was that dude in the Shadowlands when we nearly died, but was that confirmed to be Kegare or no?

>>3187027
If we did that would be depressing.

>>3186978

Hollow-eyed and ashen, Keziah waits in the captain's chair as you brace yourself against the storm and hurry towards Cloudtop Prison. After the initial burst of hysterics, she quickly calmed down enough for you to explain the rest. If you can end this quickly enough, you might free Maeve from the fate lying ahead of her. You're doubtful of that, but Keziah seized onto the hope with grim determination. When you left her, she was obsessively drawing the nameless daemon's mark on a scrap of paper.

A manipulator, hidden in plain sight... and here you are, coming to meet with Rhea. It almost feels like the setup to some twisted joke.

-

The fight across the landing strut is far from pleasant. Nereus escorts you, but you can barely see him. Suffice to say, conversation is impossible until you get inside the prison itself. There, he shivers and fussily brushes melting snow off of his thick robes. It's barely warmer inside than out, but at least you're sheltered from the wind and snow. “Awful night to have generator troubles,” you mutter to him as you push your hair back into some semblance of order, “Awful night in general, actually.”

“I never said anything about generator troubles,” Nereus replies stiffly, fumbling at his belt lantern with numb fingers. Saying nothing more on the subject, he leads you deeper into the prison. He's leading you to Rhea, without you even having to mention it. That's an interesting thing to note – she was expecting you.

Also interesting is the theory that slowly forms in your mind as you walk through the darkened corridors. Perhaps the entire island is suffering from some disruption, something akin to the tremors down in Nadir. Something in the foundation of the land breaking down and failing. Not exactly a comforting thought. It might just be a power failure now, but when you're on an island hovering just beneath the roof of the world...

It just doesn't bear thinking about.

Nereus waits outside when you arrive at Rhea's quarters, and confusion falls over you like a shroud as you enter. The bishop is sitting at her desk, leaning on her hands and staring into the single candle that lights – or attempts to light – the entire room. Her expression is rapt, the kind of concentration that seems almost depraved. Maeve and Rhea have one thing in common, and that's the fact that you can never really know what's going on behind their eyes. Their inner workings are just something you don't, can't, understand.

“Come. Take a seat,” Rhea murmurs, “Is this enough light for you?”

“Just so long as I don't need to read any small print,” you joke uneasily, “I got your message. Except, it wasn't really meant for me, was it? Radios these days just aren't all that secure... and I think you know that.”

In the flickering candlelight, you see Rhea's lips twisting into a glacial smile.

[2/3]

>>3187122

“It's true, my message was meant as more than just a passing greeting, but there was no malice intended. I wished to invite you up here so that we could talk before the end, but I wished to keep that invitation between us. I suspected that an ambiguously worded message would arouse your curiosity, and here you are,” Rhea explains, her thin smile growing a tiny bit wider, “I'm glad to see that I know you as well as I thought I did, Captain Vaandemere.”

“Before the end,” you repeat. There's another thing that she and Maeve have in common – they both seem to be staring into some terrible doom.

Leaning back, Rhea finally breaks her gaze away from the candle. “I am aware of certain things, certain patterns, and they seem to be leading us all in one direction alone,” she tells you, “All thing reach their end, Captain Vaandemere, and I have a vested interest in what happens after the end. Will we simply try all this again, or will we ascend to something greater? Of course, “greater” is a very subjective term...”

Her words nag at you, some lingering familiarity tugging at your thoughts. She knows something of what you're doing, but precisely how much does she know? Could one of your crew have told Trice, who told Rhea, who is now telling you that... A man could go mad thinking that way. Instead, you hold your tongue and nod for Rhea to continue. You'll see how much she's willing to reveal.

“Something greater...” she repeats to herself, “Let me ask you this, Captain Vaandemere. When you imagine something greater – a greater world, shall we say – does the church have a place in that world? Please, give me your honest answer. Think of me as just a common woman if it helps you. I'll know if you're lying to me, so really... it would be in your best interest to be honest.”

This is a test, of course. You'd be a fool to think otherwise. The church... seeing everything that you've seen of it, does it deserve to exist in a new world?

>Yes, I can see a place for the church in a new world
>No, I think the church should be left behind
>I think... (Write in)
>Other

Not an easy question

>>3187164
>I think... (Write in)
"When I think of a greater world, I think everyone should have the freedom to choose if they want to worship something and what they want to worship. Your theocracy is no exception. The Lord of Rising Light is probably going to change itself during this transition so the church may have to adapt. I will say though, that in a better world I think your group needs to get over their obsession with purity. Impurity and Dogma can't exist without the other and some of your member, maybe even yourself, need to realize that. Else you start doing experiments like Pierrot or the Vault or any other bullshit trying to strive to become something that isn't human.

So to answer your question, I think the church can exist in a new world, but it's going to need to adapt or it'll eventually cannibalize itself."

>>3187164
>Yes, I can see a place for the church in a new world

Like was said it's going to need to adapt though. Assuming Dogma and Impurity survive.

>>3187164
>I do, as long as it sheds elements like Worthington.

She's asking you to pass judgement on a massive organisation, a system that has spread out to cover an entire nation. A vast and labyrinthine religion, with countless factions and secret societies working away behind the scenes. How are you supposed to answer that question in a manner that won't keep you here for the next three days?

Well, you could just walk out now, but that would just be rude.

“When I picture a greater world, if that's what we're going to consider, then I see a world where people have the freedom to worship as they please. Your theocracy is no different. You need to keep something in mind, though. If the world changes, don't you think that the Lord of Rising Light might change with it?” you ask, weighing up each word before speaking it aloud, “The church would need to consider those changes, and adapt according to them. Do you think it would?”

“Under Hierophant Milleux, and those who share his views, I believe it would. He has not been shy about changing church doctrine in the past,” Rhea replies, nodding as if savouring your answer, “But there are also those who oppose Milleux's attitude. Quite passionately, to say the least. But tell me, how best do you think the should the church adapt?”

That's an easier one to answer. “I think you need to drop the obsession with purity,” you tell her simply, “What you consider to be impurity is an essential part of life, of being human. It's as important as being pure. Impurity and Dogma, they can't exist without each other. If you try and strip one out in favour of the other, you end up with abominations, experiments like the ones that created the Pierrot. Whatever this new world might look like, there's no place for those kinds of horrors in it.”

Rhea's calm expression doesn't change, even when you allow these names to drop into your answer. Taking her silence as a cue to continue, you bring your answer to a close. “So yes, I do think the church has a place in a new world, but not as it is now. It needs to be less rigid, more open to change. Milleux is making a good start on that,” you conclude, “But it needs to shed the bad elements, men like Worthington. If it can't do that, it'll just end up feasting on itself. None of us want that.”

Nodding slowly, Rhea leans back and allows herself a smile. “Captain Vaandemere, I believe that my faith in you was well placed,” she murmurs, gently opening a desk drawer and taking something out. When she places it down on the desk, you realise that it's the Abrahad pendant that Worthington was wearing at the inquiry. “I think you ought to have this,” Rhea explains, “I believe it belonged to Miss Sandoval in the first place. You can see that she gets it back... unless you can find a use for it yourself. If so, consider it a gift.”

[1/2]

>>3187305

You stare uneasily down at the Abrahad pendant for a long moment, the inscriptions barely visible in the candlelight. “It means “bountiful labour”, doesn't it?” you recall, “Do you know what it does?”

“Unfortunately not. It may serve no function at all. Bishop Worthington – although I suppose I don't need to use that title now – dearly wished to claim it for himself, so it must have some value. A status symbol, if nothing else. That kind of arrogance is another thing that the church could easily stand to leave behind,” Rhea sighs, “As I say, if it does not help you then I'm certain that Miss Sandoval would be glad to have it back. I feel as though it was meant for you, however. You are engaged in some “bountiful labour”, are you not?”

“Well, I guess you could see it that way...” you murmur, feeling strangely uncomfortable with this turn of phrase. Best to change the subject instead. “Worthington is still here, isn't he?” you ask, “How is he?”

“A model prisoner,” the bishop replies, with a hard edge to her smile that you really don't care for.

Maybe you shouldn't have asked.

>Okay, I think I'm going to pause things here for today. Hopefully, I'll continue this tomorrow
>Sorry for some of the delays today. Tech problems on my end

>>3187377
Thanks for running!

Did Worthington get turned into an Immaculate?

Good luck with the snowstorm this weekend.

>>3187377
Thanks for running!

>>3187388
Ah, Worthington isn't an Immaculate yet.
But either way, I'm sure that we've absolutely definitely seen the last of him!

>>3187122
Fuck, I wonder if Herod is the Demon? After all, it has to manipulate Maeve AND Keziah, right?

>>3187377
Can we ask her what she wants for the Church? Also if they have anything that slows the change in Nadir blood.

I almost want to ask her if she wants to come along, just to see how she reacts.

>>3187377
Hmm, how old is Sandoval again? I pictured her as quite advanced in years, but here Rhea speaks of her like of a youngster.

Sorry about the delay. I should be live in 5-10 minutes, just need to edit a few things.

>>3188790
Sandoval is pretty old, although the official records are mysteriously incomplete. I'd put her at beyond middle age, though, not all that different from Rhea herself. Rhea just has a bit of a haughty streak to her!

File: Bishop Rhea.jpg (324 KB, 1181x1748)

324 KB JPG

As you hold Rhea's gift in your hand, you find yourself considering the strange symmetry of it. Down in Nadir, Maeve gave you a gift of a defiled Abrahad charm. Now in Zenith, Rhea is giving you a blessed pendant of that same material. Both women have aided your journey, although for their own reasons, and both of them seem to have more than just a professional interest in you. Idly, you wonder what might happen if the two women were to meet, yet you know that such an occasion would never happen. Perhaps that's for the best.

Shoving the pendant into your pocket, you focus on following Nereus back to your ship. As you walk, you find yourself thinking about Rhea's parting words. Her vision for the church, as she herself described it.

“The church and the Lord of Rising Light are not as inseparable as some may think,” she had remarked, “You say that the Lord may change, and I believe that you are correct. If He becomes a harsh master – and some might say that He already is – then the church will face a decision. To blindly obey Him, no matter where that may lead, or to break away and forge their own path. It is a choice that I hope we must never face, but if this fate cannot be escaped... I believe the latter is our only choice.”

Even without a god, the church could yet live on – but what role might Rhea play in this new faith? That's a question that only occurs to you later, as you're leaving the prison. The process is slow, but as you walk back to the Spirit of Helena you notice the darkness retreating as power returns to the prison. With a glow that emanates from the air itself, the prison seems to rouse itself from a deep sleep.

That seems like your signal to leave.

-

Back on the Spirit of Helena, you find yourself staring up at the dim silhouette of the Mountain of Faith. The worst of the blizzard has passed, or at least drawn back to shroud the very tip of the mountain itself. Staring up at the peak, you find yourself torn between two urges – to move ahead as quickly as possible, and to hold back for fear of what lies ahead. As if looking for a distraction, for some tiny problem that might serve to delay you, you check for a new status report. Nothing new since the report from five minutes ago. The engines are working flawlessly, the cannons are ready to fight off any unlikely attack... the ship is more ready than you are.

“There won't be anywhere to land up at the peak,” you announce, explaining the situation to Dwight, “But there's an outcrop near our goal, and the ship should be able to hover by it. We can deploy there, and then it's just a short walk to the door.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself, chief,” Dwight points out, gesturing at you with his cigarette, “Now, it's good to be confident, but...”

[1/3]

>>3189253

“I've seen it. I've been there,” you assure him, thinking back to the dreams and visions that have brought you to the top of the mountain. The details are clear in your mind, so clear that you could draw a map leading you to the target if you really needed to. “Just keep calm and follow my orders,” you tell Dwight, “We'll be the first men ever to reach these altitudes. Things might get... strange.”

“No worries then,” the pilot sighs, savouring his cigarette as if it might be his last. “You nervous?” Dwight asks after a moment. You glance around in surprise, and he lets out a low laugh. “Yeah chief, it really is that obvious,” he continues, answering your unspoken question, “Can't say I blame you, really. You want my advice? Go take a walk, check in with the others – in person this time, not on the radio. I can handle the flying. I mean, that's my job.” Dwight gestures to the controls and, hesitating a little, you allow him to take over. The walk will do you good.

So that's what you do. Slipping like a ghost through the corridors of your own ship, you look in on your crew. Freddy's door is ajar when you reach it, and as you peer inside you see the Iraklin performing her exercises. With the muscles in her back and arms standing out like steel cables, she works away at a set of pull-ups. To judge by the sweat clinging to her skin, she's been working out for some time now. Leaving her to it, you move on. Down on the artillery deck, you see Gunny and his assistants... although they look more like religious acolytes now, their shaven heads bowed as they kneel in silence. Gunny himself sits leaning back against the wall, Saint Alma's amulet dangling over his head. Whether he's sleeping or not, he sits still and silent. Feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, you quietly back out of the room.

Passing the infirmary, you look in to see Caliban dozing on one of the beds, his soft snores accompanied by the scratching of Barnum's pen as the doctor writes a few notes. He looks up at the sound of your arrival, nodding solemnly at you before going back to work. It's impressive, how Caliban can nap at a time like this. You almost wonder if he feigned some illness to con some pills out of Barnum. You hope not – this is hardly the time for that.


You visit the mess hall next, where the kids – condescending, perhaps, but that's the word that comes to mind – are waiting. Grace and Branwen are playing some game that you vaguely remember from your youth, while Blessings watches and frets. Grace pushes a piece in what looks like an illegal move, while Branwen looks on in confusion. Torn between speaking up and staying silent, Blessings fidgets in his seat. Watching them from the other side of the room, Masque stands as still as a statue.

[2/3]

>>3189257

So this is your crew. Alongside Keziah, secluded down in the engine room, these are the people you'll be sharing this moment with. You envy them for their calm, although you know that they're all dealing with things in their own way. Seeking distraction in games, in prayer, even in gruelling exercise... it's all the same, once you strip away the illusions. They're all trying not to think about what lies ahead.

Even so, even despite all this, seeing the other members of the crew at rest has helped to ease your nerves a little. Dwight was right – taking a little walk really did do you some good. You could probably head back to relieve him now, or...

>Return to the bridge
>Join the kids with their game
>Check in with Gunny on the artillery deck
>Visit Freddy for a little
>Other

>>3189258
>Join the kids with their game
Sounds like fun.

>>3189258
>Visit Keziah
That should've been an automatic option, really. This is the point where the romantic cutscene before the final mission happens. It's like you never played Mass Effect or something.

>>3189258
>Join the kids
Can't let Grace be a filthy cheater. Also she's been worrying recently, wanna make sure Impurity hasn't possessed her and shit.

>>3189258
>Join the kids with their game

>>3189257
> You want my advice? Go take a walk, check in with the others – in person this time, not on the radio.

RPG end-game sense tingling

>>3189258

>Join the kids with their game

Watching the game for a while more, you become increasingly convinced that Branwen has no idea of how to play. When it's her turn to move, she impulsively shoves a random piece forwards and then watches, with no sign of dismay, as Grace ruthlessly tightens her grip. Quietly approaching, you meet Blessings' eyes and touch a finger to your lips. When Grace next moves, shunting one of her carven pieces forwards, you clear your throat.

“Actually, that's an illegal move,” you announce, causing her to jolt in surprise. “Maybe they've changed the rules since I was a kid,” you continue, sitting down at their table and tapping the black and white board, “But that piece couldn't move diagonally like that.”

Grace scowls for a moment before shrugging the rebuke off and smiling at you. “Oh, well, we're really not playing seriously,” she insists, “It's just a way to pass the time. I used to play this up in Saint Alma's Academy, with some of the other girls. It was a matter of life and death for them, they were more serious than any gambler. I suppose when you have no real control over your life, you start to fantasize about directing an army.” With an indifferent, almost insolent gesture, Grace reaches out and flicks over her general. “You win then,” she tells Branwen, “Good game.”

The Nadir girl blinks in amazement, confused by the sudden shift in her fortunes. “I win?” she repeats, picking up one of the pieces and squinting at it, “Yes. It was a good game. These rules are difficult, though. Complicated. I just like these pieces. You see? This one is like a little horse!” She waves the piece under your nose, making sure that you can see that yes, it's definitely a horse. Taking it from her, you nod in approval before setting it back down.

“I came to see how you're all feeling,” you tell them next, “About the mission, I mean. Any last thoughts?”

“Er, well, to be honest with you captain, I'm really not sure what to expect,” Blessings admits with a nervous laugh, “When Aunt Miriam told me stories about her adventures, she never mentioned anything about this. About the waiting. I suppose she must have felt like this once, when she was younger, but I just can't imagine it. I'm... excited, I suppose. Worried too, but I have faith in you. You wouldn't be leading us into trouble.”

Grace coughs hurriedly, covering up a laugh. “Not any trouble that we can't deal with, at least,” she agrees, “Yes, I wonder if this will really be as easy as it seems. We just walk up to the door and open it, is that right? Rationally speaking, there isn't much that can go wrong, but... I don't believe that the world is always a rational place. Especially not when we get involved.”

“The rules can change in an instant,” Branwen remarks, “That is what you said earlier.”

Grace laughs again, this time sounding vaguely embarrassed.

[1/2]

>>3189267
FF10 had it happen only halfway through.


Time spent grinding counts, right?

>>3189324
Yeah the Calm Lands wasn't halfway when it came to plot, but if you factor in how much the world opens up after Zanarkand it'll certainly be the halfway point in terms of playtime.

>>3189323

“Ah, how about some tea?” Blessings offers, gesturing back towards the kitchen, “I know we shouldn't drink too much before a mission, but I'm feeling thirsty. A little drop of it wouldn't hurt, so...” Clearing his throat, he gets up and hurries away. Branwen follows him after a moment, leaving you alone with Grace. The young scholar watches them leave with sharp eyes, her brow furrowing slightly.

“You really shouldn't cheat like that,” you scold, waiting before the others are out of earshot before speaking up, “It's a low blow.”

“I suppose you're right,” she sighs, “But I am my father's daughter. If he saw an opportunity to take advantage of a situation, he wouldn't have let it pass him by. The world is full of cheaters and conmen, and not everyone is so petty as to limit their ambitions to a game.” She leaves these words hanging for a moment, just long enough for you to start wondering about the suggestions lurking beneath the surface, and then she waves a hand though the air. “But very well, I'll apologise to her later,” the scholar concedes, “Is that what you wanted to hear? I'm sure that you didn't just come to scold me.”

Something clatters in the kitchen, and you hear a muffled cry of alarm. “It's like I said, I just came to see how everyone was feeling,” you assure her, “Hopefully, that racket back there is the only thing that goes wrong today.”

“Hmm. I wonder. Let me put your mind at rest, captain,” Grace murmurs after a thoughtful pause, “I believe in what we're doing here. Oh, I had my doubts at first. There were times when I feared that you might hand the world over to Dogma. I've grown rather fond of free will, and I shouldn't like to lose it because of some would-be tyrant. However, I've come to realise something. Impurity has no more “free will” than Dogma. Both of them are just...”

“Pawns in a larger game,” you finish for her, tapping the game board that sits between you.

“Exactly,” she agrees, “And I'm tired of this game. I'll take my chances on something new, thank you very much.”

That seems to settle the matter. Satisfied with her own answers, Grace leans back and watches as Blessings returns from the kitchen. His shirt is stained with spilled tea, and he looks somewhat ashamed of himself. “Um, there was a small accident,” he ruefully explains, “I suppose we can save the tea for later. For, ah, our victory celebrations. I'm sorry about this, but...”

You gesture for him to calm himself. Maybe you're better off leaving them to it. There was a small matter you wanted to speak with Keziah about, so...

>Head to the engine room next
>Talk for a while longer... (Write in)
>Other

>>3189374
>Head to the engine room next

>>3189374
>Head to the engine room next

>>3189257
>Grace pushes a piece in what looks like an illegal move
bully

>>3189374
>I only hope cheating destiny will be as easy as cheating chess. Then again, that's why we're changing the rules, right?
>Head to the engine room.

Leaning back, you let out a heavy sigh. “Well, we've done all we can. Now, we just see what happens,” you tell the youths, “I can only hope that cheating destiny is as easy as cheating at chess.”

Blessings laughs awkwardly at this, while Grace pouts. Back in the kitchen, you hear another crash and Branwen lets out a loud yelp. Taking this new disaster as your cue to leave, you rise from the table and hurry away. Next stop, the engine room.

-

The first thing you see, upon entering the engine room, is a massive rendition of the nameless daemon's mark chalked onto one wall. Keziah sits on the floor beneath it, staring up towards the mark with a scowl on her face. Feeling a layer of sweat forming on your skin as you enter the sweltering engine room, you glance across at the machinery pulsing away. The blue light of the Pleonite core washes over you, the radiating power causing a tingle to run across your skin. Are you imagining things, or are there blue sparks dancing through the air itself?

“That daemon,” Keziah whispers, “All of this leads back to that daemon. If Maeve... if she doesn't make it, I won't stop until I've tracked that daemon down and killed it myself. I'll keep killing it until it stays dead.”

“That won't be easy,” you warn her, “We've got close to nothing to go on, not even a name.”

The witch looks around at you. Behind her, nestled within the machinery, you see Herod shifting about. “A nameless manipulator, hidden in plain sight. Strange,” the familiar declares, “Daemons do not often manipulate. They do not meddle in human affairs, unless bidden to do so by a human. We simply lack the motivation to do so.” The bird shuffles a little closer, and you find yourself staring into the daemon's pitiless eyes. “Before you ask,” he adds, “I have no answers to give you. I know little more than you do. Less, perhaps.”

So he claims. But if you're thinking about a daemon that has been in plain sight, Herod himself would be on that list. What was it that Maeve said about paranoia?

“Herod...” Keziah begins, “Could you just... go away for a bit?” She gives the familiar a firm look and, after a moment, the bird takes flight and swoops away down the ship's corridor. Closing the engine room door behind him, you lean back and let out a breath. The daemon is still just a thought away, but you still feel better for his absence. “I know, I've been wondering about him as well,” the witch tells you, patting the empty floor beside her, “But... I want to trust him, I want... anyway. Something on your mind?”

“That,” you reply, sitting and nodding towards the hooked mark scratched onto the wall, “But there are more interesting things to think about.”

“Oh really?” the witch murmurs, leaning against you, “Then why don't you tell me about-”

The intimate moment comes to a crashing end here, the ship jolting as if struck by some giant fist.

[1/2]

>>3189466
God DAMNIT DWIGHT

>>3189466

Keziah cries out as the ship shudders again, and this time the Pleonite core flares as a pulse of power strobes through it. Throwing herself to her feet, she races over to it and starts to examine the various dials and gauges that cover the arcane machinery. “We just hit the ceiling. Our altitude is, uh... really bloody high!” she explains quickly, “Got a wicked drain on the engines, but the condenser is workin' to counter it. We're... we're... okay! Okay, we're stable!”

Unable to stop yourself, you let out a loud and triumphant laugh. You've just broken new ground, pushed higher than any airship that has gone before you. Even if you never achieve anything else, this act has won you a place in the record books. Still, you want more than just that. You want-

A hideous screech of static wails out from the intercom. “Chief, I need you up on the bridge!” Dwight yells, “Like, right now!”

-

Leaving Keziah to tend to the engines and hastening to the bridge, you find yourself fighting against the lurching ship every step of the way. Shuddering and shaking, the ship seems to be caught in the grip of a vicious storm. When one especially violent convulsion throws you against the wall, you look out of the thick window and gasp at the dark shape that looms past you. That long, sinuous body, the blunt horns and angular muzzle... it can only be a wyrm.

A wyrm that you recognise all too well. With those bleached scales and the patches of moss that cling to its hide, you remember this wyrm from Nadir. It had been playful then, even talkative – albeit speaking straight into your mind in a manner that you do not quite understand – but now there is no trace of that softer persona. Now, when you stare out at the wyrm, you feel a wordless wave of psychic anger crashing into you. Pain slams into your mind, and you stumble back away from the window, but not before seeing the impossible.

“Can't be...” you mutter, clutching your aching head, “Seeing things, can't be...” Shaking off the pain, you push yourself back into motion and fight up towards the bridge.

-

Alarms are ringing when you reach the bridge, and Dwight is busy wrestling with the controls. The wyrm has brought a terrible storm with it, and now the blizzard pounds into your ship. The Mountain of Faith looms ahead of you, the peak seeming close enough that you could reach out and touch it... if not for the wyrm hounding your trail. Gripping the back of the captain's chair, your grip white knuckle tight, you feel a burning anger bubbling up from the pit of your stomach.

You're close, damn it, you're so close now. You can't let this thing stand in your way!

[2/3]

>>3189555
Wait, what did we see? Moloch pls.

File: Nadir Wyrm.jpg (110 KB, 733x1089)

110 KB JPG

>>3189555

“Chief?” Dwight grunts, fighting to keep the ship steady as another wave of turbulence buffets it, “What do we do?”

“We need to bring that thing down, or at least drive it off!” you snarl, “We can't get the ship into position like this, it'll swat us out of the sky.” Your grip on the chair tightens even further, your nails digging into the soft leather. Behind you, the bridge door bangs open as Masque barges in. Turning, you see the daemon stopping in his tracks as the wyrm rears up in the front observation window. He stops, and then Masque does something that you've never seen him do before – he takes a faltering step backwards.

The moment of weakness passes quickly. “The Megiddo Cannon is charged and ready!” the daemon snarls, “It will tear that monster from the sky. Captain, you must fire!”

The intercom is ready, and all you need to do is give the order. Yet, as you reach for it, Dwight lets out a cry of both amazement and horror. He's seen it too, the thing you saw through the window.

“There's a person out there!” the pilot cries, pointing to the wyrm, “There's someone riding that damn thing!”

And with that, you can't deny it any further. The rider looks tiny in comparison with the wyrm, but you can make out more than enough detail. They wear thick garb, a heavy layer of robes and scarves that hides much of their form from view. What kind of hideous shape their body might have, only your imagination can say. Even their face is hidden, blank goggles covering their eyes and thick cloth hiding all the rest. Clinging to the wyrm with one hand, they swipe their other through the air in an easily recognised gesture.

Turn back. Go no further.

“Kill. It,” Masque snarls, “Our goal lies ahead, and the monster blocks our passage. You MUST fire!”

“But the rider-” Dwight protests, “We have to...”

>Order the Megiddo Cannon to fire
>Hold your fire, press on despite the danger
>Turn back...?
>Other

>>3189579
>Holding pattern
>morse code the question "Meet?"

>>3189579
>Hold your fire, see if we can't communicate.
>Keep the Megiddo Cannon trained on it.

We've never seen Masque act like this and it's got me damn curious.

>>3189579
>Hold your fire, see if we can't communicate.
>Keep the Megiddo Cannon trained on it.

If it can swat us out of the sky, there's a reason it hasn't done so already.

“Just hold your fire for now,” you hiss, “Keep the cannon aimed at it, but hold your fire. We need to try-”

“No!” Masque bellows, marching forwards and reaching out to you, “You mean to abandon the prize now?” Before his hand can settle on your shoulder, you spin around and grab his wrist. Your strength against his, there should have been no way that you could have stopped him, and yet the daemon freezes. He is, you think, surprised.

“Stand down,” you snarl, “I'm giving the orders here. Why are you so damn eager to see that thing dead?” There's no reading the daemon, no emotion you can glean from those lifeless glass lenses, but the air crackles with a nameless tension. “Either give me an explanation,” you press, letting go of the daemon's wrist and pushing it away, “Or get the hell off of my bridge. What's it going to be?”

“That thing is death – death for even one such as I,” Masque growls, dark anger festering beneath his flat voice, “The storyteller said as such. These beasts maintain a perfect design – they will protect this place with...”

Dwight yells a curt warning as the wyrm dips closer, the rider flattening themselves against the beast's spine as a dome of light glows about the creature. Tongues of lightning lick out, crackling against your airship's shields as the wyrm searches for any crack in your armour. Warning sirens blare, but Keziah's modifications are sound and the shields hold... for now. How much longer can you last before before something burns out, before some delicate mechanism fails?

“Hold this course for now, keep that cannon ready,” you spit, collapsing down into the captain's chair and clenching your eyes shut. Behind you, Masque's looming presence fades into the distance. Meeting the overwhelming hammer blow that is the wyrm's mind, you focus all your energies on pushing through the resistance. If you can communicate with it in some-

no go away this is bad don't do this

The wyrm's thoughts stab into you, each word like a knife and a plea both. The words howl, drowning out any response you try to form. Coming from the midst of the storm, you find yourself envisioning a great eye boring into you... recognising you, perhaps. Yet, this small progress comes with a renewed pain, bad enough that your body feels as though it is tearing itself apart. When the pain of concentration gets too much to bear, you falter and draw back, gasping with exertion. Dwight looks around in alarm, his attention torn between you and the wyrm. Shaking your head, you wave a hand at the window. “Lights,” you gasp, “Try the lights. Flash out a message, a truce. Try...”

You don't need to say anything more. Dwight's hand dances across the controls, and the ship's spotlights flash. Dimly, out of the corner of your eye, you spot the wyrm drawing back. “It's pulling back,” Dwight tells you, “I think it's retreating!”

[1/2]

>>3189579
>Hold your fire, see if you can't communicate

I mean we can always come back prepared for a wyrm fight.

Like.

A lot more missiles since their bodies are just dirt and such.

>>3189717
Ah shit, it's building up to ramming speed. We got the cannon trained on it right? Gunny isn't the one firing, right!?!?!?!

>>3189717
>no go away this is bad don't do this

Maybe it thinks we are just going for the Throne and is trying to protect us and the world?

I don't want to blow this thing out of the sky but we got a job to do damnit.

>>3189717

Forcing yourself to straighten up, you gaze out the window as the wyrm allows itself to fall behind. The rider forms a tiny blotch against the bleached white scales, the distance robbing you of any clue as to their thoughts or even their identity. Turning a tight circle in the air, the wyrm falls back and begins its descent. You follow it for as long as you can, hurrying from one window to the next as it fades into the distance. The storm falters, the turbulence begins to ease up, but you don't allow yourself to relax. Not yet.

“Where is it?” you snap, “Don't lose it!”

“Well, can you bloody see it?” Dwight argues, “Scanners have a reading on it, but they're fading. It's falling back.”

Maybe, or maybe not. Either way, the questions swirl through your mind. But what was it that drove the wyrm away? When you felt that burning sense of recognition, did the wyrm see something there that convinced it to turn back?

“We're coming up on your target now,” Dwight mutters, running a hand down his unshaven face. He looks pale and shaken, for obvious reasons, and you find yourself wondering if he's really capable of this. A dull chime disturbs your thoughts, and the pilot glances around to one of the data screens. What he sees there causes him to freeze, causes his mouth to hang slack with horror. Pushing past him, you read out the data scrolling across it. The scanners are showing some vast energy reading approaching rapidly from behind you – coming up right into your blind spot.

Howling a curse, you grab the controls and wrest them out of Dwight's unresisting hands. Firing the engines hard, trying to buy yourself as much time as possible, you push the Helena into a tight turn. You need to keep that wyrm in front of you, keep it in your sights...

You almost make it, almost get the ship turned to face the oncoming wyrm. It doesn't bother with lighting this time – it charges straight on, meaning to ram you. Yelling a desperate order into the intercom, you jerk the controls around in an attempt at evasion. The Megiddo Cannon fires into the oncoming wyrm, the blinding blue light searing out through the sky and carving a line across the beast's hide. You see huge swathes of rocky hide blasted away into ash, and the wyrm dips in flight. It's still not enough, though. It smashes into the bottom of the Spirit of Helena, twisting in mid-air as it tears along the underneath of the airship. Warning sirens scream out as you wrestle with the controls, trying to coax some measure of obedience out of the airship. The engines are failing, the controls are barely responding, the data screens show nothing but meaningless static...

But if there is one consolation, you see the wyrm tumbling down towards the ground, black smoke boiling out from its broken body.

[2/3]

>>3189889

No matter how much you fight with the controls, you can't force the Helena to ascend. All you can do is slow her fall and make some pretence of steering. Looking frantically about you, you search for anything that might serve for an emergency landing, any open ground that you could ram the Helena into. At first, all you see are foreboding walls of craggy rock that rise up, and then you catch a fleeting glimpse of snow and flat ground. The slightest hint of an outcrop, but that's good enough. Pulling at the controls, you bring the Helena in.

You come in hard, crashing into the uneven ground and bouncing, rock screeching against metal as the airship's underbelly drags against the terrain. A powerful jolt throws you back, away from the controls, and the world turns grey as you hit your head against the floor. It's impossible to say just how long you're out for, but when you claw your way back to the surface, the ship has grown still.

With slow, ponderous steps, Masque crosses over and leans down, looming over you. “Don't say it,” you mutter, sitting up and feeling tacky blood on the back of your head, “Don't even think about saying it.”

“Then I will not say it,” Masque agrees, “I do not need to.”

With a pained look about the darkened bridge, you try to get a feel for the situation. Dwight is alive and conscious, slowly smoking a cigarette as he massages an aching shoulder. Judging by the gloom, you've lost power to the ship. In a way, that's lucky – if the core is dead, you won't need to worry about it turning unstable and exploding. So you're alive, your ship isn't entirely destroyed, and you've made it onto the Mountain of Faith. It's not perfect, but...

But you've clawed your way one step closer to the prize.

>I'm sorry about this, but I think I'm going to finish early today. I'll be aiming to continue this tomorrow, however
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>3189932
Thanks for running famalampai

>>3189932
Hope that's repairable.

Thanks for running.

>>3189932
Thanks for running!

Where did that Wyrm find a rider?

>>3189932
Thanks for running!

>>3189961
You can get some really strange items in the "help wanted" column of the newspaper, I guess!
>>3189958
Ah, it'll buff right out
Maybe

>>3190123
>Ah, it'll buff right out

Hope so. I don't fancy walking down all of Zenith. Though I guess who knows where the fuck we'll end up once we go into the Vault.

>>3190123
>get unlimited cosmic power
>use it to repair ship

File: Milos Vaandemere.jpg (607 KB, 1406x2000)

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Cold snow lashes at you, the wind playing across your bare cheeks like a fistful of razorblades. The Mountain of Faith is colder than you ever imagined, colder than you thought possible. Clutching your coat tighter about yourself and pulling your shawl up about your face, you spare a thought for the woman who made the thick woollen garment for you. Maeve is somewhere down in Nadir, clinging onto whatever resolve she has left. When you think about that, maybe the harsh weather doesn't seem so bad.

Then the wind blows again, and you realise all over again that yes, it really IS bad.

Behind you, you can hear the crew working on the Spirit of Helena. The crash left you with a lot of repairs to take care of, a lot of injuries for Doctor Barnum to patch up... and a few bodies to burn. There were three people who died in the crash – a mercifully low number, by all accounts, but the loss still gnaws at you. Petrov, a sullen Iraklin cleaner, Anke, a cheerful women who sometime helped Blessings in the kitchen, and Akshay, the elderly holy man you recruited from the slain Captain Bhaskar. That last one hit you hardest. You had found the old man in a tiny nook, dead without a single mark on his body. If you had fired at the wyrm as soon as you saw it, would they still be alive today?

But perhaps worst of all is how easy it is to push your bleak feelings aside, to put the prize above all else. If you stop here, you tell yourself, they'll have died for nothing. It's easy to rationalise it away like that.

While the rest of the crew works, you've found yourself drawn out to the edge of the landing zone. A number of large stone blocks, too regular to be truly natural, rise up out of the snow. Church researchers might pay any sum for a chance to explore an untouched site like this, to study every last detail and feature left behind, but you're yet to venture down into the dead city. Would there really be any point to it?

Above, Herod wheels in the sky as the wind casts the bird back and forth. You've seen through his eyes, seen the beginnings of a path that lead up towards the peak of the mountain. This is a setback, true, but the prize is still within reach. Tearing your gaze away from the dead city, you force yourself to look back at the Spirit of Helena herself. Crewmen bustle around the grounded ship, doing what they can about the damage and making note of what can't be fixed. Keeping busy is one way of staying warm, at least.

Spotting Stafford, Keziah's main engineering assistant, you hurry over to the fussy man and call out a greeting. When he turns your way, you see the pained look on his face.

Not good news, then.

[1/2]

>>3192800

“I won't say that the damage is irreparable,” Stafford begins, stumbling through the snow as he tries to keep up with you, “But there is only so much that we can do here. The landing gear have been completely sheared off, the hull is split wide open, and the externals have become severely misaligned at best. We're not sure if the skiff has sustained any damage – we've not made it that far yet.”

“Now give me the good news,” you order, “Please tell me you have some good news.”

Stafford sighs. “The engines are fully intact. I want to check them over later, just to make absolutely sure that there was no damage, but for now they're the least of our problems,” he begins, “If we can patch up the worst of the exterior damage, I believe we could limp back to civilisation. Landing will be unpleasant, but not impossible.”

More of a controlled crash, you suspect, but if that's what it takes...

“But we need time, and as much manpower as you can give us,” Stafford continues, gesturing behind him as Freddy and Caliban hurry past with a fresh set of spare parts for one of the external emitters. A moment passes, and then you realise what he's telling you.

“Then we're stuck here,” you breathe, “Until the repairs are complete?”

“Not all of us. You can go on ahead,” Keziah tells you as she approaches, a grave look on her face, “The longer we sit around here, the less time...” Trailing off here, she draws in a deep breath and nods firmly to herself. “Listen, we can work on the repairs here. If I stay here, we can keep in contact just in case anything changes,” the witch continues, “We've reached the end of the road. We... you just need to take that last step!”

Her words have a certain logic to them. One more pair of hands here can only help so much, but... going on alone, after everything you've been through together?

>Time is of the essence. You have to continue on by yourself
>You won't leave the rest of the crew now. You'll stay until the repairs are finished
>Other

>>3192804
>Time is of the essence. You have to continue on by yourself

Surely we can at least take Gunny though, can't imagine he's much help with the repairs.

>>3192806
Escorting a blind man up a mountain and then having to protect him by ourselves from whatever happens when we open the vault doesn't seem like the best idea. He can hold tools for people.

>Time is of the essence. You have to continue on by yourself

>>3192804
Does the skiff have a condenser?

>Bring Masque and Caliban

True to adventure tropes, I expect Freddy to bail us out with a condenser skiff, but I'm signing out early so it's up to the others to actually make that happen.

>>3192812
He's got the Staff, and he'd balance out our inherent corruption. Yeah it would make some parts harder, but hopefully be worth it.

>>3192804
>Time is of the essence. You have to continue on by yourself
Let's see who we can take with us in the skiff. Freddy as the pilot, Gunny and Caliban with Masque at the side of the skiff?

>>3192827
I feel like that's way too much manpower taken from the repair team. Masque, Caliban, and Freddy are our top three lifters.

>>3192827
Engines don't work up here. Helena's was special.

>>3192804
>You won't leave the rest of the crew now. You'll stay until the repairs are finished

Actually they should just come with us. The repairs can wait.

>>3192804
>>You won't leave the rest of the crew now. You'll stay until the repairs are finished

We can wait.

>>3192848
Yeah I was wondering, can't we just take everyone on up, get shit done, then come back to fix the ship?

I guess some repairs might be urgent, if things are unstable. Freaking pleonite.

>Okay, I'm going to close the vote here and start writing. It seems like we're going with proceeding alone. I'm sorry for the delay - I'll try and move along as quickly as possible

>>3192818
>Does the skiff have a condenser?
It does not, no

“Keziah, could you rig the condenser up to the Eliza? If we could get that working, we could fly a small team the rest of the way,” you suggest, gazing up at the peak, “But then, that would leave the Helena without power here...”

“Just swapping the main condenser over? Can't be done, too much risk of... exploding. It was never designed with skiffs in mind, you see, and I've not been able to think of a way to scale it down,” Keziah shakes her head ruefully, “I don't know, boss. I could try tinkering with it a little, but we're not talking about a quick job. The time it would take, we'd sooner get the Helena fixed up.”

The howling of the cold wind picks up for a moment, rendering you all mute until the gusts have faded a little. When quiet falls, you've made up your mind. “I'm going on ahead,” you announce, the words seeming absurdly simple, “So... just continue with the repairs, and keep an eye out for any trouble. Other than that... well, I guess this is-”

“Don't call it goodbye!” Keziah snaps, pulling you into a tight and almost desperate embrace. She was the one to suggest heading on alone, but she doesn't want you to go. Holding her for a moment more, you gently pry her off of you and step back. Wincing at her own display, Keziah steadies her shoulders and nods firmly. “Now you hurry on back!” she scolds, “Don't think you're getting out of the hard work that easily!”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” you assure her, giving her one last peck on the cheek.

-

Following the trail of images that Herod sends into your mind, you follow the narrow path through cracked rock and up the steep hill. It's tough going, doubly so with the key burdening you down. You carry it lashed to your back like a rucksack, and it wasn't bad at first, but the weight seems to be increasing with every step you take. Wading though knee-deep snow, constantly struggling to keep your balance, you find yourself wondering just how long your strength will last.

“Come on,” Keziah thinks to you, her words spurring you on, “Just put one foot in front of the other, it's not that hard!”

“Easy for you to say,” you shoot back, hardly caring that you speak aloud. Shifting the weight of the burden on your shoulders, you press ahead with renewed vigour. As you walk, your thoughts begin to wander. For the first time in a long while, you find yourself thinking about your father and his sorry fate. To vanish without a trace in some distant corner of the Drift...

Was it quick, some instant cataclysm, or was it something more drawn out? You've heard dark stories of lone survivors clinging to life for weeks, even months after a crash, stranded with no hope of escape. Sometimes the bodies would lie untouched for decades before being found by scavengers. Sometimes they kept journals, mad diaries of their last days...

“It won't end like that,” you spit, chastising yourself for the dark thoughts.

[1/2]

>>3192931

You recognise this. You've seen this before.

Ahead of you, the narrow crevasse opens out into a yawning abyss, the lonesome outcrop of rock open to the elements. This is where Feanor once stood, gazing out at the world before pressing on to the vault itself. The outcrop isn't large enough for a landing zone, but the air is clear enough that the Helena could have hovered in place. That had been your original plan, at least, before you were forced to improvise. Dropping to your knees, you suck in a chilling lungful of air and rest your aching legs. Time seems to have lost all meaning now – you could have been marching for one hour or for six.

“Hey,” you think, reaching out to Keziah, “How are things?”

“Good progress. We've got the core online now – power's steady and stable. If we can get the external emitters fixed up, we'll be ready to fly. Just, er, that's easier said than done. Have you tried doing delicate work with numb fingers?” Keziah replies, frustration seeping through her attempt at good cheer, “I'm heading up to the bridge now, to make sure that things are working there. Give me a minute, I'll...”

Silence. “What?” you press, stumbling upright as alarm bells start to ring, “What's going on?”

“That can't be right...” the witch thinks, “The scanner array must have been damaged, something like that. We're picking up a faint reading coming this way now, but that's impossible, but that's... No!” Even before her panicked thought has faded from your mind, you hear an echoing roar. Slogging through the snow, you race towards the edge of the outcrop and peer down into the abyss. You've barely looked out before a blast of wind hits you, throwing you back as the blackened, ruined form of the wyrm rips through the sky. Streaking up, it twists through the air before coiling away and out of sight. As it vanishes, you spot something falling away from it.

Cursing, you roll aside as the rider slams down to the outcrop, their long spear smashing into the ground you were lying on just a moment ago. Before you've even risen, the rider jab at you with a long sword and forces you to shuffle back. In their other hand, they spin a length of weighted chain like a pendulum. Anger bubbles up within you as you draw your sword, snow hissing when it touches the burning white blade.

“Bastard!” you spit, “You should have stayed out of my way!”

The rider doesn't react, doesn't even seem to understand the words you say. Instead, the lunge towards you and thrust with their slender sword, swinging low with the pendulum in their other hand. It nearly trips you, the weighted chain starting to coil around your ankle before you kick it away. Their fighting style is strange, and you're having trouble reading their movements with the constantly spinning chain distracting you. You back off, but they press forwards undeterred.

[2/3]

>>3192998
Pocket snow! Throw it in their eyes then counter attack!

>>3193040
It's wearing a full mask I think

>>3192998

Their next advance sees the rider striking high with their pendulum before cutting low with their sword, aiming the weight at your temple even as they jab at your ankle. Turning the blade aside with your own sword, you catch the pendulum around your wrist. The chain snaps taut, tightening around your arm as the rider yanks back, nearly pulling you off of your feet with a surprising strength. Another flick of their wrist releases the pendulum, the sudden change causing your balance to fail. Cold snow rushes up to meet you, but you recover quickly. Catching the rider's descending blade on your sword, you kick up a cloud of loose snow at the rider's face. It doesn't cause them to flinch, not with their face covered up like that, but it distracts them long enough for you to spring to your feet.

“Okay, so maybe you can fight,” you pant, circling around the wyrm rider, “But tell me something. How did you train that beast, anyway?”

No response again, either spoken aloud or conveyed through gesture. You allow your blade to dip slightly, trying to suggest a truce, but the rider just sees a lapse in your defence. Their lightning-fast thrust twists as you hurriedly raise your sword to block, their blade turning and slashing across your arm. Cloth parts as your sleeve rips, with cold pain following a second later. Blood flows freely from the split skin, and the frigid air bites into your exposed skin. Stumbling back, you try not to allow your alarm to show – fights rarely last long once first blood has been spilled.

You need to finish this, one way or another.

>Go on the offensive and overwhelm the rider
>Put up a strong defence, try to bait out a reckless attack
>Try and get enough distance to use your revolver
>Something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>3193067
>Try and get enough distance to use your revolver

>>3193067
>Go on the offensive and overwhelm the rider
This guy is too fast to get enough distance for a revolver snap shot and seems composed enough not to make a reckless move.

>>3193067
>Go on the offensive and overwhelm the rider

Ok, we've given him more than enough chances.

>>3193067
>>Go on the offensive and overwhelm the rider


>inb4 it's what's left of Miriam

“Damn it!” you yell, shaking blood off of your hand and holding your sword in both hands. Lunging forwards, you swing the blade down in a powerful arc. Perhaps taken off guard by this sudden reversal, the rider hurriedly jumps back and brings their sword up to block the strike. Your blades clash and recoil, but you grin when you see the deep notch left in their sword by your unnatural blade. Not giving them a chance to recover, you press forwards with the attack.

Opening with a low thrust aimed at their belly, you take a blow from their pendulum on the shoulder. The heavy weight numbs your arm where it strikes, but you still have enough strength to break through. Sawing through their thick garb, you see a few drops of unnaturally pale blood fly as the wyrm rider jinks back from your blade. A shallow cut, nothing more, and they rally fast. Flicking their chain at your legs, the rider arrests the force of your offensive and forces you to step around them, deflecting their next attack and leaving a new scar on the blade.

Wind plucks at your clothes as your dance takes you closer to the edge of the rocky outcrop, an added danger to this duel. Stooping low, the rider pulls a dagger from their boot and throws it without breaking stride, driving forwards with their sword as you sway out of the way. The dagger cuts through the air beside you and whirls past, spinning end over end as it falls into the void. Ignoring it, you meet their charge with a lunge of your own and your blades crash together. This pass is the final one, their blade shearing in half as Feanor's ancient weapon carves through it. The weapon keeps going, ripping through the rider's flank and spilling a stream of blood out onto the snow.

Even now, they don't cry out. A strangled gasp is all the reaction you get, the rider clutching their side as they slump down. As you raise your blade for the killing blow, the rider seizes onto one last burst of strength and leaps, diving off the side of the cliff. Yelling in denial, you lunge after them but your hand finds nothing but empty air. The white-garbed figure falls, merging with the blizzard as they plummet down into the void.

You stare down into the abyss for a moment more, holding your wounded arm tightly against your chest until you feel the flow of blood starting to slow. Stumbling to your feet, you reach out to Keziah with your thoughts.

“I saw the wyrm,” you think numbly, “Any sign of it down on your end?”

“No, we... we can't find it on the scanners. A very faint reading, but that could be anything. A ship moving somewhere down below us, or... anything,” the witch replies, hesitation clawing at her words, “Are you okay?”

Looking down at your bloodied sleeve, you nod with a grimace. “I'll be fine,” you decide, “Just focus on the repairs, and contact me again if you have news. I'm going to continue with the mission.”

[1/2]

>>3193193

Leaving a spotty trail of blood on the snow, you trek up the last leg of the journey. Ahead of you, an imposing wall of rock rises high above you. You pause only once, when a curious sense of disorientation and familiarity causes you to stare at a patch of ground for a long moment. This spot, you realise eventually, is where you fought with Feanor. Of course, no trace of that fight remains here in the real world. Shaking off the peculiar feeling, you step around the patch of snow and continue towards the rock wall. As you walk, you take the key from your back and start to brush away the snow that clings to the rock.

There, beneath a thin dusting of snow, you see a faint indentation that matches the key's dimensions. Unsure of what to expect, you press the key against the indentation and watch as it sinks into the previously solid rock. Iron grinds against rock as the key begins to turn, rotating a full turn before stopping and splitting in half. The neat split runs up the length of the entire wall, and the rock creaks open like a vast door. A softly glowing mist drifts out, coiling around you and coaxing you to enter.

You step across the threshold, and a faint tremor – so slight as to be almost unnoticeable – stirs the rock beneath your feet.

-

As you descend inside the mountain, the mist shows you things – visions of yourself, countless different variations. In one fleeting glimpse, you see yourself garbed in white, surrounded by churchmen. Khusraw and Al-Farabi, Trice and Alexander, they march proudly by your side. In another vision you see Segharl flanking you, the monstrous members of the red right hand following at a respectful distance. You laugh as you try to imagine that journey – you just can't imagine those Nadir monsters ascending the mountain with you.

The laughter dies on your lips when you see a lone figure stalking through the vault. Ragged and filthy, feral and stained with blood, the figure is just barely recognisable as a twisted version of yourself. Your body, you correct yourself, but with another will guiding it. Feanor's will, perhaps?

Dully, you feel another mind looking out through your eyes. Keziah watches in silence, staring at whatever you choose to stare at. The vault seems to stretch out into an infinite distance, the far walls and ceiling both so distant as to be unseen. What can you do but take the impossibility in stride? Looking down at the featureless ground beneath your feet, you continue on towards... what?

Eventually, you spot something lying in your path. Picking it up, you slowly turn the impossible object over in your hands. “Hey,” Keziah whispers, “Hasn't this place been sealed for like... generations?”

“Yeah,” you mutter back, looking down at the date stamped into the Iraklin coin. Apparently, it was made just last year.

[2/3]

>>3193301
Is it too new to have belonged to Miriam?

>>3193301
Maybe the half of all wealth thing means lost money gets magically teleported here?

yeah that's a big reach

>>3193330
>>3193329
Turns out the vault was just a hazing program for Iraklin special forces. We've been inducted!

>>3193334
Fuck, we got pranked.

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>>3193301

Nobody ever got rich by throwing away good money, so you pocket the coin before moving on. As if that impossible coin had been an omen of things to come, you start seeing more and more random objects littering the vast floor of the vault. Not just treasure either, but all sorts of things. A humble wooden chair, half sunken into the otherwise unbroken floor. A rack of long spears, crimson tassels dangling limply from their heads. Loose ammunition mixed in with random coins, some of the money bearing dates that are yet to come. A man could spent the full sum of his life here, trying to catalogue everything there was to find, and he would die before the job was even half finished.

It's all too much for you to take. Faltering, you slump down onto a plush velvet throne and clutch a hand to your head. You need to stop, to take a moment to figure out what's going on. Taking the coin out of your pocket, you rub your thumb across it as you think. What you need, what you really need is...

“You need a guide,” a woman purrs from behind you. A moment later, soft hands fall upon your shoulders and you catch the nostalgic scent of jasmine flowers. “Everything there is to find in this world is here for the taking,” the voice continues, “What is that YOU are looking for? There is more wealth than just that little coin here. There are weapons that men would shudder to behold, enough to outfit an army. You could have your homeland back – who would be able to stop you?”

Your throat is dry, and your voice fails you. The woman circles around you, her spreading wings revealing her as Arah. Back in the Nightlands, she said that she would guide you, did she not?

“Milos,” she whispers, taking your hand and lifting you to your feet. The world seems to shake, or perhaps your strength is failing you. Either way, Arah helps you to stay upright. “The throne awaits its monarch, and I can show you the way,” she breathes, holding your hand tightly in hers, “Just tell me what it is that you seek...”

>You seek... (Write in)

>>3193370
>You seek... (Write in)
Pretty sure we need to seek the Heart and get Dogma and Impurity to sit the fuck down and figure out they've been played for generations. Stop this stupid pissing contest once and for all.

I'd *like* to also open up/ populate the outside world a bit so we can get out of this snowglobe, but taking the Throne right now is probably a trap.

>>3193370
>I seek the gods, Dogma and Impurity. Their cores, their essences, the centers of their beings.

Preferably in small, easy to transport forms.

>>3193370
>You seek... (Write in)
"I could go for a nice steak right about now."

More importantly, to "fix" both Dogma and Impurity, right? We should probably also ask about Maeve's demon, see if we can find anything about him here.

>>3193370
Also

>inb4 this Arah is the manipulator daemon

>>3193403
She hasn't been nearby. Personally I think it's Blessings.

Something about

>“You need a guide,” a woman purrs from behind you.

Feels more seductive than the genuine Arah we knew. Something is very off here.