File: Captain Harper.jpg (163 KB, 900x900)

163 KB JPG

>>759716

On what Captain Harper claims will be for the second last day of the journey – New Odyss will be visible soon enough, he claimed – he invites you and Camilla to dinner. Something of a custom among captains, as you've come to understand it, although it's more traditional to dine at the start of a journey. Maybe he's trying to imply something, that you're only at the start of a much longer road.

Whatever his reasons for offering the invitation might have been, curiosity drove you to accept it. Lured by the prospect of good food and interesting company, you met him at his private cabin once darkness finally fell.

-

“Well!” Captain Harper announces when he sees you, “You're looking well – not nearly as burnt as most of passengers end up.”

One of his crewmen gave you a salve, you reply stiffly, that kept the worst of the sunburn away. What you neglect to mention is the exorbitant price that the salve cost you. If it was sold to you for anything less than ten times what it originally cost, you'd be surprised. Even so, it managed to be worth everything you paid for it.

“Quite so, quite so,” Harper laughs, as if he knows exactly what you were thinking, “Come in, both of you. I'm afraid I've been a terrible host, leaving you to languish on your own for so long. Why, I don't think we've ever even been formally introduced! You know my name, of course, but I never quite managed to get yours. Let's take this moment to resolve that little imbalance, shall we?”

His sudden friendliness – an almost aggressive attempt to charm you both – sets alarm bells ringing in your mind. Glancing to your side, you meet Camilla's eyes. She doesn't like this much more than you do. Up until now, you've been careful not to reveal too much about yourselves, for fear of the information leaking out. This sudden interest has taken you by surprise. Though it only lasts a moment, your reticence draws another booming laugh out of Harper.

“Ah, so that's how it is! I thought as much,” he chuckles, “Say no more, friends. Sometimes, a gentleman – or a fine lady – doesn't want to blacken his good name. We've all done things we might not want to crow about, after all.”

“Would you include yourself in that?” Camilla asks politely, “You seem, if you don't mind me saying, like a man who doesn't shy away from his deeds.”

“My hands, I fear, could never be considered clean,” Harper's expression darkens for a moment, “But come, such things should not be spoken of before dinner – I wouldn't wish to spoil your appetite!”

[2/3]

File: Camilla.jpg (133 KB, 692x900)

133 KB JPG

>>759718

Harper drinks all through dinner, starting with wine and then moving on to brandy. The more he drinks, the darker his mood seems to grow – although there is a curiously jovial edge to his bitterness, as if he relishes the ill thoughts creeping up on him. Slamming his empty glass down on the table, he rises to his feet. “I've got something to show you,” he announces, something like a sneer touching his face, “And a history lesson to go with it – not a story you'd ever hear in the Free States, I promise you.”

Rising, Harper lifts a hand to his temple, wincing slightly before ambling through to a different, and yet unseen part of his quarters. As soon as he's left, Camilla leans forwards and whispers to you, her voice coming across as a harsh hiss. “I don't like this,” she hisses, “He's far too interested in us, all of a sudden.”

Has he lied yet, you murmur back, about anything?

“...No,” Camilla has to admit, “I don't think so, at least. That doesn't make him trustworthy, though.”

Harper is a mercenary, even if he might prefer to call himself a businessman. It's true that your enemies might buy his services, but only if they learn about him. As far as you're aware, you're still travelling undercover. His knowledge of the colonies, on the other hand, might prove to be a great help. He likely has access to both maps and contacts – the things you'll need to track down Yvette Saive.

“More than a hundred islands, and we don't even have a name,” Camilla curses softly, “If I didn't know any better, I'd say that the details were deliberately struck from the record.”

Which is why you need help, you say with a nod, his help.

“If we can trust him,” the Ministry agent – living up to her paranoid reputation – reminds you, “Assume we ask for his help. What happens when we part ways, and he sinks deep into some filthy tavern. He drinks himself blind, and then he starts talking – to anyone who cares to listen – about the strange passengers he had. That's how easily our cover could be blown!”

Conceding her point, you take a sip of wine and think. It's the same old equation – risk versus reward.
“This is your job,” Camilla adds after a pause, “I've said my piece, but I trust your instincts. If you think we can trust Harper, so be it. What's it to be?”

>We're going to need his help. I say we trust him... for now
>Maybe you're right, trusting him is too much of a risk.
>Other

>>759722
>We're going to need his help. I say we trust him... for now
"Else we might be going in circles getting no where. We'll just have to move fast to offset the risk of him talking, hopefully making it to our objective before any damage is done."

>>759722
>We're going to need his help. I say we trust him... for now
by the time he gets somewhere to get truly drunk, we might not even need to be undercover anymore. Stealthy for only as long as necessary.

>>759722
>>We're going to need his help. I say we trust him... for now
The time we would waste searching blindly could blow our cover even more than just some drunk captain talking in a bar. If we get a lead we could wrap things up nice and quickly.

>>759722
>We're going to need his help. I say we trust him... for now
>But ask for help in such a way that obfuscates our true goal as much as possible.

She said it herself – there are over one hundred islands in the southern region, and you need a solid lead. If that means relying on Harper's help, so be it. The longer you spend going in circles finding nothing, the more likely it is that you'll be uncovered anyway. If you strike fast, hitting the objective as soon as possible, you can finish your job here before he lets anything slip.

“You're presuming we can finish this quickly,” Camilla points out, a wry smile touching her lips.

You're an optimist, you reply with a shrug, you like to think positive.

“I can tell,” nodding, Camilla takes a drink of her wine, “Alright, I'll buy that logic. Frankly, I think we're on borrowed time anyway – sooner or later, our enemies are going to catch wind of what we're doing. It might even work out to our advantage. If Yvette knows that we're on her tail, and close, she might panic. She might do something rash. It wouldn't exactly be the first time for it, wouldn't you say?”

Rash actions do seem to be her speciality, you agree. So it's decided – you'll reap the benefits of Harper's local knowledge. With a little bit of clever talk, you might be able to get the answers you need without revealing too much about your own purposes.

“Excellent. Now all we need-” Camilla cuts her sentence off sharply as Harper returns with a box tucked under one arm. He sets the box down, runs a fond hand across the lid, and then throws it open.

The show, you suspect, is about to begin.

-

The first thing that Harper produces is an old photograph, rendered in shades of muted grey. The details are fuzzy, but you can easily make out a dashing – if somewhat callous looking – young man standing between a pair of rough stone pillars. Both tower over him, and the idols they bear add to the impressive height. An animal is carved upon each pillar – a snake to one side, a frog at the other.

“My first real bit of business,” Harper says, “Before I became a respectable man with his own ship. My, don't I look handsome in that old picture? Makes you wonder what happened, doesn't it?” He laughs, long and loud. “The College hired me, if you can believe it, to fetch those idols. Stories about them must have reached the Free States, and those old boys thought the statues had historical value. Of course, there was a little problem – a few bothersome natives, the kind who weren't keen on letting some outsider stroll away with their gods.”

Already, you're fairly sure you know how this story is going to end, but you have to ask. So then, you say, how did he get the idols?

“First of all,” smiling a cold smile, Harper leans forwards a little, “I came up with a cunning plan...”

[1/2]

>>759766
>I came up with a cunning plan...
shoot them until they stop moving?

>>759766


“You see, those natives down south are half savage already. Two gods, with two separate tribes worshipping them. Why, they practically spend all their lives killing each other anyway!” Harper throws out an extravagant shrug, “It really didn't take much to whip them both up into a frenzy. Just by hiding a snake up my sleeve, and dazzling them with a spot of showmanship, they took me for a prophet! After that, getting them to march off on a grand crusade was simplicity itself.”

And the survivors, you conclude, were in no position to stop him from walking away with their treasure.

“Exactly! Oh, they made a few token attempts to stop me, but... I wasn't travelling alone. A few men with rifles settled the debate well enough. When I got back to the Free States, I was a rich man,” chuckling, Harper puts the photograph away, “And the idols? Nothing more than a fleeting curiosity. A few months, and there was something new to fawn over. Can't say what happened to the frog, but I have it on good authority that the snake idol ended up decorating someone's office. League funds well spent, wouldn't you agree?”

The worst thing is, that seems like exactly the kind of thing the College would do. You mention so, and Harper bellows laughter.

“Quite so, friend, quite so!” calming himself, he closes the box, “So now you've heard my story. What about yours? Are you seeking your fortune as well?”

Not exactly, you reply, but you are seeking something. You've heard about an island, bought by some noble family and then sold on. It's dropped out of notice since then, and you were thinking...

“There might be something worth stealing?” Harper raises an eyebrow, “Why, I didn't realise I was travelling with a villain! Still, you might well be right. I've heard of some islands down in the colonies with grand mansions left nearly deserted. Holiday homes, you see, for inbred cretins. An enterprising fellow might let himself in and lighten their pockets a little. They've got plenty of money - where's the harm in it?”

Exactly, you agree, you knew he'd understand. Unfortunately, you don't really have much to go on – just the name of the family that first bought the land. The Saive family.

“Can't say I know the name, but... the locals have a habit of naming the islands after the owners. Usually a bastardised version of the name, of course – one day, I long to hear people speaking about “Ilsa Harpa” or some such babble,” Harper muses for a moment, “Saive, Saive... I'd ask after an Ilsa Saiva, if I were you, and the best place to start asking would be the Lucky Two Fingers. It's a bar of sorts, in New Odyss, and a gathering place for northerners. Probably the friendliest place you'll find in the south.”

[2/3]

>>759826
>nice bright label that says Saive right on the island
That sure makes things easy. Good thing we found another bar too, those are handy.

File: Colonies.png (106 KB, 996x634)

106 KB PNG

>>759826

So he doesn't know it, you guess, this island... Ilsa Saiva, or whatever it might be called. Is it likely to be marked down in any of his maps or charts?

“Ah, perhaps not. These names are hardly official – the locals might use them in casual conversation, but you'd rarely see them written down. Not to cast any aspersions but that might require the locals to read and write, and that might be asking a little much of them, I'm afraid. Still, why don't we take a look?” Harper opens his box once more and produces a small map. Carelessly pushing aside his dinner dishes, he spreads the map out across the table.

“Now, we're in the eastern quarter. North-east, I should saw. The west is boring – nothing but plantations and empty water – and the distant south is an abyss, uncharted and barely explored. Men don't come back from the distant south,” pausing, Harper broods on the thought for a moment before tapping a finger against the table, “No, no Ilsa Saiva here. But then, if it was just listed for anyone to find, there wouldn't be anything left worth stealing. You'll have to ask around, I'm afraid.”

You expected that, somehow. At least you've got somewhere to start asking around.

“Chin up, friend, the search is half the fun!” Harper starts to roll the map up before reconsidering, pushing it across the table to you, “You take it, I hardly need a map to navigate these waters, after all. I can travel by eye until a fresh copy falls into my lap.”

Taking the map, you skim it. It's pretty vague, more of a broad strokes look at the region, but it should help get you started. Maybe someone at this bar of his can fill in a few details.

“Well, I think it's about time to retire for the night!” Harper nods to himself, “Get a few hours sleep before we reach New Odyss. From there, it's all business!”

>I'll turn in as well
>What kind of business are you doing this time?
>When do expect to be heading back north?
>I had a question to ask you... (Write in)
>Other

>>759847
Too easy maybe?

>>759896
>When do expect to be heading back north?
>I'll turn in as well

>>759896
>>When do expect to be heading back north?
Placing my bets on Saive being the island on the bottom left. Nothing but forests to hide in so it sounds like a neat place.

>>759896
>When do expect to be heading back north?

>>759896
>I had a question to ask you... (Write in)

What's that curious thing a bit west from the map center, that looks like a ring of gray hexes?

And what do all these black icons mean in general?

File: Nihilo.jpg (204 KB, 2400x1374)

204 KB JPG

Most of the shapes you can recognise as islands, but there is one feature you don't recognise. This ring of grey, you ask, what does that represent?

“That's The Shell,” Harper tells you, “That's the only oil platform in the colonies. A rather precious resource, as you can imagine, and it's protected accordingly. Virtually a fortress, really. An interesting thing to look at – I don't think there's anything like it in the north.”

And the individual markings?

“Settlements mostly, or ports. It's only the largest or most important ones that make the map, however,” Harper shrugs, “There's a lot out there that doesn't make the grade. It's not really what you'd call a complete map, I'm afraid.”

That might explain why he was so quick to give it away. So, you ask as you rise, does he know when he'll be heading back north? If you finish your business in due time, you might return to the Free States together.

“I couldn't really say. As an independent businessman, I consider myself flexible. There are always opportunities springing up, new avenues of profit. Of course, there are dry spells – I might end up with nothing but a dull journey home ahead of me. Ah well, such is life,” the captain sighs wistfully, “I'll be staying in New Odyss for a week, just to see what comes up. If nothing presents itself, I'll start making the arrangements to return north. You'll have to find your own way home, I'm afraid, if your business lasts longer than mine.”

“Will that be a problem?” Camilla asks lightly, “Which is to say, will we be left stranded here for long?”

“Oh, I doubt it. There are always ships coming and going. Perhaps you'll have to wait a few days, but it needn't be a hardship,” gesturing vaguely, Harper seems to wave away the very idea of hardship, “Consider it a holiday!”

Sure, you reply drily, a holiday in an unpleasant land full of people who want to kill you. That sounds perfect.

“Now you're getting into the spirit of things!” Harper lets out a booming laugh. That laugh seems to follow you for a long way, even after you've retired to your quarters.

-

That night, you have a strange dream. Or maybe you don't – it's hard to say, exactly. You wake to find yourself in Nihilo, which is not an unusual thing, but it feels more like a faded imitation of the place. Lifeless, even though that abyss could never really be considered a live and vital place. Most of the beasts are slumbering away, and the few that move do so with sluggish motions. Any sense of presence you normally feel here is absent – like your mind has come apart from your body.

Rising, you just barely feel the ground beneath your feet. The White Tyrant – even after he's cast that title aside, it's hard to think of him as anything else – sits slumped nearby, but he doesn't react when you call out to him. Moving past him, you seek out the mistress of this domain.

[1/2]

File: Artemis.jpg (72 KB, 540x576)

72 KB JPG

>>759963

Artemis sits on a low rock, gazing sadly up at the sky. You've grown so used to seeing her in the grips of mania, that this solemn silence takes you back. It seems terribly abnormal, a premonition of some bleak future.

“Is that you, Henryk?” she asks quietly, “I think so. I can't think of who else it might be. Would you mind coming a little closer?”

With the dead, sterile air hanging heavily about you, you take a few steps closer. Although your footsteps make no sound, you can't shake the idea that Artemis hears you approaching her, rather than seeing you close the distance. Tilting her head to the side, she squints a little and turns your way.

“We're very far apart,” she says simply, even though only a few paces divide the two of you, “You must be in the far south. I don't like it much there. I suppose the climate doesn't agree with me. We can talk here, at least, but it's no easy feat. I wonder... might I ask a small favour? Would you hold my hand for a moment?” The words leave her mouth as little more than a whisper, and she holds her hand out like a noble lady at a formal ball.

Reaching out, you take her small, porcelain hand in her yours... at least, you try to. When you touch her, your hands simply drift through each other, passing like smoke. Judging by her sad smile, that was exactly the result she had been expecting.

“Oh well,” she sighs, “It was worth a try. At least we can talk a little. It's not like before, with that awful machine. Thank you for humouring me, at least. You'll come back soon, won't you?”

You're still trying to answer that, trying to force the words out, when the tenuous connection bind you to this place breaks and you slip back into the waking world.

Even after rising and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you're not sure how much of that was reality of delusion. Maybe the difference between the two is not as large as you once thought.

-

“You look like you slept well,” Camilla remarks as you join her up on deck. The Hyades is slowly easing itself into a dock – a more ramshackle thing than anything you've ever seen in the Free States – while the sun blazes down from above.

So this is New Odyss, you say as you ignore her comment, it doesn't look like much.

It really doesn't. The closest buildings are dilapidated warehouses, strangely similar to the ones you've seen before in Port Steyr, but the streets beyond devolve into something less civilised. Shacks and slums are crowded together, built with no evidence of planning or forethought, while strings of paper lanterns – unlit, at this time of day – hang everywhere. Some of the streets are completely submerged, with the locals passing through on small wooden rafts.

Not a scene that promises fortune or fame, you must admit.

[2/3]

File: Cid.png (239 KB, 400x616)

239 KB PNG

>>760001

The spider, fat and bloated with poison, slowly crawls across your table and up the wooden wall. You've never seen such a large spider, and you'd happily live the rest of your life without seeing another one like it. Around you, the bar surges with all the life and activity that a crew of rowdy sailors can offer. Without much idea where to go next, you followed the largest group of Harper's men to their watering hole. Here, you can always look for directions to the Lucky Two Fingers.

Strange name for a bar, you think to yourself, but maybe that's the norm here. Sitting opposite you, Camilla rubs her temple and grimaces at everything around her. The previous night has left her reeling, it seems. Looking away from her greying face, you glance back at the spider as it swaggers up the wall.

Out of nowhere, a small knife flies across the room and spears the spider, pinning it to the wall. A wave of cheers rises up at the display, sailors well on their way to drunkenness bellowing in approval. Recoiling, you look around at the source of the attack.

“Poisonous. Kills many men,” the southerner tells you simply, crossing the room and pulling his knife free, “You are far from home, northerner.”

Well, you remark, this is a warm welcome. Does he have a name, or do southerners always introduce themselves by throwing knives?

“Ah, my name would mean little to you. Likely, you could not say it without embarrassing yourself,” he gives you a wide smile, “Call me Cid. You need a guide here, yes? No, do not ask how I know this – I watched you come ashore. Lost within moments. There is no shame here – your first time here, it is always difficult.”

“Let me guess,” Camilla frowns, “You're willing to be our faithful guide, and for a special low price. Low, of course, because you like us very much.”

“You wound me!” Cid widens his eyes in mock horror, “But you are almost correct. I would be your guide. At the very least, we can talk – you need directions, yes? Or perhaps advice? Or perhaps just the thoughts of a local man?”

>Sorry, but we're doing fine without your help
>We're looking for the Lucky Two Fingers. Do you know it?
>If you've got any advice, I'm willing to hear it
>Perhaps you can tell me about something... (Write in)
>Other

>>760034
>>We're looking for the Lucky Two Fingers. Do you know it?
>If you've got any advice, I'm willing to hear it

>>760034

We're looking for the Lucky Two Fingers. Do you know it?
And would you know any of the unmakred island around here? Im looking for one

>>760034
>If you've got any advice, I'm willing to hear it

Repeating a question from last thread, just in case it gets answered' what do we know of the world other than the north, the free states and the southern colonies? What's to the west and east? What is there past the colonies? Are there other nations somewhere? A continent? How far have men explored?

>>760034
>>We're looking for the Lucky Two Fingers. Do you know it?

>>760063

>Generally, the east and the west have not been particularly well explored. There are a few small islands, but nothing that offers a significant profit or any other significant attraction. Most explorers are content to focus on the south, which still has a fair amount of unexplored land. No other nations have been found yet

You're looking for the Lucky Two Fingers, you tell him, does he know it?

“Very well!” Cid nods eagerly, “You will have a friend, I think, in the owner. He is like you, you see, and he always likes to meet the new arrivals. I would suggest going there, to pay your respects at least. It is not a place to be without friends, New Odyss, and the Lucky Two Fingers is the place to find friends... among other things. Work, if you wish, or information. Ah, but the two often go hand in hand – give and take, you understand?”

You understand all too well. So he can take you there?

“I can indeed. I often show people there,” with another lurid smile, Cid gestures towards the door. Rising, you and Camilla follow him out into the streets.

He offered advice earlier, you say as you're walking, does he still have any to offer?

“Do not travel alone, for one thing, and not when you have taken drink. Many people around here make a little extra coin by lightening pockets... or opening throats,” your loyal guide offers a nervous laugh, “Ah, but such things rarely happen. Very rarely now, after your Ministry got strict. Some days, you would see many men hanging from their necks. History now, but the old folks still remember. The old ones always do. Other advice... hmm. I know that you northerners are very fussy about your food and your health, but you will not die from eating the food here. Probably.”

Probably?

“Accidents happen, you see?” Cid shrugs, “But it is not good to worry about such things. Any day, any number of accidents might happen. Why waste your life worrying? I would not enjoy spending my days cowering in fear, fretting about every little thing. Eat, drink – enjoy life!”

“If we all spent our time enjoying life,” Camilla points out, “Nothing would ever get done.”

“Yes, maybe so,” the southerner shrugs again, “But you see, I wonder if “doing things” is always a good thing. I would not enjoy life if I spent it all doing things.”

Enjoying life, it seems, is particularly important in the south.

-

You're looking for an uncharted island, you ask Cid after walking in silence for a while, does he know this region well?

“Well enough, I think,” Cid nods to himself, “I have a ship, you know, but not one like you northerners parade about. A little thing, but the engine is good – very powerful! You see, I often take men like you to the lands they seek. Little islands, never named but fat with secrets. A tempting offer, yes? Perhaps we should sit down, talk business?”

Later, you warn him, you're not talking business with anyone until you know a little more about what your business might involve.

[1/2]

File: Escher.jpg (148 KB, 793x631)

148 KB JPG

>>760111

The Lucky Two Fingers is on the outskirts of town, nestled up against a thick wall of sprawling trees. The trees here are like nothing you've ever seen in the north – squat, sprawling and dripping with vines. They almost look like they might come alive and snatch up a passing wanderer, carrying them up and away with sinuous branches. Looking away from the vaguely unsettling sight of the trees – almost a solid wall of them – you focus, instead, on the bar itself.

Calling it a “bar” is underselling it. More of a converted warehouse, decorated with long strings of electric lights. Inside, it could pass for a marketplace, stalls crowded up against one another. All of the traders and shopkeepers you see are northern, their pale skin worn as a point of pride – stubbornly maintained despite the cruel sun.

“All northern traders come here, for protection,” Cid explains as he leads you through the marketplace, “Escher, the owner, takes a cut of all profits. In return, the traders have nothing to fear.”

“Would they normally?” Camilla asks sharply, “Have they been facing attacks?”

“Ah, not as such, but there are more subtle things. Harassment, intimidation. Not all northerners are welcome here, even if we might not raise our fists against you,” Cid licks his lips quickly, “These are dangerous times, now more than ever. I have said that you need friends – this is very true, yes? Here, the bar. Escher will want to talk to you alone. I will be, ah, around. I will find you, no doubt.”

You're fairly certain that his words weren't intended to be a threat, but you can't help but find one there.

-

“Hendrick Escher,” the old bear of a man rumbles, leaning on the bar and offering his hand. As you look down to shake it, you see the deformity. The smallest finger has been cut from both of his hands, the wound old and well-healed. “The “lucky” two fingers,” he remarks with a smirk, “Hence the name.”

You're about to reply to that when you glance up and notice the meat cleaver hanging above the bar. There's a story there, you guess, and not a particularly pleasant one.

“We all have our stories,” Escher shrugs, “Mine ended better than most. Cid show you here? He's a good one – sharp as a pin, no matter what you might have thought. He's a good worker as well, always quick to follow orders. I like men that can follow orders, but I like men that can work as equals even better. I can always find more servants, after all. Speaking of work – what can I do for you?”

>I'm looking for a ship. The Majestic
>I'm looking for an island, once owned by the Saive family
>I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?
>I'd like to hear that story of yours
>I had a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>760140
>>I'm looking for an island, once owned by the Saive family
>I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?

>>760140
>I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?
>I'd like to hear that story of yours

I vote specifically against mentioning the Saives

>>760140
>>I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?
Maybe he can tell that story as a bonus.

>>760151
But that's literally why we are at this bar.

>Saive, Saive... I'd ask after an Ilsa Saiva, if I were you, and the best place to start asking would be the Lucky Two Fingers. It's a bar of sorts, in New Odyss, and a gathering place for northerners. Probably the friendliest place you'll find in the south.”

If the map filling out doesn't give the location we have to ask around.

>>760140
>I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?
>I'm looking for an island, once owned by the Saive family
We mentioned the Saives already, so what damage there is, it's already done. Let's be direct.

>>760165
We have only mentioned it to a single person so far. The full extent of the possible damage has not been done.

>>760140
>I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?
>Do you know of a Ilsa Saiva?
>>I'd like to hear that story of yours

>>760140

I have a map, but it needs filling out. Can you help?
Can you mark any with old masions on it?
Got a job from some nobles

You're curious, you begin, you'd like to hear that story of his.

“Most folks do,” Escher offers a hard smile, “It's not such a long one. When I settled here, and that's a long time ago, I thought I'd start a bar. A real bar, not the woeful excuses that these southerners peddle. Took a lot of hard work, but it paid back everything I put into it. Course, you don't get successful in these parts without making a few enemies – especially when you've got a pale face. One night, just about as I was closing up, a couple of gentlemen strolled in. One of them, he was carrying that nice cleaver.” Escher waves one mutilated hand at the meat cleaver.

You're starting to see where this is going.

“Well, to cut a long story short, we got to fighting. Two of my new friends held me down, and their boss did the chopping. He told me to get out of town, and to count myself lucky that I'd only lost two fingers. If I was still here when he came back, he'd cut me up and feed me to the hogs – even left the cleaver here to remind me,” Escher chuckles, “Well, just about as soon as I got some bandages on, I followed the cocky bastard. He wasn't expecting that, let me tell you – I got the drop on him, and I said that if he didn't leave me alone, I'd take something more precious than just a finger. Needless to say, he say my side of things.

And that was the end of it, you asked, he didn't push back?

“Ah, he knew when to quit. We reached an agreement – I took this warehouse, outside of town, and he'd leave me be. Neither of us wanted to start a war over it,” Escher shrugged, “And, speaking plainly, I think I won his respect. So there you have it – I lost two fingers, but I got this place. I call that lucky.”

Pretty impressive, you tell him, you'd certainly respect him after pulling a stunt like that. Or, at least, you wouldn't mess with him or his business. Speaking of business, you add smoothly, that brings you back to why you came in here. You've got a map, but it's a sorry looking thing – can he help you fill it out a little?

“I certainly can. Lay it out, let me see,” Escher waits as you unroll the map, and then bellows out a laugh once he's seen it. “I've seen better maps tattooed on a sailor's arse!” he grunts, still smirking, “Alright, so we've got our work cut out for us. Take a seat, and we can thrash this out. I wager you'll be wanting a spot of local knowledge as well, so just hold on a second.” Drawing in a quick breath, Escher blows a sharp whistle. A few moments pass, and Cid appears at the bar.

“There is work to be done,” the southerner guesses, “We start quickly, yes? Then we can talk of more important things.”

[1/3]

>>760197

Looks like cid works for lucky fingers in bring him new people and helping around

>>760197

“Right then, pay attention,” Escher begins, “This here is New Odyss. I shouldn't need to tell you anything about that – you've found your way here well enough, after all. It's more or less safe, and we've even got ourselves a Ministry governor to keep an eye on things. Well, when the lazy bastard can be bothered, at least. He keeps any rebellions down well enough, but that's about all he can be bothered with. The regular crime and disorder... well, it's just the local colour, isn't it? What you expect from a place like this. Moving on...”

In quick sequence, Escher taps out three islands, scrawling quick names and numbers by them. “Here, we've got what the locals call “the three good boys”. Very polite and civilised, not a hint of disorder. Druss, Fallas and Kolm. If you're looking for plantations, you've found them. If you're looking for anything interesting, look elsewhere. Speaking of interesting, this next spot is a good one. We call it The Boneyard. Folks looking to get rid of a ship tow them over here, let the natives rip them apart for scrap.”

“And why,” Camilla asks sharply, “Would someone need rid of a ship?”

“Because sometimes the natives find one without any crew, just floating derelict. I wouldn't dare suggest that they murdered any crew they found, of course,” Escher laughs bitterly, “But a less honest man might suggest that getting rid of the evidence is a very good thing. Good place to buy salvage, if that's your game, but be careful. Skinner runs The Boneyard, and he drives a hard bargain.”

Skinner, you repeat, strange name for a southerner.

“No, sir, you misunderstand,” Cid shakes his head, “He skins, you see? Men who displease him, who try to, ah... rip him off. Is that the word? Yes, he skins them, or so I hear. Be very careful in The Boneyard.”

“Just another friendly local,” Escher grunts, “This here is Ilsa Calvara. Bugger all of any interest there. Just another fishing town. Nice island though – scenic, I suppose you'd say.”

“I hear that it has been very quiet lately,” Cid adds, “Some people here have family there. Now, they hear nothing. Perhaps trouble.”

“Disease,” Camilla whispers to herself.

And this is the Shell, you say, you've heard about that. A fortified oil platform, as you understand it.

“Aye, and damn near a fortress. Miserable work, but I hear the pay is good. It better be, if you have people trying to kill you all day,” Escher shakes his head, “Bloody savages about these parts, looking to tear down anything you build. No offence, Cid.”

That's interesting, you reply, but you're curious about any old mansions in the area. Old manors, fancy houses – that kind of thing.

A dead silence answers your question.

[2/?]

File: Colonies Map.png (159 KB, 996x634)

159 KB PNG

>>760228

“Here,” Cid touches the map with a faintly trembling finger, “The Orphanage. It is not a good place to speak of. Not a good place at all. Very old, very grand, but no man in his right mind will wander there. Not even madmen speak lightly of it.”

“Ask three people about it, and you'll get four different stories,” Escher seems strangely subdued about this subject, “Ministry had business down there once, trying to raise the locals in the “right” way. Course, you hear other things as well, like how the College used the place for tests and experiments. Bad business, stranger, and you'd do well to steer clear. Like Cid said, right thinking men don't go there.”

“But other do,” Cid blurts out, “The spirits are noisy there, and many come to dance and sing, to perform their rites. I have heard stories of priests speaking in voices that were not their own, of trances and visions, of-”

“Cid,” Escher's voice is hard, but quiet, “Enough. We've had enough tall tales for one day. What else... ah, I know this. Ilsa Nomann. No Man's Island, you might call it. A big mess of swamp and tribal violence. The men there are degenerates, even by the loose standards you might come to expect. There's a lot to be found there, if you're willing to take the risk. Lots of folk do, and only a few return to brag about it. Unless you've got a damn good guide, I'd steer well clear.”

And what about these other islands, you ask, does he know them?

“Either I don't know them, or there's nothing worth talking about,” Escher shrugs, “Dead land, not worth the effort to build on.”

So none of them were owned by a noble family once, you press, does he know any such islands?

“I might,” here, Escher grows strangely coy, “But you sound like a man looking for something in particular. You're going to have to give me a name, stranger, if you want anything more specific.”

Groaning inwardly, you realise that Escher won't budge on this. Ilsa Saiva, you tell him quietly, that's what the locals might call it. Now... does he know it or not?

“I don't know it,” he shakes his head bluntly, “But I CAN find it. A man in my position, he makes all kinds of contacts. Men who know things, if you catch my drift. I can put out some feelers, see what turns up, but I won't be doing it for free. Consider it, at least.”

You'll need to talk it over with your business partner first, you tell him, in private.

“I'm in no hurry. You make a snap decision, and you can regret it for the rest of your life,” Escher shrugs, “Come find me if you want to make a deal. Anything else I can do for you?”

>I'll be back later
>So, how do you know Cid?
>What sort of payment would you want from us?
>I had a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>760261
>What sort of payment would you want from us?

>>760261
>>What sort of payment would you want from us?

>>760261
>What sort of payment would you want from us?
>I'll be back later.

Do we have lodgings?

Say you did ask for his help, you begin cautiously, what sort of payment would he want in return?

“Services rendered,” Escher replies bluntly, “It would be violent work, most likely. Bloody business, but you look like a man – and a lady, if you don't mind me saying – that knows which end of a knife to hold. I won't lie or gloss this up, I'll make you earn anything you get from me. On the other hand, I won't try and fuck you over. If we make a deal, I'll stick to it.”

That's a very good stance to take, you tell him mildly, you don't really care much for people who break deals.

“And neither do I. If a man's word can't be taken as bond, what kind of world are we living in?” leaning back against the row of old, dusty bottles behind the bar, Escher rubs his mutilated hands, “I like to operate in the open. You work for me, and you'll be killing people – I can say that more or less for certain. They won't be good people, mind, and they'll likely try to kill you first. Might be, that'll ease any conscience you might have.”

“Be more specific, please,” Camilla asks, “Who, exactly, do you want killed, and why are they not “good people”?”

“Local thugs who've been hassling my boys and girls,” Escher answers simply, “I look out for them. Someone moves against them, I have to crush them. Now, I can get my own people to handle it easily enough if you're not interested, but I thought I might extend the offer.”

Very reasonable of him, you reply, but now you need to think this over. Does he have lodgings you can rent out?

“I do,” Escher nods, offering an ironic smile, “You'll pay coin for these, just like anyone else. I won't make a man bloody his hands just for a place to lay his head.”

How generous of him.

-

As you walk through the Lucky Two Fingers, you're stuck again at the sheer size of it. You thought it was large at first, but you still managed to underestimate it. Not only is it large, but it's also thriving. Stalls offer all manner of goods – clothing, local medicines and hot food are only a small sample of the wares available – while tradesmen offer their services. Gunsmiths, metalworkers and even barbers are here, while every prostitutes – both local and northern – strut about.

A man could get everything he might ever want, you realise, without ever leaving the warehouse. At the top of everything, clipping off his share of every deal done, Escher sits like a bloated spider. If any of the traders resent him for it, thought, they give no sign of it.

The only thing that's missing, you think, is privacy. Even then, that precious commodity IS on offer... for a fair price.

[1/2]

>>760356

“At least we've managed to fill out our map,” Camilla remarks, sticking a cigarette in her mouth and striking a match, “I can't say how far it'll get us, but at least we'll know where we're going. Something to decide, I guess. Speaking of decisions – what did you make of Escher?”

He's a hard bastard, you reply, but he seems like a fundamentally fair person. Maybe not a good man, but a fair one. People always say that the north makes men tough, and it seems like the south is no different. Making a deal with him might not be the safest option, but you'd consider it a reliable one at least.

“And all we'd have to do is murder a few people,” Camilla takes a single drag on her cigarette before crushing it out. You almost suspect she lit the damn thing just for that. “I don't really care if they're bad people or good people. We're talking about extrajudicial killings – a crime.”

Yes, you remark, it would be a shame if you committed a few crimes on the way to assassinating someone.

“Yes yes, very funny,” laughing despite her frown, Camilla taps the map, “So what about one of these places? This Orphanage was said to have ties to the Ministry and the College – maybe it still does. A bad reputation would go a long way to keeping any casual explorers away, as well. I'll admit, though, I don't like the idea of going there lightly. Did you see Escher when conversation turned that way? He was freaked out, and he's a tough bastard. I can't imagine he's easy to spook.”

Cid suggested witchcraft, you mutter, or something like witchcraft.

“Yeah, I guess that would do it,” Camilla shakes her head, “He also talked about an island going dark. Ilsa Calvara. Might just be a disease, might be something more. Getting ride of inconvenient locals, perhaps?”

Or they might be hiding away on one of the nameless islands, you offer bleakly, and you'll just have to hope for a lucky guess.

“Hell,” Camilla lights a new cigarette, “Escher's offer is looking better every second. What do you want to do?”

>We'll take his bargain, see what information he can dig up
>I want to try searching somewhere... (Where?)
>I had a question... (Write in)
>Other

>>760408
>>We'll take his bargain, see what information he can dig up
"Not really a fan of killing people instead of beasts, ironic considering our job here, but it seems like our best bet."

Though I am curious about what happened Ilsa Calvara. We should keep an ear out for information regarding it.

>>760408
>We'll take his bargain, see what information he can dig up
Really don't see what else we can do.

>>760408
>We'll take his bargain, see what information he can dig up
>I had a question... (Write in)
"Wherever we check out we are going to need transport to get between islands. Did you see anywhere we can get a boat?"

>>760408
>We'll take his bargain, see what information he can dig up
>I want to try searching somewhere... (Where?)
The probabilities seem uncertain, but perhaps Ilse Calvara might hold some answers? If only for the similarities between this island and that island where we killed the snakes, when that island went dark. It might not be Yvette, nor a great beast, but... this conspiracy cleaning up, perhaps?

>>760408
>>I want to try searching somewhere... (Where?)
Orphanage

>>760408

>I want to try searching somewhere... (Where?)

Orphanage.

Also we should ask if she noticed anyone following us around.

>>760408
We can also try searching first, and maybe take up his offer if it doesn't work out?

I feel we should try to keep our human kill count low if possible. Our beast doesn't need to get a taste for it.

>>760408
>I want to try searching somewhere...
Orphanage

We're not a hired killer.

>>760430
Cid has a boat, and seems to know about the orphanage.

It's also sounding like a good place to make contacts among the locals. Locals who probably won't be too friendly about Northerners nobles getting a big ship and bringing down trouble.

A big ship that they could scavenge for themselves.

>>760450
>We're not a hired killer.
I mean technically...

But I see what you mean.

>>760455
We only kill for love anon!

>>760454
>contacts
Yeah, lethal contact sure, I don't see any indication why the people there would want anything with us other than out head on top of a spear

>>760460
A) Enemy of my enemy. Especially if they think they can steal the Majestic

B) Guilt free betrayal when we turn on them and hand it over to the Governor dude instead.

C) Or to the shipyard dude for scrap, after sabotaging the cap out of it.

>>760408
>>I want to try searching somewhere... (Where?)
Bit late but we could probably check out that island to the east real easily. Just a small island that probably doesn't have anything but it seems like a decent starting point. Still betting on Yvette being on that bottom left island.

>>760473
That's implying they don't betray us first to say nothing about even wanting to work with us

Why go for last-resort tier solutions when we've got plenty of options open for us? Especially considering that would entails working with witches which is even more illegal than simply murdering some baddies

>>760408

We'll take his bargain, see what information he can dig up

But thinkBut think of it this way if we plan this right then it wont be a crime killing them.
Just be like the bull is going to take them on jail or quation and when they go to both run/ fight kill you just kill them and put it down as selft defense/ resiting arest and attcking us is a crime any ways
So if we get them to hit/ attck us frist then killing them isnt a crime im sure cops do thia all the time

>>760489
>put it down as selft defense
Not like we plan on reporting about our activities down south so we can get ourselves arrested.

>>760492

Not if we wore doing her job bring in bad guys to jail.
And it was a work around the issue of killing them is a crime and how to get away with it not bening a crime oh and if people ever ask about it. More about making us fill better about it then anything

>>760501
That doesn't make killing not a crime. That makes it a well covered up crime. There is a difference, especially in the area of feeling better.

>>760482
I'd say murder should be the last resort, not the first.

Also if we can work with local authorities to reclaim or at least neutralize the majestic, that could help Carmilla out a bunch when we return. Not to say us as well.

Plus, you know, not being someone who kills for convenience.

>>760460
You probably would have argued to kill Alyessa for being a "northern witch".

>>760408
>I want to try searching somewhere... (Where?)

I wonder if we can contact Artemis easier there? Or find out more about her. Cid said he has a boat and seems familiar with the place.

Plus we have the blessing of a Goddess and the birthing blade. Could work the religious angle.

Besides they might also know about Giants or a possible cure for Liz.

>>760536
Did ya have a place in mind or am I the weird one for not knowing where your talking about?

>>760536
Where do you mean? Artemis has less power down here and the Giants were connected to the North.

>>760540
Oh I meant the Orphanage.

Got to keep up our spooky spelunking skills no?

But seriously, we really need more info on Artemis long-term. Or maybe other options if she's conning us.

>>760552
>other options
The options are to romance her or to kill her and steal her throne.

>>760545
Artemisia has less power, not none. And maybe that's a good thing if we want to investigate her.

And do Southerners even have bloodlines? Maybe they have something completely different. Also while Giants were tied to the north, maybe they had enemies or rivals down south who kept better records.

Information isn't something you dig out of the ground like a mine, you put a lot of different pieces together instead.

>>760558
Pft little early to claim you k ow the endgame, Mr. Arrogant.

>Okay, sorry for the delay. Had a few computer problems getting in the way of things. If my count is correct, we're going to start with Escher's bargain.
>Writing the next post now, and I'm sorry for the delay

>>760580
Anon those two options were tossed around since the very first thread. What, do you plan to ally up with some other god and just drop Artemis or what?

>>760597
Just saying we might find other options.

>>760591
We had more votes for searching

>>760669
Actually both bargain and Searching Orphanage have the same amount of votes. The other search votes are for other places. I would have tossed a vote in for Bargain if I didn't think it would have won.

>>760418
>>760427
>>760430
>>760434
>>760489

Deal

>>760444
>>760445
>>760450
>>760536

Orphanage

>>760479

Other

>>760669

>I'm seeing more votes for dealing right now, unless I overlooked someone changing their vote later.

>>760699
You're good Moloch, I'll change my vote to bargain just to be safe.

>>760591

Murder for hire
>>760418
>>760427
>>760430

Murder & Search

>>760434

Check out orphanage
>>760444
>>760445
>>760450
>>760536 see >>760552

Check outeast island
>>760479

I mean, not counting the "search another island" or the guy who voted for two things, search out the orphanage still had 4 - 3, or at best 4 - 4 if you count Mr. Double Voter as just a vote for Eschers bargain and not for searching.

>>760699
Whoops, I missed the non-green texted vote.

>>760699
The dangers of having to work and try to pop in quick.

>>760727

>No, sorry, It's good that I've got people keeping me straight.
I will say now, however, that we'll get the option to explore other islands later. We won't automatically leave the south once our immediate business is concluded.

>>760736
Well that's good lol. I mean, a votes a vote no sense whining after its done.

I really did think we had more support for exploring before being so willing to kill. Kind of a tone shift for Henryk.

Muh Game of Throooooooones.

>>760771
Maybe we can just go Batman™ on some assholes and that might be good enough.

Scare the fuck out of them and all. Might not be good enough for Escher but we'll see.

>>760771
Yeah but we're still in a hurry. Searching blindly is exactly what we're trying to avoid.

Rising from the table, you pace the length of the room as you think. It takes less than a dozen paces to cross it, such is the cramped space. When you paid for the room, you recall with faint amusement, the seller asked you how many hours you wanted it for. With that thought in mind, you'd avoided sitting on – or even close to – the bed.

Pacing for a few moments more, you shrug heavily and reach your decision. You're curious about this Orphanage, you tell her, and Escher's unease has only made you more curious. Still, you're not about to go searching the place with no evidence beyond your own curiosity – not when you might be walking into a den of witches or cannibals. Escher is offering information, and you'll take him up on that.

“Even if it means resorting to murder?” Camilla asks quietly, “Bad people or not, this isn't a decision you should take lightly.”

You're aware of that, you reply, but you don't want to get bogged down in a lengthy search if you can help it. The longer you linger here, the more likely it is that you'll attract the wrong kind of attention.

“Dealing with informants isn't always quick or efficient,” she warns you, “Questions have to be asked, research needs to be done... I'm just saying, we might not get the answers we want immediately.”

Then you'll have time to do some of your own investigations, you tell her, and two lines of investigation can cover more ground. It's still quicker than just taking a stab in the dark or going off gut instinct. If she's not happy with this, you add in a quieter voice, you won't force her to take part. You'll do this on your own, if you have to.

“I just...” Camilla shakes her head, rising from the chair, “Let's see what Escher has to say first. It's not too late to change your mind when you hear what he has to say. It's not too late for either of us to change our minds. Let's just get it over with.”

-

As you leave the rented room, you look about for any suspicious figures – anyone lurking, anyone who shows a little too much interest in your room. You don't see anyone, and Camilla only confirms that.

“We've not been followed, either. At least, as far as I'm aware,” her face darkens, “It's hard to get a fix on people here. They're different – their faces, their body language. It's strange, not something I can really describe.”

Strangely, you know what she means. You're almost certain that the southerners would smell differently as well, if you tapped into your Wolf's Blood. The implications of that, however, are not ones you care to dwell upon.

Best not to think of such things.

[1/2]

>>760784
>>760779

I mostly care about getting info on witchcraft and such. Less concerned about stabbing scum.

>>760810
I dunno about you but I'm of the mind that we should avoid witches as much as possible. Walking blindly into an island that might be full of witches sounds like a bad time. Also since I forgot to mention it earlier, both poles are uncharted territory. Makes me really damn curious whats lurking over there.

>>760822
>Makes me really damn curious whats lurking over there.
Something bad I bet.

>>760790

When you return to the bar, Escher is nowhere to be seen. Instead, tending the bar is a woman with her back to you. She turns when you sit, giving you a full view of her ghoulish face – the leering face of a skull, you think at first. Upon pushing aside your revulsion, however, you realise that the injury isn't as bad as that – the woman has “just” lost her nose. Swallowing the bile that rises in your throat, you order some drinks. As she delivers them, Escher emerges from some unseen room. He arrives, and the maimed bartender leaves – like figures in a well-oiled clockwork machine.

“We meet again,” he says, with what feels like unnecessary emphasis in his voice, “Have you thought about my offer?”

You have, you reply, and you're thinking about accepting it.

“Good, good,” Escher nods, “You might have noticed my, ah, helper. I said that thugs were making things difficult for my people and, well, you've seen the results of that. About a week ago, a few of the locals pulled her off the street. Said they'd cut her nose off so that she couldn't make any coin. Subhuman bastards. I guess they thought I'd throw her out on the street or something.”

“These are the men you want dead?” Camilla asks quietly, a cold fury tightening her voice, “The people who did this?”

“Indeed they are,” nodding again, Escher leans forwards, “I told you that these were not good people, did I not? I'm not asking you to torture them, to lay their bodies out in public view, I don't want any of that – I'm not an animal. Just get rid of them, quickly and cleanly. Is that something you can do?”

You can do that, you agree with a slow nod, how many of them are there?

“Lu told me that there were three men,” Escher taps one finger against the bar in thought, “But they also mentioned a boss while they were cutting her. Someone calling the shots. I'd like his name, if you can get it. I'd be very... grateful.” A slow smile spreads across his face as he considers it – or rather, as he considers what he might do to this boss. “Now, step into my office,” he tells you, indicating the back room, “We can go over the details there. Lu can give you her full story.”

Nodding again, you glance across to Camilla. Whatever traces of mercy or compassion she might have been feeling before have vanished, replaced by a black anger. At the sight of that rage, you realise something – putting the maimed woman there for you both to see had been a very deliberate, very cynical act. Escher knew exactly which string to pull to get Camilla on his side.

Not above pulling a few dirty tricks of his own, this Escher character.

>I think I'm going to pause things here for today. Sorry they were a little shaky in places. I'll pick this up tomorrow, and I'll stick around in case anyone has any comments or questions
>Thanks for your patience, everyone!

>>760864
Well, might as well hit hard and hit once if we're doing this. Fuck just the name let's assassinate the boss.

Also talk to Cid about what kind of bloodlines the Southerners might have. Don't want to end up fighting a were-panther or something.

>>760822
> Wants to avoid witches

> Is working for the witchiest witch of all witching

>>760864
Man how long has Escher been in business down here? Dude knows his stuff.

Thanks for running.

>>760864
Escher sounds like a sneaky snake, definitely wouldn't want to get on his bad side. Thanks for running Moloch.

>>760878
>were-panther
I laughed harder than I should have. What witchy witch are we working for? I don't count Artemis as a witch.

>>760885

Escher has been down south for the larger half of his life, actually. Folks back in the Free States would say that he's gone native. Either way, he's built up a pretty efficient network for himself over the years

>>760894
That's because Artemis has bewitched you.

>>760864
Thanks for running, Moloch!

Escher sounds like he has lots of influence around this area. I wonder just how far his reach, let alone his grasp, stretches.

>>760790
huh. A fair compromise.

>>760864
She's back to work in just a week? Awfully quick for such an injury I think.

Still, if Camilla didn't notice any lies, those men deserve to die.

>>763824
Do you think this is a nanny state or some shit?

>>763824
Nothing too serious, they just wanted to cut down on her ability to sniff out trouble.

You've never seen someone blow smoke through the ravaged stump of a mutilated nose before, and you'd be quite happy never seeing it again.

With a kind of defiant fury burning in her eyes, Lu takes another savage drag on her cigarette and treats you to another grotesque display. It's remarkably awkward – you don't know whether to stare or look away. In the end, you go for the third option and let your gaze wander around the room at random. Cid stands by the doorway, leaning against the wall in a way that hints at a lazy grace. Escher paces, stomping from one side of the room to the other and rubbing the scars on his his hands. Camilla has put aside her own fury for now, a professional mask slipping over her face like armour as she prepares for Lu's story.

“They cut my fucking nose off,” the maimed woman says bluntly.

“Lu,” Escher grunts, “They can see that. Start somewhere useful, like at the beginning.”

“I'm getting there, I'm getting there,” Lu waves her hand, coming close to putting her own eye out with a lit cigarette, “Look, I ain't gonna mince my words so if you've got sensitive ears, you might as well stroll out. The coin I made, I earned it on my back. Or... sometimes up against a wall. You get what I'm trying to say. Point is, a fair amount of what I do... what I DID involved having a pretty face. Or, at least, a face you can look at without killing the mood.”

There's something very strange about her voice, something that you can't put your finger on. It's not hard to guess the cause, of course, but it's still vaguely distracting. Can someone really speak with a nasal whine even when they don't have a nose?

“So look, I was finished for the night – yeah, I work nights, I bet you're real surprised – and I was walking home,” Lu twists her lips into a snarl, or something like one, “It's a real shitty area, but I've had trouble like this. Been robbed a few times, but that was about the worst of it up until now.”

“Do people live here?” Camilla asks Escher, “Or is this just where they work?”

“I don't have the space to accommodate everyone. Unfortunately, most of the traders and workers here live with the rest of locals. It's usually no trouble – whenever someone gets harmed, I respond in kind,” Escher's voice is calm, measured... and utterly glacial.

“Yeah, see, when I got robbed, Escher here found out who did it. Next time I saw those guys, they had some pretty spectacular bruises to show off,” a hard twist of laughter slips from Lu's lips, “With the governor sitting on his fat arse, that's the closest thing to justice you get around here. I can't even think how fucked things must have been before Escher set up shop.”

“Bad,” Escher says mildly, “They were bad.”

[1/2]

>>764193

“Hey, look, I don't know what else to tell you,” Lu shrugs before lifting her cigarette to her lips. She does so with a shaking hand, that little tremor revealing the trauma beneath her aggressive mask. “I was about halfway home – I told Escher's boy the details, ask him about it – when they jumped me. Pulled me into their house, and my first thought was “guess they want it for free”. I mean, that's all I could think. Pretty fucked, right?”

You shift in your seat. Just hearing this sounds vaguely voyeuristic, like her words are leaving a thin coat of grime on your skin. Camilla speaks first, looking up from her notepad and forcing herself to look Lu in the eye. “Did they?” she asks simply.

“Nah, it wasn't like that,” Lu shakes her head, “I knew that about as soon as I saw the knife. Hooked thing, pretty common around here. Local style, you know? He carries one, I've seen him gut a fish with it.” She waves at Cid, who bows his head slightly in response. You're starting to wonder just what his job is supposed to be. More than a simple guide, you're sure.

“Look, can we just get this over with?” a note of tension, an angry tremor, creeps into Lu's voice, “They cut me, they told me I'd never work again, and they let me stagger home. Soon as I got my wits back, I came to Escher.”

“Not the actual authorities,” Camilla says, “Or a doctor. You came straight to Escher.”

“Hey, he takes care of us! Some of the younger folks around here, they might as well have been raised by him! You're damn right I went to him first,” Lu snaps, “Actual authorities? Sister, around here, he IS the authority!”

“I was just checking,” looking down, Camilla makes a short note, “Clarifying a few details.”

“...Clarify that stick up your ass...” Lu mutters, some of her words mercifully passing you by.

-

“So, I'm gonna be honest. I ain't exactly keen to dwell on this crap,” Lu rises, taking a few restless steps about, “You want the little details, you talk to Escher's boy. You got a question, I'll do the best I can to answer it. Otherwise, I'd rather get back to work. I'm just glad I still have a job – another thing I've got to thank Escher for, see?”

“I take care of my own,” Escher says simply, “But now, I think we're finished here. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.” Having said that, he ambles back to the bar, with Cid trailing behind him.

“Like he said,” Lu adds, “We finished here?”

>We're finished, yes
>We need to hear your full version of events. Omit nothing
>Your attackers mentioned a boss, correct?
>Tell me a little about Escher
>I had a question to ask... (Write in)
>Other

>>764194
>Your attackers mentioned a boss, correct?
>Tell me a little about Escher

>I had a question to ask... (Write in)
(This might be a question for Cid) How are we supposed three specific guys without anything to go on?

>>764194
>“...Clarify that stick up your ass...”
Camilla really should do something about that stick, can't be healthy.

>>764194
>>Your attackers mentioned a boss, correct?
>>Tell me a little about Escher
Sounds like a cool guy, takes care of his folks. Can't hurt to try to gleam some more info about him.

>>764201
>supposed
supposed to find*

Her attackers mentioned a boss, you mention, is that correct? What exactly did they say?

“Exactly? I couldn't give you it word perfect,” Lu stubs out her cigarette, “But I heard enough to know that they were following orders. They weren't just lashing out or nothing – someone out there wants to hurt Escher, and they used me to do it. See, all of us here, we're seen as Escher's family, and family is a big deal. When you really want to spit in someone's face around here, you go after their kin. So, that seems to me like whoever this boss is, it's personal.”

Did her attackers say enough to give her an impression of what this boss was like? Were they afraid of them, or blindly obedient?

“Afraid, I'd say, but also real excited. Like, they were afraid of messing it up,” another bitter snarl twists Lu's lips, “But also like they'd been wanting to do this for a while. I mean, there's a fair deal of resentment around here, all pointed at Escher. Folks like us, northerners, they come and do their trading here. The locals are losing out, and that's breeding all kinds of frustration. If someone started started stirring up trouble, I wager they'd find a lot of folks willing to go along with it. So, you know, I reckon that's this boss – a pissed off local, likely one with a loud voice.”

Then, getting back to these men who attacked her – how would you go about finding them? You don't have much of a description to go on, yet. She mentioned that Cid had the details, but you're asking here as well. You like to cover all your bases, after all.

“Two of them, they were real bland looking – just regular guys, as far as I remember. Truth be told, I never really got a good look at them. By the time I knew what was going on, they were holding me down,” Lu shudders a little, her hard mask slipping for a second, “The guy who cut me, I saw his face real good. He had scars on his face, like...” Falling silent, Lu runs her fingers across her face – down her cheeks like she was wiping away tears. “It's a local thing,” she adds, with a shrug, “I don't know, some ritual shit. Pretty distinctive, though.

Ritual scarification, you muse, not something you've seen much in the north. Another cultural difference, perhaps.

“Yeah, whatever,” Lu barks out a curt laugh, “If Escher got his hands on this thug, I wager he'd have a few extra scars by the end. Only what he deserves, right?”

And the conversation turns back to Escher. Now that he's not here, you're a little curious to see what Lu might say about him. Leaning back and taking a more casual tone, you ask her to tell you about Escher. He seems to be taking care of his people well enough, but you'd like to know a little more.

[1/2]

>>764243

“You know, he's basically a no bullshit kind of guy,” Lu sits back down, her voice softening a little as she thinks about her employer, “He makes deals. I mean, that's a big thing for him. Everyone here, we made the same deal. He takes a cut of what we earn – a fair cut, mind – and he looks out for us. When something like this happens, he steps in and makes sure it doesn't happen again. In return, we work hard and we don't cheat him.”

“You were attacked a week ago, and he has you working here,” Camilla points out, “Don't you think that's a little harsh? That wound hasn't even finished healing yet.”

“What, you think he's forcing me to work?” Lu shakes her head, “Sister, I wanted to get back to work. Sitting around and brooding, that shit wasn't gonna help me. I told Escher that I wanted to do something, anything, and he found a place working the bar for me. If anything, I owe HIM for this.”

You glance across and meet Camilla's gaze. She shrugs faintly, her eyes betraying nothing. The devotion that Lu has for Escher almost borders on mania, like he was the leader of a cult rather than a businessman. Perhaps this is just the way of things here in the south, a local habit that Escher adopted for himself. As Lu said, the locals see Escher's people as his family – maybe he came to share that view.

“Speaking of work, I should be getting back to it,” Lu gives you a hard smirk, “Makes a change to earn my coin standing up for a change, you know? Huh, anyway – see you around, strangers.”

-

“She was telling the truth, at least,” Camilla tells you quietly, once Lu has swaggered out, “About everything. Escher, and the attack.”

Was she expecting anything else?

“I'm not stupid, Henryk, I know what Escher just pulled. Having her work the bar when we got back was a good trick, and he played it well. For a moment, I even thought that he might have scarred her himself, just to give us a good reason to take his side,” she shakes her head sadly, “But I guess I was too cynical for my own good. Escher played his hand well, but it was a fair hand – no cheating or lying.”

That almost sounds like admiration in her voice, you remark, albeit a sick and weary kind of admiration. When Camilla's only response is a shrug, you nod towards the door. Come on, you add, might as well get this over with as soon as possible.

[2/3]

>>764272

Cid is sitting at the bar when you return, holding a curiously shaped knife in his hands. He turns in this way and that, letting the light glint off the dull metal blade. The blade is curved, almost to the point of being a hook, and the grip is made from masterfully carved wood. Almost more of a work of art than a weapon, you say as you sit on the next stool over.

“The claw,” Cid tells you, not taking his eyes from the blade, “That is the best translation I can give you, yes? The first ones, I think, were tools, used to cut down fruit. A weapon like this was used to cut Lu. You see, how it hooks up and through the nose? Messy business, my friends. A very nasty message to send to someone.” Regarding the blade for a moment more, Cid slips it back into his belt. “These men, they are fools. They must have known that Escher would seek vengeance. From the moment they made the first cut, they were dead men. If they are wise, they will be hiding.”

But he just said that they were fools, you point out.

“You do not have wise fools in the north?” his eyes grow wide, “No, never mind. Lu, she spoke of the men who did this, yes? Their leader, he has scars. A good way to find him, the locals will remember such markings. If they are wise, they will point us in the right way. Asking around will be a good place to start. I will accompany you – you do not speak the local tongue, it would be harder for you to go alone.”

A translator would be useful, you admit, and a guide.

“Then we can leave as soon as you're ready,” Cid nods, “I will be here, waiting.”

>I'm ready, let's go
>These scars, do they have any significance?
>Cid, have you killed a man before?
>Could you tell me a little about the Orphanage? You seemed to know about it earlier
>I had a question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>764291
>>Could you tell me a little about the Orphanage? You seemed to know about it earlier

>>764291
>>Could you tell me a little about the Orphanage? You seemed to know about it earlier
>These scars, do they have any significance?
I can't help but read that third choice as if speaking to a child. Killing people is bad, Cid.

>>764291
>I had a question for you... Where besides New Odyss can a large ship dock?
(I think the Majestic will be easier to find than Yvette herself.)
>These scars, do they have any significance?
>Could you tell me a little about the Orphanage? You seemed to know about it earlier

>>764291
>>Could you tell me a little about the Orphanage? You seemed to know about it earlier

He has a fair amount of local knowledge, you begin, doesn't he? So, he would know where a large ship could dock other than New Odyss, if such a place exists.

“Ah, hmm. The large ships do not go very far into the colonies,” Cid muses, “The waters are, ah... irregular. Sometimes shallow, with rocks eager to cut a fat and heavy vessel. Most captains will dock their ships here, and take a much smaller vessel if they need to travel. You see here, on your map, the southern point of New Odyss? Many small ships can be found there, my own included. But, your question... the good little boys, as we call them, are safe enough. Empty waters, and well charted. I know that some of the smaller ships lurk there as well, to ferry people about. The Shell, as well, is visited by cargo ships.”

A few places, then, that a large ship could be found.

“Yes... unless you wished for it to disappear,” Cid raises an eyebrow, as if the thought just occurred to him, “And then The Boneyard would suit your needs. Do you have an interest in ships, then?”

More of an interest in their crew, you reply, but that's a matter for another time. For now, you were wondering about the scars Lu mentioned. She suggested that they were ritual – do they really have any significance?

“They do, yes,” Cid nods, “In fact, their significance is twofold. The act of scarring is old, a way of showing their virtue and glory. Southern men wear scars like you northerners wear animals. The practice is outlawed now – an unacceptable barbarism, it is called. If this man wears his scars openly, he is making a statement, a denial of northern law and a peaceful life. He has sworn himself to the old ways, and he wishes for all to know his allegiance.”

And these particular scars, you ask, what do they mean?

“Ah, let me think. Lines, drawn down from the eyes,” touching his own face, Cid thinks for a moment, “No great mystery. They mean “killer”, and they boast that the man has slain before. Or... that is what he wishes to represent, at least. Perhaps he merely wishes to intimidate. Men who make such displays do not always have the strength to back them up. Likewise, men who do have strength... they do not boast about it. North or south, that is true of all men.”

Interesting, you muse, and the comparison with League iconography – the animals he mentioned – is even more interesting. Do the southern folk have their own bloodlines, or something similar? You'll have to ask him about it later. You've got plenty you want to ask Cid about, in fact – the Orphanage included.

When you mention that dire place, he pauses and falls silent. Licking his lips quickly, he begins to speak in a hushed voice.

[1/2]

>>764342

“I thought that you might be interested in such a place,” he murmurs, “Many men are, although just as many are repulsed by it. Often, the two go hand in hand – a terror, and yet a curiosity. As is so often the way, when the spirits are involved. You northerners, you have them as well, do you not? You have, ah, witchcraft.”

“No we do not,” Camilla shakes her head firmly, “Not officially, at least.”

“Of course. You pass a law, and this means that it stops existing,” Cid smiles, as if talking to a child, “Then the people there, they talk to themselves. Sometimes in voices that are not their own, and sometimes they say things they have no business knowing. Not spirits or witchcraft, not at all.”

Cocky little shit. So these spirit worshippers, you ask, they are known to gather at the Orphanage?

“It is said, yes,” nodding, Cid lowers his voice again, “The spirits are especially active there, although I could not say why, and that attracts those who wish to commune with the other world. Naturally, such folk are often called mad – but perhaps they are just mad because they think on a higher level than you or I. What is madness, really?”

He pauses there as you emerge into the streets, struck by a wave of heat and humid air. Wincing against the bright sun, you move the conversation along. These worshippers, you ask, what do they think of outsiders? Do they defend their secrets, or do they welcome strangers?

“Hmm, a curious question. Perhaps you, sir, are a little mad as well. In truth, I could not say for sure. I hear stories about how they will split your skull and devour your eyes, but perhaps these are just horror stories told by drunken fools. Men say many foolish things,” Cid ponders the issue, “But I hear other stories, about how the priests there will test newcomers. If the spirits are gracious, newcomers are to be welcomed. If not... perhaps that is when the darker stories become true.”

“And do you know anything helpful about it?” Camilla asks, “Anything that doesn't devolve into talk of rumour and superstition?”

“Find a bar, and ask that question,” Cid tilts his head to the side, “You will get many stories. Which of them you believe is up to you. I know that your Ministry is involved – I have heard Escher say it many times, that terrible things were done there.”

Terribly vague, maybe.

“Come, the slums are close. We start asking here,” changing the subject, Cid gestures ahead of him, “Someone here will have seen our scarred friend. We just need to find a loose tongue.”

[2/3]

>The next post might be delayed slightly. Not too long, I hope

>>764373

Loose tongues are a scarce commodity in New Odyss, it seems. The people you pass in the streets turn and look away from you, not quite shunning you but certainly not accepting you. More than once, Cid tries to talk to one of them, only for his chosen target to hurry away – fleeing, almost.

“They hate you here,” Camilla murmurs, as you slink into an alcove to rest and rethink things.

“Yes. This is unusual,” Cid scratches his head, “I have never been welcome here, exactly, but things have never been so bad. Something has changed, yes? But I cannot understand what. It is possible, perhaps, that this attack has soured the air here.”

Maybe this boss you've been hearing about has spread his influence further than you all thought, you suggest, maybe the people here fear him more than they fear Escher.

“Escher, he will not like that,” shaking his head, Cid offers you a rueful smile, “If the locals here think that they can get away with these attacks, they may seek to escalate them. Perhaps they will even try to force Escher out. Ah, it would be a bad thing for them to try – it would be war in the streets.” The smile turns to a frown as Cid takes out his knife – his claw – and tests the cutting edge with a finger. “This should not have been allowed to fester,” he adds, watching a passing local as he speaks.

“So why did Escher wait?” Camilla asks, “A week can be a long time in an investigation. He should have acted there and then, as soon as he knew who his enemies were.”

“Sometimes, the locals handle these matters on their own. They find the attackers and deliver them, bound and gagged, to Escher. It is a gesture, you see? They say “These people do not represent us”. A peace offering, you might say,” Cid's frown deepens, “This has not yet happened, obviously. I do not like what this implies.”

Maybe the attackers DO represent the locals, you mutter, and you don't much like that idea either. The sooner you settle this, the better.

“I have an idea, although you might call it, perhaps... drastic?” Cid grimaces, “I know a teahouse. Many people come to gossip there, to trade stories – even northerners like you. With the proper encouragement, the hostess will talk.”

Encouragement, you repeat quietly.

“I will not hurt her,” Cid gives you a wide-eyed look, “Ah, but she will not know that. Sometimes, this is the best way, yes?”

>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully
>Alright, we'll play it your way
>Tell me something... (Write in)
>Other

>>764539
>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully

If that doesn't work we can start a good cop/bad cop routine since Henryk would already be the 'good' cop in this situation.

>>764539
>>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully
Never hurts to try.

>>764539
>>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully
Any one think we should ask Cid if he's heard of the Wolves, Bulls, Snakes and Dragons of the North and if the south has anything similar? Tough I have my doubts due to the origin of the bloodlines.

>>764539
>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully

>>764539
>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully

>>764539
>>I'd rather talk to her first, and see if we can solve this peacefully

He said that northerners visited this teahouse, you ask, right? So this hostess, she can speak your language.

“Correct, yes. A little broken, perhaps, but well enough to get by. I would say... maybe I am a little better. We can talk fine, you and I, so you will be fine,” Cid nods slowly, “You are... thinking of speaking with her? You might not have much success. She will not turn away your business, but do not think that makes her your friend. Her tongue might not dance the way you wish for it to.”

If she doesn't talk, you offer, then he can loosen her tongue a little. There's no sense leaping straight to threats and bluster if you don't need to.

“Ah, I have heard of this!” Cid brightens up, “The two officers, with the good and the bad. I have a joke about those two. A man is arrested, put in chains and thrown into a cell. For three hours, a guard beats him. When the prisoner is finally granted relief, he cries out for mercy. He will talk to the good officer, he says, he will confess all! And do you know what the guard says then?”

You know where this is going. Before you can guess, Cid cries out the punchline.

“He says, “No fool, I AM the good guard!” A fine jest, would you not agree?” Cid chuckles weakly, “Some of the people here, they learn their humour from your Ministry. After trying to rebel... ah, they know many new jokes.”

...That wasn't as funny as you'd been expecting.

-

The teahouse is still a fair distance away, Cid tells you, which gives you ample time to talk as you go. You take the opportunity to backtrack a little, to a subject you were wondering about. Cid mentioned knowing about the League heraldry, the animals. How does he know them, exactly?

“One of your stranger ways. Men who hunt wear wolves on their sleeves. Thinking men wear snakes – forgive me, but I did not realise you had snakes in your cold land – and your cruel men, those who enforce the law, wear bulls. I have heard that you carry their blood in your veins, as well – is that true?” Cid's face darkens with disgust, “Men should not mix their blood with animals. You know, some of the locals make crude jokes about it, about how that blood first mixed.”

More of his jokes, you mutter, and you'd rather not hear these ones. In either case, it's not literal – Hunters carry the sign of the Wolf, for example, to reflect their nature.

“But wolves are pack hunters,” Cid pauses in confusion, “I hear that your northern hunters work best alone. Can you explain?”

That... is something you've never actually thought of before. The more you think about it the less sense it seems to make, and your mood grows progressively darker.

“Ah,” pausing again, Cid looks uncertain, “Perhaps I should not have asked...”

[1/2]

>>764630
Cid asking the hard hitting questions.

>>764630

Never mind that now, you sigh, do the southern folk have any such thing? Bloodlines that give men abnormal powers?

“It is not something I can say for sure. As I have said, men wear scars to proclaim their skills and victories, but the scars themselves impart no gifts. However, it is said that the spirits can give men a fraction of their power. Many tales of men doing the impossible exist, but... they must be false,” he grins, “After all, we know that spirits do not exist. That is what the law tells us.”

“You smug bastard, you...” Camilla pauses as a thought occurs to her, “Dragons. You didn't mention dragons.”

“Because I have no idea what a “dragon” is,” Cid shrugs, “Are there not enough wild things in the world that you northerners have to make up new ones?”

You could spend all day talking about this, you realise, and you'd never get anywhere. Move on, you tell him in a faintly exasperated voice, you'd like to find this teahouse before it gets dark.

-

When Cid mentioned a teahouse, you thought of something glamorous – and the hostess he mentioned would be more glamorous still. Needless to say, your guess was way off the mark. The teahouse is nothing more than an abnormally large shack, and the twisted thing behind the counter is the hostess.

“Tess,” Cid mutters to you, “We have a nickname, but it does not translate well. Tess the... hound?”

“Bitch,” Camilla corrects him, “I think that's the word you were looking for.”

“It is so,” nodding gravely, Cid steers you to the counter and orders something foreign. Tess, the old woman, grudgingly obeys. Behind you, the other patrons of this dismal place – not quite a dozen silent, sullen workers – shift in their seats to watch you. When Tess returns, carrying a wooden tray heavy with clay cups and a jug, Cid quietly asks her to wait. “We must talk, Tess,” he says softly.

“Not to you,” she grunts back, favouring you with a mangled version of your own tongue, “You are dog now, boy. Go back to your master.”

Cid's hand drops to the knife at his hip, but then you speak up. To be more precise, you clear your throat. All eyes turn to face you, including the sunken slits set deep into Tess' face. The air grows very still indeed as you lean in to murmur your question.

You're looking for a scarred man, you tell her softly, that's all you're here for. Once you know where he's hiding, you'll leave her alone. Until then, however, you're not going anywhere.

>Calling for a Diplomacy roll. That's 1D100, aiming to beat 70/90. I'll take the highest of the first three results

Rolled 89 (1d100)

>>764719

Rolled 55 (1d100)

>>764728
Off by one.

Rolled 28 (1d100)

>>764719
Lupus Stare go!

>>764728
Gah. Quick, Camilla find me a +1 modifier! Look under the couch.

I didn't remember that Artys gift of civilization never gave us bonus to diplomacy, fuck.

>>764741
it DID but we started at -10

>>764741
Yes it did, but we only took it twice. We used to have a -10.

>>764719
Hey Moloch if we gave a generous tip after buying some tea could we get a +1 mod?

>>764760
Maybe we can give her a wink. That always works with the ladies right? Maybe sweet talk her extra smoothly.

>>764750
>>764751
Oh, well thats nice, good for us!

>>764765
I don't trust Henryk's sweet talk if he has any. Dude had a -10 diplomacy when we started this.

>>764760

>Ah, why not? The additional success we'd get from hitting 90 isn't that much of a big deal, so I'll allow it.

>>764792
Arigato amigo

“Looking for a scarred man,” Tess repeats, “Find a mirror, northerner. Plenty of scars to see there.”

You can't help but laugh a little at her caustic remark, touching one of the old wounds on your face as you do so. She's got a point there, you admit, but you're looking for a local man. A local man, you add, with a taste for cutting up women. Not a man worth protecting, especially not if it means making an enemy of Escher. You've heard that the locals used to work with him, turning in anyone who harmed his people – that was a good system, why abandon it now?

“Wait,” Tess hesitates a moment, “You say he cut a girl? Her face?”

Cut the nose clean off her face, you confirm, and left her to die.

“Bastard,” Tess whispers, “Son of dog. He never said...”

You can practically sense a gap opening up in her armour, and you press the point. What did he say, you ask, has she seen him recently?

“This man, his name is Hollas. He came in here,” she admits slowly, “Idiot, full of mazka and barely standing upright. Boasting about starting war with your Escher. Bragging, saying we should buy him drinks, give him fine food. Said that he had earned his scars at last. Also said he was hungry, stupid dog. Hiding out all day, he said, gave him an appetite. I say, “Stupid dog, forage for food. Plenty found in the jungle”. These boys – all tough, no smart.”

He's hiding out in the jungle?

“Hut, he said. Old, half torn down,” Tess shakes her head, “Playing at being wild men. Can't even build his own shelter. No smart, like I said. You want to find it?”

You do want to find it, you agree, does she know the way?

“He does,” she nods to Cid, “Old, children played there once. Should still be a trail, maybe.”

“I know the place,” Cid murmurs, “Nostalgic... that is the word, yes?”

Nodding and offering Tess what you hope is a winning smile, you take a generous amount of money out and lay it down on the bar. For the tea, you tell her, and for her company. Perhaps her eyes widen slightly at your words, but that is the only reaction. Moving slowly, Tess sweeps the money off the bar and pockets it. Oh well, you think, it was worth a try. As you're turning away, however, Tess speaks up.

“He is dangerous,” she warns you, “Bragging, boasting about his iron. His gun. Not a common thing for a thug to carry. Give a man a gun, he grows three sizes – in his mind, at least. His friends are cowards and idiots, but Hollas is dangerous. Now go, your dog is stinking up the place.”

“We're leaving,” Cid grumbles, before turning to you and mouthing the word, “hound”.

Actually, you think, you rather like the old crone.

[1/2]

>>764792
Moloch GOAT Questmaster confirmed

>>764682
>>764630

I literally asked the same question in a previous thread.

Hunters have more in common with Jaguars or Mountain Lions.

>>764828
When we confront them we should try and take at least one of the cowards alive to grill for their bosses name.

Getting all three alive would be nice too so we can work them against each other but much harder.

I wonder if Henryk earned a reputation after killing the White Tyrant.

>>764875
Amongst the soldiers in that fight I'd imagine. We made it a bit of a spectacle tossing the body out the window.

Outside of them I'm not sure how much the operation is common knowledge yet much less Henryk's involvement in it.

>>764897
It'll definitely be something that would get passed around once Port Tyrant is resettled.

>>764865
I know, that's probably why Moloch tossed it in to the text.

>>764828

“They really hate you around here,” Camilla tells Cid as he's leading you out to the jungle trail, “This is more than just working for Escher, isn't it?”

Hesitating for a moment, Cid eventually nods. “I am not local, like they are. My mother? Yes. My father? I don't know. He was a northerner, I think, and everyone who looks at me knows it,” he waves a hand at this face, as if to indicate the colour of his skin – lighter than most of the southern natives you've seen, “No matter. Escher has been good to me. He took me under his wing, even though I am not of the north. Now, perhaps, you see why he has my loyalty. But... no more talk, now – we move.”

As he marches on ahead, Camilla turns to you and offers a shrug. A sensitive subject, apparently.

-

This Hollas might not go quietly, you tell the others as you walk, but one of his meeker friends might be willing to talk. If they surrender, you might not even need to kill them – Hollas was the one who held the knife, he's the only one that needs to die.

“Curious,” Cid turns to give you a strange look, “You would let them live, knowing that they might seek revenge?”

Tess called them cowards, you point out, cowards are not given to seeking vengeance. Cowards tend to do whatever they can to keep themselves alive, even if it means swallowing their pride and living ingloriously. If they were faced with the choice between giving up their leader and dying, you can probably guess which option a coward would pick.

“Ah, but what if giving up their leader also meant dying?” the southerner argues, “And dying badly, at that? Fear, and the threat of the wickedest torture, puts steel in even the weakest men, yes?”

If that's true, you reply with a shrug, then they won't surrender peacefully. If they don't surrender peacefully... you'll do what you have to do. That's really all you have to say on the matter.

-

Further up the jungle trail, with a thick wall of trees looming up to either side of you, you hear raised voices, barking at each other in a rough, foreign tongue. A fairly wide spread of voices – one raw with the effort of yelling, one shriller with fear and the last, the rarest voice, calm. Even though you don't understand the language, you know that the last man is trying to make some kind of bargain, pleading for something.

“Ah,” Cid swallows nervously, “It seems that Tess was not giving us a tall tale. I hear a lot of bragging and boasting, that is true.”

“What kind of bragging?” Camilla asks, “Should we be worried?”

“One of the men, he is claiming that the god of death lives within him, and that no man can escape his wrath,” Cid pauses, “He seems quite, ah, convinced by it all.”

“So yes,” she nods, “We should probably be worried.”

[2/3]

>>764954
>“Ah, but what if giving up their leader also meant dying?”
I have an idea about that if that's the case but I'll wait until we actually have them.

>>764954

Creeping now, moving carefully and quietly, you approach the clearing. Cid moves through the trees with a familiar ease, touching certain ones as he passes them by. Watching him, you get the impression that he could slip through here with his eyes closed, covering ground at a pace you could only hope to match. Compared with the forest back home in the north, you feel incredibly clumsy here in these jungles.

Every so often, Cid will turn and offer a snippet of translation, fragments of the deranged bellowing that drifts out from the clearing ahead. Nothing he relays to you fills you with confidence. The northern devils will be driven from the land, those of impure blood will be purged, the old ways will be returned to the land...

That sort of thing, basically.

“They say that mazka erodes the mind with heavy use,” Cid whispers to you, “I did not believe that until now, but... perhaps I am now convinced.”

You have no idea what mazka even is, you mutter, and you really don't want to know.

-

You're not quite sure what to make of the scene unfolding before you. The language barrier is one thing, but even if you could understand every word you hear, it wouldn't help that much. There are three men gathered around the old ruin. One is armed, a pistol in one hand and a hooked knife in the other, while another is bound, tied to a tree with a clay jug balanced on his head. The last man paces nervously around, imploring the armed man to calm down. His pleading gestures alone tell you that much.

“Those who bow to the old ways have nothing to fear,” Cid translates, as the gunman howls out a few mangled words, “They will be invulnerable. Bullets will... ah...”

What, you hiss, what is he saying?

“Bullets will dance away from them,” Cid finishes, “I think, perhaps, this will not end well for someone here.”

As if confirming Cid's fears, the gunman pulls a thick scarf down over his eyes and aims the pistol at his bound friend – or rather, at the jug on his head. Not that you could really consider any part of this to be “aiming”, of course. Even without the blindfold, the gunman jerks and twitches furiously.

Taking a deep breath, you hiss out an order to the other two.

>Hit them hard. Leave no survivors
>Take out that gunman, and grab the other two. Don't let them get away
>Let him shoot, we'll take them while they're reeling
>Other

>>765041
>Take out that gunman, and grab the other two. Don't let them get away

>>765041
>>Take out that gunman, and grab the other two. Don't let them get away

>>765041

>>Take out that gunman, and grab the other two. Don't let them get away

I'm guessing we'll take out the gunman and Cid and Camilla will subdue the other two?

>>765041
>>Take out that gunman, and grab the other two. Don't let them get away
A part of me wants to go for the last choice but if the boss is blindfolded then now is the best time to take him out.

>>765041
>>Take out that gunman, and grab the other two. Don't let them get away

>>765067

>Ah, yes. That's correct - I should have been more clear with that

You'll admit, a small part of you – a really very tiny part of you – wants to see if the gunman will make this shot. Maybe his god of death really will guide his hand. Still, when the jug is sitting on a man's trembling head, you're not about to gamble with anything.

You'll take out that gunman, you tell the other two, if they focus on grabbing the other two. One of them is tied up, true, but you want to make sure – knots can come undone, especially in the midst of a panic. Whatever happens, you don't want anyone to get away here.

“Understood,” Camilla whispers back, “We'll move on your go.”

“Be careful,” Cid warns you, “He is blindfolded, yes, but take no chances. I've heard tales of-”

“Enough of your damn tales!” the woman hisses, “This isn't a god or a spirit, this is an idiot with a pistol – something more dangerous than either of those.”

Before the two of them can get into a real argument – before they can make themselves more of a danger than the fool with the pistol – you wave them forwards with a curt gesture. As you do that, you rise and move out into the clearing with your pistol drawn. There's no need for shouting orders or bellowing out threats, and so you move quietly.

And then, something very strange happens.

-

Perhaps it's the trees and ferns rustling as you emerge from the treeline. Perhaps you made a sound without realising it. There are many things that could explain what happens, but none of the excuses quite sit right with you. Whatever rationale you give it, it doesn't change the facts. You emerge from the trees, and the blindfolded gunman turns to point his pistol at you. He turns to aim at you, and this time his hands don't tremble in the slightest.

As the gunman cries out a single word of your own language - “Devil!” - you bring up your own pistol. With an uncanny synchrony, you both fire.

>Calling for a Firearms check, so that's 1D100+20, aiming to beat 70/90. I'll take the highest of the first three results

File: 1468835241656.png (843 KB, 1000x1000)

843 KB PNG

Rolled 34 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>765148

Rolled 68 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>765148

Rolled 44 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>765148

>>765156
I think we should burn focus for the +20 here. I have a suspicion we are about to get shot if we don't get the highest tier.

>>765156
Glad I finally got to participate and saved the roll.

>>765161
I doubt we'd get shot on a success, even a minor one. It's probably to get him before he takes the shot. We may need the focus later for a more important roll.

>>765161
No objections here, session almost over too if we can get meta.

>>765174
I thought it refreshed after every "arc" so to say. Not every session.

>>765183
It's been session for the past threads.

>>765161
In favor

>>765183
Every session

>[Focus remaining: 0]

The gunshots pierce the heavy, humid air, their scent immediately lending a violent anger to the background smells of plants and earth. One shot each, as if you were noblemen playing at an archaic form of duelling. His shot churns up a clump of soil at your feet, not all that far away from you – his shot lands closer than it has any right to, considering his blindfold – but your shot takes him square in the chest, centre of mass.

Gasping out something, some word in a tongue you know that you will never speak, the gunman falls backwards. Not quite dead yet, his clumsy motions tell you that the life is fast leaving his body. With his last remaining strength, he swipes away the blindfold and stares up at the sky. When he next gasps, he can't even muster the effort to form a word – he just lets the air creep out of his body, taking the last traces of life with it.

“Good shot,” Cid says, his voice haunted by a faint insincerity, “I, ah, I managed to keep his friend from getting away. Hard work, yes?” He pats the tree as he says this, the bound man still wriggling within the knotted ropes.

“Of course you'd go for the easy mark,” Camilla grumbles, dragging the final man along with her as she joins you, “Well, whatever. This isn't exactly the first time I've had to chase down a fleeing suspect.”

As the other two glare at each other, you look down into the dead man's face. His eyes are wide open, the pupils stretched out into yawning black. Long tails of scar tissue creep down from his eyes, forever marking him as the man you came here to find – to kill.

“You see now, yes?” Cid murmurs to you as he approaches, “A blind man could not make that shot. You are sceptical, I know that, but you cannot deny what you see with your own eyes.”

Just a lucky shot, you mutter, and not even that lucky. And even if there really was a spirit guiding his aim, it can't have been a very good one. You'd ask for your money back, if you were in his position.

“No sir, if you were in his position, you wouldn't do a thing,” the southerner corrects you, “Because you'd be dead.”

Can't argue with that.

>I think I'll pause things here for today. I'll pick things up on Monday, and I'll stick around in case anyone has any questions or comments
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>765370
Thanks for running Moloch.

So compared to the witchcraft up north where it's effects are mostly indirect the spirits down here directly support their people?

>>765370
Thanks for running Moloch. See you Monday.

>>765370
Cid's an alright guy, I like him. That shot was pretty damn close, so I'm pretty glad we used the focus on it. Thanks for running.

>>765389

That's a pretty apt description, yes. The spirits are generally less powerful, in terms of influence, but they're also easier to deal with. Spirits in the south can't jam a ship's engine with weeds and vines, but they can make you damn lucky, for example.

>>765436
Is there any culture you are basing the Southerners on?

Pacific Islander? South American? African? Trolls from Warcraft?

>>765486

The main inspiration for the southerners are South American cultures, with a bit of Pacific Islanders thrown in. That said, I'm not binding myself too closely to any one source, and I'm drawing from a few other bits and pieces

What would it take for Camilla to at the very least start to accept that voodoo/witchcraft are a thing that should be prepared for?

>>765692
I think Camilla already accepts witchcraft as real considering what she has seen and fought, but she likes to parrot the Ministry's official stance to strangers.

>>765566
Is that right?

>>765717
>>765692

Camilla is very cautious about openly declaring any support for the idea of witchcraft, even in somewhere like the south where it's not as much of a big deal. That said, she's pragmatic enough to take witchcraft seriously if it gets thrust into the open.

So, overall, I'd say >>765717 is correct. She sticks to the official stance, even if she doesn't really believe it

>>765370
>you wouldn't do a thing,” the southerner corrects you, “Because you'd be dead.
I wonder if southerners have their own version of nihilo where you can literally complain to your god before being carted off to afterlife/non-existence

Mazka, Cid tells you later, is a particularly potent local liquor. Made with a varying blend of herbs, the drink has deep roots in the old ways – ways of spirits and legends. Drinking enough of the vile stuff was said to separate a man's mind from his body, lifting him up and letting him commune with the spirits. Under the influence of the spirits – a piece of wordplay that Cid seemed particularly proud of – men would behave in strange ways, or shout out in curiously inhuman tongues.

Which, you pointed out, all sounded like normal drunken foolishness – nothing that you haven't already seen on the streets of Port Steyr.

Cid had conceded the point. Either way, you both agreed to save the debate for later, for when you've got a little more free time.

For now, you've got more important business to take care of – the small matter of your two prisoners.

-

With their wrists bound, the two men sit in the dirt in front of the old, ruined house. Their heads are bowed, and they mostly keep a sullen silence. Occasionally, they will trade a few murmured words – always in their own, foreign tongue – but those exchanges are rare. Overall, they don't seem too upset about their situation. Even the presence of Hollas' body, left lying in the dirt, doesn't get much of a reaction from them.

Cid stood guard over them as you and Camilla searched the ruined building, searching for any evidence or useful materials. Several clay jugs of foul smelling mazka – and several more empty vessels – make up the majority of the items left behind. Other than the liquor, you found only rotting food, a spare knife and a single parcel, something small wrapped in bloodied cloth.

Without ever having to discuss it, you and Camilla decided against opening the parcel. You could guess well enough what was inside without actually seeing it.

-

Sitting in the dirt, opposite the two prisoners, Cid seems entirely absorbed in whittling down a branch, sharpening the tip with his knife until he has a crude wooden stake at hand. You're not sure what he's planning on doing with the damn thing, and you're not about to ask. Maybe it's just an idle task to keep his hands busy. Maybe he's just trying to unnerve the captives. For all you know, it might just be a southern thing.

Either way, the rhythmic sound of blade scraping against wood lends the scene a surreal backdrop. The moment seems to stretch out without end, and only the sun blazing down from above feels real.

Someone needs to break this paralysing stillness, and that someone is you.

[1/3]

>>775320

You're not here to harm them, you tell the prisoners slowly, you're just here to talk. Does either of them understand, you ask a moment later, can they speak your language? Your question is met by nothing more than a blank stare, and frustration forces you to pace back and forth. You'd rather not resort to working through a translator for this, especially if they have important information to share. As your mood blackens, you snatch up one of the jugs of mazka and thrust it at one of the prisoners, the one who had been bound and threatened. A drink, you ask with insincere politeness, would he like a drink?

“No!” he cries, breaking his silence at long last, “Not that. No!”

So he can talk, you grunt, he can understand you – you're getting somewhere. How about a name?

“Rahar,” he offers, with great reluctance, “And he is Marcelo. This is... about the girl, yes? The woman that Hollas cut.” He bows his head, breaking his eyes away from you. “I admit it. Hollas, he said that he would take away her looks, her face, but I did not expect him to go so far. To do... that. Even then, he was growing unstable. He drank every day, that same poison, and he talked to empty air. The spirits, he said, they were guiding him.”

“Do you think that excuses this?” Camilla asks sharply, throwing her cigarette to the ground and stamping it out, “Does that excuse any of this?”

Rahar flinches at her voice, but Marcelo manages to stammer out a stream of foreign words. Cid repeats them under his breath, his lips moving silently as he translates them. “He says that he is a fool,” Cid tells you, smiling faintly, “They were both swept up by fine words and promises. Now, those promises have turned to ashes, and they realise their mistakes. Very convenient, yes? Amusing, how these men always see the light when they get caught, but never before.”

A mocking silence descends once again. As you watch, long trails of sweat creep down from Rahar's scalp, crawling the length of his face to darken the loose collar of his shirt. Amusing, you repeat, definitely. You'd be even more amused if these good men were willing to cooperate – to play along and work with you.

“A deal,” Cid agrees, stabbing the stake down into the soft soil, “Always a deal. Everything here comes down to the same thing – give and take, buy and sell. Favours traded for favours, you see? Your friend, he would have killed you if we had not stepped in. This gives you a debt, now you must pay.”

You're a reasonable man, you tell the pair of kneeling, you're sure that you can come to some kind of deal. What, then, does he have to bargain with?

[2/3]

>>775321

“Bargain?” Rahar hesitates, his lips squirming as he tries to speak, “We have... nothing. Nothing we can offer you – what you see here, that is all we have!”

They have knowledge, you counter, and information will always have value. What that value amounts to, however, is up to them and what they're prepared to tell you. Start with Hollas, you press, when did he turn on them?

“He... changed. Hollas said that he spoke with the spirits, but then he, ah...” Rahar trails off, only for Marcelo to pick up the dangling thread, a rapid jumble of foreign words spilling from his lips. Rahar winces at the outburst, and you glance across at Cid for a translation.

“He says that Hollas drank too deeply of the mazka, and that let the spirit claim him. Superstition, and not the kind worth listening to,” Cid barks out a few harsh words in his own tongue, and Marcelo looks down at the ground, suitably chastised. “Remember why we are here, friend,” Cid continues, “Business. Nothing else.”

There's almost something of an order in his voice, you muse, and you don't really care for it. Before you can press the issue, however, Cid retreats a short distance and busies himself with examining Hollas' corpse. What he's looking for, however, you couldn't even begin say. Frowning hard, you turn your attention back to Rahar. He spoke of fine words and promises earlier, you ask, who made those promises?

“I cannot say,” Rahar shakes his head, “You do not understand. He would kill me.”

Escher might kill him instead, you counter, if he doesn't talk. Right now, he doesn't have a whole lot of options. Fortunately for him, you're a little more easy going than most – if there's a deal to be made, you're his best bet.

“A deal...” Rahar licks his lips nervously, “I want to live, even if means leaving my home behind. We would need to vanish, you understand? Disappear, like dead men. Can you promise that? If we give you the name you want, we could not stay here. We must run – now, today.”

Perhaps he will run, you think, running straight back to his boss with a warning. There's always a risk in leaving witnesses, trusting them to uphold their side of the deal. Trust, in these parts, is not something you can take for granted.

>I'll take that deal. Give me the name, and you two can walk away
>No deal. We can't afford to leave witnesses
>Other

>>775322
>>I'll take that deal. Give me the name, and you two can walk away
They seem terrified and their only chance of staying alive is to book it, long as they understand that they shouldn't go running back to their boss.

>>775322
>>I'll take that deal. Give me the name, and you two can walk away
"A word of advice though. Before either of you two, Marcelo and Rahar, entertain ideas about running back to your boss, if I even get the suspicion that you two are still in town I am going to tell everyone in town that you two ratted him out in exchange for your lives. And from the sound of things your boss would not appreciate that. Understood?"

>>775322
>Pull a hair from each of them.
>I'll take that deal. Give me the name, and you two can walk away
>But I'm warning you: I have Wolf blood from the North. Now that I have your names and your hair I can find you anywhere. Just in case you intend to play a trick on me.

Let's try to play on their superstitiousness.

>>775322
>We'll "escort" you to a captain who can bring you to the north. He will probably have jobs for you as well, to get you started.

So are we having the orphanage section 2 days from now, spirits in full action on All Souls Day?

>>775335
>>775336
Supporting these

You'll take that deal, you tell them, but you won't let them go without giving them a warning. If they're thinking about crossing you, about fleeing back to their boss and telling him a pretty tale, they should stop those thoughts dead. You'll know, and you'll not be merciful. Telling everyone in New Odyss that they were the ones to give up their leader would only be the start. Word would surely find its way back to this boss of theirs, correct?

Rahar, with a slight hope finding its way into his eyes, nods slowly. The growing hope falters as you approach him, and he flinches hard as you put a hand on his shoulder. Reaching down, you draw your knife and split a few hairs off his scalp, repeating the same process with Marcelo.

You're a Wolf of the northern people, you tell them both, able to track a man to the furthest corner of the land. You've got their scent now, and you'll be able to find them if they ever think of betrayal. Their boss might be looking for them, but you'll find them first. Is that understood?

Marcelo is the one to answer this, blurting out something that you know is a curse. A curse is a curse, no matter what language it is said in, but you still glance across at Cid for a translation. “He says that you are the devil,” Cid tells you, briefly looking around from the dead body, “That all you northerners are crazy. You frighten him, I think.”

Everything is as it should be, you think to yourself, they bought your threat completely. With the two locks of hair still clutches in your fist, you circle back around to look them in the eye. So, you ask calmly, how about they give you that name?

“Eruo Aguwan,” Rahar tells you, without a moment of hesitation, “He is the one calling for men to rise against your Escher. He was the one who filled Hollas with ill-thoughts. He even finds weapons for them, as if he takes them from the empty air!”

“He's telling the truth,” Camilla calls, from the distant spot in which she lurked, “That's our man, no doubt about it.”

Well, you say with a nod, you'll call that a fair trade. You'll let them go, and they'd better live up to their side of it. Run fast, and run far.

“We will not stay here,” Rahar promises as you cut the cord binding his wrists, “There is nothing for us here now. I do not know where we will go, but...”

Go north, you suggest, find a captain who needs a pair of extra men and head north. The cold might not suit them, but it's certainly far enough away. They'd be complete strangers there. You can even escort them back to the docks.

“No, ah, we know the way,” standing, rubbing his wrists, Rahar doesn't meet your gaze, “We-”

That wasn't an offer, you add, that he could refuse.

[1/2]

>>775322
>>I'll take that deal. Give me the name, and you two can walk away

>>775386

As Rahar and Marcelo trudge sullenly ahead of you, Cid catches up and starts to speak, his voice pitched low. “The north is a good place for them,” he admits, “To the men here, they will be as good as dead. Even Escher won't care about them. A problem is not a problem when it is far away, yes? From here, I would think they will travel to the plantations. The work there will keep them hidden until a ship takes them north. A strange kind of mercy, my friend, sending them to your home.”

It's better than dying, you point out, isn't it?

“Ah, some would disagree,” Cid shrugs, offering you a faint grin, “Can you say, yourself, that all men in the north would be happy to travel south?”

Shielding your eyes with a hand, you look up at the blazing sun. He might well have a point there, you think.

-

Camilla fiddles with something as you walk, and you soon realise that it's the pistol Hollas had used. “It's old,” she tells you, “It was Ministry issue once, I think. It's hard to be sure, though – most of the markings have worn away. It's been... a pretty long since they used revolvers like this, though.”

Taking the gun from her, you turn it over in your hands. The metal is tarnished and worn, but all the essential parts work fine enough. Build to last, these old models.

“It was probably buried as part of an old stockpile,” Camilla offers, “Although how it came to be in the hands of some local criminals, I couldn't say. Maybe just blind luck, digging in the right spot. A cache of weapons and supplies would probably get a fair price around here... or it might get you killed, depending on who you try to sell it to.”

Well, you reply drily, that's one way to get a discount.

-

“The local docks are south here,” Cid tells you, pointing to a split in the path, “My ship is there, along with countless others. I will take these men, show them to another island. Escher will wish to hear of our success here – go to him, I will return later. I hope that he can help you, friends, with what you seek.”

So do you, you agree, otherwise this would have all been for nothing.

“Ah, do not worry. Escher, he speaks with many voices and listens with many ears. If what you seek is here, in the colonies, he will know of it.”

“And what if it isn't here?” Camilla asks, more out of curiosity than any real doubt, “What if we're looking for something that can't be found in the north or the south?”

“Friends,” Cid's eyes grow wide and sincere, almost childish, “There IS nowhere else.”

[2/3]

>>775423
>“There IS nowhere else.”
Scared. Ditching the quest and exploring the East and West when?

>>775432
That's for Lize Adventures™ after we bite it.

>>775436
But Henryk is immortal Anon

>>775436
Got it. So the plan is to go against Artemis once we're done and get our ass kicked by her so we can go on Lize Adventures. Sounds good to me.

>>775448
But then Lize Adventures will be about revenge, not exploring.

File: free-shrugs.jpg (50 KB, 449x642)

50 KB JPG

>>775448
In all seriousness I have no idea what's going to happen at the end of the 12 beasts.

Artemis's ascension could be a simple thing and we get rewarded for our service.

Or we could be ushering in the apocalypse or something and the Knights killed her for a reason.

No idea what we are empowering.

>>775451
Why not both Anon? We go exploring to train ourselves up with our super special Dragon blood and get ready to smack that bitch Artemis.

>>775423

Lu is working the bar when you return to the Lucky Two Fingers, wiping the notched wood with a rag. Bartenders have a habit of doing that, you note with faint amusement, no matter where they are. You could travel to the furthest corner of the land, and you might still find a bartender wiping their bar with a rag. Assuming, of course, you could find a bar in the first place.

“They dead?” she asks as she sees you, her voice as curt as usual.

Dead and gone, you reply – which is, you suppose, not untrue.

“Good deal,” Lu nods slowly, as if the news offers her little in the way of satisfaction, “I'll get the boss, he'll want to hear about this. Wait here a minute.” Tossing the rag down, Lu vanishes off into what you now know to be Escher's room. He takes her place a few moments later, standing behind the bar and studying your face.

“Well,” he begins, “I hear that you've held up your side of the deal. Did you manage to get a name?”

Eruo Aguwan, you tell him, if that means anything to him. It certainly doesn't mean anything to you, but you're not a local.

“Eruo Aguwan,” Escher repeats the name to himself, chuckling softly, “You remember my little story, don't you? About how I earned my place here?”

Sure, you tell him as you nod to the cleaver, it's not a story you'd forget in a hurry – not with that thing hanging over the bar.

“It tends to remind people. Why I keep it around, really,” Escher chuckles again, “Luis Aguwan was the man who first threatened me – the man who I came to an “agreement” with. Eruo, on the other hand, is his younger brother. Rather more, shall we say, erratic than the elder sibling. He always wanted to keep the feud going, but his brother stopped him. It seems like something must have changed lately. I'll have to look into this...” Folding his arms, Escher glances back to the cleaver as he says this.

So you've lived up to your side of the deal, you tell him, is he going to live up to his?

“Of course!” Escher takes a bottle from the bar and pours three small glasses, “Truth be told, I sent out the word as soon as you told me what you were looking for. It got me curious, so I thought I'd see what was out there. If you're in a hurry, however, I have bad news for you – you might need to wait a few days. Asking around is never quick work.”

Irritating, you think, but not that surprising. It gives you time to plan your next move, at least.

“So,” Escher throws back his drink, “There we are. Anything I can do for you?”

>No, there's nothing
>What are you planning on doing about Eruo?
>I want to hear about the Orphanage – facts, not stories
>I wanted to ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>775474
>I want to hear about the Orphanage – facts, not stories

>>775474
>I want to hear about the Orphanage – facts, not stories

>>775474
>>I want to hear about the Orphanage – facts, not stories
Time for some spooks.

>>775474
>>I want to hear about the Orphanage – facts, not stories

>>775474
>>I wanted to ask you what has he heard about local rebels? Any spots to avoid because of them? Something big might be in the makes.
>>I want to hear about the Orphanage – facts, not stories.

You want to hear about this Orphanage, you tell Escher bluntly, and you want facts. You've heard enough stories about the place, about witchcraft and noisy spirits – now you want to hear what he knows about it.

“First of all, stranger, I'll thank you to lower your voice,” Escher warns, “It's something of a sore spot for a lot of people around here – and I would include myself in that. There are a lot things that stir up trouble in this part of the world, and digging up this particular bit of the past is one of them. Put simply, the Ministry fucked up. Quite spectacularly, I'd even say. So, before we go any further, I want to know the kind of issues you might be stirring up. Be careful about the sorts of questions you ask, and the people you ask them to, in other words.”

Camilla seems to tense up slightly at the mention of the Ministry, her hand tightening around the glass. Although her lips drawn back into a thin, hard line, she keeps quiet for now. Waiting, perhaps, to see how bad the story is. Taking your own glass in hand, you nod for Escher to continue.

“Well then. Where to start?” he refills his glass, more to buy himself some time than anything else, “I like to believe that it was founded with good intentions. Like any orphanage, it was meant to take in abandoned children. You get a lot here, especially when the parents are...”

Mixed?

“Right, exactly. Sailors mingle with the local women, and the children are shunned a result,” Escher grunts, “The Orphanage was a trial, the first of what might have been many places. Take the street kids, teach them a good northern way of life. It keeps them out of trouble, and it stops them falling in with the wrong crowd. Like I said, good intentions. Shame that it never quite worked out that way.”

So what went wrong?

“Simply put? They had other children that needed dealing with. At that time – and we're talking about a good few decades ago – rebellion was a real possibility. Whole families were stirring the pot. The Ministry would catch them, and throw every adult in the cells, or just shoot them on the spot. That left them with a problem – what to do with the children?” pausing to take a drink, Escher studies your reaction, “I suppose it was something of a compromise. Send the children to be care for, and taught the error of their ways. If I was being charitable, I might call it re-education. There was just one problem, however...”

Take a kid and shoot their parents dead, you guess, and they won't exactly be open to a new education.

“Exactly so,” Escher nods, “So the Orphanage ended up as just another prison – somewhere to hold the kids until they were old enough for a regular dungeon. Needless to say, the locals quickly began to loathe the place, and that was before the stories started slipping out.”

[1/2]

>>775539

More stories, you mutter to yourself.

“I know, you wanted facts. Well, you've had everything that I can confirm – now this is the stuff that I can't be so sure about,” Escher offers you a humourless shrug, “But if you want to understand what gives the place such a bad reputation, you need to delve into the stories. No spirits, at least. Not yet. I said that the Orphanage was a Ministry project, and that was mostly true. Mostly. There was a significant College investment as well, and that was the sticking point.”

Once again, it seems like the bad news leads you back to the College. What is it about the search for knowledge that pushes men into such dark waters?

“There were disappearances. If they were reported, most of them were put down to the children escaping or being moved to other facilities – a blatant lie, considering that there weren't any other facilities,” Escher shakes his head, “As it became clear that the experiment wasn't working, it seemed like the disappearances increased. By the end, when the Orphanage shut down and released the children, there were hardly any left. Damn near every single one of the survivors vanished within a few weeks. No official explanation was ever given, for anything, but the rumours usually pointed the finger at the College. It wasn't long after the place was abandoned that people started to talk about spirits and such, giving the whole damn island an even worse reputation.”

You can see why people don't like to talk about it now, you murmur, it's one hell of a dirty secret. The official silence would have only encouraged the speculation. What was the College there for, officially?

“To provide medical treatment, I believe,” Escher smirks slightly at that, “And to educate the children – give them a good dose of civilisation. You can probably guess how successful that way.”

Not very, you suggest.

“Got it in one. You win another drink,” Escher refills your glass, “So there you have it – the facts, as I understand them. Every time the stories start to spread again, the locals resent northerners that little bit more... it's like a wound that never really heals. You'll understand, then, why I try not to talk about it – and why I'd like to change the subject.”

Right, you reply with a humourless smile, but the next subject might not be that much better. You're interested in the local rebels, if any are still around. You might need to avoid them, so what sorts of places do they stick to?

“Trust me,” Escher tells you, “It's a better subject. Damn near anything would be.”

[2/3]

>>775579

“So, rebellious locals,” the hoary old man leans on the bar for a moment, considering the issue, “Those islands on your map, the ones without any names attached? Those are likely spots – the League doesn't have a large presence there, so criminal elements can flourish. Of course, as soon as those criminals start trying to stir up trouble elsewhere, they get crushed. Frankly, the types of men you get hiding out there barely count as rebels. They squat in dank jungles and swamps, crowing about how free they are, but they never actually DO anything. If that's their freedom, they're welcome to it.”

“Now, other islands... The Boneyard is neutral. Skinner deals with anyone, so long as they don't disrespect him. He doesn't care about north or south. Isla Nomann, you might find rebels hiding there. Truth be told, most of that damn place is a mystery – the swamps and jungles are thick enough to hide a bloody city, while the natives don't exactly welcome guests. Ever since some bastard made off with a pair of fancy jade idols, northerners are far from trusted. Anyone who asks me about the place, I tell them the same thing – work through an intermediary, a local. It might take longer, but it's less hassle for everyone. Plus, if things do go wrong, you won't be the one who ends up in a cooking pot!”

Judging by the way Escher bellows laughter, you have to assume that's a joke. Probably.

-

Conversation soon trails off, and Escher excuses himself. Camilla also murmurs some vague excuse, slipping away to get a little fresh air. You can't really blame her – the Lucky Two Fingers has something of a unique smell to it, a vast and overlapping tapestry of different odours, sweat chief among them. It's to be expected really, considering the climate.

Alone, for what seems like the first time in a great many days, you wander the maze of stalls and stands that make up the Lucky Two Fingers. Stopping only to get something to eat – something reassuringly familiar – you return to what passes as the local hotel. There, the clerk shows you to a better standard of room, claiming that Escher ordered the move. Since you have to wait for your payment, you get the luxury of waiting in one of the nicer rooms. Not THE nicest, mind.

The bed, at least, doesn't look like it's just been used, so you flop down and let sleep claim you. After everything you've been through, you deserve a damn nap.

[3/4]

>>775635

You don't get the chance to sleep long enough to see if Artemis will reach out to you again. A scant few hours pass while you toss and turn, with the sharp knock at the door almost coming as a relief. Rising, shaking off your fatigue, you open the door to see Cid, his face unusually solemn.

“Your woman is not happy, friend,” he warns you, “I am told that Escher gave you a history lesson. It seems that what she learned does not agree with her.”

Not all that surprising, you think, considering the ill light it cast the Ministry in. Before you can ask more about it, Cid presses on ahead.

“Ah, do not worry. She has not fled or fallen into another man's arms. She is outside, filling her lungs with smoke,” Cid shrugs, seeming to dismiss the whole affair as irrelevant, “No, I came here for another reason. You have been asking a lot about the Orphanage, yes? You are... interested in it?”

Something like that, you tell him vaguely, but you're interested in a lot of things. Is he here to warn you against digging too deeply?

“No, I came here to...” Cid glances around, checking to see if anyone is listening in, “Do you wish to see it? I can take you there, you and your woman. Tonight, if it pleases you. Now, even.”

His offer hangs in the air for a moment, his wide eyes seeming to swallow up all of his face. They glint with excitement, fear, and the daring light of a man preparing to commit some taboo act.

>Alright. Let's go
>No thanks, I'll have to pass
>Cid, don't go there. It could be dangerous
>Other

>>775665
>>Alright. Let's go
What could possibly go wrong? I'm not one to turn down side quests either, especially not themed ones like this one might be.

>>775665
Well between our options of sitting around twidling our thumbs for a few days or checking out a potentially incredibly dangerous place that holds one of the Ministry's dirtier secrets...

>Alright. Let's go
I imagine Camilla would appreciate seeing it with her own eyes, even though she will not like what she finds.

>>775665
>>Alright. Let's go

>>775665
>Alright. Let's go
Let's get the spooky on.

But the spooky things will be US.

>>775673
Could have also checked out any of the other islands, just had to make a write in.

>>775709
Only other island of interest imo is Calvara, where everything went dark.

We'll probably have time to find out what's up with that later.

>>775716
Nomann sounds neat too if it has a forest that could hide a city. Then there's all the unnamed islands which are totally bonus grounds.

This could be incredibly dangerous, setting foot in ground that – while not exactly forbidden – is certainly not welcoming. The Ministry's dark secrets are hiding there, along with a mess of witchcraft and spirit worship. The whole thing might be a giant trap, a snare for explorers with more curiosity than sense. What you're getting at is, this might well be a terrible idea.

Alright, you tell Cid with barely a moment of hesitation, you're ready to go. No sense in waiting around here, staring at the walls.

-

For a moment, as you step outside the Lucky Two Fingers, you think that a low fog has fallen across New Odyss. Then, as you smell the air and catch the odour of tobacco smoke, you realise the source of this mist. Lurking in an alcove, a crooked gap set into the wall, Camilla seems set on aggressively working her way through an entire pack of cigarettes. Wafting a hand in front of your face, you mutter for Cid to wait as you approach her. A faint flash of guilt touches Camilla's face when you reach her, replaced by a weary smile.

“Bad habit, I know,” she nods to the crumpled pile of cigarette butts, “Hardly what you'd call moderation, is it? It's just... hearing about the Orphanage...”

If that's what happens when she hears about it, you tell her, you're curious what she'd do if she saw it with her own eyes.

“You're joking,” Camilla's voice is flat, too stunned to be incredulous, “You're not joking, are you?”

Cid made the offer, you say with a shrug, and you've been getting curious. Maybe there's nothing there – nothing that brings you closer to Yvette, at least – but you're still interested in seeing it for yourself. If she doesn't want to come with you...

“No, I want to come,” she nods, before grimacing, “No, allow me to rephrase that – I don't want to come, but I have a duty to see this. Turning away from the truth won't change anything, and we might be able to salvage something from it. At the very least, the people who disappeared there deserve...” Pausing, she scowls hard and searches for the right word. “They deserve someone to remember them,” she finishes, “To know what happened there. It might never be official, but it's the least I can do.”

A little taken aback by the seriousness of her voice – you hadn't been expecting her to take this all so personally – you nod. Good to have her onboard, you assure her, but now you'd better get moving – your guide is starting to look restless.

Cid, pretending not to listen in on your conversation, looks hastily away and starts to whistle tunelessly.

[1/2]

>>775635
>since some bastard made off with a pair of fancy jade idols
Oh hi, captain Harper!

>>775733

The jungle looks very different in the fading evening light, you think, like it's been drained of all life and vitality. There's plenty of noise, at least, with countless shrill animal sounds screaming out to you. Insects, Cid assures you, nothing to be worried about. A perfectly normal thing to hear in these parts, apparently. You never see any of these insects, but the noises are bad enough. Considering how loud their cries are, you can only picture something the size of a dog, maybe even larger.

Shuddering, you follow Cid as he leads you along the jungle path, heading south to the local docks. Time to see if his ship is worth a damn.

-

The Ghoul was a small ship, streamlined and built to carry a smaller number of men to shore. Compared with the Navaja, however, the Ghoul was a vast and hulking thing. What you first take to be a fishing ship, something built to leisurely carry half a dozen men at most, Cid's ship proves to be both fast and powerful. Glowing with pride, he ushered you and Camilla aboard before firing up the engine. At the first roar, a serene look passes across his face.

“This is the way to travel, yes?” he shouts, as the Navaja is powering away from New Odyss, “No waiting, we set our own pace!”

With the ship cutting through the moonlit waters, casting up a spray of silver to either side of you, there aren't many arguments you could offer. Even if you could disagree with him, you have little doubt that Cid would wave away your complaints. Considering the simple delight spread across his face, you suspect that he wouldn't even notice your complaints.

“How did you even get a ship like this?” Camilla calls, raising her voice over the roar of the engine, “This must have cost a fortune!”

“Ah, it is not for me,” Cid answers, with a faint reluctance, “It is for business, you see? Sometimes, Escher needs things to be moved quickly, very quickly! For that, he had the Navaja made. Very expensive, all the parts specially made in the north. Unique, I believe, although maybe not now. I will admit this – you northerners know your ships!”

What kind of things, you ask, does Escher need moved?

Laughing away your question, Cid does something with the controls and – somehow – manages to wring a little extra speed out of the nimble little vessel. With the engines snarling louder than ever, asking any more questions would be an exercise in futility. All you can do is tighten your grip on the metal railings and enjoy the ride.

Not such a bad deal, you have to admit.

[2/3]

File: The Orphanage.jpg (300 KB, 1400x765)

300 KB JPG

>>775815

When you approach the Orphanage – it seems that island and institution have merged over the years, taking the same sinister name – Cid eases back on the speed. As the pace drops lower, so too does his jubilation. By the time you're heading inland, flanked by thick walls of trees, his mouth had shrunken down to a flat, hard line. Everything about this island has a faintly diseased air about it, with the trees drooping low and dipping their branches into the dirty waters. A thick layer of scum covers the water, smearing up against the Navaja's hull as it creeps forwards. The grime seems to cause Cid something akin to physical pain, his eyes narrowed to dark and angry slits.

It isn't long, then, before the waters thicken into a stagnant swamp, and the Navaja slows even more. At the first sign of solid ground, Cid guides his ship to shore and cuts the engine. “Ah, it pains me to leave her alone,” he mutters, “But it must be done. Who, here, would steal her?”

True enough, the island is deserted – you're yet to see a single other human being, or any sign that men once set foot here. The whole island gives the impression of something that has been left to decay, to rot away and be forgotten. Some things, you consider, are better off like that. Some corpses should be left well alone.

-

When you first see the Orphanage, your hand reflexively drops to the pistol at your hip. It's not the building itself that puts you on your guard – although the crumbling ruin gives you plenty of reasons to be apprehensive – but the light that burns within. It's the kind of light that separates an occupied building from somewhere that has been truly abandoned. Someone is within, and they don't care who knows it.

“I had hoped, ah...” Cid hesitates, “That it would be deserted. Perhaps I was a fool, but I did not think to see other people here.”

“What about all those fine tales of witches gathering here?” Camilla asks, “Didn't he believe any of them?”

“A story is a story,” he argues, “A story cannot split your skull and boil your bones for soup.”

If he wants to turn back, you offer, you won't hold it against him. He can keep an eye on that ship of his while you take a look around.

“No, I will come with you,” steeling himself, Cid nods, “I am a guide, and a translator. You may yet have need of me, yes? Better than you can talk with whoever waits inside, to find peace and common ground. Or, at least, so that you might say “don't eat us!” and have your protests understood.”

“If they understood us,” Camilla asks quietly, “Would it really make a difference?”

“Doubtful,” Cid admits, “But I am an optimist. Shall we enter?”

He asks that, but you're the one who leads them inside.

[3/4]

>>775860

Blindness, you're starting to suspect, doesn't mean much in the southern colonies. Although the woman that you meet inside is clearly blind – the milky whiteness of her eyes is proof enough of that – she still looks easily between the three of you. Even when you take a slow, silent step to one side, her head tracks you. As if knowing exactly why you moved, her wizened lips raise in a cunning smile. She looks, at the very least, like she won't throw you out or try to eat you. Maybe.

“I don't get guests very often,” she says, her words accented but otherwise perfect, “And now three at once.” Slowly, she looks between the three of you once more before adding a single word - “Cique”.

Seek way, you repeat, what way?

“Cique,” she repeats, “My name. I won't ask for yours – names mean little at my age.”

What her age is, however, you could only guess. Truly ancient, perhaps. Her skin is dark – not a hint of northern blood there – and heavily creased with wrinkles. Long dark hair, woven into fat braids, falls down around her. She's dressed in old clothes, ragged despite signs of being repaired often. There's a kind of humour about her expression, like she has some private joke that she won't ever share with the world.

“So, what brings you here?” Cique asks calmly, “There is precious little in the way of treasure here. Not even treasured memories, if you will allow an old woman her whimsy.”

>We came looking for anything the Ministry left behind. Secrets, maybe
>I came seeking a witch. I have many questions that need answering
>Do you live here?
>We're just... lost. That's all
>Do you mind answering a few questions? (Write in)
>Other

>>775892
>>We came looking for anything the Ministry left behind. Secrets, maybe
>Do you live here?
She seems nice.

>>775892
>Do you live here?
>We came looking for anything the Ministry left behind. Secrets, maybe

>>775892
>Do you live here?

>>775892
>>We came looking for anything the Ministry left behind. Secrets, maybe
>>You might be able to answer some other questions I have about local 'superstitions'.

You came looking for anything the Ministry left behind, you say slowly, any... secrets.

“Something the Ministry left behind?” Cique repeats, her blind eyes fixed on your face. When you nod – certain that she would “see” the gesture – her ironic smile deepens. “Well, you've found one thing, at least. Did you ever imagine that you'd find a dirty little secret that could tell its own story?”

“Wait,” Camilla blurts out, “You? You were raised here, in the Orphanage?”

Yes, you ask, and does she still live here?

“Yes I was, and yes I do,” Cique's voice hardens slightly, although her smile doesn't flicker, “Not quite born here, but close. I was, I believe, less than a week old when my parents... vanished. What else was the Ministry supposed to do with a baby? They brought me here, and I've stayed ever since – give or take.” Sighing, Cique heaves herself to her feet and shuffles about a little. The room, now that you're able to tear your attention away from her, is littered with what you take to be her belongings. Not that you could really say that she had many – mostly, you can spot lumps of carven wood and not much else.

“A woman needs a hobby,” Cique tells you, “I carve patterns pleasing to the spirits. You, on the other hand, poke about in decaying ruins. Which of us, I wonder, has the more boring life?” A dusty coughing noise rattles out of her old lungs, and you realise that she is laughing.

At the mention of spirits, your ears prick up. She might be able to help you, you suggest slowly, because you've been looking for someone like her – someone who might be able to tell you a few things about the local superstitions. Would she be willing to answer a few of your questions?

“Maybe I would,” Cique nods slowly, “But I wonder if you really know which questions to ask. What would a man like you, a man born of the north, wish to know about our ignorant ways?”

Under her gaze – her unwavering, blind sight – you find yourself hesitating. Swallowing hard, you force out the question that has been building within you. A man shot at you earlier, you tell her slowly, while blindfolded. He couldn't see you, but he came too damn close to hitting you. Was it just luck, you ask her, or could these spirits have really guided his aim?

“And you think I, a blind woman, would know the answer to this?” Cique asks gently, “Because all those who take away their sight are of one mind?”

That's not what you meant, you shoot back, you thought-

“Could a spirit have guided his aim, steering him towards his enemy? Yes, such things are possible,” Cique waves a hand at you, “Does that answer put your mind at rest, or make things worse?”

Actually... you're not sure how to answer that.

[1/2]

>>775964
It's not really surprising to be honest. Spirits are just another thing to add to the list of wierd shit we've seen recently.

>>775964

“No matter. The spirits will behave as they will, no matter if it pleases you or not,” she shakes her head, long braids of hair flapping back and forth, “Men of the south have always made deals with spirits. Make my blade find my foes, let the woman I love fall under my sway, every petty desire that men and women can think of, there is a spirit willing to listen... and to bargain. The cost, ah, few men ever like to consider the cost.”

“The rites and rituals, the offerings and prayers,” Cid says, confusion in his voice, “That is the cost, yes? The men I know are happy to pay such things, they consider it an honour.”

“Oh child, that's not the real cost. Spirits lend men their power, so that men open themselves to the spirits. You have seen this, haven't you? Men who lose themselves in mazka and their own power,” the old woman chuckles, “Their patron swallows them, and grows stronger in turn.”

You think of Hollas, and how he lost himself to a killing madness. As the dark thoughts cross your mind, Cique laughs.

“Or perhaps that is not true, and men simply lie to themselves. They believe they are gods – small gods, true, but not without power – and so they fall into madness. All I can tell you are the old stories,” she gives you a mocking shrug, “And who believes those? No, men want facts – matters of recorded history. You came seeking them, as you have said, and I can show them to you. Come, please.”

She turns to shamble away, lurching deeper into the dilapidated house without pausing to see if you'll follow or not. Camilla is the first one to move after her, while Cid shrugs and joins her. Not quite sure what you're getting yourself into, you follow them.

-

The rooms you pass all have the same look – strict, formal and regimented. Rows of desks and chairs – little more than corroded stumps now, with the wood long since rotten away – in some rooms, with rusted metal bed frames in another. Fumbling in her ragged clothes, Cique produces a worn key and holds it out, offering it to the three of you. Ahead, you see a metal door – tarnished, dented and scratched, but otherwise solid.

“All the records, all that survived the Orphanage's collapse, are inside. Much was left behind when this place was closed, and I spent a long time gathering it all,” she seems to hesitate for a moment, a rare display of weakness, “If you wish to look inside, I won't stop you. You have as much right to know as anyone else. What you find inside, however... you may not like it. I certainly didn't like, when I lived through it all.

Taking the key, you weigh it in your hand for a moment. Then, turning slowly, you slide it into the ancient lock.

[2/3]

>>776023

Fuckin' perfect Halloween episode Did you plan this Moloch?

>>776047

>I'd call it a happy accident more than anything else. The timing IS quite perfect!

>>776023

The records are divided up into two separate collections. The first ones you find are stamped with the Ministry seal – a bull's head, rendered in faded black ink – and seem innocent enough. Innocent, at least, compared with what you had been expecting. Records of academic achievement, disciplinary measures and even carefully written accounts of personalities. The “students” here were apparently given new names – virtuous ones, like “Patience” or “Hope”. Camilla even digs up a photograph, showing a row of gloomy looking southern children.

“I didn't have a uniform anywhere near that nice when I was at school,” Camilla mutters, “What about you?”

The school you went you, you reply, wasn't the kind of place that had uniforms.

“Excuse me,” Cid speaks up, his voice surprisingly hesitant, “I have found a word I do not know. Can you explain it?”

You can certainly try, you tell him, what is it?

“A long one, I'm afraid,” mouthing the word a few times to himself, Cid pronounces it carefully, “What is... vivisection?”

-

The medical records, marked with a College serpent, are a far bleaker story. With no restrictions placed upon them, the Scholars at the Orphanage had glutted themselves, indulging in any experiment they could imagine. Any children who fell prey to the local diseases were isolated and left to die as Scholars studied their developing symptoms. Others were used repeatedly – and excessively – as a source of southern blood to study. One theory suggested that newborn children might be capable of uncommon healing abilities. If carefully blinded, the theory reads, a child might grow to see once again.

That theory, needless to say, was proven false.

“I've heard of this,” Camilla murmurs, “This operation – to excise an inflamed organ. Konrad had one of his kidneys removed, he showed me the scar once. The surgery was developed here... and three children died before they got a method that worked.” She lets the old, crumpled paper fall from her hands, looking about at the other stacks and piles with growing dread. You're about to say something to her when a hand falls on your shoulder – skeletal, but very strong.

“Come with me,” Cique tells you, her voice pitched very low, “Just you. Leave them to it. We must talk, you and I.”

And why do you need to be alone?

“Because you're the only one here with white feathers trailing in his wake,” the old woman tells you, her words serious and sincere, “Now come. Leave them and follow me.”

White feathers, you repeat in suprise, wait...

But Cique isn't waiting – already, she's lurching ahead of you.

>Follow her. You need to hear this
>Let her leave. You can't trust her, and you're needed here
>Other

>>776102
>Follow her. You need to hear this

Tell them that you'll be back soon

>>776102
>>Follow her. You need to hear this
Here we go.

>>776102
>>Follow her. You need to hear this

>>776102
>Follow her. You need to hear this
Probably should let Camilla, at least, know we're stepping out for the moment, with a parting shout?

Maybe this is another one of Artemis's groomed servants.

>>776167
>Maybe this is another one of Artemis's groomed servants.
I think we are too far south for this.

Normally, the idea of splitting away from the rest of your group and moving deeper into an old, abandoned building would be a laughable one – a stupid mistake, one that might well spell disaster. Now though, with the mention of white feathers still hanging in the air, you know what you have to do. You need to hear this, to know what Cique is talking about. If she's got some secret knowledge about Artemis, you can't let the opportunity slip through your fingertips.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you tell the others to stay put. You just need to go check something out, you tell them, you won't be long. Looking up for a brief moment, Camilla gives you a short nod before returning to her bleak reading. Normally such a curt acknowledgement would sting, but now you're eager to accept. The less fuss this causes, the better. Leaving the other two to work, you hurry off after Cique.

-

All the while Cique leads you downstairs, you find yourself expecting disaster. A single missed step could send her into a deadly fall, leaving you bereft of the answers you're seeking. Yet, despite your worries, Cique never so much as stumbles. If anything, her footing is more stable than yours. She leads you down into a dark basement, throwing open a door and waving you inside.

The room she leads you into has a medical air, and the chair that she gestures to has a downright surgical look to it, even through the rust and rot crusted across it.

“Sit,” she tells you, turning away and busying herself with lighting a few candles. In the still air, the scratching sound of a match being lit is a dry thing, somehow dusty. Reluctantly, you settle down into the chair, listening carefully for any sounds of metal giving way beneath your weight.

She said white feathers, you ask her, what did she mean by that?

“You've got a bird on your shoulder. Ugly thing, if you don't mind me saying. Needs a good wash to get that blood off,” Cique sniffs, “Arktis, isn't it? One of many spirits down here, although I've never spoken with her. I dreamed about her last night, though. When you showed up, well, I knew that something was in motion. You've got questions, I'm sure.”

More questions than you ever thought possible, you admit to her, does she have any answers?

“Can I answer every question you have, in a way that would satisfy you?” Cique shrugs, taking a clay jug and swirling it, listening to the liquid within, “Probably not, but I will do what I can. First, I have a story to tell you. Drink.”

This is mazka, you guess as she passes you a clay cup, isn't it?

“A small dose, just to set the mood,” Cique nods at you, “Now drink.”

[1/2]

>>776167
She might be really good at picking up on the supernatural.

You know what they say about a blind person's other senses.

>>776215

The liquid burns down your throat as you drink it, vile fumes rising up before it's even settled in your stomach. More potent than any alcohol you've ever had, you feel the world shifting around you. With the candlelight throwing her shadow into wild, dancing forms, Cique begins to speak.

“What do you know, northerner, about the start of everything?” she asks, prowling a slow circle around you, “No, don't talk. Listen. These are old words, and they should not be interrupted once I have started. Listen, and weigh every word carefully.”

Her words seem to come at a strange pace, in a strange rhythm – sometimes drawn out, sometimes cut short. There was something in that drink, you realise, or... maybe this is what it's supposed to do to you. She warned you not to speak, but you don't think you could form a word if you wanted to.

“In our old stories, the world started with just two... perhaps... things. The great flower of the south, and the vast tree of the north. You would know this tree by another name – or rather, a lack of a name,” Cique coughs out that dusty laugh again, “Oh, and they were as spiteful and passionate as any man back then. Both the flower and the tree were wild things, titans of power and feeling. With nothing else in the world, they grew bored – and so, they decided to have a contest. Which of them could create the greatest being?”

“The first time they butted heads, both the flower and the tree were cautious. They held back their true power, until they knew what the other was capable of,” Cique puts a hand on your shoulder as she circles you, “The tree created a race of giants, while the flower spread spirits far across the land. The first contest was an even match, and so they tried again. This time, they gave their all.”

Giants, you think deliriously, and spirits.

“This time, the tree poured every drop of its power into a single child. All the capriciousness of the weather, all the ferocity of nature, and all the power of an unrestrained beast – emptied out into a single being. It cost them dearly, for it left them pale and mindless, as you know them now,” the hand leaves your shoulder as she returns to pacing, “The flower spread its seeds far and wide... the seeds of what would, after the passing of countless years, become men. It cost the flower even more. Spent, it crumbled into dust and blew away on the wind.”

“Tell me, stranger,” Cique whispers, her voice reaching you as if she had spoken straight into our ear, “Which one would you declare the victor? The tree, with its wild child, or the flower, with all humanity? Oh, and before you answer... there's a bucket to your side.”

Before you can even question why she mentioned a bucket, the answer comes to you. Leaning over, you vomit out the poisonous mazka.

[2/3]

>>776216
So it seems! Though...

>>776215
>I dreamed about her last night
Aw Artemis! Looking after your wolf so good even when you can barely do anything.