>>2353030

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

It takes a while for you to figure out exactly what you're going to say, and it takes a while longer for you to round everyone up. Your quarters feel crowded with all your inner circle gathered there, but you try not to let that distract you. “Thank you for coming,” you begin, “I've gathered you here today to explain a few things – our overall mission, in other words. What I'm about to tell you is secret, so don't go blabbing about it in the tavern, okay?”

“No promises,” Caliban remarks drily, causing a few of you to laugh. It's good, that you're laughing, it takes some of the tension away. Clearing your throat, you launch right into it.

-

In the end, the words come more easily to mind than you expected. You explained what the iron fragments were, and what they would unlock once they are all together. You explained that some of the fragments might be in Irakin hands, and others might be tied to the Church. You warned everyone about the risks, and you offered them one last chance to back out.

“All that I ask,” you conclude, “Is that you keep this information a secret. Pretend that you never heard any of it, if possible.”

A silence greets this, then Gunny lets out a laugh. “Milos, brother, you've got some funny ideas in you!” he remarks, “Back down? Hell, this is just getting interesting!” The others lend their support, and their agreement. Blessings is the only one who looks a little uncertain, and even then it's a fleeting look. Catching his eye, you nod for him to follow you. Making an excuse, you slip out and leave the rest of the crew to their fun. You'll check in with them later, to see if anyone has any lingering doubts or questions.

You're approaching the cargo bay when Blessings catches up to you. “Captain! Ah... captain,” he begins, “I...”

“You don't need to risk yourself on this one, Blessings,” you urge him, slowing to a walk, “If you don't think you can do this, it's safer to back out now. I won't hold it against you.”

“No, it's not that,” he insists, “I was just thinking about the... secrecy. I won't tell anyone, I promise, but I don't understand the need for it. If there really is all this treasure locked away, then... why couldn't everyone share it? There's so much that there's no need to fight over it, surely?”

“Logically speaking, yes. There's more money there than we could ever spend,” you sigh, looking out across the aerodrome. That Carth skiff is still there, it hasn't moved an inch since you first noticed it. “But still,” you add, “There are people out there would kill to increase their share of it. No amount of money could be enough for them.”

“Oh,” Blessings murmurs, “That's... sad.”

“Yes it is,” you agree, “But that's life.”

[2/3]

>>2353031

You sit together for a moment more, and then Blessings rises to go back inside. He seems... not exactly satisfied, but he accepts your answer. It's a reminder of how naïve, how sheltered, he really is. He grew up surrounded by money, never wanting for anything. Maybe you're assuming too much about him, but you don't think that he could ever understand it. The hunger, the urge to grasp onto anything you can and hold on tight. The dread of never knowing what the future might hold.

Desperate children turn into desperate men, and desperate men can do terrible things.

-

Half lost in thought, you almost dismiss the familiar figure you see limping out of the aerodrome crowd as a hallucination. Of course you're hallucinating, you think, why else would Provost Trice be here of all places? She has a bandaged wrapped around her head and a dark scowl on her face, dark enough to carve a path through the bustling crown. Ignoring everyone around her, she marches for the Carth skiff and climbs inside. It doesn't take off, though, and the engines remain cold and dead.

It takes you a moment more to accept that maybe you DID see Provost Trice here. Judging by her expression, though, it's clear that she's not here on a pleasant holiday. Either she's here chasing trouble, or she brought trouble here with her. Either way, the safest thing to do would be to steer well clear and let her handle her own affairs.

>Head over and see if she needs any help
>Stay safe and leave her be
>Other

>>2353032
>Head over and see if she needs any help

>>2353032
>Head over and see if she needs any help

Safety < being a good wingman for Blessings

>>2353032
>Head over and see if she needs any help
Social Links for Social Link god!

>>2353032
>Head over and see if she needs any help
Let's bring Caliban and Freddy in case she needs immediate help.

>>2353048
Let's not bring the clearly Iraklin Freddy to the Carth skiff.

>>2353049
Trice knows she is with us I'm pretty sure.

It's true, the safest thing to do would be to let the provost handle her own business, but you've never been one for taking the safe option. Chasing that pestilent daemon deeper into that forest hadn't been the safe option either, and that worked out fine enough. At least, it didn't end too badly. You survived. Somehow, you doubt that checking on Trice will be as dangerous as fighting a desperate, wounded daemon.

Close, perhaps, but still marginally safer.

Leaving the Spirit of Helena, you march across to the Carth skiff and rap your knuckles firmly on the metal door. No reaction at first, but your second knock causes a muffled groan to rise up from inside. “This had better be good,” you overhear as Trice moves to answer your knock, “I'm not in the mood to deal with... oh!” As the door flies open – nearly cracking your own skull open in the process – Trice peers out and widens her eyes in surprise. You were, you deduce, not who the provost had been expecting.

“Not in the mood to deal with what?” you ask politely, your eyes flicking up to the bandage wound around her head. It needs changing, if the rust-red spots are anything to go by.

“Paperwork. Diplomacy. Anything, really,” Trice answers after a moment, “Would you like to come in? There's not much room, I'm afraid, but the two of us should be able to fit. More private, that way.” Nodding back into the skiff, she retreats deeper inside it and you follow into the cramped metal craft. Slumping down onto a cracked leather seat, Trice touches a hand to her forehead and sighs. “Need to ask you something,” she adds, taking out a small leather wallet, “Have you been here long?”

“A few days,” you reply, “Here and there. I've been working.”

Grunting, Trice pulls an Imago out of the wallet and passes it across to you. Your first thought, upon looking at it, is that she's somehow found an Imago of Blessings as an older man. The man in her picture has that same beatific face, the same golden hair. His smile is different, though, in a way that you can't quite describe. “Martin DeRais, citizen of Sol Carthul. Good member of the church, and from a good family,” she describes, “Have you seen him?”

Studying the Imago for a moment more, you shake your head. “Can't say that I have,” you admit, “Has he been... what, kidnapped?”

“Not exactly,” the provost corrects you. Taking a few more pictures out of her wallet, Trice lays them out like playing cards. Each Imago shows a human body, tightly wound up in a crisp white funeral shroud. “He's a killer, a fugitive from Carth justice,” Trice concludes, her voice taut and hard, “I'm here to track him down.”

“Well now...” you murmur, taking another look at the first Imago. Now you can figure out that smile – it's a smirk, knowing and cynical.

[1/2]

>>2353058

“Three bodies over the last year, each one strangled and left tightly wrapped in a funeral shroud. Nothing connecting them, no real evidence pointing us towards a culprit. Then, about six months ago, DeRais here is caught attacking a priest in his home. He was an old guy, our priest, but he managed to fight DeRais off and tie him up. When the guards found him, DeRais had a funeral shroud in his pack,” Trice explains, tapping a finger against the table as she talks, “Easy connection, right? Only, nobody thought to connect the dots.”

“That seems unlikely,” you point out, “Are you sure that there wasn't... influence at work?”

“Oh, I'm sure that there was,” she agrees, her face twisting with disgust, “DeRais claimed he was sick, and he sought out the priest for help. He didn't remember anything after that, and he certainly didn't remember attacking anyone. He was sent to a hospital, for care and treatment. He was released about a week ago – I'm a little fuzzy on the details. Not been sleeping.”

She certainly looks like it. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles, and her shoulders slump with fatigue. “You were following him, ever since he was released,” you guess, “Am I right?”

“Bishop Rhea told me. She gave me some time off, and suggested that I holiday in Sol Carthul. So, yeah, I was trailing him – unofficially,” Trice nods, “Bishop Rhea knew that there was more to this as well, but her hands are tied. So, I'm following DeRais and eventually he leads me to a small studio – space for actors to rehearse, that kind of thing. I couldn't figure out why he was going there, until I found a schedule – there was going to be a girl there, alone, practising a monologue. She was due to arrive soon, and I knew that I had to do something.”

Trice pauses, scowling again. “I know, I should have raised the alarm or waited outside to warn her off. I should have done something, anything. Instead, I tried to hunt DeRais down. I found him hiding in a storage room, and he surrendered right away,” wincing, the provost taps her forehead, “Then he smashed a bust of Saint Herodius over my head and ran. I don't know how long I was out, but when I came to, he was gone – and... and he left her body for me to find. He waited long enough for his target to arrive, he killed her, and he left her for me to find. Bastard.”

“Bastard,” you echo, “And you think he's here?”

“I do,” Trice nods, the motion causing her to screw her face up in pain. “Just give me a moment here,” she mutters, “You following me so far?”

>I am. Please, continue whenever you're ready
>Sorry Trice, I don't want to hear any more of this
>Come on, I have a doctor on my ship. He'll check you over
>Hold up, I have a question... (Write in)
>Other

>>2353066
>Come on, I have a doctor on my ship. He'll check you over

>>2353066
>Come on, I have a doctor on my ship. He'll check you over
>Hold up, I have a question... (Write in)

Is there a bounty for capturing him discretely?

>>2353066
>Come on, I have a doctor on my ship. He'll check you over
>We'll continue this conversation there.

>>2353066
>Come on, I have a doctor on my ship, he'll check you over.

>>2353066
>>I am.
But first
>>Come on, I have a doctor on my ship. He'll check you over

“Come on, I have a doctor on my ship,” you tell her, “He'll check you over. No offence, but you look like you could pass out at any minute.”

“I feel like I could pass out at any minute,” she admits with a heavy sigh, “I've not had time to rest since... hell, I'm just glad that it was a fake bust. Hollow, made out of plaster. If it had been solid marble, he might have killed me.”

“All the more reason for you to see a doctor,” you insist, “We can continue this conversation there.” Trice pulls a face at the suggestion, but reluctantly nods and rises to her feet. Sweeping the pictures into their wallet, she follows you out.

“Thank you, Milos,” she mutters, clutching the wallet to her chest, “Your man, is he...”

“Don't like doctors, do you?” you ask with a wan smile, “Well, I guess nobody does. You don't need to worry, he's good. Anyway, this DeRais guy – is there a bounty out for him?” Changing the subject seems to lighten Trice's mood a little, although not by much.

“That's not a simple issue. His family has offered a reward for his safe return – as far as they know he's on the run, scared and confused. They're protecting him, and...” shaking her head, Trice lets out another sigh. “So no, there's no official reward for his capture,” she continues, “Unofficially, though, Bishop Rhea would no doubt offer a reward for anyone who helped bring him in. She doesn't buy this “sick” act any more than I do. If anyone belongs in Cloudtop Prison, it's Martin DeRais.”

Nodding, you guide Trice towards the Spirit of Helena and head for the infirmary.

-

“This stitching is very crude,” Doctor Barnum whispers as he dabs at Trice's bow with a cloth, “Did you do this yourself?”

“I didn't have time to find a doctor,” Trice answers, shrugging a little until the doctor murmurs a vague admonishment to her. Holding herself still, she winces a little as Barnum begins to thread a needle of his own. “Anyway. DeRais – I managed to pull a few favours at the aerodrome, and he was spotted getting onto a ship bound for...” swallowing heavily, Trice glances across at the needle Barnum is preparing, “Bound for Rasnic, I think. The ship passed through the Iraklin security fine enough, and then the trail goes cold. DeRais probably hired a private skiff from there, but that's just a theory.”

“There's been a lot of work for private skiffs lately,” you warn her, “The Iraklins are busy checking over their factories in the region. From what I've heard, things are pretty disorganised at the moment – easy for a man to vanish.”

“Hold still please,” Doctor Barnum murmurs, placing a hand on Trice's shoulder, “This will all be over soon.”

Somehow, that doesn't sound reassuring coming from his lips.

[1/2]

>>2353089

Despite Trice's apprehension, Barnum works quickly and efficiently. Stripping out her sloppy stitches, he gets to work with his own needle and thread. When the wound is closed up, he sticks a small section of bandage over her temple and offers out a mirror. “Far neater than that ghastly work,” he whispers, turning to wash his hands in a nearby basin, “You may have a mild concussion, so try and take it easy for the next few days.”

“Thank you, doctor, but that's not really a luxury that I have right now,” Trice replies with a nod, before looking back to you. “So, after landing in Rasnic, DeRais vanishes,” she continues, “I've been trying to hit up the local security services for any leads, but they keep... messing me around. I don't have the right authorisation, they tell me, so I need to ask in a different office. That other office tells me that I need to inform the consul himself and...” Letting her words trail off, she gives you a gesture of frustration.

“Do you think that DeRais has people influencing them?” you ask, “Maybe his family are pulling some strings?”

“Not here, no. If we were back in Sol Carthul, I could very well believe that, but this?” she scowls, “This is just Iraklin bureaucracy, and no small amount of hostility. They see a Carth coming asking for help, and they make things difficult for me. As far as I know, DeRais hasn't killed any Iraklins yet, so they don't give a damn.”

“So, they might be more helpful if it wasn't a Carth asking,” you suggest with a humourless smile, “Right?”

“You read my mind,” Trice agrees with a weary sigh, “I hate to ask for your help, I really do, but do you think you could ask them? The security bureau here should have all the information – if there IS any information – that they've gathered.”

Before you can offer an answer, Barnum turns around. “Forgive me for eavesdropping captain, but I think that I should go,” he whispers, “I have some experience with the Bureau of Security, I understand how they work. I can go and ask your questions – alone.”

“Alone?” you repeat. A strange request for him to make.

“Alone,” the doctor confirms, “It will be easier that way.”

Trice glances across at you, suspicion flickering in her eyes. She's dubious about this, but neither does she want to refuse the help. For your part, you're not sure what to make of it – most of the time, Doctor Barnum is as silent and reserved as a lonely boulder. You don't know much about him at all.

>Sorry doctor, but I'd rather handle this personally
>Go ahead then, doctor. I'll keep an eye on the patient
>Sorry Trice, but I don't think we should get involved in this
>Other

>>2353102
>Go ahead then, doctor. I'll keep an eye on the patient
Good luck Doc.

>>2353102
>>Go ahead then, doctor. I'll keep an eye on the patient

>>2353102
>>Go ahead then, doctor. I'll keep an eye on the patient

>>2353102
>Go ahead then. I'll look after the patient.

Check if he's family of the killer

“Go ahead then, doctor,” you decide with a small shrug, “I'll keep an eye on the patient.”

Doctor Barnum studies you for a moment, his murky eyes as unreadable as always, then nods. “She should get some rest. Avoid alcohol and vigorous physical activity,” he decides after a moment, “I will gather whatever information I can. Thank you, captain.” Bowing his head slightly, he slips out and leaves the two of you alone.

“Good luck!” you call after him. As you glance after him, you hear Trice laughing to herself.

“Avoid alcohol and vigorous physical activity?” she repeats with a dirty chuckle, “Captain Vaandemere, just what have you been doing in this infirmary?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” you reply breezily, offering her a casual shrug, “Whenever I find an injured woman, I bring her back and woo her. It's unconventional, but it sure beats meeting someone at the bar.”

“Sounds good to me,” Trice agrees, lying back on the infirmary bed, “But I guess you'll have to control yourself this time. Doctor's orders, and all that.” Closing her eyes, Trice touches a hand to her new bandage as if fighting the urge to scratch at it. A few moments pass, then she opens her eyes again. “He's a strange one, though,” she adds, “Your doctor, I mean. It looks like someone tried to cut his throat.”

“I guess someone didn't like his bedside manner,” you suggest vaguely. Doctor Barnum has never mentioned his scar – and, come to think of it, you've never asked him about it. Other than to briefly explain his credentials, he's never really talked about any personal matters. In fact, you barely remember interviewing him when you were recruiting crew. True, you HAD been drinking pretty heavily at the time, but... you remember everyone else well enough.

“Well, he knows which end of a needle to hold. That's good enough for me,” Trice picks up the mirror and peels up the bandage to take another look at her wound. Apparently satisfied, she sets the mirror back down and sighs heavily. “You mind if I sleep?” she asks, already slipping towards unconsciousness, “The wallet's there, take a look if you want. Don't know if you'll find anything new, though. These past few days... I've been seeing that swine everywhere. I close my eyes... I see his face. When I see him, I'm... I'm going to...”

Trice leaves that sentence unfinished, a deep sleep rising up over her. How tired must she have been, you wonder, to pass out like that? Her sleeping face offers no answers but you watch her for a while more, watching as her expression softens. Fatigue had gouged hard lines into her face, but now those are starting to fade.

[1/2]

>>2353102
>Go ahead then, doctor. I'll keep an eye on the patient
>But you'll need to tell me what's it all about afterwards.

>>2353142
We should Deffo get Freddy involved. It's her duty like, anyways.

Also there's the whole "Carth murderer" political aspect to be concerned about.

Maybe best for everyone if this old man dies and vanishes.

>>2353157
Which political aspect?

>>2353142

Doctor Barnum returns after about three hours, but you don't know enough about the Bureau of Security to know if that's a good sign or a bad one. They didn't turn him away immediately, at least. Trice is still asleep when he returns, but her eyes snap open as soon as he enters the infirmary – she didn't even wait for him to speak, as if sensing his presence was enough. Sitting sharply upright, she shoots the doctor an imploring look.

“The name “Martin DeRais” meant nothing to them. They did not recognise his physical description, either. You'll forgive me, but I took the liberty of borrowing the suspect's Imago,” Barnum takes the picture out of his pocket and passes it across to you. Accepting it with a numb hand, you try and think when he took it. The wallet was out of your sight for maybe a minute or two, but...

“So you found nothing,” Trice sighs, “Thank you for trying, at least. I don't know what I'll try-”

“I'm sorry, but I hadn't quite finished yet,” the doctor whispers, “I could not find any confirmed leads on the man himself, but this may interest you.” Taking out another Imago, he passes it to Trice. She accepts it, studies it with a sour look, then passes it across to you. The Imago depicts a body, one draped in a white sheet. “The body of a local skiff pilot, discovered in a back alley – yesterday, here in Pastona. The sheet was taken from a nearby hostel, it seems. He was strangled to death, and his skiff was not in the aerodrome,” Barnum continues, “If I may be so bold, it seems as though your killer has struck again.”

“So now he has a skiff,” you groan, “He could be anywhere!”

“He could,” Barnum concedes, “But he isn't. We were able to locate the skiff in question – it is currently docked in Pugmire, in what passes for the aerodrome there. It took some finding, we had to radio all the landing sites in the region, and so it took a little longer than planned. I apologise for that.”

They called around every aerodrome and landing site in the region? “Doctor Barnum, I think that I speak for both of us when I say that we appreciate your help,” you begin slowly, “But how were you able to get this information? Did you... pull some strings?”

“A few,” he replies vaguely, “As I said, I have some experience with the Bureau of Security. It's a labyrinthine system, true, but one tends to learn a few ways of navigating it.”

You trade another bemused glance with Trice, but then she just shrugs. “I'm not going to ask. Pugmire... that's a small island, isn't it? Not many places for DeRais to hide,” she purses her lips in thought, “Not much of an aerodrome, either, just fit for skiffs. Either way, I'm going out there. The Saint Ann seats two, Milos, do you want to come with me?”

>No thanks. You can handle things from here
>Sure thing, I'll come with you
>Other

>>2353187
>>Sure thing, I'll come with you
Adventure time

>>2353187
>Sure thing

Building goodwill

>>2353187
>Sure thing, I'll come with you
Have Freddy come along on her skiff as well. If there is a chase we'll out number him.

>>2353187
>Sure thing, I'll come with you

>>2353168
Of a Carth dude killing Iraklins.

>>2353225
He didn't kill any Iraklins. That's why the Iraklin security wasn't taking it seriously. He's killed Carths and Pastonians

>>2353187
> Also thank the Doc and remind him that whoever he was in the past, he's crew now so we won't be making any unantes inquiries into his past. We appreciate him coming forward to help, though, and any wanted inquiries we're happy to have over a glass with him.

>>2353230
> The body of a local skiff pilot, discovered in a back alley

Regardless murder is bad for business.

>>2353230
Also Pastonians = Iraklins now.

>>2353241
>>2353238
We are in Pastonna so the local was Pastonian

>Also Pastonians = Iraklins now.
Not to them, not enough to take something like this seriously.

>DeRais hasn't killed any Iraklins yet, so they don't give a damn.”

“Sure thing, I'll come with you,” you reply immediately, “I'll get my own pilot to come along in the Eliza. If we need to search for this guy, it's better to have numbers on our side.”

“Got it. I'll welcome all the help you're willing to give me,” Trice agrees with a brisk nod, “We can swap radio codes later, when we're up in the air. Meet me by the Saint Ann – I should have said, that's my skiff – when you're ready. DeRais has a head start on us, but we're getting close. I can feel it in my bones.” Rising from the infirmary bed, she cracks her knuckles and heads off out. Doctor Barnum watches her leave with a near-silent sigh.

“She's not going to be taking it easy at all, is she?” he asks himself before shaking his head and turning to you. “You should know, captain, that an airship was spotted acting erratically in the airspace north of Pugmire,” he adds, “There haven't been any reports of trouble, but it's something you should keep in mind. I don't have any more information than that – the local officials didn't take the sighting very seriously, on account of... ahem. The man who claimed to see the airship was highly inebriated.”

As expected of a Pugmire man. “I see. Thank you anyway, doctor,” you tell him, “As I said before, we appreciate your help in this.”

“I'm simply doing my duty,” Doctor Barnum assures you.

“No, I think this was above and beyond the call of duty,” you argue, shaking your head slowly, “But your past is your own. You're crew now, and that's what matters to me – still, if you ever want to sit down and share a glass...”

Barnum's eyes widen a little at the offer. You get the impression that he would raise an eyebrow, if he had any. “I may just take you up on that offer,” he murmurs, “Thank you captain. Oh, and... good hunting.”

-

You find Freddy in Grace's quarters, assisting the young scholar with the translation work. You're not sure how much help she's being, but Grace seems to appreciate having the Iraklin there – certainly, when you give Freddy her orders, both of them look faintly dismayed. Still, there are no arguments and soon you're heading out to the Saint Ann, with Freddy bound for the Eliza. Now that you're paying more attention to the skiff itself, you notice a few things about the Saint Ann – she's definitely smaller than the Eliza, but she has a bulky autocannon mounted underneath her cockpit. Blunt and ugly, it seems out of place on the light craft.

“Self-defence is important, you know,” Trice remarks, noticing your gaze, “But if we run into anything bigger than another skiff, well... that's what these engines are for. Want to test them out, see who has the faster skiff around here?”

“Oh boy...” you sigh. Carth or Iraklin, skiff pilots are all the same.

[1/2]

>>2353250
We should've taken Caliban along as well. All the heavy hitters.

>>2353257
Only two seats I believe.

Did we get a new gun, however?

>>2353246
> As far as I know,

You left that part out. Intentionally?

>>2353279
That delves to into speculation and assumptions which I don't feel like going.

The point I'm trying to make that is that as far as everyone knows this guy hasn't killed a Iraklin, therefore there is no political aspect to this. Therefore we shouldn't just ice the dude but instead capture him to put him behind bars so we get a reward.

>>2353250

Good sense prevails, however, and you don't end up racing each other. You're certainly glad of that – skiffs are bad enough at the best of times, let alone when they're really being pushed to their limits. As Trice flies, you exchange a few radio messages with the Eliza and note down her frequency. If the need arises, you'll be able to stay in contact that way. Hanging up the radio, you glance across and meet Trice's gaze.

“He's ex-military,” she states, “That's my guess.”

“Doctor Barnum? He's an Iraklin, damn near every single one of them is ex-military,” you counter, “But you might be right. Military, perhaps, but nothing low ranking. Makes me wonder how he came to be looking for work in a Salim tavern...”

“None of my business,” Trice replies, shrugging off the issue and gesturing ahead of her, “That ugly thing there, is that Pugmire?”

Looking out ahead, you gaze down at the small island. Even at a distance, it seems somehow muddy and unclean. Forests cover much of the island, like mould growing over a piece of rotten fruit, and what isn't covered in dark, dreary woods is mostly swampland. Some broken land rises up above the mire, but even that region looks miserable. “That's definitely Pugmire,” you confirm, “You see those hills there? There used to be a silver mine there. The Pugmire family owned it, and so they owned basically the whole island. I don't know if they named it after themselves or vice versa. I don't really care, honestly – Pugmire isn't the sort of place that you think about without a damn good reason.”

“Like if you're hunting someone there,” Trice muses, smiling to herself.

“Exactly,” you agree, picking up the radio, “Eliza, that's Pugmire ahead. Follow us in.”

“Captain, those woods look revolting,” Caliban answers, his voice crackling over the radio, “Lhaus said that we were hunting someone, so I thought that I might invite myself along. You don't mind, do you?” He pauses for a moment, and you hear a muffled argument. “Yes, fine, I'll tell him,” he sighs, “Actually, captain, I said that you ordered me to come. It was the only way that your esteemed pilot would accept it.”

All too aware of Trice looking at you with an amused smile, you sigh. “No, Caliban, that was good thinking,” you admit, “I should have ordered you along as well, but it slipped my mind. I was busy-”

“Flirting with injured women, I hear,” the Nadir tracker says with a chuckle, “Don't worry, you can thank me in person when we land.” He's still laughing when he ends the call, and Trice echoes him.

“You don't keep your crew on a tight leash, do you?” she asks, “That's a good thing, in my estimation. It lets people play to their strengths.”

“And sometimes they take advantage of my better nature,” you sigh, hanging up the dead radio.

[2/3]

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14 KB JPG

>>2353290
It's really more the fact that we're either chasing down a murderer they let roam free despite Iraklins being all about the RURURUUUS or we're kidnapping someone.

Shanking the dude has the nice ending of everyone going home quietly.

>>2353298
Pass. Rather just have Trice take the lead here.

>>2353293

Pugmire doesn't look much better up close, but you're hardly here to sightsee. What they stubbornly insist on calling an aerodrome is more or less the only spot of land on the island that is flat, dry and open. Everywhere else is either hills, marshes or forests. There's the Pugmire Manor, of course, but visitors aren't welcome there. With three skiffs – the Eliza, the Saint Ann, and DeRais' stolen vessel – the “aerodrome” is almost completely occupied.

“I feel like I need a wash already. The smell of this place is getting under my skin,” Caliban complains, looking about him with an unimpressed expression on his face, “So, Provost... Trice, was it? We're here to hunt down this friend of yours.”

“He's no friend of mine,” Trice rebukes him sharply.

“Nemesis, then,” the hunter corrects himself with a faint shrug, “Presuming we find him, what's the plan?”

Trice pauses for a long moment, her frown deepening slightly. “We bring him back to Carthul, and he'll stand trial for murder,” she says at last, speaking slowly, “If he's found guilty, it's very likely that he'll end up in Cloudtop Prison – never to see the light of day again.” She speaks, you consider, as if she's trying to convince herself of the matter.

“He's killed a Pastonne now,” you point out, “Is that going to complicate matters?”

“That would put this in Iraklin jurisdiction,” Freddy declares, “I know that a lot of people - on both sides - don't see it this way, but Pastonnes are considered Iraklin citizens. The law passed... I think it was two years ago.” She frowns a little, toying with the pistol holster at her belt for a moment before nodding to the side. Excusing yourself, you follow her a few paces away. “I don't know the full details of this case, captain, but I understand that the Bureau of Security isn't taking this very seriously,” she murmurs, “That... isn't right. It shouldn't be like this.”

“I guess your people aren't the flawless rulers that they'd like us to see them as,” you suggest, “No resources to spare on us second class citizens, huh?”

“That's not...” Freddy starts to protest, only for the words to die in her mouth. “Let's just focus on finding this criminal,” she mutters after a pause, “We can all do some good here. That's what matters.”

>You're right. Let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads
>Are you suggesting that we hand DeRais over to the Iraklins?
>When we get back, I'd like you to have a word with Doctor Barnum – Iraklin to Iraklin
>I'd like a word with you... (Write in)
>Other

>Sorry for the delay. Minor holdup on my end.

>>2353343
>You're right. Let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads

>>2353343
>>You're right. Let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads

>>2353343
>You're right. Let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads

>>2353343
>You're right. Let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads

>>2353301
There might be other, political reasons why the Iraklins aren't looking into it too hard also.

I still say a quiet grave might be cleanest.

IF he's convicted sounds iffy to me.

>>2353343
> You're right. Let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads.

“You're right, that's what matters,” you agree, “So let's regroup with the others and see if we can find any leads. I think-”

“Regroup?” Caliban calls over, “We're right here, captain, I overheard just about half of that!”

Slumping her shoulders, Freddy lets out a quiet sigh and smiles wearily to herself. “I'm sorry, captain, that was unprofessional. I shouldn't let my personal feelings get in the way of a job – I just... didn't want you to get the wrong idea,” straightening her spine, the pilot reaches up and adjusts her cap, “You were saying something, before. What were you thinking?”

Gesturing for her to follow you, you rejoin the others before finishing your thought. “I think that we should start at the trading post. Unless you feel like doing a door to door search, asking everyone who'll lower themselves to talk with strangers like us, that's the best place to start,” you declare, “Any objections?”

“This is your territory,” Caliban replies, “I'll defer to your local knowledge.” The others nod or murmur their agreement, and so the decision is made – you'll start with the local trading post, and see where that leads you.

-

“Ayup, I seen him,” the flabby woman rumbles, looking up from the Imago and scratching at her double-chin, “He wasn't wearing a fancy coat like that, though. He were wearing one of those pilot jackets, like your lad there is wearing.” She flaps a meaty paw at Freddy as she says that last part, causing the pilot to tense up as Caliban tries not to smirk. “You said he's some noble brat?” she continues, “He had cash, sure as sure.”

“Yes ma'am, he's from a good family,” Trice persists, her eyes hard and glinting even as she smiles sweetly at the trader, “He bought some things here, is that what you're saying?”

“Ayup. Supplies – food, good for about three days, and a bedroll. About what you'd buy for hiking up in the hills. Oh, and he bought hisself some sheets. Strange thing, that – we don't get much folk buying good linen here,” a dull look of alarm enters the trader's eyes, “Say, you don't think he might be thinking of killing hisself, do you? We got a rash of that, a few years back. Folks went up into the hills, and they never came back down. Sad folks, they had that look in their eyes.”

“I see,” Trice's frown deepens, “And this young man, did HE have that sad look in his eyes?”

“Nope,” the trader pauses for a long moment, “I figure maybe he wasn't going to kill hisself, then.”

Trice's shoulders tense up as she bites back a frustrated comment, and you almost find yourself laughing. Judging by the mixture of confusion and amusement that your companions are showing, this is their first time seeing Pugmire “hospitality” for themselves. There's a reason that people don't come here without a good reason.

[1/2]

>>2353401

“Sure as sure, he was asking about the hills though. Seemed right curious about the silver mines – we get that sometimes, folk hoping to find a brand new seam of the stuff and make their fortune,” the trader lets out a croaking laugh, “Never have any luck, mind you. Not our problem, though.” Scratching at her jowls again, the trader starts to turn away from Trice. That's when you step forwards, calling out a quiet greeting.

“That radio through there,” you ask, pointing towards a public radio terminal. It looks in pretty poor shape, but there's nothing to suggest that it's broken. Trice wanders over to it, taking a cursory look before gazing at a painting nearby. “Does it work?” you continue, “Did he use that?”

The trader pauses, thoughts bubbling through her thick skull. “Ayup,” she rumbles eventually, “Had a short call. Didn't overhear much of anything – not that I make a practise of eavesdropping, you understand – but he did mention a name. He said “Ebisuno” once or twice. Sounded to me like he was meeting this Ebisuno person here. Now, if you'll mind, I got other customers to see to.”

Leaving you with that oddly familiar name – you're sure that you heard it once or twice, several years ago - she slouches off to collapse onto a broad stool, you gather around your companions. “So,” you begin, “It seems like DeRais took an interest in the old silver mine. Good place to hide out for a few days, especially if you're waiting for someone.

“This Ebisuno person,” Caliban agrees, “You think he's waiting for them.”

“Maybe, but...” you cut that sentence short as a memory clicks back into place. That name, Ebisuno, had seemed familiar and now you remember why. “Ebisuno isn't a person,” you mutter to them, “It's a ship – the Ebisuno, under Captain Skallgrem. I don't know the man, but he has a bad reputation for taking dirty jobs. He's not a pirate, but he's about as close as you can get without being one. He did some work for Morey, smuggling work... and probably other things.”

“I don't like the sound of that,” Freddy says to herself, “Maybe he's here to take DeRais for himself. After that...”

After that, he vanishes back into their care and you'll never get another shot at him. How long, then, until he kills again?

[2/3]

>>2353423

“That painting back there,” Trice mentions, pointing back to the radio terminal, “What is it?”

Crossing over to it, you examine the picture. It shows an old manor house, build in an antiquated fashion with heavy windows and doors. A house build for practicality, but not without a certain flair. A brass plate set into the picture frame reads “The Argentum Guest House”. Thinking for a moment more, you snap your fingers. “It's an old hotel – a very old hotel,” you explain, “Back when the silver mines were bringing in work, the Pugmire family built it to house the workers. After the mines shut down, they tried to convert it into a grand hotel. Well, you can guess how well that did – it wasn't easy to get to, being all the way out in the hills, and nobody wants to visit Pugmire anyway. It's rotting away now – I heard stories about it, as a kid, and-”

“He's there,” the provost breathes.

“What?” Freddy protests, “The silver mines are the logical choice. He was asking about them, and a man could easily hide-”

“I know this man. He wouldn't hide out in a dingy mine – he'd find a way of making himself comfortable, even if it IS in a decaying hotel,” Trice insists, “He's there, at this Argentum Guest House.”

Caliban just gives you a shrug of indifference, leaving you to decide the approach.

>I trust Trice's instincts. Let's check out the guest house
>The silver mines are the logical choice. We check there
>We should split up, cover both options
>Hold on, I want to ask the trader something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>2353434
>We should split up, cover both options

>>2353434
>I trust Trice's instincts. Let's check out the guest house

>>2353434
>>We should split up, cover both options
Split up the party

>Trice's mission, her call. Guest house.

>>2353434
>>I trust Trice's instincts. Let's check out the guest house

>>2353464
this

“We should split up, and cover both our options. I'd rather divide our forces than miss our target completely,” you decide, “I trust Trice's instincts on this one, so I'll go with her to the guest house. You two focus your attention on the mines.”

“That's a good call. If he's there, he'll have left a trail – and I'll be able to find it,” Caliban agrees with a confident nod, “You two, all alone in the mines... you'd be lost. You're better off sticking to civilisation, or whatever passes for it around here.”

“You really have a vulgar way of agreeing with someone,” you sigh, “But I appreciate the vote of confidence. Anyway, this is Trice's mission – what's your call, provost?”

“I'd go to the guest house either way, no matter what the rest of you chose to do,” Trice replies, “But you've got a good point about missing our target. I DO think you two should check the mines – just to be on the safe side.” Her voice tenses a little as she suggests this, and her eyes take on a harder note – a firm, decisive note.

“Right. Just to be on the safe side,” you repeat, “Freddy, any complaints about this?”

“No sir. Captain, I mean,” she replies swiftly. Orders, as always, are orders.

“Then let's move out,” you conclude, “We'll be following the same path for a while, then we split up. We'll all have a wonderful chance to see Pugmire's beautiful scenery, so try and contain your enthusiasm.”

Caliban and Freddy both chuckle a little at that, but Trice's frown just deepens.

-

Trekking out of the trading post, you waste little time in heading towards the hills and the Argentum Guest House. Your path takes you into the swamp, although thankfully there is an old wooden walkway crossing the mire. You never have to dirty your boots, although you DO have to watch out for the occasional rotten plank. More than once the wood creaks ominously underfoot, but nothing breaks – this time. As you walk, you pass a cluster of local houses built in the traditional Pugmire style – raised up on stilts and connected by short bridges. Strange things, with no hint of modern life about them.

“I've seen similar huts down in Nadir,” Caliban remarks as you pass them by, “They seemed nicer than these things. Imagine that – something down in Nadir looking better by comparison.”

“These living conditions are abhorrent,” Trice mutters to herself, “People living in their own filth like this... I can't believe that this is Azimuth. Do these people really have no desire to improve their lives?”

“Not really. Pugmire folks... they've always been an insular lot,” you muse, “As far back as anyone can recall, they've been this way. I guess all the inbreeding must have something to do with it, but... who knows?”

[1/2]

>>2353496

When you arrive at the Argentum Guest House, you take a moment to study the area before splitting up. The mines aren't that far away, but the path is relatively steep and time has done much to make it slow going. Freddy and Caliban tackle it without complaint, though – if anything, the Iraklin seems to savour the chance to go on a miserable uphill march. As for Caliban... well, it's always hard to tell what he thinks about anything.

As the others vanish uphill, you turn to Trice. “You wanted them out of the way,” you state, stopping short of accusing her of anything, “Why?”

“It's simpler this way. This is Iraklin territory, and it's their jurisdiction. I don't know if your pilot has any intention of challenging me on this, but I wanted to rule out the possibility. I cannot allow anything to get in the way of my mission,” Trice takes a slow breath, “I'm sorry, Milos, but I just can't. I need to... do this.”

This is the woman who crashed her skiff in a suicide attack rather than let her target escape – it's easy to forget that, especially when you're seeing her as a young woman rather than a provost of the church. She's genial enough, but all that falls away when it's time for business, like a sword leaving its scabbard. As you consider her, Trice draws a revolver and concentrates on checking it over, pretending not to feel your eyes on her. “Just for a warning shot,” you suggest, nodding to the revolver, “Right?”

“Of course,” the provost agrees, in a voice devoid of feeling.

-

Time has not been kind to the Argentum Guest House. It opens up into a wide hall, with a flight of stairs running up each side wall before converging at the upper level. Everything looks thin and faded, worn and frayed. Carpets show blotchy signs of water damage, while the wallpaper has almost completely peeled away in most places. Overall, the place is as depressing as the stories suggest. Silent, too, with no hint of life.

“Only one way in or out,” Trice mutters, glancing back to the front door. You had walked a full circuit of the building before entering, and the only other exit – a servant exit to the rear – had collapsed years ago. Setting her pack down, Trice produces a length of stout rope and ties the front doors shut. “It won't stop him escaping,” she mutters, “But it will slow him down. Sometimes, that's all you need.”

As she ties the door handles together, tying them in some hellishly complicated knot that you've never seen before, you hear something from deeper within the building – the clunk of something moving, perhaps a framed picture falling off the wall. Trice, though, looks sharply up from her handiwork.

“That came from upstairs,” she hisses, “He's here!”

[2/3]

>>2353536
*cops theme plays*

>>2353536

Drawing her revolver, Trice launches off ahead and races towards the left staircase. You follow, close on her heel, but you feel a sudden stab of alarm as the wooden stairs – so old, so poorly cared for – groan underfoot. A warning builds on your lips, but it comes too late as the stairs crash out from underneath Trice. She screams and flails, grabbing for any purchase as the decaying woods falls away, but her efforts are for naught. Lunging for her, heedless of whether you might be the next one to be caught in the collapse, you feel her fingers brushing against yours for a split second.

And then she's gone, lost into the the churning cloud of dust that rises up from the floors below.

“Trice!” you call out, “Trice, are you okay?”

Silence, for a long moment, and then you hear a cough. “I'm not dead!” Trice calls up, “But... damn it, I can't move. My leg is caught under something, it's too heavy to lift. Wooden beams, or... hell, I don't know. I dropped my gun, I can't see where it went. It must have-”

A laugh, echoing through the hotel corridor, cuts her off. It came from up ahead, from upstairs, but you couldn't say more than that. When a second laugh rings out, you've have to guess that it came from somewhere subtly different – DeRais, if this is him, is moving about up there.

“You get after him!” Trice snaps, “I'll try and free myself, but you've got to get after him! Go!”

>Just keep safe down there, I'll catch him!
>I'm coming down to help you, then we'll catch him together!
>Other

>>2353552
>>Just keep safe down there, I'll catch him!

>>2353552
>Just keep safe down there, I'll catch him!

>>2353552
>Stay put and stay safe, Ill go after him

This is the closest Trice has been, i am worried about potential consequences if we do not free her, but he will almost certainly escape, and she would definitely be cross with us
Bad boys
Whatcha want, whatcha want
Whatcha gonna do
When sheriff John Brown come for you?

>>2353552
>Stay safe down there, I'll get him!

>>2353552
>Just keep safe down there, I'll catch him!

“Just stay safe down there!” you call down, “I'll catch him!”

“Get the bastard!” Trice yells up to you, a rough burst of coughing cutting off anything else she might have said. The air down there can't be good, with dust and decay lying thick on the ground, but you hardly have the time to worry about that. Grimacing, you glance down at the broken stairs ahead of you – too far to jump, and you can't be certain of a safe landing. No choice but to go around.

And so you turn your back on Trice and start to run, hastening over to the right hand staircase and sprinting up it. One step does splinter underfoot, threatening to trip you up and turn your rush into a clownish tumble, but somehow you manage to keep your footing. At the top of the stairs, you pause and wait for a few precious seconds, listening for any sign of your target. He's quiet now, no longer laughing, but he can't stay silent forever. It takes a few moments, but eventually you hear the distant sound of a door being carefully closed.

Drawing your revolver – your stained, tarnished masterpiece of a revolver – you prowl towards that furtive sound. No longer rushing, you take your time and creep along the faded corridor. Empty doorways stand at either side of you, yawning wide to reveal dismal, empty rooms, and you peer into one room at random. They have doors inside them as well, connecting doors so that lodgers could move between rooms. A strange feature, by your estimation, but perhaps it was the product of some other time. Certainly, everything else here is terribly dated.

From up ahead, from the very end of the corridor, you hear the sound of another door being tenderly closed. Taking care to keep your steps light, you begin to approach the end of the hallway – and that's when you hear glass breaking. Stealth is forgotten as a curse slips from your lips. You had been careful about doors, but you hadn't considered a window – could DeRais be desperate enough to leap from an upper floor window?

Either way, you break into a run and make for the last room on the row. Shouldering your way through the ajar door, you scan the room with your revolver thrust out before you. A backpack sits on the floor, open and ransacked, with a bedroll sitting on the bed itself – DeRais' supplies, you recall. Other than the pack, nothing catches your eye. The room is just a bland guest room, with a bed, a wring desk, and a tall wardrobe for clothes... along with a window.

The window is definitely broken, with a few shards of glass glinting on the floor and the rotting curtains shifting in the breeze. Cursing again, you approach it and lean out, careful not to cut yourself on the broken glass. Peering down, you look for any sign of a fleeing figure.

[1/2]

>>2353637
Window break was totally a distraction huh?

>>2353637
"Officer Trice, I got eyes on the perp, moving into apprehend the suspect now"

>>2353637

Wood creaks. The window frame, perhaps, creaking as you lean against it. Dangerous, you remind yourself, the window might be just as frail as the stairs were. You might lean too far out and find yourself...

Cloth whispers suddenly, and you FEEL someone behind you. You start to pull back from the window, but too late – before you can turn, you feel something dropping around over your neck with a deadly, sinuous grace. It's soft, whatever it is, and you remember a useless fact with sudden, absolute clarity – they have very good wool in Carthul, very soft and yet tough enough to last. Good wool for travelling clothes, you recall, anything that needs to stand up to a lot of hard wear. You can't remember where you heard that. Maybe it was something that Gunny told you.

Such are the thoughts that flit through your mind as the scarf is drawn taut around your throat, cutting off your air supply and beginning the slow, irreversible road towards suffocation. DeRais, for it must be DeRais, presses his body tightly against yours as he pulls the scarf tighter, and you can smell the sharp, acid stench of sweat and madness. It's positively seeping from his body, so intense that you fear it might somehow infect you.

Little excited breaths hiss from between his teeth as he draws the scarf that little bit tighter, and you feel fresh pain shooting through your neck – and, strangely, your left arm. You need to get him off, you need to...

>Calling for a 2D6 roll, aiming to beat 8-9 for a partial success and 10+ for a full success. I'll take the best of the first three rolls.

Rolled 5, 6 = 11 (2d6)

>>2353660

Rolled 6, 4 = 10 (2d6)

>>2353660
Yep. Totally was.

Rolled 2, 6 = 8 (2d6)

>>2353660

Rolled 1, 3 = 4 (2d6)

>>2353660

>Full success!

Snarling, you cast aside the initial urge to try and pull the young man off you, and instead you push yourself violently backwards. Kicking off against the wall, you drive yourself – and your attacker – back and clash into something, probably the bed. DeRais lets out a shrill squeal of panic and loosens his grip slightly, but only slightly. By the time you've had the luxury of drawing one single breath, he's drawn the scarf taut again.

Still, it was enough for you to shift your position ever so slightly. Driving an elbow backwards, you catch him in the stomach and hear an explosive rush of breath leaving him. Again, his grip loosens and this time you don't let the chance slip away. Elbowing him in the gut for a second time, you reach up and grab his wrists, digging your thumbs into his soft, inner arms. For all his killing, Martin DeRais is still a pampered young man, and his skin has almost luxurious softness to it.

Soft, and almost completely defenceless. Your thumbs dig into his wrists and cause him to squeal with pain again, his hands reflexively flying open. Yanking the scarf out of his grip, you rip it away from your throat and angrily throw it aside. Drawing in one massive gulp of air, you spin around as DeRais is struggling to back away from you.

“Wait!” he cries, desperation flooding into his face, “Wait!”

You don't wait – you floor him with a single, brutal punch. It drops him immediately, and with such intensity that you need to check his pulse, check to make sure that your blow didn't kill him by accident. He is, thankfully, still breathing. So are you, although it hurts your throat to do so. Grabbing the discarded scarf, you reach down to bind the unconscious man's hands, and that's when you see dark blood on his wrist. It looks like someone took a razor to him, although he doesn't seem to be in any danger of bleeding to death. Still, you tie the scarf tightly enough that any flow of blood is stymied.

Some of the blood got on your hands – just your left hand, really – and left them feeling sticky. As you “borrow” a handkerchief from DeRais' pack and wipe away the blood, you notice your nails. They seem darker than you ever recall, and thicker too. More like vestigial claws than human fingernails.

More like something you'd see belonging to a Nadir barbarian.

>I'm going to have to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions or comments, I'll answer them if I can
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>2353730
>you notice your nails. They seem darker than you ever recall, and thicker too. More like vestigial claws than human fingernails.
N-nani?

Thanks for running.

>>2353730
Thanks for running.

Fugg, I guess super Nadir dream AIDS is a thing.

>>2353730
Thanks for running!
I shouldn't have voted for pursuing that demon. I shouldn't have.

>>2353756
But think of all the doggos we've saved!

>>2353730
Aw shit, no wonder his wrists felt so soft and were hurt so easily. Guess we're cursed by the gods now, those buttholes.

Thanks for running!

>>2353756
Our decision will have a positive result further down the line, so you could call it a trade of sorts.

>>2353746
Remember, always wear a dream condom!

>>2353794
What's an airship captain without a chunni as fuck demon arm I say.

>>2353815
We need to tweak it a little bit into an arm scarf. Nothing says Free Captain than being able to billow without a coat!

>>2353872
Nah. Big leather gloves with lead powder in the knuckles.

File: Provost Trice.jpg (85 KB, 1024x1024)

85 KB JPG

This shouldn't come as a surprise, really, more like a confirmation of something that you've already known for a while now. Is it a coincidence that the first sign of your Nadir blood has manifested itself on your wounded arm, where your flesh had been savaged by a daemon and mended through witchcraft? Maybe, or maybe not – matters relating to Nadir often have a certain defiance of reason about them, an opposition to logical sense.

But that hardly seems to matter. Clenching and unclenching your fist reveals another unwelcome revelation – your skin has started to crack, starting to peel away to reveal a tougher hide beneath. Not quite leather or reptile scales, but certainly something rougher than soft human skin.

It's... ugly. Ugly in appearance, and ugly in what it represents to you.

“Looks like I'm going to have to buy a pair of gloves,” you mutter to yourself as you haul DeRais to his feet. He groans a little as you lift him up, but otherwise he doesn't rouse himself. You start to drag him away then think twice, snatching up his back and taking that with you as well. It might have evidence of some kind, the sort of thing that Trice might want. You're not entirely sure how the Carth courts work – having mercifully avoided any brushes with the law in their territory – but if DeRais was foolish enough to leave written confessions of his crimes... well, they couldn't turn a blind eye to those, could they?

It depends, you suppose, on what his parents are willing to drop into the collection plate.

-

Dragging DeRais with you, you carefully descend the unstable stairs and return to the main hall, leaving the man in the middle of the floor as you cautiously peer down the broken stairs and call down to Trice. It takes a moment, but then she calls back to you. “Milos?” she calls, her voice hushed and distant, “I managed to get my leg free, I'm looking for a way up now. Just wait in the main hall, okay? Milos?”

“Okay, I hear you!” you shout back, “I'll hold up here and wait!”

Perhaps it was your shouted conversation that did it, but DeRais is awake when you turn back to him. He looks more like Blessings than ever before, his eyes wide and frightened. “Where are we?” he whines as you approach, “Are you Milos? She called you Milos, and...” Shaking his head, he looks up at you with imploring eyes. “I'm scared, Milos,” he whispers, “I don't want to... do these things. It makes me do them!”

You turn away, but his words have a frantic power that draws you back in. “These things? You mean murdering people?” you spit, “What makes you do them?”

“The devil,” DeRais whispers, “The devil they put inside me!”

[1/2]

>>2355195

“It was down in Nadir, I was doing missionary work. They took me, kidnapped me, and they did this to me,” the young man explains, speaking in a frantic whisper, “The devil speaks to me, it's always whispering things to me. Sometimes it takes control of my body, when I'm asleep or... or scared. I'm learning to control it, I really am, but I still need more time. This all happened because of her – she was hounding me, night and day, I got so terrified that I...”

“That you lost control, and this “devil” of yours took over,” you finish for him, “Is that right?”

“I didn't WANT this,” he whines, “Please, you have to understand. If she takes me back, she'll kill me. This isn't an official arrest, is it? This is an assassination!”

It's easy to write him off as making excuses, but... maybe he's not entirely wrong. Trice has been acting oddly since this job began, and you can't entirely rule out the possibility that she IS here to kill him. After all, she sent away Freddy and Caliban – if she had been the one to catch DeRais alone, would she have taken him alive?

“Just... let me go. Let me walk away,” DeRais pleads, “I can do better, but only if I'm allowed to. Turn me over to her, and you might as well put a bullet in my head right here, right now.”

Touching a hand to your revolver, you shoot him a bitter glare. “I could still do that, you know,” you warn him, “Devil or no devil, you've got a fair number of deaths to your name. Hell, you almost added my name to that little list of yours!” DeRais flinches as you draw your revolver, although you don't aim it at him just yet. To be honest, you feel... unsure, about his story and about a lot of things. His “devil”... a daemon, perhaps, but can a daemon be bound to a living body? Even Masque was created from a corpse, from an empty vessel.

But then, there are a lot of secrets out there in Nadir. Why not one more?

“Please!” DeRais begs, “Just let me go! You can say... you can say that I escaped. Tell her anything you like! Is it money you want? My family has deep pockets, and I'm certain that they would reward you for saving my life!”

This desperation... one last gamble from a cunning killer, or a plea from a genuine victim?

>Fine. I'll let you escape – you're a victim in this as well
>Save your excuses for Trice, you're her prisoner and not mine
>I think I'd rather put a bullet in you, here and now
>Other

>>2355200
>Save your excuses for Trice, you're her prisoner and not mine
"Any sympathy you could have got went away the moment you tried to strangle me."

>>2355200
>>Save your excuses for Trice, you're her prisoner and not mine

In the future, I think we should start carrying two revolvers. One normal one we wear on our hip and the corroded one on a shoulder holster under our coat.

>>2355200
>Save your excuses for Trice, you're her prisoner and not mine

"Who do you think would actually believe that crock of shit?"

Looking away from DeRais, you consider the situation for a moment more. Your exchange with Trice was a brief one, and you never did mention DeRais – the situation, then, remains ambiguous. Still, you're neither convinced by his excuses nor are you prepared to let him slip out of your grasp after coming this far to find him. “Save your excuses for the provost,” you tell DeRais with a scowl, “You're her prisoner, not mine. She'll be the one to decide your fate.”

“You're sentencing me to death!” he cries, “Don't you understand that?”

“Any sympathy you could have expected from me vanished the minute you tried to strangle me,” you counter, “And don't try and tell me that this devil of yours was to blame for that – like I said, you can save those excuses for later. See if she believes that crock of shit, because I sure don't.”

Slumping lower, DeRais glares down at the floor as his wounded act fades away. Before he quietly closes his eyes, you catch a glint of true malice flickering through them. Killing eyes, of that you have no doubt.

-

It's hard to say how long Trice takes to join you, but you busy yourself with searching DeRais' pack while you wait. Unfortunately, there's no signed confession that you could hand over to the authorities, but you weren't really expecting to be that lucky. Mostly, he just packed some basic survival supplies... and some crisp white linen sheets, perfect for turning into burial shrouds. “Why the shrouds?” you ask suddenly, looking around at him, “Why bother wrapping the bodies like that?”

DeRais doesn't answer straight away. “...It seemed like the respectful thing to do,” he murmurs eventually, adding nothing else. Leaving you to mull those words over, he lapses back down into his sullen silence. A few minutes later, and the ground floor door slams open to reveal Trice. She leans on a crude stick, something she must have salvaged from somewhere, and she walks with a limp. The bandage Doctor Barnum placed on her forehead has come loose, and her wound seems to have opened up again. Considering that fall she took, you'd say that she got off lightly.

As Trice limps closer, her hand drops to the revolver at her hip – apparently, she found her gun again. When she draws it, you have a sudden premonition of her shooting DeRais dead there and then. Her face tightens, perhaps as the same image flashes through her own mind, but then she tears her eyes away from DeRais and flips the gun around, offering the grip out to you.

“Take it,” she whispers, “Otherwise, I might end up using it.”

Nodding silently, you take the gun from her and tuck it into your belt. DeRais watches the exchange with a poisonous expression, somehow spiteful and smug, but he says nothing. He says nothing at all.

[1/2]

>>2355256
Maybe we ought to break his wrists, just in case.

>>2355272
We should at least bind him.

>>2355272
Tie him up, don't be barbaric

>>2355256

Pausing only for Trice to bind DeRais' wrists with another of her formidable knots, you head back for the trading post. On the way, Freddy and Caliban catch up with you. “I knew straight away that our man wasn't there,” Caliban explains, “The place was dead – nothing alive had set foot there in years. We took a look around, just to make sure, but I couldn't find any trace of a trail. Not even animal tracks.”

“We did find something else, though,” Freddy remarks, patting her backpack, “After nearly getting caught in a cave-in, that is. Those tunnels are not safe – I hate to imagine what fighting in them would be like.”

“We'll save show and tell for later. This is your man?” the tracker comments, studying DeRais with a dubious eye, “He doesn't look like much, does he?”

DeRais just scowls a little, making no attempt to act innocent or fearful. At this point, why waste the effort?

-

You draw a few stares as you arrive at the trading post, dragging a bound and bloodied prisoner with you, but nobody comments on the situation. That's just what you'd expect from Pugmire folk – all bland stares and silence. If they have one merit, it's that they understand discretion. They don't like people asking too many questions, but neither do they ask too many questions. Leading DeRais back to the Saint Ann, Trice swaps out his improvised restraints for cold steel shackles and locks him down. The floor of her little skiff has an iron ring for that very purpose – a brutal touch, you think, but undoubtedly effective.

As Freddy and Caliban head back to the Eliza, you tell Trice the litany of excuses that DeRais hit you with. Listening carefully, she snorts derisively and shakes her head. “That swine hasn't done a single day's missionary work in his entire life,” she scoffs, “I should know, I've seen his records. Maybe he DID visit Nadir, but it certainly wasn't with any official church expedition. That crap about devils... he was just trying to save his skin. Don't let it bother you.”

“Still,” you muse, “He seemed to think that I was sending him to his death. What's going to be waiting for him in Carthul?”

“He won't be going to Carthul,” Trice admits, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “My orders are to take him directly to Cloudtop Prison. He'll be examined there, tested to see just how “sick” he really is. In all likelihood, he'll never face another trial,” she lets out a soft sigh, “He'll spend the rest of his days in Cloudtop, but we're not going to execute him – the church says that nobody is beyond redemption. I wonder about that sometimes, I really do.”

“Never mind,” she decides after a pause, “You deserve a reward for this. I can't promise anything, but I could suggest something to Bishop Rhea. Do you have anything you need?”

>I don't need a reward, really
>Some money is fine with me
>I had something in mind... (Write in)
>Other

>>2355308
>I had something in mind... (Write in)

"There's a prisoner by the name of Barrow Jackson in Cloudtop. I'd like to speak with him."

>>2355316
>>2355308
Good play. I had forgotten about that. Seconding.

>>2355316
>>2355308
Good catch, anon. Thirding

>>2355308
>>2355316
Beat me to it

>>2355308
>>I had something in mind... (Write in)

this >>2355316

>>2355209


I lost any sympathy the moment he tried to bribe us with his families money.

Dude has to pay for his weakness, not against the Devil inside him, but for not letting himself be confined and helped when he found out about it.

Her sudden attempt at changing the subject takes you by surprise, leaving you to flounder for a moment. Thinking for a moment, you realise that there IS something that Bishop Rhea can do for you. “There's a prisoner in Cloudtop Prison that I need to speak with. His name is Barrow Jackson,” you tell Trice slowly, “Do you think that I could see him? As I understand it, he's not violent.”

“Barrow Jackson...” Trice repeats, pondering the name for a moment, “I'll remember that, and mention it to Bishop Rhea. It's unconventional, but so is this entire affair – considering all the help that you gave us, I'm certain that she'll find your request agreeable. My plan is to head back to Cloudtop Prison as soon as possible, so I can mention it to the bishop. Are you going to be staying in Pastona for a while longer? I was thinking of spending some time here after this job is finished – personal time, that is, some time off work. If you're here as well, I can track you down and give you her answer.”

“I don't know my plans yet,” you tell her as you enter the Saint Ann, strapping yourself in as she warms up the engines. “Actually, I might be here,” you add a moment later, “I got an invitation to a fancy party that the consul is holding, if you can believe that. I've not decided if I'll be attending yet.”

“Oh, lucky you,” the provost murmurs with a smile, “I never get a chance to mix with high society. The closest I'm likely to get is guarding our friend back there when he's a guest of Cloudtop Prison. Does that invitation of yours include a guest?”

“I don't know,” you answer honestly, “I've not checked yet. Like I said, I've not-”

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding,” Trice interrupts with a quiet laugh, “I don't think the consul would be too happy if you showed up with a Carth as your partner – much less a provost of the church!”

She says that she's kidding, but... you're not so sure.

-

“Oh hell,” you mutter as you see an airship approaching. You're almost halfway back to Pastona by now, just flying over Saberhagen, and you had just started to relax. Now, though, trouble is on the way in the shape of a cruel, brutal looking airship. “That's the Ebisuno,” you warn Trice, “I was hoping that we'd be able to avoid her, but no such luck. I just hope that Captain Skallgrem isn't in the mood to do anything stupid.”

“Stupid?” Trice asks.

“Like shooting at us,” you explain, reaching for the radio. “Eliza, we might have some trouble here,” you call over, “You'd better prepare to run. Head for-”

“Saint Ann!” a barking voice cuts in, interrupting your call, “Saint Ann, set your engines to hover immediately – you're not going anywhere!”

“He's definitely in the mood to do something stupid...” you groan.

[1/2]

>>2355380
> Just tell him he's lucky that you discovered this man as a criminal before Skallgrem ended up with both Carth AND Iraklin after his ass.

> Get Freddy to radio to him as an Iraklin helping us with the investigation.

Who does he think the Iraklin Government will side with, a Carth legitimate representative and an Iraklin noble working together, plus ourselves who will be seeing the Consul later tonight, or a random airship captain?

Not to mention all the evidence we have like Chokey McGee trying to kill us, and more importantly killing the skiff pilot and stealing the skiff.

While the Iraklin government might have been dragging their asses locally, you can bet they'll come down like a sack of bricks to keep Pastonian Patriots from claiming they let a murderer go just to spite Carth, or because he "didn't kill any REAL Iraklins".

File: I feel it could work out (...).jpg (22 KB, 500x363)

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>>2355380
TL;DR

What is he going to do, shoot us down? That's pretty much a guarantee to kill us. Is he willing to escalate that far? As long as we're in the Skiff, that's his only real threat.

And we aren't alone out here, nor are people unaware of us, and there are radio sneaks in the town.

>>2355380
Skiffs are far faster than most airships. I'm pretty sure we can outrun him.

>>2355396
>What is he going to do, shoot us down?
From what we've heard about this guy? Good chance.

>>2355380
Can we redio to the main ship and have blessings fly it over and be like bitch we got guns fuck off??

Honestly i would have like to have thr witch get witchy with the prisoner

>>2355414
That would mean killing his paycheck as well though.

Getting in a shit ton of trouble, for no money? That's just silly.

>>2355445
Sometimes to some people, blowing shit out of the sky is it's own reward. Not saying your idea doesn't have merit, just there is a chance he might go 'Fuck it' and try to blow up the guy trying to smooth talk.

>>2355458
Yeah but then he has to get away with it.

It's less fun if suddenly you have two nations with powerful militaries gunning for you.

Hell his own crew might mutiny rather then suddenly all become poor pirates. Rich pirates is one thing, poor pirates an entirely different thing.

>>2355380

Frowning slightly, Trice shifts the Saint Ann back into hover mode and takes the radio from you. “This is the Saint Ann,” she replies calmly, “Am I correct in saying that we're talking to the Ebisuno?”

“Right you are, lass,” Skallgrem growls, “We're looking for a wee lost lamb, perhaps you've seen him around here?”

This is your first time hearing Skallgrem's voice, and it's as unpleasant as you had imagined. “That would be Martin DeRais, yes? He's here with us,” Trice glances back at the prisoner, one corner of her mouth twitching up into a smile, “Someone seems to have rearranged his face a little, but other than that he's fine. He does seem to have gotten lost, though, so we're taking him home. Thank you for your concern, though.”

“Cute,” Skallgrem sneers, “But we'll be taking him from here. Why don't you just land your wee toy and let us take the lad. There's no reason for this to get nasty. We'll even give you a spot of compensation for wasting your time – the lad has rich parents, don't you know.”

“So I've heard,” the provost replies, “But say we don't turn him over to you – what then?”

“Then we'll knock you out of the sky and TAKE the boy,” your enemy snaps, “Don't think we won't, lass, we're not playing-”

“Damn it, Skallgrem!” you protest, snatching the radio back, “You shoot us down, and you'll kill the boy as well. Think about this for two damn minutes, and you'll see just how stupid you're being!” Pausing for a moment, you glance aside at Trice. She's flexing her fingers, touching the Saint Ann's controls as she prepares for whatever happens next. “Just think about this, Skallgrem,” you insist, “We're in Iraklin airspace, apprehending a wanted criminal. You get in the way of that, they won't like it.”

“You...” Skallgren hesitates, “You've got two minutes. Land, or we'll take you on!”

“Idiot!” you hiss as the radio goes dead, “Trice, you can outrun this guy, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” she confirms, “But if they DO fire at us, even a glancing blow could turn us to dust. Do you really think this guy is stupid enough to risk it?”

“If we were talking about anyone else, I'd say that he was bluffing, but I've heard bad things about Skallgrem,” you reply with a curt shake of your head, “If we run, he'll take it personally. If he takes it personally, all bets are off. If we make it to Pastona, though, we should be safe. Even Skallgrem isn't stupid enough to fire on us over the capital airspace... I hope. If he follows us, we can get the Helena in the air and... well, it'll be a fair fight, at least.”

Smiling as if she relishes the challenge, Trice grips the controls tightly as the radio squawks back into life. “Time's off, you two,” the belligerent captain growls, “Land, or we'll shoot – now what's it going to be?”

>Calm down, let's land and talk this over face to face
>No deal, Skallgrem. Trice, let's move!
>Other

>>2355469
>>No deal, Skallgrem. Trice, let's move!
Fuck you, you little faggot

>>2355469
>Calm down, let's land and talk this over face to face.

Let's not risk it. If he gets away we can capture them again.

>>2355469
>Given he tried to strangle me to death? No, and frankly I doubt the money is worth him killing you in your sleep either, like he did tonthe last ship captain he met (skiff guy)
If this fails?
>No deal, Skallgrem. Trice, let's move!

>>2355469
>Calm down, let's land and talk this over face to face (Lie)
>Trice, gun it!

>>2355469
>>2355487
Seconding

Like a poised spring, Trice waits for your word – seeing as how you know Skallgrem, albeit by reputation, she seems content to leave the decision to you. If you give the order to run, she'll need to focus all her energy on controlling the skiff. She won't have time to think or make plans. You hold your breath for a moment more, picturing all the various ways that this tangled situation could play out. If only Trice had lied and told him that you had DeRais with you!

“Clock's ticking,” Skallgrem jeers, “Or do you need a shot across the bows to loosen your lips?”

“Skallgrem, this guy nearly strangled me to death. If you give him the chance, he might try the same to you – how much money is worth the risk of being murdered in your sleep?” you reply, trying to sound as reasonable as possible, “The last skiff captain he hired ended up dead – you fancy being the next name on his list?”

“You think I don't know what he's capable of? I'm dragging the lad back in chains – for his own safety,” your fool opponent chuckles, “But nice try. I'm starting to think that you need some encouragement...”

“Wait, wait, calm down!” you snap, warning Trice to prepare herself, “Let's land and talk this over face to face. Like you said, there's no need for this to turn nasty. I'm sure we can come to some agreement. Saberhagen aerodrome is just nearby, how about there?”

“I knew you'd see sense... eventually,” Skallgrem sneers. Ahead of you, the Ebisuno stirs into life as it starts its descent. Waiting a few seconds more for it to build up some momentum, you switch the radio back to the Eliza.

“Eliza. Get ready to run, follow our trail and prepare to evade,” you order, before looking across to Trice, “Move!”

Slamming the controls forwards, Trice throws the Saint Ann into motion. The tiny skiff jolts as if kicked from behind by a giant boot and you feel your stomach lurch. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Eliza launching forwards as well. Skallgrem's incoherent bellow of rage rips from the radio as you hurtle away from him, but the Ebisuno can't turn around quick enough to follow hot on your tail. The advantage, then, is yours.

Pressed back into the leather seat by the force of your acceleration, you grit your teeth and prepare for the worst as a static charge builds in the air. Trice is pushing the engines hard, squeezing every last drop of power out of them, and all you can do is hope that it's enough. The Ebisuno's first shot is a warning shot – you're surprised that Skallgrem has enough restraint for that – but it causes the Saint Ann and the Eliza to split up regardless. Throwing the little ship into a steep dive, Trice prepares herself for the next shot – that one will be aimed to kill.

[1/2]

>>2355558
We should 'radio' Kez and tell her to get Blessing to get the Helena in the air, cannon pointed in our direction.

>>2355566
I think we're headed back to a city defended with ships. The fleet will deter him more than our lone ship ever could.

>>2355558

Ahead of you, you see the glint of metal in the sky. Something, another airship, is approaching fast. With a sudden shudder of fear, you realise that Skallgrem might not be alone out here – if DeRais' family could afford to hire one captain, why not two? All you can do is grunt out a warning and hope that Trice's flying is good enough. Glancing aside, you see her face – pinched with concentration, but aglow with a strange elation – and you feel the fear retreating. She's good enough... at least, she thinks so.

“Keziah,” you think, closing your eyes tightly and reaching out to her, “Find Blessings and tell him to-”

Before you can finish that thought, a hideous roar of static belches out of the radio as the new airship approaches. With its engines blazing, the new airship hurtles closer and you see – in passing – a few more details about it. It looks rough, blocky, utterly without decoration or ornamentation. It looks, in other words, uncomfortably familiar.

A daemon ship – the “erratic airship” that Doctor Barnum warned you about.

The daemon ship rips past you, its forward cannon firing a searing lance of light at the Ebisuno – a far more tempting target. Fighting against the acceleration pushing you back, you crane around and try to follow its path. The Ebisuno, which had been lumbering after you like an angry bear, hurriedly shifts into battle stations as the daemon ship fires upon it. Shields flare like ball lightning, and her pursuit stops dead. Trice, still fighting with the controls, lets out a whoop of joy.

Even so, she doesn't ease up on the acceleration. Behind you, the unexpected firefight grows more and more distant. “Captain!” Freddy calls on the radio, “Was that-”

“I think so,” you reply slowly, “I never thought I'd be glad to see one of them, but... hell. Let's just get back to Pastona as soon as possible!”

“Understood, captain,” Freddy confirms.

“Boss, what's going on?” Keziah replies to you, “Are you in trouble?”

“Never mind,” you think back to her, “Everything seems... fine. I think.”

>I'm going to need to take a short pause here. Some unexpected family issues came up, and I'm not sure how long it'll take. Next post should be up within an hour, I hope. Sorry for this.

>>2355601
But the ship will be here faster than a city.

>>2355607
Ok, I see you have Blessings flying it, so several things:

Blessings sucks. He can't fly it.
Without us the ship won't fight as well. Blessings won't be able to give good commands. He's too nice. Skallgrem knows we won't be on board and our ship will be a sitting duck.

We're on a skiff. We're way faster. We'll beat him back to the city anyway.

Landing back in the Pastona aerodrome, you feel all the strength seeping from your body. You have no idea if Skallgrem was able to destroy the daemon ship or not, and you can't really bring yourself to care. The unexpected arrival won you enough time to make a clean getaway, and that's all that matters. If you have the misfortune of running across Skallgrem again, then... well, you'll cross that bridge when you come to it. He might not even recognise you, once you're back in the Spirit of Helena.

Trice is slightly flushed, breathless from her furious display of piloting, but an unusually wide smile has settled over her face. She looks, you think suddenly, like a woman who has just had a very good time indeed. “Some job this is turning out to be,” she sighs, slumping back in her seat and allowing the tension to leave her shoulders, “I don't know who was flying that other airship, but I'd like buy them a drink.”

You can't help but laugh at that, thinking that she wouldn't be so certain if she knew what you know. Ahead of you, Freddy cautiously guides the Eliza back into the Spirit of Helena's cargo hold. It's always a delicate process, stowing a skiff away like that, requiring a deft hand and careful use of the engines. Hovering a few inches above the ground, the Iraklin nudges it forwards until the cargo hold swallows it up.

“Still, I'd better get DeRais back to Cloudtop Prison,” the provost yawns, “The sooner he's in a cell, the better. I'll pass your request along to Bishop Rhea as well, and I'll call you when I've got an answer – that is, unless I see you in person.”

A thought occurs to you, then. DeRais' devil – perhaps you could get Keziah to take a look at him, to confirm whether or not there was any truth to what he claimed. Of course, getting Trice to agree to something like that might not be so easy. Having DeRais examined by a doctor, though? That would be far easier for her to swallow. Considering how hard you punched him, getting Doctor Barnum to examine him for real might not be such a bad idea as well. Then again, it's not really your problem now – and the last time you asked Keziah to commune with a daemon, it didn't end so well for her.

“Thank you for your help, Milos,” Trice adds, unaware of your thoughts, “I mean that. Tell your doctor that I appreciate his part in this as well – if not for the two of you, I might never have caught this swine. For now, though, it's time to show him his new home.”

>I'll let you take him away. It was a pleasure working with you, Trice
>I'd like to have my doctor check DeRais over first, if you don't mind
>Other

>>2355710
>I'll let you take him away. It was a pleasure working with you, Trice
Since Trice said he never worked as a missionary, I think he was just bluffing. And I wouldn't want to reveal to him that we have a witch. Who knows how this information can be used.

>>2355710
>>I'd like to have my doctor check DeRais over first, if you don't mind
>no exorcisms, just making sure if the daemon is there or not. Also get Barnum to look at him and us for that matter.

>>2355710
>I'll let you take him away. It was a pleasure working with you, Trice
"You sure you'll be okay with him alone? It's a long trip and he seems like the kind of guy that'll try to wiggle his way out the moment you have your back turned. I can have the Doc sedate him for the trip if you want."

>>2355710

>I'll let you take him away. It was a pleasure working with you, Trice

Most likely a bluff, and would be hard on Kez. She already has run out of eyes.

Then again, considering that his story about missionary work was bogus, the rest of his story was probably just as fake. Getting Keziah to examine him might be more trouble than it's worth, in the long term, especially if he starts yelling about real witchcraft. That's the sort of thing that lead Bishop Rhea to turn you away. “I'll let you take him away now, then,” you decide, “It was a pleasure working with you, Trice.”

“You know, I think that's the first time anyone has ever told me that,” she remarks with slow wonder, “And I'm including the other provosts in that.”

“They've got terrible taste, then,” you reply with a smile, “But, uh, are you going to be okay with him on your own? He's a slippery one, and you look pretty tired. The slightest slip, and he could get the drop on you. I could get my doctor to sedate him for you, if you like.”

“Actually, that might be wise,” Trice muses after a moment, “He could probably do with some rest as well.”

Chuckling to yourself, you step out of the Saint Ann just as Caliban is emerging from the Spirit of Helena. Looking across at him, you can't help but wonder if you're hallucinating – it looks as though he's carrying an arm, a severed arm. He waves to you with the pale, bloodless thing as he approaches, and it takes all your effort to manage a weak wave in return. “Exciting day, captain,” the hunter says casually, “Need a hand with anything?”

“You...” you splutter, staring at the arm he's holding. It's not a severed arm at all, you realise with some relief, but something taken from a ruined stone statue. Not just any stone either, but that curious Zenith stone. Summoned by your odd reaction, Trice peers around and lets out a soft gasp as she sees the arm. “Is that what you found in the mines?” you finally manage to ask Caliban, “An arm?”

“Yes. I thought you might be interested in it,” Caliban confirms, “We found it in the rubble of an old cave in – just the arm, mind you, nothing else. I can't imagine that it's worth much, but it might make for a good decoration.”

“I... see,” swallowing heavily, you shake your head and return to the matter at hand. “Could you bring Doctor Barnum here?” you ask, “There's a patient that needs sedating. Just go fetch him from the infirmary, and tell him to bring some sedatives. Can you do that?”

“Oh, I think I'll manage,” he replies with utmost seriousness, “I don't need you to hold my hand.”

Groaning softly, you allow him to hurry off towards the ship. Trice watches him closely as he leaves. “That arm...” she murmurs to herself, soft wonder in her voice.

[1/2]

>>2355802
... Is it a left hand?

>>2355802
Damn, either Caliban is strong as hell or that stone is very light.

>>2355802

“What about it?” you ask, turning to glance her way, “I mean, it IS odd finding something like that here, of all places. It looked like a right arm to me – I wonder if the other arm is still in that mine somewhere. That weird stone turns up in the strangest of places...”

“It's not just any stone,” Trice corrects you, “It's a miracle from the Lord of Rising Light. Bishop Rhea says that it's called “Abrahad”. It's an old word, taken from some ancient Zenith tongue, but I don't know what it means. She has a statue made out of it, and the statue moves when you speak to it!” Her eyes widen in amazement, even as her voice drops low. “Normally, it's arms are spread wide, but when Bishop Rhea says her prayers...” Trice brings her hands together, clasping them over her heart, “The statue moves, like this!”

“I've seen it move before,” you agree, “But I don't understand how it works. How do you figure out what to say to it?”

“I... trial and error, I suppose,” Trice offers weakly, “Oh, but I hear that the pilgrims in the Palace of Silence make a habit of studying the Abrahad whenever possible. Sometimes, they find pieces of it up in the Mountain of Faith – not just rubble from the buildings there, but items and artefacts. I assume they know more about it than I do – I've never had the chance to visit the palace and find out.”

“Huh...” you murmur. Abrahad – a stone that moves upon command. Just one more strange wonder of this world.

-

Even when Doctor Barnum arrives with a syringe and a vial of some clear liquid, DeRais offers no protest. Glaring at you all with venomous eyes, he merely accepts his fate and allows the doctor to sink the needle into his neck. After that, his eyes lose their bitterness and flutter shut, his breathing slowing down as his body enters a drugged slumber. As Trice thanks Doctor Barnum again, Caliban takes you aside and lowers his voice.

“The others weren't idle while we were away,” he murmurs to you, “They've been busy thinking about this mission of ours – planning, you could say. Gunny and Keziah seem to be talking about engines, while Grace has been working on her translations. The boy, Blessings I mean, was looking pleased with himself as well – I think he must have some idea of how he can help. Just thought you should know.”

Thanking him, you turn back to Trice just in time for her to stick out her hand. Shaking it, you bid her farewell.

“I've got your number,” she concludes, miming a radio set, “So I'll be in touch. Barrow Jackson – I wont forget.”

“I'm sure that you won't,” you reply. With that, your business draws to a close – time to decide what's next.

>Speak to Gunny and Keziah about the engines
>Check on Grace's translations
>See what Blessings is excited about
>Other

>>2355861
>>See what Blessings is excited about

>>2355861
>See what Blessings is excited about

>>2355861
>See what Blessings is excited about

>>2355861
>Check on Grace's translations

Any news with Blessings can only be unfortunate.

You'll see what's got Blessings so riled up, you decide, since you're genuinely curious about how he thinks that he can help. That's not to slight the boy, but of all your crew he probably has the least to offer in usable skills. So, if he thinks he's onto something, that's worth a look. Besides, you're glad to see that he's taking an interest in this – you were worried that he might not be cut out for your mission.

You head for the crew quarters, thinking to check in on Grace if you can't find the boy here, but the faithful young man is exactly where you expected him to be. You enter quietly, but his attention isn't on you. He's focusing on a revolver, peering down its sights and awkwardly adjusting his grip as he points it at the opposite wall.

“I hope that's not loaded,” you warn him lightly, “I might have to ask your mother for compensation if you put a hole in my wall.”

“Oh!” Blessings splutters, almost dropping the gun, “No, no, it's not loaded. I borrowed this from Miss Lhaus, but she wouldn't give me any bullets... Probably wise, now that I think about it. I was just, ah, just trying to get a feel for it. I've barely practised at all since last time, and that didn't, um... well, that didn't work out so well, did it?”

You recall your mad, desperate flight from the Owlwood, and the barbarian that you had seen there. “It could have been worse,” you concede, “But it's good to keep practising. I'll try and find some time later, and we could work on your aim a little. Still, I get the feeling that you didn't want to talk to me about pistol shooting, correct?”

“There's a nice stretch of forest outside the city. I heard people talking about it at the Wild Duck, you see, and it might be a nice place to...” Blessings pauses as his lips catch up with his brain, “No, no, that wasn't it. I was thinking – you said that one of these key fragment piece... things... might be located in the Vault of the Sun, yes? You DID say that, didn't you?”

“I did, yes. We don't really know much more than that, however,” you confirm, gesturing for him to slow down. He really IS excited about this. “The Vault of the Sun is a sealed church site,” you add, “Are you comfortable with the idea of us exploring it?”

Exploring, you reason, sounds better than “ransacking”.

“No problem, no,” Blessings says slowly, shaking his head, “You see, it seems to me that we're not, ah, we're not stealing any kind of holy relic. These pieces come from Nadir originally, so we won't be offending the Lord of Rising Light by taking them.” He nods twice, as if confirming something to himself. “But we need to find out more about the Vault, don't we?” he continues, “So I had a brilliant idea – I thought that we could ask around in Sol Carthul!”

His brilliant idea is to just... ask some people about it.

[1/2]

>>2355861
>It looked like a right arm to me

Calling it now, we're going to have to replace our right arm with it at some point to balance out the corruption in our left.

>>2355987
I told you guys Blessings would only bring misfortune and misery.

>>2356021
I think the word you're looking for is underwhelming.

>>2356021
It's not an intrinsically bad plan. Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.

Gonna depend on just who he plans on asking and how, though. Remember dude financed a lot of shrines. He has a rep he could play off of.

Compared to an airship captain of dubious morals and dark history.

>>2355987

Perhaps some of your scepticism shows on your face, as Blessings hastens to continue. “No, no, captain, I had a few specific people in mind!” he blurts out, “I met a good number of people when I was raising funds for the church, and... well, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I feel as though I made a good impression on them. The church doesn't always share knowledge with, um... with people outside of its own ranks, but I feel like I might be able to convince them to make an exception.”

He does have a point there – having someone with local knowledge and contacts is always useful when gathering information, and he likely has both. So, giving the boy an encouraging smile, you sit down and gesture for him to continue.

“Well, ahem, I know a few things about the Vault of the Sun already. I think... have I mentioned it before? I'm sure we talked about it at some point, Saint Alma and the Vault of the Sun...” a vague expression flits across his face as he thinks, “Oh well, I'd be happy to tell you about it again if you like. It's like saying your prayers every morning, repetition helps the memory!”

This boy is just too damn earnest to be on a ship like this. One of these days, something is going to crush him once and for all.

“So, uh, yes. What I wanted to say is, we could take a trip over to Sol Carthul at some point and check the church archives there. If we took the Eliza, I think we could be there and back in a day,” he pauses, blushing a little, “I've never taken a trip in the Eliza before...”

Not the most subtle hint you've ever heard. Still, you make a mental note in your list of possible leads – Sol Carhul, church archives with Blessings.

>Thank you, Blessings, I'll keep that in mind. For now, though, I need to see Grace
>Remind me about the Vault of the Sun. What does Saint Alma have to do with this?
>What was that you mentioned about a nice forest?
>I have something to ask you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2356071
>>What was that you mentioned about a nice forest?

>>2356071
>Remind me about the Vault of the Sun. What does Saint Alma have to do with this?
>What was that you mentioned about a nice forest?

>Thank you, Blessings, I'll keep that in mind. For now, though, I need to see Grace

>>2356071
>Remind me about the Vault of the Sun. What does Saint Alma have to do with this?

And

>What was that you mentioned about a nice forest?

Nice is not a word associated with forests so far.

>>2356071
>What was that you mentioned about a nice forest?
>Thank you, Blessings, I'll keep that in mind. For now, though, I need to see Grace

>>2356071
>Remind me about the Vault of the Sun. What does Saint Alma have to do with this?
>What was that you mentioned about a nice forest?

Touching a hand to your forehead, you try and think back to some of your past conversations with the boy. Most of them, you seem to have deliberately blocked from your memory – some desperate measure of preserving your sanity, perhaps. Unfortunately, you might have lost some useful information along with whatever banalities he spewed at you. “Remind me again about the Vault of the Sun,” you ask, “What does Saint Alma have to do wit this?”

“Well, ah, this story starts with Saint Alma. She explored Nadir a lot in her day, and she recovered a great many relics from there. Items of historical significance, you see,” Blessings begins, taking out his notepad and flipping though it. He actually took notes for this. “Most of the items were obvious in form or function – bones or ceremonial weapons, say – but there was also a piece of odd iron. You seemed quite interested when I mentioned it back then, and...” he pauses, “Oh! Oh, you thought that it...”

“That it might have been one of the key fragments,” you confirm, your memory trickling back, “And now I'm almost certain about it. So, Saint Alma recovered one of the fragments and...”

“And she gave it to the fledgling church. Later, Saint Alma would return to Nadir where she was martyred. Her bones were never recovered. Um, she leaves the story here. Obviously,” the boy clears his throat, “Later on, a group of priests took the iron fragment – along with certain other relics – and entered the Vault of the Sun. They never made it out, and... um, and the church sealed up the site. Too dangerous, you see. I hope that we can persuade them to allow us in – so that if we don't return...”

“It won't be good, honest churchmen losing their lives,” you finish for him, “Just scruffy airship captains and his motley crew.”

“Well,” he lets out a faltering laugh, “I wouldn't put it quite like that...”

“No matter. Thank you for refreshing my memory – maybe it was my misspent youth, but I can't quite remember things like I used to,” sighing wearily, you give Blessings a wan smile, “But I can remember some things well enough. What was that you said about a forest?”

“I overheard some people talking about it in the Wild Duck. They said that they were going to do some training there – sparring, and a little shooting. Quite common, from what I gathered,” his eyes widen suddenly, “Oh, but I didn't mean to eavesdrop! I just thought... it sounded nice.”

“So you said,” you reply drily, “But I tend not to find forests so nice these days. Still, I think I know the one you're talking about – it IS quite popular for people to train in. The trees help muffle the noise, and you can get some decent privacy there. Were you hoping to go there at some point, then?”

He doesn't answer this, but he doesn't need to – it's written all over his face.

[1/2]

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>>2356184

“I'll think about it. After the day I've had – and we're only just getting started – it might be nice to take some time off. A long walk in the woods, close enough to civilisation that we don't need to worry about beasts or barbarians...” sighing a little, you shrug, “I'll think about it. For now, though, I've got some other work to do. I was going to visit Grace – do you want to come along?”

Blessings considers the idea, then nods lightly.

-

The sweet smell of Bartzoff Petal hangs in the air as you arrive at Grace's quarters, causing Blessings to cough lightly. Grace doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, regarding you both with slightly narrowed eyes. You've seen that look before, that mismatch of intense focus and peripheral indifference. Bombs could be falling while her nose was buried in a book, and she wouldn't notice.

“I hear that you've had some success with that translation,” you begin brightly, speaking loud enough for your words to definitely get across. Grace closes her eyes tightly for a moment, then opens them – they seem clearer now, at least.

“I have the first set of pages completed. This is slow going, captain, so it's going to take a while – one word at a time, one page after another,” Grace lets out a soft sigh, but one that has some satisfaction in it. Taking a sheet of heavy parchment from her desk, she passes it across to you. “Now, two points. First of all, this is incomplete – these kinds of Zenith script tend to have special characters denoting the beginning and end of a passage. The beginning was missing from this excerpt, though,” she pauses for a moment, “I don't think anything too important is missing. An introduction, perhaps, but the text seems to make some sense without it. As much sense as these things ever make.”

“I see,” you muse, skimming over the page, “This looks like a creation narrative, and a story about the gods.”

“It is. This brings me to the second point,” Grace toys with her pipe, but resists the urge to light it, “Two terms - “Dogma” and “Impurity”. The translation is very difficult, and I did the best that I could. In particular, the full translation of “Dogma” carries connotations of both perfection, and sound construction – an architectural term, in other words. Take a look, read it over properly, then we can move on.”

This reminds you of your lessons with Salazar – he'd say the exact same thing, urging you to read something “properly”. That usually meant slowly, in his lessons.

>Fine, I'm done with reading. What do you think?
>I've got a question about this text... (Write in)
>Other

>>2356221
>>I've got a question about this text... (Write in)
'Given duties to those that would become gods' implies that the other 5 didn't start out as gods correct?

>>2356221
Ok, so we're a flaw in Dogma's perfect system. Maybe the incarnation of pestilence that spared us was the Master of Impurity.

>I've got a question about this text... (Write in)
"That stuff about the Maiden of Flames giving one day for that which no flame can erase to roam, any ideas what that means?"

>>2356221
>Fine, I'm done with reading. What do you think?
Which gods' keys do we have again?
Also, it looks like the Wind god's attempt at daemons really went down the shitter.

>>2356221
>Other

Bring up the discussion we had with the fever demon. As a story we heard about a demon that tested men, not a personal experience.

>>2356221
>"He toyed with those whose bodies were not given to the flames". What flamas is this passage talking about? There was a Maiden of the Flames, but she gathered souls, not bodies.
>Also, doesn't the Maiden of the Flames have some parallels in the Carthulian faith?
>It's also pretty suspect that Zenith metaphysics would ascribe any importance to the ocean.

>>2356257
The seed planted in us that the demon mentioned - who planted that exactly.?

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>>2356277
We were impregnated?

>>2356257
I would assume souls. That sounds like the day of the dead down in Nadir, when all the ghosts walk.

>>2356274
The “given to the flames” sounds like he’s responsible for demons being able to be bound in corpses as homunculi and familiars as they haven’t been cremated in accordance to rite.

Passing the page across to Blessings, you watch as his brow furrows with intense concentration. As he reads, you consider what you just read and ask the first question that comes to mind. “This says that Dogma gave duties to those who would become the gods,” you begin, “That implies that at some point, they were something other than gods. Can you suggest what that might be?”

“Not men – that is to say, humans. I'd say that the answer might lie in the word “daemon”. I understand that that's the more common term, but the High Zenith term could also be translated as...” Grace checks a second sheet of notes, “As something like “small god”. So, perhaps the Master of Dogma elevated five daemons and granted them power over their current domains. I wonder how he picked them – I can't imagine that he did it at random, he doesn't seem like the sort who would do anything at random.”

“Sound construction,” you agree, “Okay, so the part about the Maiden of Flames giving one day to that which no flame can erase. What does that mean?”

“I believe it ties into a Nadir festival – I found a note in one of these books about it. A day in which the spirits of the dead were allowed to roam the land. According to these notes, though, it was purely symbolic,” the scholar scratches at her head, “People would don masks and remember their dead. I've never read anything to suggest that it was literal. You spent a number of years down in Nadir, did you not? Did YOU ever see the spirits roaming the land?”

“The Festival of Walking Ghosts...” you murmur to yourself. Is it just a coincidence that this all began around about that time? Salazar brought word of Miriam's death, and Morey sent you to threaten Gutter Sut. Wearing a mask of your own, you were one of those roaming spirits – and then things just kept on going, barely kept under your control. “Impurity was said to toy with those whose bodies were not given to the flames,” you continue, “But the Maiden of the Flames gathered souls. I don't quite understand this.”

“Ah, well, I'm not sure about that either. If I had to guess, I'd say that...” clearing her throat, Grace checks her notes again, “I'd say that if a body was not burned, the spirit could not reach the Maiden of the Flames. If that happened, the Master of Impurity was able to... influence the unburned body. If the spirits were allowed to roam for one day of each year, then perhaps these bodies could be made to roam.”

“That's disgusting!” Blessings protests, “You're saying that... that there could be dead people walking down in Nadir?”

“Maybe,” Grace says with a shrug, “It's hard to know how much of this is literal and how much is metaphor. I don't want to write anything off as falsehood, though.”

[1/2]

>>2356353

“Blessings, this Maiden of the Flames seems to have some parallels with your faith – the Lord of Rising Light was said to burn away sin and impurity, right?” you ask, watching as the boy's frown deepens for a moment, “What do you think?”

“I... suppose,” he admits after an uncomfortable pause, “But, ah, I don't think the Lord of Rising Light is quite so... limited. There church does not recognise other gods, you see, and they wouldn't accept that the Lord is “just” a god of the dead. The Lord of Rising Light governs all aspects of our life, from the sun in the sky to the life in our hearts. I don't mean to preach but, ah... the Lord is bigger than all this. He comes from above all of this.”

He seems to believe that, genuinely and purely, but you're not quite so convinced. Still, you have other questions for Grace. “I've heard stories of a daemon that tested men, demanded that they justify their own existence,” you explain slowly, omitting the fact that this is a first hand account, “This sounds a lot like the Master of Impurity – it was said to challenge men as well. Could they be the same?”

“Conceivably, yes,” Grace looks up at the ceiling and lets out a low whistle. “I'd hate that. I'd hate to have a god forcing me to justify my own existence. I have no idea what I'd say to it,” she murmurs, “That my existence is to read books and study dead languages? Oh, ah, I'm sorry captain – I didn't mean to imply that this isn't important work!”

“No offence taken,” you assure her, “Here, there's something I don't quite understand. This is a Zenith script, right? It seems odd that there are mentions of the ocean in it.”

“Ah!” Grace snaps her fingers, “I have a theory about that!”

There is a pause. “Okay,” you press, “I don't have any other questions, so why don't you tell me about this theory of yours.”

“I think that at one time, this land was one – there was no Zenith or Nadir, no Azimuth between them. It was all one land,” the young scholar suggests, “You remember that mural? Forests below, with a mountain rising up. That mountain became Zenith, although I can't imagine how it came to be so... high up. The lowlands remained as Nadir, and Azimuth... oh, I don't know. Maybe some bits fell off the mountain, it doesn't really matter.”

Did she just write off an entire set of islands, home to the two great powers, as something that doesn't really matter?

“Anyway, I'm hopeful to find some more answers in the coming pages. From what I can tell so far, the next part is some kind of historical record – very, very ancient history,” Grace pauses again, “There is one other point, though, and I really can't stress this enough. This could be awfully important.”

This, you realise, does not sound good.

[2/3]

>>2356408
> I'd hate to have a god forcing me to justify my own existence. I have no idea what I'd say to it.

I think you would just have to say ANYTHING. But definite props for "I deserve to live because fuck you that's why". No dissembling.

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>>2356408

“I'm almost certain that this was created by a human writer – not that this was written, I suspect that it was carved into... that doesn't matter,” Grace shakes her head again, frowning at her wandering thoughts, “What I mean is, this should not be taken as an unbiased source. Whoever wrote this must have had enemies, people – or gods – that they wished to portray as evil or wrong. I'm trying to translate this as objectively as I can, but the original text could be... unreliable.”

“I see,” you agree with a firm nod. History is written by the victors – which is they the Iraklins are heroic defenders, protecting the Pastona Union from Carth influence. You know all too well how history works. “Well, this has given me a lot to think about,” you sigh, “Keep working on the next section. With luck, we'll be able to confirm some of our theories.”

“Oh, captain, I had a question about these... key fragments of yours,” Grace asks next, “I understand that they have markings on them. Do those markings have any significant meaning?”

“Keziah mentioned that four of them were associated with the Nadir gods. We have...” you think back, “We got the “Wind” fragment from the Northern Labyrinth, and I got the “Waves” fragment from Consul Hess. I'm not sure if the marking has any relation to where they were found, though. I suppose the remaining four must be Soil, Flames, Impurity and Dogma. I'll have to note those down at some point... Anyway, does that answer your question?”

“Yes, I'm satisfied. Ah, but there is one other issue,” clutching her stomach, Grace lets out a groan, “I'm so hungry, I can't remember when I last ate!”

Sighing, you glance across at Blessings. He nods slightly, then hurries off towards the kitchen.

>I'm going to have to pause things here, I'm super tired. I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions I'll answer them if I can
>Sorry for the early finish today, and thanks for reading!

>>2356482
Grace, Trice, Caliban, Keziah - whose butt is best and why.

Obviously the answer is Keziah's Mom but I mean out of mere mortal asses that haven't been blessed by the kiss of the Gods.

>>2356482
>this should not be taken as an unbiased source. Whoever wrote this must have had enemies, people – or gods – that they wished to portray as evil or wrong
Alright, so what ancient evil are we going to be unleashing by assembling the ring and opening the vault?

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>>2356482
Thanks for running Moloch.

>>2356491
Dogma maybe?

>>2356482
Thanks for running!

This Impurity fella seems to be getting pretty big for his britches. Wonder if Dogma will demote him back to daemonhood.

>>2356490
Probably Trice. She doesn't lift like Freddy, but she definitely keeps herself in shape. That would be an athlete's backside. Caliban would probably take second place, for much the same reasons. If you prefer dudes, though, I expect that he'd easily take the prize.

>>2356491
Well, the first chap to open up these vaults let the wyrms escape, so he probably let out all the monsters already. Lucky for us!

>>2356555
Okay. Freddy vs Trice!

>>2356570
Now that is a difficult question. They're pretty similar, so I suppose it largely comes down to personal preference - Trice would be a touch softer, and a little slimmer than Freddy. As far as I could say, though, this contest is too close to call

>>2356624
Personal preference is always Maeve.

>>2356482
How many firearms does Freddy have?

>>2356723
Four, in her personal supply. A standard issue fighting rifle, and three automatic pistols of various sizes - a slim pocket pistol for formal events, and two larger ones for more practical work. That doesn't include the Spirit of Helena's own modest arsenal, which Freddy tends to look after in her spare time.

>>2356773
So would it be more ethical to make smaller guided missiles using demons bound to like, dogs or monkeys or Nadir? Or fish or fowl since they already have experience with 3 dimensional movement?

>>2356805
If we're talking about making insane suicide weapons, I'm not entirely sure if "ethics" come into the discussion. For what it's worth, though, I feel like birds might be the most effective "pilots" to use because, as you say, they have experience with three dimensional movement.

>>2356850
I mean. Could we use some sort of principle of magical attraction and shoot flak powder cannons to literally paint targets that missiles would be attracted to?

I mean.

What are the ethics around demons? Are they all sapient?

>>2356865
Daemons are odd. Most of them have a general human level of intelligence, although that doesn't always manifest itself in human ways. They might be intelligent but they still behave in an utterly bestial fashion, for example. They have a natural urge to avoid death, although for a daemon "dying" is far from permanent. In most cases, it just means that they need to be summoned once again - however, daemons often lose many of the memories they made after "dying". You could compare it with a computer being reset to factory defaults.

Additionally, most witches are reluctant to summon daemons for no good reason. While there tends to be a lot of individual variation involved with witchcraft, most would agree that daemons and humans have a mutual relationship. If people started to abuse daemons, the relationship might become tainted and dangerous. In this regard, what the creator of these suicide ships is doing is a very serious taboo.

So, to put it simply, suicide bombers are bad.

Dead story?

>>2357051
What?

>>2357171
poopoo haha

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“You know, I have this theory about justifying your own existence,” you tell Grace later, as she's voraciously devouring a ham sandwich, “It doesn't really matter what you say – it really doesn't – so long as you say it with enough conviction. Even just deciding “To hell with you, I don't want to die!” should be good enough, so long as you feel that way with absolute certainty.” Having said this, you wait for Grace to finish chewing so that she can answer you.

“So...” she begins, taking a deep drink of water, “So even if I said, “I want to live because I can't die on an empty stomach”, that would work?”

“So long as you were really hungry, I guess so,” you shrug, glancing across as Keziah and Gunny wander in. “Hey, you two!” you call over, “If you had to justify yourselves – you know, your lives – how would you do it?”

“Easy, brother. I made a hell of a mess of things, and I need more time to make amends,” Gunny answers, “I'm not the kind of guy who leaves a mess without cleaning up after myself. What about you, little sister?”

“I dinnae ken. I'd say, maybe, I couldnae let my friends down. When you've got folks relyin' on you, you cannae just go dyin' like that. It leaves everyone else with a whole bunch of problems!” Keziah offers, “What kind of friend does that to their nearest and dearest?”

“I see, I see...” Grace muses, before casting a longing eye at the other half of her sandwich. You shrug, and she digs in as the others sit. “So,” the scholar mumbles from around a mouthful of rye bread, “I just need to believe in something with all my heart – all my conviction.”

“That's right. Also, stop spitting crumbs all over the place,” you tell her, sighing a little before glancing across to Keziah and Gunny, “I hear you two have been looking into engines. Something to solve our altitude problem?”

“Aye, that's right. We were talkin', and Gunny here mentioned a name. An engineer, like, who was talk of the town a while back. He had these brilliant ideas, but he was... uh... difficult. He was an Iraklin, and he wrote an essay that basically crapped over...” Keziah pauses to think for a moment, “Well, pretty much everyone. It read like a proper scholarly paper, so folks took it seriously for a while, but then they realised that he was just callin' everyone idiots. Haydn, I think his name was. Something Haydn.”

“Isaac,” Grace says as she clears her throat, “Isaac Haydn. He wrote “Commentaries on Natural Law, with Regards to the Pleonite Paradox”. We have a few copies at the college. I've never read it, though – it's awfully dry. Didn't he get arrested for something?”

“The Iraklins arrest people?” Gunny mutters, “I thought they just shot them...”

[1/2]

>>2359054

“I cannae say for sure, but I certainly hope not,” Keziah says with a shrug, “I figured, if we could find this guy, he might have some insight into our engine problem. Him being shot and all, that wouldnae really help with our little problem. You ought to ask Fredrika about it, she's more likely to know.”

“Who's Fredrika?” Grace asks, frowning in confusion.

“Freddy,” you tell her, “Keziah just calls her “Fredrika” because... I assume she has some terribly important reason for it, instead of just being passive aggressive.”

“No, I'm pretty much just bein' passive aggressive,” Keziah corrects you cheerfully, “Really boss, it just sounds weird to me, like she was tryin' to pass herself off as a lad or somethin'.” Having said this, the witch slouches across the table and lets out a long sigh. “Ah, but I'm so tired! We spent the whole day strippin' and cleanin' the engine, since I figured we were goin' to be grounded for a while. I've probably got machine oil sticking to every inch of my body...” she groans, “You'll help scrub me clean, right boss? You're the captain here, so you've got a duty to run a clean ship.”

“Oh sure, I'll help,” you jeer back, “Just let me get the hose. You're fine with cold water, right?”

“On second thoughts, maybe engine oil isnae that bad!” Keziah yelps, causing Grace to giggle a little. Gunny is less restrained, letting out a booming laugh.

“Nothin' wrong with a cold shower, little sister, it's good for the soul,” he chuckles, “But never mind that now – Milos, brother, what are we doing today? I don't mind keeping an eye on the ship if you've got business elsewhere, but I like to know what we're doing. Got something planned?”

>I wanted to take a trip over to Sol Carthul with Blessings, check the church archives
>I need to head down to Nadir, to discuss a few things with Maeve
>I feel like taking some time off. Blessings mentioned a forest, and it sounds relaxing
>Trice mentioned the Palace of Silence up in Zenith. I'd like to head up there
>Other

>>2359057
>I wanted to take a trip over to Sol Carthul with Blessings, check the church archives

>>2359057
>I wanted to take a trip over to Sol Carthul with Blessings, check the church archives

>>2359057
>I feel like taking some time off. Blessings mentioned a forest, and it sounds relaxing

>>2359057
>I wanted to take a trip over to Sol Carthul with Blessings, check the church archives

>>2359057
>Sol Carthul with Blessings, check the church archives

“I was thinking of taking a trip over to Sol Carthul with Blessings,” you decide after a moment, “He suggested checking the church archives there for leads on the Vault of the Sun. It shouldn't take too long, and it should be safe enough – not many murderous barbarians in the Carth capital, I should think.” At least, that's what you hope. These days, you can never be certain about these things.

“Room for one more on this trip of yours, brother?” Gunny asks, “It's been too long since I saw the capital. Damn fine place, Sol Carthul. I never did get around to visiting the church archives, though...”

“Too much like proper schoolin' or something?” Keziah teases, causing him to laugh again. Slapping her hard on the arm – a rather aggressive display of friendship – Gunny nods without a trace of shame.

“Got that right, little sister,” he cheerfully agrees.

-

Upon learning of your plans, Blessings is beside himself with excitement. While you send Freddy down to get the Eliza ready, he bustles about with notepads and the Imago device. Gunny is more reserved, but you can sense an eager anticipation stirring within him as well. Leaving them to trade comments about the capital, you follow Freddy down to the cargo hold. Keziah's comments about this Haydn are still fresh in your mind, and you don't want to lose the chance to ask the pilot about him. When you mention his name, though, her face turns sour.

“I've heard of him, unfortunately,” she informs you, “He's not exactly a point of pride for Iraklis. I can't deny that he's a brilliant engineer and researcher – even if I don't understand a word of what his work says – but he's a bastard. He embezzled funds meant for research and spent them on... wild parties and illicit drugs. He was arrested after a public outcry – he was using a government lab for...” Colouring slightly, she hesitates before continuing. “Well,” she concludes, “For “sexually charged occult rituals”. I believe that was what they called them.”

“Witchcraft?” you ask, “Or just a regular orgy?”

“The latter, by all accounts,” Freddy mutters awkwardly, “A Nadir woman was involved, but there was no indication of any unnatural phenomenon. Even so, he was an embarrassment to the nation – arresting him was the only option. I suspect that he avoided execution, however. A man of his talents is too valuable to waste, but I don't know where he is now. Hidden away somewhere, I expect.”

Before you can ask her anything else, Blessings and Gunny hurry down to join you. Once they're both sitting down and strapped in, Freddy fires up the engines and away you go.

[1/2]

>>2359057
>Keziah corrects you cheerfully, “Really boss, it just sounds weird to me, like she was tryin' to pass herself off as a lad or somethin'.”

Repeat what Keziah said about it making Freddy sound weird while calmly and intently staring at Keziah. Make sure to repeat it using her accent.

>I need to head down to Nadir, to discuss a few things with Maeve

Just an idea. Let''s figure out what's going on with our demon hands before going somewhere that REALLY DOESN'T like said demon hands.

>>2359091
>>Keziah corrects you cheerfully, “Really boss, it just sounds weird to me, like she was tryin' to pass herself off as a lad or somethin'.”
>Repeat what Keziah said about it making Freddy sound weird while calmly and intently staring at Keziah. Make sure to repeat it using her accent.


I have faith this opportunity will come up again.

>>2359094
I assume we have gloves on.

>>2359100
We haven't seen any spoopy anti-Nadir church magic yet and I am paranoid.

We should burn the church down to be safe.

>>2359091

While the Eliza isn't quite as fast as the Saint Ann, you still make excellent time crossing over to Carthul. After landing in Sol Carthul you need to wait for a churchman to inspect your ship – making sure that you're not smuggling in any contraband – but that doesn't take long. It's a cursory examination at best, and the Eliza doesn't have many hiding places. Even so, you couldn't help but tug nervously at your gloves – maybe you're being paranoid, but just being here is enough to make your damaged hand itch.

“Hierophant Milleux has relaxed security recently,” Blessings mentions as you leave the aerodrome, “A lot of people didn't like that, you know, but the Hierophant said... ah, he said that it was a waste of resources. Worse, it suggested, um, it suggested a “shameful lack of trust”, in his own words.”

“He sounds like an idealist,” Freddy remarks, saying nothing else. She doesn't need to say anything else – her opinion on the matter is quite clear.

-

The church archives are located in the centre of Sol Carthul, near the Grand Cathedral and a whole mess of other important buildings. Blessings fidgets nervously as you draw closer to the centre, occasionally starting to say something before cutting himself short and weakly shaking his head. Eventually, Gunny lets out a massive sigh.

“By the Light, lad, just spit it out!” he insists, “If you need to take a piss, just say something!”

“Not so loud!” the boy groans, glancing fearfully around as a few passing citizens give him a wide range of strange looks. “But, ah, there is something,” he admits after a moment, “Before we head into the central district, we really ought to, um... wash. I don't mean to imply anything, but it's tradition! Ritual bathing is important, especially before heading into the central district.”

“Bugger. I never thought of that,” Gunny scratches his thinning hair, “Ritual bathing, eh?”

“There should be bathhouses all over,” Blessings says, gesturing around you, “Free of charge, you understand. It, ah, it's not about making money...”

“But this isn't essential, is it?” Freddy asks, frowning a little at the diversion. For someone like her, this must seem like a pointless waste of time and effort. “I mean,” she adds, “We could just walk into the centre and nobody would stop us, correct?”

“Well, um, I suppose so...” the boy mumbles, shuffling his feet awkwardly, “But it's awfully... rude. Traditions are supposed to be respected.”

>We'll stop and bath. Like Blessings says, traditions should be respected
>This is just a waste of time. Let's just head straight to the archives
>Other

>>2359121
>We'll stop and bath. Like Blessings says, traditions should be respected

>>2359121
So how noticeable is our Nadir hand?

>>2359121
> Are these private baths? I would rather have as few people as possible recognize us.

>>2359141

>At the moment, it doesn't look immediately abnormal. The nails appear darker than is normal, and the skin feels firmer to the touch, but there are no immediately obvious deformities.

>>2359141

>you notice your nails. They seem darker than you ever recall, and thicker too. More like vestigial claws than human fingernails.

> But that hardly seems to matter. Clenching and unclenching your fist reveals another unwelcome revelation – your skin has started to crack, starting to peel away to reveal a tougher hide beneath. Not quite leather or reptile scales, but certainly something rougher than soft human skin.

I would not want to be in a public bath.

If we DO get found out though, we can pretend to be desperately looking for salvation. Shame about the significant hit to our rep though, and we'll probably be on a Carth list as well as an Iraklin one afterwards.

>>2359148
Oh that's relieving then.

> At the moment.

Hopefully they stay that way when we have a stressful holy bath.

>>2359121
>We'll stop and bath. Like Blessings says, traditions should be respected
Alright then. We should be okay.

“I think we should stop and bathe. You're right, Blessings, traditions should be respected. Considering that we're here to ask the church for help, we ought to play by their rules,” you reply slowly, tugging at your glove again, “But still, I'd rather visit a private bath if possible. I'd prefer not to draw too much attention while we're here. Do you know any private baths?”

“Never knew you to be shy, brother,” Gunny chuckles, “It's not like you've got anything to be ashamed of.”

“Wait,” Freddy cuts in, “You've seen his-”

“Blessings!” you snap, “Private baths, yes or no?”

“Ah! No, no... I don't know of any,” Blessings blurts out, cringing away from your harsh tone, “But, ah, but it shouldn't be hard to find a quiet place. There are so many here, and some of them are, ah, they're awfully out of the way. I remember a small place not too far from here that was empty. I never saw a single person there when I visited it.” Blushing right to the roots of his floppy hair, Blessings hesitates for a moment. “I prefer to bathe in private as well, you know,” he mumbles, “I thought...”

“Fine. Take us there,” you sigh, shooting Gunny a glare, “We'll get this over quickly, then move on. We're not here on some pleasant holiday, remember?”

With that, you gesture for the boy to lead the way and you hurry off. All the while, Gunny grins to himself.

-

When Blessings said that the bathhouse was out of the way, he really meant it. It must be in one of the oldest parts of Sol Carthul, hidden away in a maze of streets so narrow that you have to walk single file. You have no idea what you'd do if you ran into someone coming from the opposite direction, but that possibility never arises – in fact, you don't see a single soul until you arrive at the bathhouse itself. There, a wizened old crone silently leads you through into the rear of the gloomy building.

You're glad of that gloom. Not only is the bathhouse virtually empty, but the lighting is perfect for hiding your damaged arm. Once you allow yourself to relax a little, you can appreciate the bathhouse for its archaic charm. Glossy tiles the colour of sand line the wall and floor, while the infrequent lanterns cast a buttery light over the scene. The baths themselves are small, separate room just about big enough for four people each, and you take two adjacent rooms. That was Blessings' idea – he insisted, in fact.

Leaving your clothes in wicker baskets outside the bath, you're all careful to keep your eyes above waist level until sinking down into the hot, fragrant water. Steam clouds the air, while a panel of thick, greenish glass reveals a vague, indistinct view of the next bath over. Sinking deeper into the water, you close your eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

This is... nice.

[1/2]

>>2359184

“So, little brother, how long are we supposed to stay in here for?” Gunny asks, water splashing as he stands up and grabs for a bar of hard soap. Opening your eyes, you watch as he scrubs at the machine oil staining his arms. When he turns away from you, you see that his back is lurid with a large tattoo – an abstract design, with countless little details. Before he splashes back down, you notice engine components, a single feathered wing, and an improbable amount of fire. Blessings must have noticed the tattoo as well, as his jaw hangs slack with awe.

“Um, uh, until we feel clean, I suppose,” he answers at last, “I always stay in for a long time. A bath like this, um, it helps me think.”

“I bet it does,” Gunny jokes, glancing across at the thick glass. You see the vague suggestion of a silhouette moving about through the glass, but no details can be made out. You couldn't even say for certain if it's a man or a woman. “So,” he adds, nodding at the silhouette, “What ARE you thinking about?”

“I... I have no idea what you mean!” Blessings yelps. Snatching a towel from the edge of the bath, he leaps up and fumbles it around his waist. “I think I'm done!” he adds hurriedly, “I'll, ah, I'll wait for you in the front!”

Watching him leave, Gunny lets out a low laugh. “Shouldn't tease the lad,” he says at last, “But it's just too much fun. I'll tell you this, brother, I never would have pictured you bringing a kid like him along. Same with Grace, I guess, but at least she can help with the book learning. True, the boy knows folk here, but... I can't really see him putting the pressure on them. If there's hard bargaining to do, he'll be no use at all. He's too...”

“Too nice,” you agree, “Well, maybe so. If we don't get any fresh leads here, we've not lost anything but some time. Even then, at least we got a chance to have a decent bath!”

“Aye, that's true,” Gunny pauses for a long moment, “Say, brother, that hand of yours...”

While your deformities are discrete enough to fool a passing glance, you knew that there would be no hiding them from your crew. Still, you had been hoping to avoid this. For one thing, you're still struggling to accept it yourself – to accept what it means. Gunny doesn't press the point, leaving you to pick up the dangling thread – or, perhaps, to change the subject.

>Drop it, Gunny. I don't want to talk about it
>It's nothing, no big deal. I guess I've got some Nadir blood in me, that's all
>Never mind my hand, what's with that tattoo?
>My hand... (Write in)
>Other

>>2359241
>It's nothing, no big deal. I guess I've got some Nadir blood in me, that's all
>My run in with a Daemon and a strangler certainly didn't help matters.
I'm looking forward to slashing some attacker's throat with bestial claw nails when we get into another Nadir-blood-awakening melee fight.

>>2359241
>It's nothing, no big deal. I guess I've got some Nadir blood in me, that's all
"You know my father was very adamant that we are all pureblooded. So adamant in fact that it's not really a surprise it was another lie."

Either that or Kez's treatment went in a weird direction.

>Never mind my hand, what's with that tattoo?

>>2359241
>My hand... (Write in)

It was worse before. I've heard about Nadir blood causing changes one way, but never a out it getting better.

My gun was changed too, after I was poisoned.

I wonder if that means that it's not something different the Nadir have in them. Maybe it's something we all have in us that is merely brought to the surface by encounters with Demons.

There's so much we just don't know. But I'm glad to have friends like you and Keziah around to make sure that even if my body changes I still stay myself.

I worry that maybe there was a demon inside that other man. I worry if there might also be one in me. If so . . . I trust you to help keep me on the right path. Or do what has to be done if I try to excuse my actions by blaming it on a demon. I won't let myself become that, even if it means locking myself away until, if, it can be fixed. Just promise me to let Maeve see if she can help before locking me up. Innocence of intent doesn't excuse one from responsibility.

So yeah. Now about your tattoo . . . .

>>2359273
I think you might be reading a tad too much into standard Nadir awakening.

Also the gun was just corroded from the poison. I don't think it's a representation of the soul or anything.

>>2359273
I mean, I have my own suspicions that we picked up spirit aids straight from the nightlands, courtesy of the god of impurity, but I still think its just that: normal spirit aids. I sincerely doubt we're any different from any other Nadir.

>>2359241
>No biggie, Nadir blood. Like Keziah's eyes. That tattoo tho...

>>2359304
But it went away though.

>>2359286
There's the whole thing about the islands being a continent and a god of physical corruption and whatnot though.

Like the Nadir had to come from somewhere.

Looking down, you consider your deformed hand. Deformed? It's hardly that bad – for now, at least. Perhaps you've been too concerned with what it implies to look at it through unbiased eyes. Lifting it out of the water, you slowly clench your fist. “It's nothing. It's no big deal,” you begin, speaking very deliberately, “I guess I've got some Nadir blood in me, after all. That's it. I should have guessed this long ago – the fact my father was so boastful about our “unblemished heritage” should have told me that something was wrong.”

You half expect Gunny to laugh at that, but he keep silent. “I guess having some daemon trying to bite my arm off didn't help, though, and then there was the mad strangler...” you add with a sigh, “But you know, I wonder. After running into that daemon, my pistol ended up changed as well. It's almost like this isn't about blood, Nadir or otherwise, but... but it's something that is always there, just beneath the surface. Something that waits for the right stimulus to emerge.”

“You think we've all got something like that inside us? Something like Keziah's eyes?” Gunny asks after a pause, “That's grim, brother, that's real grim.”

“Is it? Maybe it's just the natural order of things,” you reply vaguely, “But either way, it doesn't give us any excuses. Even if my body changes, I'll be relying on you and Keziah – on everyone – to make sure that my mind doesn't change. I can't use this an excuse for self-pity... or anything worse than that. You think you can help keep me on the straight and narrow, Gunny?”

“Milos, brother, I'll do my damn best,” he assures you, reaching across to slap you on the shoulder, “I'm still trying to get my head around all this – you know me, slow old Gunny Hotchkiss – but you're still you. Far as I'm concerned, that's not going to change.”

“But if it does...” you murmurs, “Well, I don't know. If the worst should happen, maybe Maeve can help – or at least make things easier for us all. Promise me that you'll bring me to her, if I ever... stop being myself.”

“You got it, brother,” Gunny nods, wading a step closer and spreading his arms wide in a brotherly embrace. Laughing, you raise your hand – both hands, in fact – and carefully push him back.

“Enough about my hand,” you warn him, “What's the deal with that tattoo? You can't tell me that you just woke up like that one day.”

“Funny that you say that, brother...” he says, twisting around in an attempt at studying his own back, “But you're not far off. It wasn't long after I got out of prison, and... hell, I might as well be blunt. I had a relapse. Got a bottle of something strong and drank until I passed out. I woke up two days later, and I couldn't figure out why my back hurt like hell. It looks good, doesn't it?”

[1/2]

>>2359365

“It certainly looks... interesting,” you reply at last, trying to pick the least offensive word possible.

“Hah! You can be honest, brother, I know what it looks like. Looks like someone drank paint and threw up all over me,” Gunny laughs, slapping you on the arm, “But you know, I like it. Every so often, I look at in a mirror and it reminds me of something. Can you guess what?” He pauses a second, barely long enough for you to think, before barging on ahead. “It reminds me of how fucking stupid I can be,” he concludes, “Drinking until I pass out, hurting people, marking my body like this... I'm willing to call this a lesson in common sense.”

“Well, that's good then,” you agree, “So long as you actually learn from that lesson.”

“Maybe you're not wrong, though, about what you said before. Maybe this was always inside me, just waiting for a chance to come out,” Gunny says with an unusually thoughtful expression on his face, “A sloppy mess. It suits me, don't you reckon?”

“Hey, you said it,” you tell him with a laugh, “Not me.”

-

After towelling yourself off, you dress and return to the front of the bathhouse where Blessings is waiting for you. Freddy is there with him, quietly telling him about the best way to stretch out sore muscles. Blessings, for his part, seems intensely interested in the subject – but perhaps not for the reason that she intended.

While you were bathing, someone – the crone from the front desk, perhaps – had dusted them down with some fragrant powder and crisply folded them up. The smell of that powder still tickles your nose as you leave the bathhouse, and the urge to sneeze is never that far away. Blessings takes the lead, guiding you back through the narrow maze of streets, and soon you're heading for the central district once more.

“I have to admit,” Freddy remarks, “I hadn't been expecting hot water. That seems like an indulgence – in basic training, we took cold showers as a unit. Privacy was never really an option.”

“Well, I'm sure there are some cold baths around here,” Gunny says, “But the church isn't that harsh on us. Avoiding alcohol and impure habits is one thing, but complete self-denial? I reckon the church would struggle to get any followers at all if they asked for that. Plus, this new chap they have in charge is pretty lenient – he's a real modern thinker, I guess you could say. Got a lot of people angry when he started to relax some of the rules.”

“But he made even more people happy,” Blessings counters, “The people here love him, they really do.”

Absolute power, in the hands of one charismatic leader... suddenly, the bureaucratic hell over in Iraklis doesn't seem so bad. At least they need to vote on their terrible ideas.

[2/3]

>>2359444

The church archives are an impressive sight to behold – a vast dome with tall bookshelves forming orderly rows. Here and there, ladders wait for anyone who needs access to the highest shelves. You'd certainly need them, with the tallest shelf easily more than three times your height. At one end of the domed hall, a raised dais holds a wide bank of desks and one ornate lectern. Half a church and half a library, the archives are a uniquely Carth building.

The domed roof above is lovingly painted with saintly human figures, all worshipping a circle of pure white light in the absolute centre of the dome. An abstract representation of the Lord of Rising Light, you assume. Beautiful, really, although you can't help but find the overall effect strangely oppressive. Tearing your eyes away from the ceiling, you hurry towards the raised dais. Blessings has already reached it, and he is speaking with the archivist when you reach him.

“You must be Captain Vaandemere. Young Blessings here was just telling me about how he's travelling with you,” the archivist begins, nodding to Blessings with a degree of familiarity. They know each other, you guess, and not just by reputation. “My name is Alfaro. Head Archivist Alfaro, really, but I don't hold with ranks and titles. Life is much better when we approach one another as equals, wouldn't you say?”

“Sometimes,” you cautiously agree, “But a ship needs a captain.”

“True,” Alfaro admits, “Very true.” Taking off his delicate spectacles, he brushes back a soft fringe of dust-coloured hair. He has a slender face, the sort of face that has never seen violence or strife. “Now then, Blessings tells me that you're interested in the Vault of the Sun, is that correct?” he asks, “What, specifically, interests you?”

>I'd like the church's permission to explore it. Would that be possible?
>Do you know anything about what purpose the Vaults originally had?
>I understand that a group of churchmen explored the Vaults. Can you tell me about them?
>Here's what I want to know... (Write in)
>Other

>>2359522
>I'd like the church's permission to explore it. Would that be possible?
>Do you know anything about what purpose the Vaults originally had?
>I understand that a group of churchmen explored the Vaults. Can you tell me about them?

>>2359529
This

>>2359522
>Do you know anything about what purpose the Vaults originally had?
>I understand that a group of churchmen explored the Vaults. Can you tell me about them?
>I'd like the church's permission to explore it. Would that be possible?

>>2359529
>>2359522
All the things.

>>2359522
Also

> What happens to any historical artifacts we find?

> Is there anything you would like us to look for in particular? Effects from previous expeditions and such for their families?

“I'd like the church's permission to explore it,” you announce boldly, “Would that be possible? My interests are scholarly in nature – I'm not looking to ransack the Vaults or desecrate them. I just want the chance to see them for myself.”

Alfaro's eyebrows leap as his eyes widen. “You'd need to ask a higher authority for that, but I could certainly help you file a petition. Young Blessings has told me about your interest in history – you've explored sites in Nadir, haven't you?” lightly clearing his throat, Alfaro considers the issue for a moment more. “A Zenith site is a different matter, however, an entirely different matter. There are proper channels to go through,” again, he pauses, “Vaandemere... I've heard that name before. Do you know Virtue Bonhomme, by any chance?”

“I did a spot of work for him,” you reply cautiously, “He's a good man.”

“Hm, I'm not sure if I'd agree with you there, but he spoke very highly of you. I don't know if you're aware of this, Captain Vaandemere, but you've got a good reputation here,” Alfaro gives you a warm smile, “I'll just go and fetch the petition forms. Do you have anything else? Better that I gather all the required materials now, all at once.”

“I had a few questions about the Vault of the Sun, actually,” you ask, “Do you know anything about their original purpose? I understand that they're quite mysterious.”

“I'll say!” the archivist laughs, “I don't actually know that, not off hand, but I can dig out our notes. Just between you and me, I should really send away a formal request for these materials, but... well, any friend of Blessings is a friend of mine, and I'm willing to cut a few corners.”

Glancing aside to Blessings, you give the boy a firm nod and he smiles back. “Much obliged, Alfaro,” you say, “If you're getting some information, could you find out about the group of churchmen who first explored the Vaults? I'd like to find out everything I can about them.”

“Ah, now that IS something I can help you with. They belonged to a small sect that called themselves “The Knights of Saint Alma”. They fancied themselves a brotherhood of knights, and they dedicated themselves to Saint Alma's legacy. I suppose you could have guessed that from the name,” Alfaro laughs again, brushing his hair back into place, “Carthul has hundreds of little sects, so they were nothing special in that regard, but they were more active than most. They would explore Nadir, just as Saint Alma did, to recover and preserve items of historical significance – much like yourself, in a way.”

Somehow, you manage to keep a straight face as he says that.

[1/2]

>>2359619

“Well, unfortunately, the Knights never recovered from their attempt at exploring the Vaults. There was actually one survivor – the common knowledge is that nobody returned – but he died shortly after returning to Sol Carthul. I'm sorry to say that he never spoke of what happened down there – if he did, his testimony never made it to our archives,” the archivist sighs heavily, “Such a loss to history...”

“If I DID get permission to explore the Vaults, I might be able to give you a testimony of my own,” you offer, “Is there anything you'd be especially interested in recovering? Personal effects from the Knights, or...”

“Anything, really,” Alfaro tells you, shaking his head lightly, “Any information about the lower levels. I believe our notes contained some information about the uppermost section of the Vaults, but we know little else. Anything that you could do to expand our knowledge would be greatly appreciated. Of course, this might be too much to ask, but if you were to find any... bodies...”

“I see,” nodding slowly, “What about any artefacts that I might find in the lower depths?”

“I suppose you'd have to turn them over to the church,” the archivist muses slowly, “You'd be compensated, I'm sure, and you might be allowed to keep certain items – anything deemed to have no special significance to the church. Of course, these are all just my assumptions – we'll have to see if your petition gets accepted. Speaking of that, I'll just run and fetch the paperwork. Feel free to browse the shelves while I get everything ready – I'll ring the bell when I'm back.” Briefly nodding to a gilded bell on the desk, Alfaro turns and hurries away into some back office.

-

You split up after the archivist hurries off, with everyone heading to different parts of the archive – chosen, you're certain, more or less at random. You're no better, wandering in search of anything that catches your eye. Somehow, you end up in a section devoted to quotations – thick tomes filled with nothing else. Inspirational quotes, fictional monologues, famous memorials... all manner of quotes.

“Faith demands more than just belief – it calls for unflinching devotion as well,” you read aloud, frowning a little.

“Hierophant Maxwell. Rather outdated, I think,” a hushed voice replies. You turn, surprised, and find yourself eye to eye with a young man in formal garb – almost a military uniform. His eyes have a boyish light to them, a slight hint of mischief. “I always come here when I'm writing a speech, to borrow some inspiration from the greats,” he adds, offering you his hand, “Piers Milleux.”

“Milleux...” you repeat incredulously, “Hierophant Milleux?”

“Yes,” he admits with a slight smile, “I suppose so.”

[2/3]

>>2359669
Did we roll a 100 on the archives random encounter table?

>>2359669

The highest authority in all of Carthul is here, offering his hand out to you with a boyish smile. Blinking off your confusion, you numbly accept his handshake. Privately, you're just glad that you don't need to offer him your left hand – it's not as if your flesh will recoil at his touch, but... you never know. “Captain Milos Vaandemere,” you manage to reply at last, “You're... writing a speech?”

“I am, yes. Saint Bartholomew's Day is coming up soon, and I'll be holding a special sermon. A massive gathering of people, all come to hear me speak... sometimes, I still struggle to get my head around the concept,” Hierophant Milleux sighs, running his hand across the books, “And yet, there are times when it seems like I could say anything – anything at all – and I would be praised as a visionary. Just once, I'd like one of my advisors to tell me that I made a terrible mess of it.”

“I had the opposite problem when I was young,” you hear yourself saying, “The teacher I had never tired of pointing out my flaws and failings...”

“Ah, but that's how you improve as a person,” Piers counters, “Surrounded by sycophants as I am, why, I feel as though I could get away with anything!”

The distant sound of a bell, Alfaro summoning you back to the dais, comes as a mercy.

>Excuse me, that's my call
>Hierophant Milleux, I'd like to ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>2359722
I can check that speech if you want
>Excuse me, that's my call

>>2359722
>Hierophant Milleux, I'd like to ask you something...
Ask for a permission to enter the Palace of Silence. As a history buff, of course.

>>2359722
>Hierophant Milleux, I'd like to ask you something... (Write in)

>"I thought the way you've been relaxing some traditions recently was controversial. Don't get me wrong, I'm personally all for it, but you didn't hear any complaints?"

>"I'm sorry, this may be massively disrespectful, but do you know anything about Nadirian religion, and their gods?"

>>2359722
>I can take a look if you want.
>Excuse me, that's my call
>Give him our card or something? For if he needs a Free Captain for the odd job. It's not everyday you can do business with a ruler of a country.

>>2359722
>Hierophant Milleux, I'd like to ask you something... (Write in)

Why can't you find someone who isn't a sycophant if you're the one in charge? Get an irritable Iraklin. Or a Nadir confidante even. They'll surely point put plenty things wrong.

> Give him the number of the cranky witch

>>2359824
You're a genius, anon.

>>2359830
I was thinking Maeve at first.

But then I realized that the world was not ready for that. Nor is the heirophant ready for that.

>>2359722
Give him the number of the cranky witch and tell him that if he does go meet her, the more humble he is the more it will irritate her.

File: Piers Milleux.jpg (122 KB, 600x777)

122 KB JPG

As you slide the book of dreary quotations back onto the shelf, you glance around at the Hierophant, struck again by how young he seems. Young in some ways, at least, and surprisingly old in other ways. “I could check that speech, if you like,” you offer with a vaguely bemused smile, “You know, if you want an outside perspective.”

“Alas, I've not even started writing it yet. My advisors are tearing what little hair they have left out because of it,” Piers replies with a sad laugh, “They want to make sure that I'm not saying anything too controversial. Suffice to say, I'll have no shortage of people checking my script over. Of course...” Trailing off there, he gives you a wink. “That's assuming that I stick to the script!”

Laughing with disbelief, you find yourself wondering. Maybe he's not really the Hierophant, and this is all a joke. That would make more sense, but... you can't bring yourself to believe that. “I've heard that you've made some controversial decisions in the past. Relaxing some traditions and all that,” you say, “I think it's the right thing to do, but don't you get in trouble for things like that? If people get upset, can they... I don't know, vote you out?”

“Hmm. I'm not sure, actually,” Piers frowns at that, “If they could, I'm sure that they would have tried already. There were a lot of old men and women who disapproved of my selection for Hierophant. As far as they're concerned, any change is a bad thing – we'd all be living in caves if they had their way. After all, when you have people huddling in a cave, they tend to look up to anyone who calls themselves a leader. That might be how they do things down in Nadir, but I'd rather not stoop to that level.”

A startling cynicism creeps into his voice as he says this. “I mean no disrespect when I say this, but... what do you know of the Nadir gods?” you ask, “Or their faith, for that matter?”

“Personally? Hardly anything. My people would never allow me to set foot on Nadir soil, unfortunately. Some of them still see me as a child, to be protected from the “corruption” of a sinful world,” shrugging, the Hierophant tugs at his collar, “But if even one tenth of what I've been told about Nadir is true, that's quite bad enough for me. Awful things, stories of human sacrifice and deformed beasts. Awful!”

“Well...” you begin, but Piers marches straight on ahead.

“And really... gods? I'm sure that they seem that way to the folk down there, but I doubt it. Spirits at best, or... daemons, is that the word they use?” he pauses for a moment, “Yes, I think that's it. I do wonder, though. Has anyone ever talked to those gods of theirs? Have their prayers ever been answered?”

And the Lord of Rising Light, you think to yourself, does he speak to the young Hierophant?

[1/2]

>>2359854
>>2359824
She doesn't really have a radio guys. Do you mean coordinates?

Also I don't think he's going to fly down to Nadir and trudge through a forest just to get someone who isn't a sycophant. Remember she'll turn him away faster than she did Gunny and Blessings.

>>2359874

The bell rings again, and you shake off your cynical thoughts. “Excuse me, that's my call,” you tell him, “I should go. Oh, but before I go, I had a request for you. I'm interested in visiting some Zenith sites in the future – the Palace of Silence and the Vault of the Sun in particular. My interest is purely scholarly – historical in nature. Could I ask your permission to enter them?”

“You may enter the Palace of Silence as you wish, so long as you obey their rules. As for the Vault of the Sun... you'll need to file an official request,” again, Piers gives you a boyish wink, “But I'll put in a good word for you. I have a good feeling about you.”

“You do?” you ask before you can stop yourself, “But... may I ask why?”

To answer this, Piers sniffs the air. “You bathed before coming here, did you not? You're not a member of the church, but you followed our traditions regardless. That tells me that you're a respectful person,” he explains, “For that reason, I just can't imagine you looting our sacred sites like some common lout. Perhaps that's naïve, but I tend to make up my mind about someone very quickly. Now go on, before poor Alfaro has a fit.”

True enough, the bell rings for a third time. “One last bit of advice,” you offer before you leave, “If you're tired of sycophants, you should get yourself a cranky Iraklin. I'll be filing a petition, and it'll have my radio frequency. Call me if you need help – I'll lend you mine. In fact, I could go better – I could introduce you to a Nadir woman I know. Trust me, you'll have a hard job getting ANY praise out of her!”

Piers laughs. “Awfully bold of you!” he remarks, “But I'll keep that in mind. Good luck with your research, Captain Vaandemere, and farewell!”

-

When you arrive back at the dais – still not sure if that strange conversation really happened – you find Alfaro in a state of considerable distress. “I cannot apologise enough,” he begins, “But our notes appear to have been... defiled! Everything we have on the Vault of the Sun has been taken, and what little we had on the Knights of Saint Alma too! They took everything!”

“Everything?” Blessings yelps, “But... what about the sectarian registry?”

“Ah!” Alfaro's eyes widen, “Maybe! Let me check!”

As he hurries off, you turn to Blessings. “What's this sectarian registry?” you ask, “Some kind of... registry?”

“Well, um, yes. It's a list of sects, along with their official activities,” the boy explains quickly, “It should have a list of their members, their last known addresses, whether or not they had a gathering place... Like, ah, like how airship captains gather at the Wild Duck! The registry is kept elsewhere, so whoever took the notes might have missed it. With a little luck...”

Luck, unfortunately, is not something you have a lot of.

[2/3]

>>2359931

When Alfaro returns again, his expression is a little brighter. “Whoever was here, they missed the sectarian registry,” he announces gravely, “There were some details missing – I believe some of the members had their names removed after their deaths, as requested by their families – but I have an address for you. It's the location of their, ah... their “chapter house”, as they called it. It's in Sol Carthul, but there's nothing to suggest that it's still used. It might have been taken over, or... well, any number of things might have happened to it!”

Blessings lets out a quiet groan. “Who could have done this?” he murmurs to himself.

“Well, ah, I'm afraid that I can't do anything more for you,” Alfaro apologises, “These forms here are for submitting a formal petition. You can turn them in to any chapel – they'll send them straight up to us. I really can't apologise enough, this is completely irregular!”

>It's not your fault. I'll send those forms back as soon as possible
>Give me the address of that chapter house, I'll check it out
>I have another question for you... (Write in)
>Other

>>2359964
>>Give me the address of that chapter house, I'll check it out

>>2359964
>Give me the address of that chapter house, I'll check it out

If I had to guess maybe Miriam took them? Her airship crashed near here no?

>>2359964
>Give me the address of that chapter house, I'll check it out

> Would you know when last the records were checked? Maybe if we could get a timeline of when they were possibly removed we could narrow down who might have taken them.

>>2359964
>It's not your fault. I'll send those forms back as soon as possible
>Give me the address of that chapter house though, I'll check it out

Not like these guys have Iraklin record keeping discipline.

>>2360007
>>2359964
Seconding.

“Give me the address of that chapter house,” you tell him, “I'll check it out.”

Alfaro starts to pass across a slip of paper, then hesitates. “If you find our materials there...” he begins tentatively.

“I'll return them here. They're your rightful property, after all,” you assure the archivist, “Besides, you can probably make better use of them than I can. So...” Sighing, Alfaro finishes passing across the slip of paper. Taking it, you slip it into your pocket and start to turn away. Then, before you go, a question springs into your mind. “Do you know how often these records are checked?” you ask, “If you had a rough time frame, it might help us work out who removed them.”

“Ah, hmm. That's hard to say – these records were rather old, and I had to clean away a fair amount of dust to find them. That alone suggests that these records have been untouched for several years...” Alfaro presses his fingers against his temples as he thinks, “And really, if nobody requests the records, they tend to get... abandoned. The Vault of the Sun has been sealed for over ten years, and very few people have tried to challenge that. The only other people I've had asking about it were, ah... a pair of Free Captains. One of them was just looking for easy treasure, so I sent him away, but the other...”

“Yes?” you press, “A woman?”

“No, another man. A boy, really,” Alfaro frowns, “Although he did say that he was working for a woman. I told him that his employer would need to visit us in person – he said that she would come, but I don't think she ever did. I wish he'd given us a name, I could have tracked him down. That would have been... oh, two or three years ago. I should have checked the Vault records there and then, but we were so busy that day...”

“Excuse me,” Blessings asks, “So, ah, is it possible that the records were taken after the Vault was sealed? You DID say that one man survived...”

Alfaro's eyes widen. “But why would he take the records?” he murmurs, “To... hide something? I can't imagine what...”

He falls silent after that, and the air grows thick. “Oh, right,” you ask after a moment, “This might sound odd, but does Hierophant Milleux ever come here?”

That causes Alfaro to laugh weakly, but with obvious relief at the change of subject. “You would be amazed at how often I see him here. He has a habit of, well, of striking up conversations with anyone he runs across,” he explains, “It infuriates his advisors – that sort of behaviour is unbecoming of a ranking member of the church. That's why he does it, I think.”

[1/2]

>>2360114
> “Excuse me,” Blessings asks, “So, ah, is it possible that the records were taken after the Vault was sealed? You DID say that one man survived...”

You mean before the vault was sealed?

>>2360199

>Sorry, that was pretty unclear. I meant to suggest that the Vault of the Sun was sealed up after the Knights were lost within it, and the records were taken from the archive - perhaps by the lone survivor - afterwards. I hope that makes sense

>>2360114

Blessings takes his time to study the address as you're leaving the church archives, and then he starts to call out directions. The chapter house, he explains, should be located in a tower block in one of the oldest parts of the city. An upper floor address, he adds with dismay – the thought of climbing several flights of stairs doesn't seem to bode well for him. When you arrive at the building you feel a touch of that same dismay, but for different reasons. This place looks like a tomb, like it's been abandoned for decades.

But you have to try. You push on the front door and find it unlocked, but the rusting hinges creak loudly. With four flights of stairs to climb, you make it up three flights before Freddy pushes ahead and draws a tiny, slender pistol out of her padded leather jacket. “I'll take point,” she announces grimly, “The rest of you, keep behind me.”

“You brought a gun here?” Blessings whispers in horror, “But...”

Hushing him with a gesture, you follow Freddy as she leads you up the remaining flight of stairs. Quietly, she creeps towards a nondescript door and nods for you to approach. When you join her, you see a tarnished brass plate screwed onto the door - “The Knights of Saint Alma”, it reads. Pressing your ear to the door, you don't hear anything, and so you cautiously turn the handle. You weren't expecting much, but the door opens freely. Peering inside, the first thing that draws your eye is a number of swords – heavy things, archaic in style – hanging on the opposite wall. Rust has started to gather on them, a sad sign of how far this place has fallen.

Then you see that the chapter house is not as abandoned as you first thought. A human figure sits with his back to you, a wheelchair supporting his slumped form. When he doesn't move after a few moments, you think back to your first impression of the place – a tomb. Nodding to Freddy, you push the door open a little wider and step inside. The smell of mould, old food, and stale sweat washes over you as you enter, and then a cracked voice rings out.

“And just what are you doing here?” the slumped man asks, without turning around to look at you. His tone is both hostile and weary, nasty and forlorn.

“We're looking for the Knights of Saint Alma,” you reply slowly. Scoffing, the old man jerks his wheelchair around in a tight circle. Upon seeing him from the front, you realise that his body is twisted, his limbs withered. One arm remains usable, but that's all. He glares at you for a moment, his face slouched and unresponsive, then he sneers.

“The Knights are all dead. There's nothing here for you,” he grunts, “Leave me alone.”

>Fine. I'll leave you to rot if that's what you want
>What about the church records on the Vault of the Sun, are they here?
>You're here. Aren't you a knight?
>Other