>>3203716

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

Of course, the first thing you do upon regaining your wits is to reach out to Keziah. No matter how hard you try, though, your thoughts can't find her. The effort just hurts your head, as well as your arm. Fumbling the crude sling off, you take a cautious look at your bare flesh and wince at what you find there. A great many half-healed wounds cover your arm – and the rest of your body, if the litany of aches and pains is any indication – but someone has seen to the worst of them with needle and thread. One particularly thick wound cuts straight through an older scar, the remnants of the rite that linked your mind with Keziah's. Has that broken your link?

Suppressing the urge to curse aloud, you take another look around your surroundings. A cave of some sort, that much is obvious, and home to someone for quite some time. Everything seems to be either handmade or scavenged together from whatever the wyrm rider could find. A thick pile of pelts marks where you lay, with a crudely made wooden bowl full of gruel nearby. It doesn't look appetising, but your stomach rumbles at the thought of food anyway.

You search the immediate area, but your weapons are nowhere to be found. Instead, you take a hatchet with you as a nod towards protection. The cavern has several tunnels branching out from it, leading into a larger network, but only one of them hints at passage back above ground with an almost unnoticeable gust of fresh air. Whatever else is going on here, you're not trapped underground.

A distant yet harsh crack causes you to jolt around, raising the hatchet in surprise. The sound seemed to come from one of the lower tunnels, drifting up to you from below. Listening hard, you hear the muffled sound of running water and then movement. A moment more, and then you hear another crack of stone against stone. That must be the wyrm rider, you realise, you can't think who else it might be down here. You feel the entirely natural urge to slip out while they're busy elsewhere, but you also feel a curiosity. They brought you here, presumably patching up the worst of your wounds and even feeding you. Not so long ago, they were trying to kill you. So... it's a complicated situation.

The wyrm rider might have answers, too, if you can find some way of communicating with them. You could certainly do with some answers right about now – answers like where you are, and how long you've been here. Once you know the score, you can look into doing... something. Finding the rest of your crew, for one thing. For now, though...

>Escape the cave as quickly as you can
>Go looking for the wyrm rider
>Search the other branches of the cavern
>Other

>>3203718
>Search the other branches of the cavern

So this is what wyrms look like on the inside. Or actually he probably had it vomit us out into a cave.

>>3203718
>Go looking for the wyrm rider
I'm guessing the rider and the wyrm, once realizing we rejected the throne unlike what they thought rescued us instead.

>>3203718
>Search the other branches of the cavern

Shifting the hatchet to your other hand, you pick up the battered lantern and look about for a good place to start your search. The lantern itself looks like it was badly damaged once, only to be repaired by whoever found it. It's rusty as well, like it was immersed in sea water for a long time. Could it have washed up on an island somewhere? Setting that question aside for now, you creep off to examine the cave some more. Avoiding the rider for now, you slip down one of the smaller branches.

The tunnel leads you into what seems like a bedroom – or whatever passes for one of those around here. A heavy pile of furs and pelts occupies one corner, while clothes are scattered about more or less at random. All sorts of clothes, from a lush frock coat to the remains of an Iraklin courier's uniform, all of them bearing signs of wear and tear. One wall is covered with a large mural, pigment smeared across the rock in an almost childish way. The mural shows a large house and a handful of human figures, although they're drawn too simply for any details to be shown. Hanging in the skies above the house, as if in flight, you recognise the blocky shape of an airship.

Perhaps you're projecting your own feelings onto the mural, but you feel a faint echo of yearning from it. Setting the lantern down, you allow your fingers to roam across the painted surface. It's not just any house, you realise, but a fine manor. Pulling back as if burned, you start to rummage through the pile of discarded clothes. Under a particularly large pile, you find a battered metal footlocker. Another bit of salvage, maybe ripped out of a destroyed skiff. Lifting the lid, you see a scattering of valuables – your weapons included – lying inside. Hurriedly buckling them back into place, you notice a jade fountain pen sticking out of the pile. The tip is broken and the body is heavily scratched, but you can just about make out the lettering.

“In honour of your gifts to the Church of the Rising Light...” you read aloud. A token of appreciation, given to one who donated generously to the church. Placing the pen back into the footlocker, you quickly return to the main chamber. The harsh clack of stone against stone is still ringing out when you arrive, which feels like a good sign. Whatever the rider is going, it's keeping them well enough occupied.

Risking one more tunnel, you squeeze into the smallest chamber yet. It bears the solemn air of a shrine, this chamber, or perhaps a mausoleum. Hanging from an improvised stand is a set of woman's clothes – a deep purple blouse and breeches, with a tattered mantle draped around the shoulders. A woman... a lover, perhaps, or someone the rider wished to remember fondly. Lost now, whoever it was?

[1/2]

>>3203766

You pull back from the sad shrine, a sense of voyeuristic guilt nagging at you until you leave. With your weapons in hand, you finally feel ready to greet your host. Following the sound of rushing water, you descend lower into the cavern until you come across a small stream. Despite your misgivings, you can't help but kneel down and scoop a handful of fresh water into your mouth. It's cold and clear, but that first drink seems to awaken a terrible thirst in you. Drinking more and more, you eventually force yourself to stop. Feeling as fat as an overfilled wineskin, but better than ever before, you let out a low sigh of satisfaction.

Wiping water from your chin, you continue on down the tunnel to the chamber beyond. Snuffing out the lantern's flame, you see – and smell - a reeking candle burning beyond. There is a small stack of rocks piled up near the candle, and as you watch another rock is hurled at the pile, spilling the whole lot over. Holding your breath and waiting, you watch as the rider emerges from the darkened corner of the room and stoops to rebuild the pile. As they bend down, you hear a hushed grunt and the rider places a hand against their side – the same side you wounded them on, you realise. Crouching down, the rider starts to claw at their filthy garments and disrobe.

Seen from behind they have a flash of white hair, cut short. Their skin is pale as well, and when they pull the top half of their layered garb off you see a back covered in countless scars – about as many scars as Masque has, perhaps. They look as though they tangled with a piece of industrial machinery and lost. The newest scar is on their side, the wound leaking a trace of pallid blood. As the rider twists to get a better look at their side, you see something that takes your breath away – the curve of a woman's bosom.

Maybe you make some small noise then, a faint gasp or the scrape of your boots against the rock underfoot. Either way, the woman tenses up. Then, in a voice that is hoarse from a lack of use but otherwise damnably familiar, she speaks.

“So,” she rasps, “You're finally awake.”

“No...” you whisper, “It can't be. You're supposed to be-”

“Dead?” the rider asks, turning around to give you a mocking smile, “You know what they say about rumours and exaggeration.”

Miriam Hawthorn. Miriam bloody Hawthorn.

>Hold your tongue for now. Let her explain this
>Get the hell out of there. You can't deal with this right now
>You have SO many questions right now... (Write in)
>Other

>>3203798
>>Other
"I nearly killed you! You should said something damnit. Why was that the one time you keep your mouth shut for once.

It's good to see you again Miriam."

>You have SO many questions right now... (Write in)
"How the hell did you become a wyrm Rider and defender of the Vault?"

>>3203805
>should

should've*

>>3203798
>You have SO many questions right now... (Write in)

How? How and Why?

>>3203798
>You have SO many questions right now... (Write in)
How?

Your mind whirls for a moment, spinning wildly from one question to another before settling on one absurd observation. That layered garb of hers, you think to yourself, certainly does a good job of flattening down her chest. All the while you fought, you never caught a hint of her somewhat ample curves. The thought of your fight brings one single question to the forefront of your mind. “Why didn't you say something before?” you demand, “I nearly killed you! If you'd said something, we might have-”

“I gave you a warning,” Miriam replies flatly, her smile vanishing as she cuts one hand through the air, “I told you to turn back. You didn't listen then. Humans... people like you never listen to warnings. Would you have stopped if I told you to?”

“...No,” you admit after a pause, “But I would have tried explaining myself, at least. We could have avoided a fight.” Miriam just scoffs quietly at this, turning away from you to splash water from the stream onto her wound. You find your eyes drawn to her again and again, following the lines of scars there. She really does look like a doll that was torn up and sewn back together again, her wounds suggesting vitality beyond anything a human ought to be capable of. “Just... how?” you manage to ask at last, “How the hell did you ride that thing? How did any of this happen?”

Wiping away a few last drops of blood from her side, Miriam glances around at you. “I was testing out a ship. New engines, more powerful than anything ever devised. I thought that with enough power, I could reach the peak of the mountain. A foolish thought, in retrospect, but so many things are. The engines exploded, of course. I'm fairly sure that I DID die... for a little bit,” she explains, rising to her feet, “The wyrm found me. Breathed life back into whatever remained of my body and told me that my work was not yet done. We... mingled, the wyrm and I. Our minds, and something less easily defined. Oh dear, boy, you're not going to faint away, are you? Do you need to sit down?”

That old mocking tone of hers snaps you back to reality, and anger. “That poor wyrm,” you sneer, “Getting some of your thoughts stuck in its head.”

“That's more like it!” Miriam laughs, gesturing for you to follow her back to the main chamber, “You'll need that spirit. The world doesn't have as much mercy as it used to – it doesn't care for those who just lie down and give up. So, where was I? The wyrm, yes. We talked – sort of – and I learned something. My ambitions – which, I gather, were also your ambitions – nearly brought the world into ruin. Believe it or not, I actually felt quite guilty about that. I LIKE this world.”

“So you resolved to protect the vault,” you guess, “Against anyone who might try and enter them.”

“The last line of defence,” she agrees, scowling at you, “And even that wasn't good enough. You got lucky, boy, that's all.”

[1/2]

oh no. Kez got her link cut, and First Girl Syndrome has arrived.

>>3203839
>we got lucky
yeah ok. Maybe you shoulda just been better.

>>3203860
Probably just out of range or being blocked.

Also are you kidding? Miriam may have been mentioned first but Kez is a prime example of First Girl Syndrome.

>>3203839

Quietly seething to yourself, you follow Miriam as she strides into her bedroom and plucks up a jacket at random. Draping it over her shoulders, she sits back down on her pile of furs and glances across at the opened footlocker. “I see you've already made yourself at home,” she murmurs, “For whatever that's worth. I can only do so much here. Ah, but you should have seen it when I first came here. I didn't wake up like this, you know. I couldn't remember a thing at first, I couldn't even remember how to be human!”

You try to picture Miriam rooting about in the mud like a beast, but you just can't get the various elements to come together. Even reduced to that level, she'd find a way to act haughty. Looking around, you nod up at the mural painted on the wall. “Was painting this part of getting your memory back? It sort of looks like your family,” you venture, “Although it's pretty difficult to tell. They might just be abstract blobs of-”

“Well, I never claimed to be an artist!” Miriam snaps, throwing her hands up in the air, “And really, do you have nothing better to do than to play art critic?” She was never very good at taking criticism. Drawing in a deep breath, Miriam shrugs away your point. “For a while, I thought about going back home, but... I never did,” she concludes, “For better or for worse, it's not my home any more. This pitiful island has everything I need.”

So you are on an island – that's one of your questions answered. The next one, though, you dread the answer. “So how long have I been here?” you ask, “A day, maybe-”

“About ten days,” Miriam replies breezily, “I've been busy lately, too busy to keep an exact count. In either case, it's become hard to tell when one day begins and another ends...”

You barely hear the rest of this, instead focusing on the numbers. Ten days... ten whole days. Slumping back against the wall, you run a hand down your face and try to set your thoughts in order. Maeve told you that she could hang on for three days, maybe a little more, but ten days? And what about the rest of your crew? A lot can happen in ten days, and...

Miriam stands up sharply, marching across to you and grabbing your collar. “Now I've got a question for YOU,” she snaps, “Exactly how did YOU end up piloting MY airship? Did you strong arm that sister of mine into handing it over? Certainly, I can't imagine you were able to BUY it from her. So? What was it?”

That... is not an easy question to answer.

>Admit the truth. It had to come out sooner or later
>Evade the subject. You've got more important things to focus on now
>Offer her some crafty lie... (Write in)
>Other

>>3203877
>Evade the subject. You've got more important things to focus on now

It kinda just fell into my hands.

>>3203877
>>The way I do everything else: by making every related party happier for me taking it!
>Alright, alright, I apologize. I'm sorry for sticking the gigantic canon on it.
>Evade the subject. You've got more important things to focus on now

>>3203877
Alternatively

>Was this your airship? I dunno, you're probably remembering things wrong.

>>3203877
>>Other
"It was in your will."

>>3203877
>>Admit the truth. It had to come out sooner or later
>For what it's worth in retrospect, Blessings wasn't ready to be a captain. I've been working with him a long time now and he's gotten a hell of a lot more experience under his belt.

>>3203877
>Remember the money you owed me? I know you spent it all.

>>3203903
iirc it was because Milo's didn't come to collect for literal years

File: Miriam Hawthorn.jpg (192 KB, 700x991)

192 KB JPG

Miriam has a damn tight grip, but you shake her off regardless. Considering the question for a moment more, you shrug with almost aggressive indifference. “Does that really matter now?” you ask in response, “It just sort of fell into my hands, and the world is a happier place for it. You said it yourself, I'm a lucky guy. Now, don't we have more important things to focus on now? From what you've said, things might not be entirely normal up above. That talk of ruin...”

Frowning at you, Miriam turns away with a quiet scoff. “Maybe my memory isn't entirely sound,” she points out, “But I don't recall you being THAT lucky.”

“Maybe you are misremembering things. Are you really sure that was your ship you saw me flying?” you counter, “And even if it was, you were declared dead. The ship probably got sold on and... you know how these things go.”

Her eyes narrow, and then she lets out a low laugh. “Fine. Keep your secrets for now,” she mutters, “You actually managed to be correct about one thing – we DO have more important business. Follow me – you really ought to see this for yourself.” Marching towards the path to the surface, Miriam looks back and gestures for you to stick close. “Come on then,” she adds, “You want to see your own handiwork, don't you?”

You've got a bad feeling about this.

-

Throwing her weight into it, Miriam shoves a slab of rock aside to open the passage out. Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering about her powerful strength and what other boons the wyrm might have given her. The sky outside is not one that you recognise, fixed in a hazy twilight that looks tinged with red. An unhealthy sky. The island itself seems a little more familiar, though. Have you... been here before?

As if answering your question, you hear the distant howl of a wolf. Miriam glances around with a cold smile. “Mind the dogs here,” she remarks, “They don't like visitors. Stay close, and they won't harm you. They're afraid of me, you see.”

“Wise of them,” you rasp. It's a good thing that Caliban isn't here – if your guess is correct, then things didn't end very well for him the last time. As Miriam leads you uphill, an impossible shape looms out at you. Standing in the middle of Nadir is a single vast tree, the trunk thick enough to cover the city of Monotia and tall enough the loom over the Azimuth islands above. Fat branches reach out from it, stabbing into the various islands and pinning them in place. Birds flit about above, but... they can't be birds. Not if they're visible at this distance.

“This is it,” Miriam declare, slapping you roughly on the shoulder, “This, boy, is your brave new world.”

[1/2]

Well shit. I guess the Throne doesn't take rejection well.

>>3203939

“It all started when the Mountain of Faith fell. Yes, you heard me right. It fell out of the sky like a stone, only to explode before striking the ground. It almost blinded me, that explosion. The light was... so bright. When my eyes cleared, that tree was what was left. It connects the islands now, even reaching up into Zenith,” Miriam continues, “Daemons freely roam the land, and stranger things rally to fight against them. Men, caught in the middle, have been thrown into disarray.”

“The world of transition...” you mutter, gazing up in mute horror. This is it – the world in which Dogma and Impurity can be slain, brought before the heart to face judgement. It's hard to feel triumphant, though. The words of the Arah illusion return to you – every disaster that wracks the world will be upon your shoulders.

If Miriam heard you, she gives no sign of noticing. “I've risked a few flights up on the wyrm, but I didn't want to go too far. I've seen enough, though, enough to realise just what a mess you made,” she snarls, “I've seen running battles in Iraklis. They can barely fight what's out there, but they're doing everything they can to protect the people. The church is in disarray. Nadir is... Nadir. I don't even know what's going on in Zenith – I've not risked flying that high yet. What else? I think the larger branches might be hollow, allowing people to travel... are you listening to me?”

You jolt around. “Why did you rescue me?” you blurt out, “Why care for me here? You bound my wounds, you fed me...”

“Don't flatter yourself, boy, I didn't do that out of the goodness of my heart. I thought that you might be useful to me, that's all. If you were able to cause this much trouble, you might be able to do a little good. That's all,” Miriam snaps, glancing away from you with a disdainful sniff, “Besides, you... you did save my life once, all those years ago.”

Unbelievable. It took ending the world to get her to admit that. “Excuse me, I don't think I quite caught that,” you joke, raising a hand to your ear, “Could you say that again, but a little louder this time?”

Scowling at you, Miriam turns and starts to walk away. “Stay here and think about what you've done,” she scolds, “I need to take care of a few things, but I'll be back soon. When I return, we can talk about what happens next. If you feel like running away, just remember about the dogs. They won't come up here, but-”

“Miriam?” you interrupt.

“What?” she replies, sternly folding her arms across her chest.

“It's good to see you again,” you tell her. You even mean it... a little. She doesn't reply, but was that the hint of a smile you saw on her lips?

[2/3]

>>3203973
Oh boy
Stranger things than daemons
Can't wait

>>3203973

When Miriam leaves you alone, you sink down to sit in the withered grass and look up at the vast, spreading tree. All your life, you've dreamed about sitting beneath a great tree with a woman. With your mother. Could it be that your entire life been leading up to this moment, and those dreams were just echoes from what awaited you? You don't like the idea, but it's increasingly hard to deny.

What happens next. That's what Miriam had said. The best place to start, of course, would be regrouping with the rest of your crew. That's easier said than done, though. Where would they choose to land the Helena?

Monotia is one option. It's been sort of an informal den for your crew since the start of all this, but Miriam's words suggest at Nadir being a dangerous place. Sybile, Keziah's home town, doesn't really have the facilities to repair an airship... but the witch might have gone there regardless, with or without the others, to check on Maeve. Speaking of home towns, though, there's always your home territory of Pastona. There should be ample means to repair an airship there, at least. Where else?

“Sandoval...” you mutter. Her estate would be a decent place to lie low, and she had a lot of supplies stored away. If the land really is falling into chaos, basic things like food and clean water might be in short supply. The churchwoman is in a good position to ride out the worst of the mess. Before you can make up your mind, Miriam marches up to join you once again. She's changed her clothes and cleaned up her hair, donning the purple outfit you saw earlier, and the transformation is incredible. From a feral warrior to a noblewoman, she looks like an entirely different person.

“Right then,” she announces, “Close that mouth, boy, you look ridiculous. Where shall we start? I can't promise a comfortable ride, but I can give you a lift. Where do you want to go?”

“A lift?” you repeat, “On that wyrm?”

“Well, I'm not going to carry you myself,” Miriam sighs, a teasing smile forming on her lips, “That's normally the man's job, is it not? But we're getting distracted – where do you want to go?”

It's not quite an airship, but...

>Head to Monotia
>Head to Sybile
>Head to Pastona
>Head to the Sandoval estate
>Head somewhere else... (Write in)
>Other

Man where do we even begin in tackling this thing? Guess we need to find the Helena but 10 days is a long time. We are probably presumed dead.

>>3204006
>>Head to the Sandoval estate

>>3204006
>Sandoval estate

She has resources and owes us.

>>3204006
>>Head to the Sandoval estate
Even if they got repairs they probably wouldn't stay the whole 10 days

Also are you guys sure you don't want to be honest with Miriam about the will? This may be the last time we have control of how she finds out before she learns from Blessings and he learns the truth in turn.

“I need to go to Carthul,” you decide, “There's a small estate there, in the south. I can give you directions if you want. My people probably fell back there after...”

“After you blew up the world?” Miriam suggests lightly, “Hmm, Carthul. You don't seem like the type to suddenly find religion, so I assume you either paid them a lot of money or did some serious favours. You have been busy, haven't you? I'm actually proud of you – I always thought you had potential.” She doesn't quite pat you on the head here, but the implication is bad enough. “Well, no matter. Carthul it is,” she decides, reaching into her pocket and producing a small piece of... something. Either bone or stone, or perhaps the two are not so easily differentiated.

“From your wyrm?” you guess, turning the bone over in your hands. It's been hollowed out to form a simple whistle, and you have a good idea of what it's for. “A way to stay in contact, I presume,” you add, “Is this you telling me to call you?”

“Absolutely,” Miriam purrs, her expression both mocking you and promising you all manner of things, “Call me whenever you want a ride.”

Miriam bloody Hawthorn...

-

After that, Miriam turns away from you and raises two fingers to her lips, whistling sharply. A moment later, something explodes out of the water ahead of you, showering you both with frigid water. Her wyrm soars high into the sky and twists around you, the scar left by the Megiddo Cannon still visible on its underside. Bringing itself up to hover before you, the wyrm stares down with inhuman eyes. You can sense a faint trace of its thoughts washing against yours, like water lapping at a beach. No words, but a sense of caution.

Considering your last meeting, you can't really blame it for being cautious. You certainly are. Miriam whistles again, and the wyrm lowers itself down until it touches the ground. With the rough stone scales offering ample means to scale it, Miriam climbs up atop the wyrm and settles down into a small hollow. With somewhat less confidence, you climb up and slide into the hollow behind her. As you're wrapping your arms around your waist, you can feel Miriam laugh silently to herself.

“Now this brings back memories,” she murmurs, taking a tight hold of the wyrm's rocky hide, “Do hold on tight now. I'll try to be gentle with you.”

Gentle, she says, but she never gives you a chance to reply. With one final whistle, she spurs the wyrm into an explosive burst of motion. Tearing into the sky, it hurtles up towards the spreading branches of the vast tree. At first, all you can do is cling on for dear life, but you slowly adjust to the terrible flight. The hollow you're sitting in protects you from much of the wind, and the rocky scales seem to grip you firmly. This might not actually be suicidal.

But it certainly isn't comfortable.

[1/2]

>>3204033

Some of the things you see as you hurtle across the land. A winged daemon akin to the carrion feeders drawn to Grundvald's ancient city flapping lazily about. A small group of those same daemons doing battle with an Abrahad immaculate, the living statue cutting them apart with a spear of killing light. A skiff cuts through the air, only to abruptly change direction when it notices you. High above in Zenith, you see the vague shape of a dreadnought hovering transfixed. Not just any dreadnought, either. Is that really the Palanquin, the flagship of the church fleet?

But you never get a chance to see much of anything. Fleeting glimpses are all you can get. Before too long, you're approaching Carthul. Speaking remains impossible, so you end up giving Miriam directions through nudges and gestures. The Sandoval estate seems intact from above, and your heart skips a beat as you see the silhouette of an airship nearby. Hurriedly gesturing for Miriam to stay away from the estate itself, you urge her to land a short distance away.

A wyrm swooping out of the sky is always going to be a fearful sight, but at least you can give them a little bit of breathing room. Besides, anything that keeps Miriam from seeing the Spirit of Helena up close is a net gain for you.

-

“Well, that was fun,” Miriam sighs once the wyrm has landed. She throws her arms up in a languid stretch, yawning as if to mock your lingering nervousness. You waste little time in climbing up and out of the makeshift cockpit, although Miriam calls your name before you can hurry away to the estate proper. “Don't expect too much help from me,” she warns you, “I have my own goals here. My own errands to run. I'll do my best to come when you whistle, but you mustn't expect an immediate rescue. A woman operates on her own schedule, after all.”

Which is a polite way of telling you not to expect too much from her. It would be just like her to make you wait out of petty spite. Still, you accept the warning with a grave nod. “What next, then?” you ask her, “What “errands” will you be running?”

“Oh, I like to keep an eye on my sister. Kill anything that flies too close to her estate,” Miriam replies with a shrug, “It seems to be doing a good job. Hardly anything passes by that way now. She must be terrified, though, having this great beast rampaging over her head every lunchtime!”

The fact that Miriam hasn't bothered to let her sister know that she's alive doesn't exactly come as a surprise. From what you recall, they were never all that close. Being declared dead can't have done much to close that gulf.

“Well?” Miriam prompts, “Shouldn't you be running along now? You wouldn't want to miss noon prayers, would you?”

[2/3]

>>3204071
Calling it now, that airship is DuPont's.

>>3204088
Or that one couple of captains that we once borrowed crew from way back when. Forgot their names.

>>3204071

The wyrm takes flight soon after that, with nearly enough force to sweep you off of your feet. Soaring up into the clouds, it vanishes off back towards the west. Blinking away the last of your disorientation, you wander towards the estate on numb legs and spot a number of figures rushing out to investigate the wyrm's departure. Al-Farabi is among them, and you find yourself hurrying forwards to meet a familiar – if not overly friendly – face.

“Stop right there!” Al-Farabi demands, levelling a rifle at you, “Don't move a muscle!”

Definitely not friendly.

-

The misunderstanding is quickly cleared up, the churchwoman's frayed nerves soon giving way to rational thought. The last ten days, as she vaguely mentions on the way inside, have not been kind to them. When she doesn't volunteer any further details, you don't pry. After this, Al-Farabi leads you through to a secluded meeting room and your crew. Some of them, at least.

Dwight, Blessings, Branwen, Masque, Caliban and Doctor Barnum sit crowded around a table, and they all look up at your arrival in mingled surprise and suspicion. Branwen stands up first, cautiously approaching you and looking up at you with her flat eyes. Silence for a moment, and then she turns away. “It is really him,” she declares, “But he bears a strange smell. He has been close to a woman.”

“Captain!” Blessings blurts out, his eyes widening with horror, “You... did you really... now, of all times?”

Groaning, you slump down into a chair. This isn't exactly how you envisioned your grand reunion to go. “Don't get any funny ideas,” you tell the group, “It was just... I was jammed up next to a fellow traveller. Cramped conditions, and-” Cutting yourself short, you make a deliberate effort to change the subject. “Where are the others?” you ask firmly, “Freddy, Gunny, Grace... Keziah. Where are they?”

Nervous, averted eyes. “The chief engineer, she went down to Nadir just about as soon as she could. Went home, I think. Ordered Lhaus to take her down in the skiff, and she wouldn't hear any objections. After that, Lhaus took the skiff over to Pastona. Said she wanted to speak with Consul Hess. Trying to gather intel, I guess. We're all trying to figure out the big picture here,” Dwight explains slowly, “Grace went with Lhaus, but Gunny... I don't know exactly what happened to him.”

“There was a church skiff here, briefly,” Caliban adds, “Gunny was here when it arrived, and he was gone when it left. Seems pretty clear to me.”

Trying not to groan once more, you bury your face in your hands. You're tired, despite the ten day nap, but you can't afford to rest now. Next, you need to...

>Check on the ship and decide on your destination
>Discuss the current situation with your crew
>Seek out Sandoval and ask her about the current state of the church
>You need to... (Write in)
>Other

>>3204102
>Check on the ship and decide on your destination
I think it's pretty obvious we should go for the heart

>>3204102
>Discuss the current situation with your crew
>Seek out Sandoval and ask her about the current state of the church
>Try to contact Kez again.

Lets get all the cards on the table first.

>>3204105
I'll bet that the heart is at the bottom of the trunk. The branches in the higher areas have hollow areas that allow entry so it's going to be a slog to get down there. We shouldn't do it with half of our manpower down.

>>3204102
>Discuss the current situation with your crew
>Seek out Sandoval and ask her about the current state of the church

>>3204102
>Seek out Sandoval

We need the gods before we go down to the heart. Church might know where they are.

>>3204102
>>Seek out Sandoval and ask her about the current state of the church

You need to figure out exactly what's going on here. Straightening up, you look about your crew. There's still an unspoken question hanging in the air, and the mood won't feel right until you get that uncomfortable topic off of the table. “Yes, I came on the wyrm,” you tell them bluntly, “I can't think of a better way to raise the subject, so... there it is. The rider was still alive, and we came to a kind of... arrangement. Now that I'm here, though, I'm hoping to stick to mundane travel from now on. So, the Helena. How is she?”

“Battered, but not broken,” Dwight offers, “We've had time to work on her, and she should be good to go. Managed to get the chief engineer to stick around just long enough to give the engines a clean bill of health. Stafford is tending to them for the time being, so...”

“You really came here on a wyrm, huh?” Caliban murmurs to himself, “I guess nothing really surprises me any more.” Taking out his flask, he pours a small amount of brandy into a cup and passes it across to you. Eagerly swallowing it down, you shudder as the liquor hits your stomach. “It's been rough here, though. Sandoval asked us to help out, and... bad business,” the hunter continues, “We had to go into town and bring the people here. To keep them safe, basically. Those daemons were swooping down on us every step of the way...”

You shudder again, but the liquor has nothing to do with it. “How many made it out?” you ask, dreading the answer.

“Most of them,” Dwight answers, “But not enough. Ever since, we've been hearing voices taunting us at night. The townsfolk say the voices match up with the people they lost, but... I don't know, man. Even saying “at night” doesn't mean much. It gets darker, sure, but not by much. I don't think I've seen the sun or the moon since...”

“Enough of that, now,” Barnum scolds lightly, “Needless worrying will only make our situation seem that much worse. The daemons are reluctant to attack the estate, and so they use these “voices” as an attempt at demoralising us. Fearful talk will only serve to strengthen them.”

Impressive, how he can be so calm at a time like this. His bedside manner, perhaps. Whatever it is, it helps you to relax and think a little more clearly. “So what else is going on?” you ask the group, “How are you all holding up?”

“I think... it's hard to really grasp it all,” Blessings muses, “I look outside at that tree, and I just feel like I'm dreaming. This isn't our world any more, is it?” Shaking his head, he looks around at everyone. “But, um, we've been holding together. Nobody has been panicking, at least,” the boy adds, “We've been keeping busy, with the ship and things here, and... ah, Miss Sandoval will be glad to see you. She's been spending a lot of time in the chapel lately. Are you...”

“That's my next stop,” you assure the boy.

[1/2]

>>3204165

When you venture into the gloomy chapel, it takes you a moment to spot Sandoval. The churchwoman sits perfectly still, leaning against the wall and gazing up at the mural of the heart. A heavy sheet has been draped across it, hiding the design from sight, but Sandoval stares up at it regardless. Deliberately scraping your boot against the floor, you make just enough noise for her to glance around.

“Oh, Vaandemere. Finally, some good news,” she sighs, too exhausted to raise her voice, “Come in, take a seat. You missed all the fun.”

“I think there's still plenty of fun to come,” you counter, sitting next to the older woman, “Do you think you can spare me some time to talk? I figured you'd know a little more about what's going on here. What's going on with the church.”

Sandoval groans. “Where do I start?” she mutters, “Day one, and those living statues started descending on the capital. They take people, seemingly without any pattern to it, and bring them up to Zenith. To Cloudtop Prison or the Vault of the Sun, from what we can tell. Light, I'm glad I was down here when things blew up. Sol Carthul came damn close to becoming a battlefield, you know. Some of the priests declared that we should surrender to those statues and let them do what they want. Hierophant Milleux refused – he gave an official order to evacuate the city. There were... skirmishes.”

More disaster. “Bad?” you whisper, fearing the answer.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” Sandoval answers, “Without a real figurehead to rally around, Milleux's opposition couldn't achieve much. It would have been far worse if Worthington had been here... and I shudder to think of what might have happened if Worthington had that damn bell. With Milleux under his thumb...” Shaking her head, she looks you in the eye and forces a weary smile. “So I suppose we owe you our thanks again,” she adds, “It's not much, but you can use the estate as you please. A base of operations, if you like.”

Nodding your thanks, you think for a moment before a new question occurs. “So how come you were down here when it happened?” you ask her, “Was there any warning, or...”

“I was working in the Vault of the Sun just before it happened. We had a power fluctuation, no apparent cause. Some of my people wanted to investigate further, but I wasn't having any of it. I ordered an evacuation, despite the objections,” she lets out a humourless laugh, “I was being hysterical, apparently, I was jumping at shadows. None of that talk now, of course.”

“Of course,” you repeat, mulling over the new information.

>I should go. Glad you're safe, Sandoval
>Did you say that Milleux evacuated the capital?
>What do you know about the church skiff that stopped here?
>I need to ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>3204197
>What do you know about the church skiff that stopped here?
>Did you say that Milleux evacuated the capital?
>I need to ask you something... (Write in)
Any word for Rhea or Trice?

>>3204197
>>3204209
this

>>3204209
is good

>>3204209
>for
from*

I can't type today

>>3204197
>Anything really big happen over the past ten days? Aside from the start of all this nonsense. I'm hoping the gods won't just be sitting around quietly.

>>3204230
Aren't the living statues and daemons basically Dogma and Impurity's soldiers respectively? I think this war *is* their move.

File: 1514874531817.jpg (165 KB, 2354x1024)

165 KB JPG

I can't believe y'all didn't hold out for ghost blowjob and locked in with Kez instead

>>3204254
Caliban and Mara are an item and we're no filthy NTR fetishist.

>>3204245
Yeah but are they just sitting on the sidelines while their armies fight? I would think they'd make personal appearances.

>>3204254
Miriam would have been fun I agree, but she's MIA for like 95% of the quest.

>>3204197
>I need to ask you something... (Write in)

What about whatshername, the Zealot lady from Cloudtop Prison?

I'm sure she's relishing struggling against this test.

>>3204209
>>3204197
>3204197
Whoops my question was asked.

Also, what about communication by radio? Are we in contact with the Iraklins?

“Is Milleux really evacuating the capital, though?” you ask, trying to picture the logistics of it, “Surely a refugee column would just be easy pickings for the immaculate. Did he-”

“I know. That's what I thought when I first heard about it. There's some logic in it, though – the statues are moving in a highly methodical manner, starting at the northern tip of the island and moving south as they go. They take their time searching the areas they arrive at, and I've heard reports of strange behaviour – they destroy certain statues or monuments while leaving others untouched, for example. Whatever they're doing, it slows them down,” Sandoval explains slowly, “By moving south, Milleux is trying to buy as much time as possible. It's a delaying tactic, nothing more, but... that's all we can do right now. There's still so little we don't know.”

Sandoval's words are hushed, worn down by fatigue, and you find yourself wondering when she last slept. More than anything else, this leaves a guilty pain in your chest. “What about Bishop Rhea or Trice?” you press, trying not to interrogate the woman, “Have you heard anything from them?”

“Provost Trice... as I understand it, all pilots were assigned to cover the evacuation column. The immaculate are busy in the north, but there are other things out there. Winged beasts seeking to prey on the refugees. They can be killed, though. The skiff pilots have been able to reap a heavy toll,” Sandoval murmurs, “Rhea... I don't know, I've heard nothing from Cloudtop Prison. I fear that Zenith may be lost to us.”

The worst part of it is, you can't be certain if Rhea is a victim or perpetrator of whatever has occurred in Cloudtop Prison. For all you know, this is all according to her plans. Setting that grim thought aside for now, you recall the skiff Caliban mentioned. “I heard that a church skiff stopped here briefly,” you tell her, “What do you know about it?”

“It was just a messenger, bringing news from the evacuation. The pilot stopped here to rest for a little, that's all I know,” Sandoval frowns, “Why is that important?”

“One of my people has gone missing,” you reply grimly, “Gunny Hotchkiss. He was here when the skiff arrived, and then he was gone when it came to leave. I don't wish to make any accusations...”

Sandoval pales. “I should be able to get in contact with the skiff in question,” she assures you immediately, “The radio has been unreliable ever since... you know... but if I can get any answers, I'll inform you immediately. That it was Gunny who went missing, I can't see it being a simple coincidence. Come, I'll get on the radio.” You stand up, offering your hand to Sandoval when she struggles to rise. “I'll feeling my age today,” she mutters angrily to herself, “Ten days? It feels more like ten years...”

[1/2]

>>3204287

“Speaking of the radio,” you continue as Sandoval leads you through the estate's labyrinthine corridors, “Have you been able to contact the Iraklins?”

“Briefly, both in an official and an unofficial capacity. Officially, we're in a state of truce. The world is going to hell, and mankind comes first. That's what Hess says, at least, but I'm sure that old snake can find some way to profit from all of this. Unofficially, I know that they're having their own problems. The immaculate are working their way down their territory as well, and the military is having no luck holding them back. They're having more luck fighting against the daemons, though. I hear that Iraklin soldiers have been ordered to defend the Pastona Union with everything they have.”

Now that's a strange thought. If your homeland had retained its independence, just how much of a defence would it have been able to muster? Not much, you suspect. “Has anything else big happened in the last ten days?” you ask, “Aside from the obvious?”

“We lost the Palanquin. Lost all contact with it, I mean,” the churchwoman sighs, her expression darkening, “It's been drifting up around the low Zenith regions since day... three or so, I think. No idea what the cause is. One of our recon flights took a low pass over the roots of that massive tree, and they spotted signs of occupation down there. Buildings in the Nadir style, but they didn't stop to take a closer look. Finally... Hess let me in on some bad news. It's Eishin.”

Of course it is. Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod for her to continue. “He was being moved when the incident happened, and his skiff crashed. He's presumed dead, but I doubt it's that simple,” she tells you, “That's about all that I know. If I hear anything else, I'll try and get word to you.” Opening the door to her study, she sits down at a radio terminal and begins turning dials. When she is greeted by nothing more than a hoarse roar of static, Sandoval curses softly.

“What of the gods, then?” you ask her, speaking up to fill the awkward silence, “Have they shown themselves at all?”

“I don't think so. I hope not,” Sandoval admits, “Right now, the last thing we need is for them to directly involve themselves in any of this.”

Which means, in your experience, that it's only a matter of time before they make their move.

>Okay, I think I'll pause here for today. However, Into the Skies will continue tomorrow at the same usual time
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>3204322
Man everything is going to hell. Makes you wonder if this was really all worth it to break the cycle or were we just jumpstarting the inevitable where it's a good thing it's us since we'll actually do something about it.

Glad Miriam's alive. She's a fun character.

Does Milos still have no contact with Kez? Did she get eaten?

Thanks for running.

>>3204322
Thanks for running!

Would shit have hit the fan had we accepted the throne?

>>3204322
Thanks for running!

Does Eishin's immortality still work during this time of upheaval, if he were able to return to Nadir?

And the really important question, is Miriam still hot?

>>3204348
Twice, Milos was staring at her boobs. I think that tells us SOME things.

>>3204322
Do rituals still work? Can we send one of those messenger daemons?

>>3204348
>And the really important question, is Miriam still hot?
I imagine scars only enhance what she already had.

>>3204335
Contact with Keziah is still a work in progress at the moment. Watch this space!
>>3204340
Accepting the throne would have led to a significantly different outcome. Less overtly disastrous, perhaps, but with a lot less to gain as well
>>3204348
Eishin's immortality would still function on Nadir, but nowhere else. Things related to the great tree, for instance, do not count as Nadir soil.
And yes, Miriam is still a very good looking woman. Maybe wyrms are the key to aging well!
>>3204427
Rites and rituals should still work, yes. So, sending a messenger daemon should still be possible in this world

>>3204470
So what *is* this outcome specifically? Since we didn't take the Throne the Heart made a giant tree and now the creation power is up for grabs for anyone? Including Dogma and Impurity?

>>3204488
Whether we accepted the throne or not, we would have entered a period of transition. Had we accepted the throne, it would have been a lot more "orderly", in that it would be directly shaped/guided by us. By refusing the throne, and providing no guiding will, the world is more chaotic in form. Dogma and Impurity have reverted to their base instincts of fighting each other and striving for control. As they now exist, they can't really consider a "higher" purpose than that.

Just caught up with the last thread, normally just lurk and enjoy the story.
But with the end closing in and with how crazy shit is getting, I might have to join in for what I imagine are the last few threads.

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

770 KB PNG

While Sandoval wrestles with her radio in the study, Dwight is having no more luck with the Helena's radio. No matter what he tries, all he can get out of it is either a shrill whine of feedback or a rough roar of static. Eventually, he snaps it off in disgust and sticks a cigarette in his mouth. Striking a match, he pauses suddenly. There's something strangely hypnotic about watching the match burning lower and lower while he thinks, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then the match finally burns low enough to singe his fingers, and he drops it with a yelp.

“Gotta watch out for that,” you tell him, shaking off your daze.

“Yeah chief, I know. I was just...” the pilot grimaces, “I was just thinking, and I realised nobody's going to be making any more cigarettes now. Not proper ones like this. What I've got here is an endangered species.” Sighing heavily, he strikes a fresh match and mournfully lights his cigarette. “If I'd know that before all this, I would have build up more of a supply,” he complains, “Or rationed them out a bit more, at least. I must have burned through an entire carton these past few days...”

He trails off here before lapsing into a pained silence. You're both thinking the same thing, you realise, that you might all have done things differently if you'd known what was coming. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Leaning back, you roll up your sleeve and take another look at the ritual scar Keziah gave you. As you run your fingers across the crude stitching that Miriam used to close up your wounds, you wonder if she recognised the importance of the scar. Probably not, but it's hard to chase away the idea now that it's forced its way into your head. If she DID know the significance of it, might she have broken the scar on purpose? Shuddering a little at that thought, you clasp a hand to your arm and concentrate, reaching out to Keziah one more time. This time, you feel a faint stirring. Not a true moment of contact, but a flicker of a response – confirmation, if nothing else, that someone is on the other end of the connection. Maybe if you narrow your focus even more, you might be able to-

The radio snarls suddenly, causing both you and Dwight to jump. He hurriedly turns a few dials this way and that, and a hushed voice creeps out of the speakers.

“Hello? Hello, is this blasted thing working?” the voice whines, “This is the Eliza, assigned to the Spirit of Helena. It's Grace, can anyone hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you interrupt, speaking before Dwight can answer, “It's Vaandemere. What's the situation over there?”

“Oh, captain! Miss Lhaus will be so glad to hear that you're okay,” Grace replies quickly, pausing before adding, “Now, I just need to get in contact with her...”

That doesn't sound good.

[1/2]

>>3206064

“You see, Miss Lhaus went to meet with Consul Hess. Excuse me for saying this, but I think she had ulterior motives. Yes, she wanted to try and gather some intelligence for us all, but... well, you know, her brother...” Grace pauses, “She came back here yesterday, told me to wait here and mind the radio. She had an errand to run, apparently. A favour for Consul Hess, although she never said it quite so openly. I've not heard back from her since.”

That really doesn't sound good. “What's the situation like in Pastona?” you press, only for the static to rise up and swallow Grace's words. Nothing that Dwight tries can restore the signal, and eventually he slumps back in defeat. “Maybe Sandoval got something on her end,” you realise after a moment, slapping Dwight on the shoulder, “Keep track of things here, I'll head back to check. Good work, Dwight.”

“Yeah chief,” he drawls as you hurry out, “I really fiddled with those dials. Sure did...”

-

As you hasten back to Sandoval's study, you massage your scarred arm and make another attempt at contacting Keziah. Again, you manage to feel the faintest ghost of a connection with her – a wordless sense of danger and fear, like cold water trickling down your spine. Wherever Keziah is, there's trouble... although that doesn't mean much these days, you realise, when trouble is easy to come by.

Sandoval meets you halfway, her expression grim. “I've got news,” she begins, “That church skiff never reached its proper destination. After leaving here, it seems to have dropped off the grid. I managed to dig a little deeper, though. I... called in a few favours, and an Iraklin listening station managed to pick up a brief radio transmission between the skiff and Cloudtop Prison. The signal was too distorted to make out any words, but it was definitely calling Cloudtop.”

“Would the skiff have any reason to go up there?” you ask, frowning at the thought.

“No. Not at all,” Sandoval replies, shaking her head, “If anything, our pilots are under orders to avoid Zenith airspace until we have a better idea of what's going on up there. That's all I've been able to learn so far.”

So that's that. Keziah went down to Sybile, Freddy is running errands for Consul Hess in Pastona, and now it seems like Gunny has been spirited away to Cloudtop Prison. The Spirit of Helena is ready to fly, but your attention is being pulled in three different directions. The question is... where first?

>Sybile
>Pastona
>Cloudtop Prison
>Somewhere else... (Write in)
>Other

See I want to go to whoever is in the most danger, but we don't really have enough information decide definitively.

>Cloudtop Prison
I hope the girls stay safe, but Gunny seems to be legit kidnapped or coerced.

>>3206072
>>3206067
Forgot to link.

>>3206067
>>Sybile
I can only hope Gunny isn't getting himself into trouble, but we know Keziah's mom has a spear and is going into a murderous insanity. We might want to assist with that.

>>3206097
Well, we know shes going crazy. I suppose the spear part is a bit meta, since the captain only saw the sword.

>>3206067
>Cloudtop Prison
We should do a proper ritual for Kez, but this might be the time for her to pull out a tank instead of a daemon to solve her problems.

>>3206107
You know speaking of, maybe we should send messenger daemons to each of the people in trouble?

>>3206067
Can Milos do that with Masque's help?

>>3206112
>We would be able to send messengers, yes. It's not a complicated rite, and Keziah herself kept notes that we could use. However, I do want to say that some areas may some form of protection against daemons. Our ability to gather information may be limited

>>3206126
Yeah I imagine Cloudtop won't go so well, but even limited information is more information than what we have now.

>>3206067
>Sybile

>>3206067
>>Cloudtop Prison
The girls have ways to communicate. We have no idea what is happening at Cloudtop other than people are being taken there, probably being changed into Dogma soldiers

>Okay, I think I'm going to close the vote here and move along. We're headed to Cloudtop Prison first, it seems
>I apologise for the delay

Restlessly pacing back and forth for a moment, you feel a sense of frustration, almost powerlessness, bubbling up within you. No matter how hard you try, you can't be in three places at once. Sandoval and her people are needed here, to protect the estate and those taking shelter within, while Miriam... well, you know better than to rely on her for anything. Her help is a fickle thing at the best of times.

Clicking your tongue in irritation, you turn on your heel and march back towards the Spirit of Helena. One thing rises up above all else – if Gunny had been in his right mind, he wouldn't have left without explaining himself to the others. Either he was kidnapped, or he was coerced into leaving with the church messenger. That's a clear danger... but Maeve may be just as dangerous, and Keziah went seeking her out. For all you know, the witch could have rushing off to her death... if only you knew a little more about what's going on!

But maybe you have a way to find out. One more cunning trick up your sleeve.

Dwight glances around as you barge onto the bridge, the tense look on your face silencing him. “Get the ship ready to move,” you order, “We're heading to Cloudtop Prison, is that understood?”

“Got it, chief... I think,” Dwight replies, “I'll have us there... hey, where are you going?”

You pause halfway through your retreat, looking around at the pilot. “I might have another way of getting in contact with the others,” you tell him, “But I need to check on a few things. Just call for me if there's any trouble.” With that, you continue on down to Keziah's quarters and start the painful process of searching through her belongings. It's difficult work, with the cluttered mess of her room deterring any attempts at a quick search, but you eventually find the notes you were looking for. A sketched out summoning circle for her messenger daemon.

Dropping to your knees there and then, you fumble for a piece of chalk and carefully copy out the circle. The diagram came with scribbled instructions, Keziah's handwriting nearly defeating your attempts. After deciphering what she wrote, you begin the first ritual. Holding Gunny's image in your mind, you murmur the ancient words and feel a wind picking up about you. When the rite is complete, Keziah's messenger daemon stands ready.

“Gunny?” you whisper to it, “Gunny, can you hear me?”

A long pause, then: “That you, brother?” Gunny's voice murmurs back, so quiet as to be almost silent, “I knew you weren't dead. I saw it.”

“You... saw it?” you repeat.

“In the mirror. I can see things in it,” he continues, “Oh, the things I've seen... I don't know where I am. Down, down low. I remember stairs. Damn near tripped and broke my neck. I think... Nng, no, I... I can't-”

The link is cut sharply, the messenger daemon exploding apart in a small cloud of dust and leaving you with more questions than answers.

[1/2]

>>3206184
I think we need to finally break that fucking mirror.

>>3206184

Hurriedly checking the circle over for any damage, anything that might foil the ritual, you picture Keziah in your mind and repeat the words. The daemon comes when called, although it takes a little longer this time. You almost wonder if it feels reluctant after last time, after Cloudtop Prison's defences snuffed it out. Still, the ancient words compel it to obey, and it obeys. Your murmured greeting is met with nothing but silence at first, and then...

“She can't HEAR you,” a rich, echoing voice sneers, “The little creature is caught within my coils now. Running, hiding, crying out for her cursed mother. It amused me to watch her, at first, but I am becoming to TIRE of this sport.”

“You bastard,” you hiss, “You're the source of all this, aren't you? You're the one who placed this damn curse-”

“You too are becoming tiresome,” the daemon sighs, “Begone, insect. I will speak no more with you or your slave.”

For the second time today, the messenger daemon is blown apart.

-

The sound of a harsh knock on the door stirs you back to reality, breaking the fugue that had swept over you in the wake of the daemon's unkindly farewell. Tasting a faint hint of blood in your mouth, you blunder over to the door and open it, finding Branwen waiting for you. “You are needed on the thing,” she announces, turning and hurrying away in the direction of the bridge. You follow her up, arriving just as Dwight lets out a groan of dismay.

“It's seen us,” he curses, “It's definitely seen us!”

It takes you a moment to realise what he's talking about. The Palanquin hangs transfixed in the sky some distance away, but the ponderous ship has started to move. It turns slowly in your direction, and you see the faint flare of her engines igniting. It hasn't just seen you, it's starting to approach you. A short screech of static tears out from the radio, soon replaced by the uncanny beauty of a wordless song. For all its beauty, the song cuts you to the core.

“Turn it off!” you demand, clutching at your head as the dissonant note pieces deeper into you. Dwight wrestles with the radio, but nothing he is able to do can silence that song. Short of destroying the radio itself...

[2/3]

>>3206288

Grunting, Dwight returns to the controls and rams them forwards, speeding away from the Palanquin. The further away you get, the more the song fades away. There's no time to relax, though – by the time the song has faded away, you've drawn close to Cloudtop Prison. A branch of the great tree has speared straight through the island, stabbing into it and pinning it in place. Every window you can see blazes with white light, but there no signs of genuine life. Somewhere deep within that place, Gunny is being held captive.

You're reluctant to risk turning the radio on, considering that fearful song, but the temptation grows too great. Clicking it on, you listen as it waits in expectant silence, with neither song nor static to lash out at you. Waiting for you to make the first move?

“Chief?” Dwight asks, “You've got a plan for this, right?”

There is the temptation to mark in and start causing trouble until they give Gunny up, maybe even to blow their cursed prison open with a volley of missiles, but... Gunny might not be the only prisoner inside. Didn't Sandoval say that the immaculate were abducting people and bringing them here?

>Just land and stand by. We'll approach on foot
>Ready the missiles. We'll blow that place wide open
>Give me that radio. Maybe we can negotiate...
>Other

>>3206296
>Just land and stand by. We'll approach on foot
Fuck negotiations. Once the landing party disembarks the Helena should lift off again for air support. We can give pinpoint targets from the ground and I don't want to risk enemies boarding the Helena while it's landed.

>>3206296
>Just land and stand by. We'll approach on foot

Supporting >>3206307

>>3206296
This>>3206307

>>3206307
Wait, how are we going to pinpoint targets? We don't have Keziah on board.

Moloch, do we have some kind of laser pointer or even a portable radio we can use?

>>3206351
Pfft shit I forgot. I'm so used to having our magical two way radio. I'd still want the Helena in the air though just in case though

>>3206351
>Moloch, do we have some kind of laser pointer or even a portable radio we can use?

>Ah, that's true. We won't be able to point out any specific targets on the ground. Still, Dwight will be able to guard against any large airborne threats that might come out way, so it still helps.

>>3206296
>Land and approach on foot

“Just land the ship for a moment, give us time to approach on foot,” you order, “Once we're out, take off and cover us from the air. If you see anything that doesn't look friendly, blast it.”

“You know, chief, I'm not really a combat pilot...” Dwight complains, considering this for a moment before sighing and shrugging, “But I guess nobody can call themselves a non-combatant these days. Fine, you got it. Just don't be too long, okay? I'm feeling sick of this place already – it's cold, and there's nothing good on the local radio.” He manages a smile, just to let you know that he's joking, and then he shoos you away with a nervous wave.

On your way down to the cargo hold, you meet up with Caliban and Masque. Both damn good fighters, but your party feels incomplete without Freddy here. You never did get the chance to send a daemon her way, and now... no, no good can come of fretting about her now. Right now, you need to keep your mind set on the objective. You need to break into the prison and get Gunny out, no matter what.

The exit ramp rattles alarmingly as it lowers, some lingering damage from the wyrm's attack hindering it, but the effect is minimal. An annoyance, really. A distraction at a time when you need no distractions. Touching Maeve's pendant for luck, you draw your sword and lead the others down the cargo ramp. Masque takes point, drawing both of his blades and prowling ahead with murderous intent. You follow close behind, fighting against the cold wind that batters you as you hurry across the landing strut. So far, no sign of trouble.

Standing ajar with a brilliant white light bleeding through it, the prison door awaits. You nearly hesitate at that, the open door seeming to taunt you. How arrogant must they be, if they're leaving the front door standing open?

Behind you, the Spirit of Helena lifts up into the air and begins to circle the area. Sparing one last glance at it, you look away and squeeze through the ajar door. Even bracing yourself as best you can, the white light that engulfs you is enough to wipe your senses clean for a moment. You feel lost, aimlessly drifting in a void with no beginning and end. No solid ground under your feet, no feet to rest on solid ground, no way of moving forwards or back, you feel-

You feel a shudder run through your body, and then it's over. The inside of the prison is still painfully bright, with the air itself glowing as if it was white hot, but there are details and definition once more. Blinking away the last of your confusion, you see the prison atrium... and the dozen or so statues that now occupy it. Frozen in the image of busy workers going about their business, the statues wait transfixed. Every one of them is the same, their faces seemingly obliterated by a hammer and chisel.

Then the first head slowly turns to face your way.

[1/2]

>>3206409
Making things really inconvenient for us here Gunny

>>3206449
We need fanart of Milos princess carrying Gunny from danger for the 10th time.

>>3206409

No signal is given, but they move to seize you and your companions with unfailing discipline, every one moving in perfect harmony with the others. Cold stone hands clamp down upon your shoulders, only to fall away a moment later as Masque cleaves them off with one sweep of his heavy cleaver. Thrusting your sword into the immaculate standing before you, you split it open before turning to cut through the next in line. These seem different from “true” immaculate, with no weapons and no individual will guiding them. Their motions are jerky and predictable, their attacks easy to evade. It's hard to even call them attacks – they merely grasp and clutch at you, seeking to restrain you for some sinister purpose.

Cutting a path through the shuddering automata, you hear a distant cry echoing out through the halls of Cloudtop Prison. Roused by the clamour of battle, the prisoners yell and rattle at their cells. Cursing, you cut down the last of the statues and cast a hurried glance about. No sign of new arrivals, for now at least. The atrium is a strange sight, with shorn limbs scattered about but no hint of blood. The panicked cries and moans bore into you from all around – just how many unfortunates are penned up here?

“Where do we start?” Caliban hisses, “Don't tell me we need to search each and every one of those cells for...”

“No,” you mutter, silencing him with a gesture. Gunny mentioned going down, going deep down. You came across a place like that once, an isolated meditation chamber at the end of a long descending stairwell. He has to be there. Another thought comes fast on the heels of that first place. Rhea – you're still not sure what part she has to play in all this. Even now, is she sitting in her private chambers and contemplating the end of the world?

“Okay, listen up...” you declare, giving your next orders.

>Head to the deepest part of the prison. Gunny has to be there
>Investigate Rhea's office and quarters
>Search the cells for a prisoner with some answers
>Other

>>3206517
>Head to the deepest part of the prison. Gunny has to be there
Let's secure him first before we go looking for answers.

>>3206517
>>Investigate Rhea's office and quarters
Info first

>>3206517
>Go deep down

>>3206517
Can't we liberate the prisoners while we're at it? Surely even if we free one person, that person will be able to free the others and so on and so on.

>>3206539
>>3206517
That's a good idea

>>3206539
Starting a prison riot does sound like a pretty good idea.

>Head to the deepest part of the prison. Gunny has to be there
Gunny is the priority, and if the prison is mass producing immaculates we should get to him before he can be turned.

>>3206539
Oh yeah, forgot to put the actual vote.

>Head to the deepest part of the prison. Gunny has to be there

>>3206548
Well hopefully a little more controlled than a riot. We give them instructions to all regroup at the atrium and once we are done finding Gunny and Rhea we get everybody on board the Helena. Drop the off at Sandoval or the Hierophant's convoy.

“We're heading to rescue Gunny. I think I know where they're keeping him,” you continue, “If my guess is right, we'll need to pass through some of the cells to get to him. We'll see if we can release some of the prisoners as we go. If they can then release more of them...”

“I see. They will scatter like rats, and the guards that watch over this place will be distracted,” Masque rumbles, “Yes, a fitting plan. They will be misdirection, a disposable feint, that blinds our enemies to the killing thrust.”

A pause. “That's not quite what I meant,” you mutter, shaking your head in dismay, “But... let's just get moving.”

-

Pressing ahead into the cells, you find yourself confronted by a harrowing sight, countless arms grasping as they reach out into the corridor, clawing at the empty air. Just as bad is the sound – the screams and cries faded quickly, replaced by low moans of fear and, worse, abandonment. Shaking off the initial wave of revulsion, you hurry ahead to find an occupied cell. The very first cell you come to has an Iraklin soldier inside, his uniform torn and dirtied. His eyes are wide with panic, and you bite back a curse as you see his “cellmate”.

Another human figure lies slumped against the back wall of the cell, but he has long since turned to stone and fused with the prison itself. How long has the young soldier been locked up here, wondering when he might start to change?

“Calm down, listen to me,” you hiss, grabbing the soldier's hand in a tight grip and waiting for some of the terror to leave his face. Masque strains at the door as you wait, but he can't get it open. You're not even sure if it IS a door – it seems more like a smooth, unbroken patch of wall, with just that tiny window in the top so a guard can look inside. “Listen,” you repeat, “Do you know how I can get this door open?”

His face goes blank for a moment. “There were... men,” he rasps at last, “They had, no, not keys. They had charms, pieces of stone that made the rock move. I've never seen the like before.”

He must mean an Abrahad pendant. With a sudden jolt of realisation, you dig deep into your pockets and produce the charm Rhea took from Worthington. Her gift to you... had she known that this might happen, and passing the pendant along to you had been some kind of backup plan? More questions, and only the bishop herself can answer them. For now, you focus on the practical matters. Touching the pendant against the sealed door, you watch in wonder as it smoothly retracts into the wall itself. Unable to believe his good fortune, the soldier stumbles out of the cell.

“Easy there,” Caliban mutters, “No fainting now. We're not done with you just yet.”

[1/2]

>>3206612

“Have you seen a woman about? Tall and pale, not particularly cheerful?” you ask the soldier, only for him to shake his head, “What about a man? Maybe a few years older than I am, his face would be... different.” But the soldier just shakes his head again, and you're left wondering what this place has done to his mind. Not destroyed it completely, at least, but he's certainly bearing scars. “Take this,” you tell him instead, pressing the Abrahad pendant into his hands, “Free as many people as possible, take them back to the atrium. We have a ship, we can get you out of here.”

No reaction from him, nothing beyond a kind of mute wonder. “That's an order!” you snap, and the young man leaps to obey.

Typical Iraklin.

-

Leaving the gasps and cries of relief behind you, you lead Caliban and Masque deeper into the prison. Your memory serves you well, leading you back to the sealed door and the staircase beyond. You don't even break your stride when you reach the door, cleaving it open with a stroke of your sword and barging through the remains. Stepping from the blinding light of the prison into the gloomy abyss of the unnatural stairwell is disorientating, but you manage to avoid losing your footing.

Caliban curses softly as he follows you down the stairs, leaning across and dropping a stray pebble – a piece of one of the destroyed statues, perhaps – over the side. You wait and listen, but you never hear it hit the ground. Shuddering, you continue on into the blue glow of Pleonite. Unable to hold back, you call out Gunny's name. Your voice echoes down the staircase, but no answer comes. Tightening your grip on your sword, you hurry down the last of the stairs and lurch into the meditation chamber. Looking about you, you see...

Nothing. Gunny is nowhere to be seen. Countless Abrahad pendants glow above you, and the immaculate statue stands frozen in a pose of mocking piety, but that is all. The clamour of the freed prisoners doesn't reach you here, not even the faintest echo of it, and you have the strange feeling that you've left that world far behind you now. This is a different place, different in so many ways. Feeling oddly detached from your own movements, you creep closer to the statue and reach up to touch the mutilated face.

Snapping around too quickly for the eye to follow, the immaculate raises a hand and grabs you by the throat. With the monster's terrible strength cutting off your breathing, you kick out as it lifts you up off the ground. Not even a full second later, Masque slams into the statue with enough force to send it flying back into the far wall. Drawing in a rasping breath, you raise your sword as the statue recovers, hurling itself towards you with murderous intent. Its charge ends on the point of your blade, a fine hail of shattered stone clattering out across the chamber as you split it open.

[2/3]

>>3206720

Massaging your bruised throat with one hand, you watch as Caliban prowls restlessly back and forth, occasionally sniffing the air as part of his search. At one point he stops, sinking to his knees and pressing his face against the cold stone floor. You know better than to interrupt him, and when he sits abruptly upright you know that he's found something. “Here,” the hunter announces, pointing to a perfectly anonymous section of the floor, “There's something under here. More stairs.”

“The stone moves under the appropriate circumstances,” Masque adds, “What are those?”

“I've got an idea,” you growl, bringing Feanor's glowing sword to bear. The ghostly blade meets resistance at first, but you persist and soon you're able to open a crack in the floor. Like a wounded animal retreating from further harm, the crack widens until it forms a decent sized opening. Just as Caliban guessed, a new set of stairs leads further down. Listening closely, you hear ragged breathing.

Gesturing for the others to stay back, you creep down the stairs. Blue light from the Pleonite charms filters down to highlight Gunny's familiar silhouette. He's sitting slumped in a chair, his head held unnaturally upright by some cruel device. He's facing a large frame, and the breath catches in your throat as you realise just what he's staring into. He said that there was a mirror, but you didn't connect the dots at the time. A thousand year mirror, here...

Calling his name again, quietly this time, you see no sign of a reaction. Slowly approaching, you feel the mirror's uncanny power tugging at you. Shuddering, you keep your gaze well away from it. Gunny is bound to a heavy wooden throne with thick leather straps, his head pinned in place by a padded vice. The blue light reflecting off the mirror and onto his eyes... it almost makes them look real again, alive again. Even touching his shoulder, shaking him firmly, seems to provoke no reaction from him. His mind is... gone, drawn into that cursed mirror.

A terrible anger bubbles up inside you. It can't end like this. You can't, won't, accept it.

>Loosen Gunny's bonds and get him out of here
>Destroy the mirror
>Gaze into the mirror yourself
>Other

>>3206824
Destroy the mirror

>>3206824
>Loosen Gunny's bonds and get him out of here


>>3206830
If Gunny's mind is really drawn into the mirror, and we shatter it, he may be gone forever. Plus it's a priceless relic cmon.

>>3206824
Gazing into that thing seems like a really bad idea, but we don't know if destroying it will lose Gunny's mind to us forever. We may need to find Rhea before we proceed.

>Loosen Gunny's bonds and get him out of here

>>3206835
Oh I am beyond past caring about relics at this stage. All this old 2nd interation Dogma crap is a cancer. If we get Gunny's mind back I am all for going back and breaking it.

>>3206824
>Loosen Gunny's bonds and get him out of here
We still don't know how the mirrors work, I really don't want Gunny to lose his mind permanently.

Gritting your teeth, you focus on fumbling with Gunny's bonds until they're loose enough to slip off. It takes a fair bit of strength to loosen the vice around his head, and you shudder to imagine what it must have felt like to wear the tortuous restraint. Even with the faded velvet padding, Gunny is left with bruised spots on his temples. As soon as the vice is undone, he slumps forwards and wilts into your arms. Heaving him upright as best you can, you carry him up the stairs.

“Shit!” Caliban hisses, his eyes widening with alarm at the sight of Gunny, “Hey, Hotchkiss, this is no time to be sleeping on the job!”

Nodding for Caliban to take the lead, you shift Gunny's significant weight and make for the stairs. As you climb, you feel the older man stir a little and hear him murmuring a few slurred words. It might not be much, but it's a definite sign of life. Reassured, you tackle the stairs with new vigour. When you've almost reached the top, you hear a sound from above that crushes those fledgling hopes. You hear a great many screams, panicked and fearful, coming from the freed prisoners.

The immaculate have come.

-

Chaos has claimed the upper level of the prison, with prisoners fleeing through the corridors as implacable statues hunt them down. Without weapons, the prisoners are helpless, and it is only the strange mercy of the immaculate that prevents a full scale massacre. No mindless automata, these new arrivals are warriors – the carry long spears and bear skeletal wings, their movements fluid and predatory. Just as you're returning to the surface, you see one of the prisoners seized by an immaculate, grabbed by the neck and carried back towards the cells.

Caliban is quicker, drawing and loosing an arrow from his unnatural bow. The arrow of light stabs into the immaculate and explodes, blowing the construct's wings off and sending it crashing back down to solid ground. Scrabbling to his feet, the prisoner flees away from the downed statue. It begins to rise and give chase, only for Masque to strike the head from its shoulders with a crushing blow.

Your hopes that the chaos might further rouse Gunny are proven fruitless – he remains a dead weight against one shoulder. “Back to the atrium!” you order, pointing ahead, “Hurry!”

You hardly needed to give the order. Caliban and Masque lead the way through the corridors, teaming up to knock down any of the immaculate that cross your path. More than once, you spot a slain prisoner lying in a bloody, discarded heap. Were they the ones who resisted, you wonder, the ones who fruitlessly fought back against their captors? If so, their reward was nothing more than a callous death. Compared with the fate that awaited them back in their cells, though... maybe death seemed better.

[1/2]

>>3206969
Shit, I feel bad about the prisoners. Maybe we could've given them some weapons, or at least prevented some of their deaths.

>>3207024
We got other shit to do.
Some of them would have made it to the ship and thats as good as its going to get for them

>>3207024
I'm not sure where we could find so many weapons for the prisoners

>>3207024
We could've easily just not released them until we were ready to leave. That would've prevented their deaths.

>>3207083
Its more so we can leave unnoticed more oe less.
Then having ti have all the things arfter as right away

>>3206969

The atrium provides only a little comfort when you reach it. The escaped prisoners have formed makeshift barricades out of toppled statues, church idols reduced to little more than obstacles to deter the immaculate from attacking. The constructs, so far, seem to be focused on corralling the prisoners currently running riot. The majority of those freed cower in the atrium, safe for the time being. A few of them carry improvised clubs made from the scattered limbs cut away from the statues you first destroyed, but it's a token effort at best.

Setting Gunny down, you watch as his lips twist into a grimace of pain. That's good, despite everything – the pain will give him something to hold onto, something to connect his mind to his body. Stepping back for a moment, you glance around the atrium to see if Rhea is among the escaped prisoners here, but your search is met with failure. A second, more careful search just confirms what you already know – she's not here. Before you can dwell on that fact, you hear a crash of stone breaking and men yell out a warning.

“They're here again!” one of the prisoners cries, stumbling back as one of the immaculate's spears cleaves through the improvised barricade, “They're here!”

Wearily raising your sword, you prepare to meet the new threat.

>I think I'm going to have to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, though, at the same usual time
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>3207101
Thanks for running. This whole thing is pretty fucking neato, I wasn't expecting it to go from 0 to 100 almost immediately. Shame I didn't get to vote on anything.

>>3207101
Thanks
And demm shit getting real up in this bitch.
Better go down to the ground and bitch slap some deamons after this

>>3207092
That wasn't Milos' motivation (and mine when I voted for it) for why he did it.

>>3207101
Thanks for running.

Isn't the atrium connected to the outside? I'm surprised the prisoners haven't just left yet.

>>3207101
Thanks for running!

>>3207101
Thanks for running!

If the daemon in charge of Kez's curse said he was bored of watching them, does that mean he decided to just stop? pls

>>3207120
The atrium does lead outside, yes, although being outside isn't necessarily safer than being inside at the moment. What I imagine we're seeing is something of a mob situation - in the absence of anyone to give the orders, the majority of the prisoners have defaulted to inaction

>>3207136
Who can say? Maybe it got bored and decided to do something else, or maybe it decided to MAKE things interesting!

>>3207219
Well I was thinking we could lure the immaculates outside to get shot at by the Helena, but rereading it seems like they have wings so it might be better to hold them here. I'm not sure.

>>3207348
Better to just get the fuck out couse this shit smells like trout.
The deamon probs going to make them fight or something

>>3208198
We can't. We need to find Rhea to see how to get Gunny's mind back.

I just caught up after falling behind at thread 20 and I'm here to remind everyone that we need to use the power of the 'world of transition' to fix Caliban's face. I think the order of application cosmic transition power should be:
>un-prophecy Keziah and Maeve
>give Gunny eyes
>fix Caliban's face
>grant Impurity and Dogma wisdom at the Heart of the World
>save Carth, Iraklis and the Pastonne Union
>have a polite conversation with Eishin and convince him to not be alive anymore, violence might even not be necessary

The order of this can be changed as is practical, but I think this accurately describes the importance of each item from most imporant at the top to least important at the bottom.

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

313 KB JPG

You've known for some time now that Caliban was good with that enchanted bow of his, but today... today he really earns his pay. Drawing and releasing arrows of light as fast as he can, but without even the slightest hint of strain or effort, he shoots down one immaculate after another as they force their way into the atrium. Of course, no matter what happens, Caliban is only one man. He can only do so much. Cutting through the other barricade and attacking through the second door, the other half of the immaculate force descends upon you.

Between Masque and your own sword arm, you don't make it easy for them. Using the doorway to prevent them from surrounding you or truly bringing the weight of their numbers to bear, you meet the attack head on. It's not easy, even with the terrain working in your favour, and the immaculate draw blood on more than one occasion. You'll be busy fighting back one of the bastards, only for a long spear to slip through and glance across your shoulder or sting your back. Masque takes his share of punishment as well, although of course he does not bleed.

Then, quite abruptly, the attack is over. Stopping in the middle of a swing, your latest opponent turns and launches itself away from you, flying down the corridor and out of sight. At first, you feel certain that it's just some new ploy, some trick to get you to lower your guard, but... no. They really are retreating, leaving a little over a dozen shattered corpses of their brethren behind.

“They mean to fight elsewhere,” Masque declares, looking down at a long slash across his gut, “I smell daemons, likely pressed into service by men loyal to their corrupted master. Perhaps they sensed the disturbance here and sought to take advantage of it – to score points in this great game.”

“This isn't a game,” you snap, bending down to pick up one of the fallen spears, left by a slain immaculate. The blade, made of the same killing light that Feanor's sword burns with, has died now, but the haft of the spear remains an effective bludgeon. Certainly more effective than a discarded arm. Some of the other prisoners are picking up their own spears, the act giving them a new confidence. False confidence, perhaps, but they need everything they can get right now. “Hey, you,” you begin, calling over to one of the more alert prisoners, “What happened here? Why were some of the prisoners outside the barricades?”

“They volunteered,” the prisoner offers softly, “Those things were trying to get in, so they... they volunteered to distract them, buy us some time. Most of them were soldiers, Iraklins, and they said... they said it was the only way. We're mostly civilians here, by my reckoning, so they...”

So they did their duty.

[1/3]

File: Grundvald's Herald.jpg (63 KB, 492x880)

63 KB JPG

>>3209521

Looking out through the ajar door and peering up into the sky, you see a number of wheeling shapes flitting about above you. Daemons, or winged beasts, or whatever other monsters now call this world home. A body lies on the landing strut, with the unmistakeably flat shape of something that was dropped from a high height. That explains why the escaped prisoners remained within the atrium, even when the immaculate started their attack. Outside was no safer than inside.

With your pistol at the ready, you stalk out onto the landing strut and look about. A moment passes, and then the Spirit of Helena swoops around. It seems like Dwight has been circling the prison, never staying in one place for too long. Waving up to him, you watch the airship dipping lower. Like tiny fish fleeing from a larger beast, the flying daemons scatter as the airship descends. Waving to the prisoners, they start to file out.

“I should have waited,” you mutter to Caliban as he comes out to join you, “Releasing the prisoners so soon... how many did we lose, do you think? If we had waited until after...”

“I doubt it,” the hunter grunts, “If Masque says is true, there are daemons on the way. This place is going to be a battlefield soon. Running about opening cells in the middle of all that... I think we got off lightly, all things considered.”

-

Gunny stirs a little as Caliban carries him aboard the Spirit of Helena, the airship almost seeming to groan under the strain of carrying so many passengers. As you watch the last of the prisoners climbing aboard, Masque marches out from the prison. “News, Milos Vaandemere,” he bellows, “A herald has come. It wishes to speak with you.”

At first, you're convinced that you heard him wrong. Frowning in confusion, you hasten back inside. Standing a safe distance away from Masque is a new daemon, an oddly familiar daemon – you saw it in the Nightlands once, you recall, in Grundvald's city. The avian daemon gives you a formal bow, its feathers bristling in a display of hostility that it cannot quite suppress. It's not trying to kill you, but that doesn't mean you're fast friends.

“You, who have brought disorder to this place,” the daemon crows, “This one has come with the offer of truce. My master will come soon, with his band of warriors, seeking to strike the head from this abomination in the name of Impurity. He welcomes all men who might share this goal. By your deeds, you have proven yourself a fighter of no small skill. I beseech you – wait until his arrival, and he will be glad to welcome you into his band. Resist, and you too will be our enemy.”

The herald bows once more, then withdraws before you can even offer a reply. With a sweep of its wings, it vanishes into a cloud of feathers.

“I forget, sometimes,” Masque rumbles, “How intolerable my kin can be.”

[2/3]

>>3209524

With Dogma's armies falling back to protect the rest of the prison, and a band of Impurity's followers coming to sack it, you can almost feel the noose closing around your neck. You've got a chance to escape now, while the immaculate are distracted by their new foe, but will you be leaving the job half finished? All too aware of the new threat that grows closer by the moment, you weigh up the options.

“This group, how are they coming here?” you wonder aloud, answering your own question a moment later, “Travelling through the hollow branches, perhaps, unless these warriors can fly. Can't rule anything out these days, but...”

But that's not the important point now. Should you flee from the prison now, even if it means leaving Rhea's fate unknown, or should you push ahead and search the upper levels of the prison? Perhaps an alliance of convenience would not be such a terrible idea. Things would be that much easier with the Nadir fighters by your side, but such an alliance would be tenuous at best.

>Evacuate now, before any further trouble arrives
>Press ahead now, search the upper levels of the prison for any sign of Rhea
>Wait for the Nadir fighters to arrive. You'll hear out their offer of a truce
>Other

>>3209529
>Press ahead now, search the upper levels of the prison for any sign of Rhea

Hell no we aren't leaving this half finished.

>>3209529
>Press ahead now, search the upper levels of the prison for any sign of Rhea

Hopefully we can avoid a lot of the fighting with the Daemons busy with the Immaculate.

>>3209529
>Press ahead now, search the upper levels of the prison for any sign of Rhea

She loves us too much to let her die.

>>3209529
>Press ahead now, search the upper levels of the prison for any sign of Rhea
RIP kez, here's hoping that taking control of cloudtop ends the music and snaps DuPont out of whatever nonesense he's in.

>>3209552
Kez is definitely the next stop, though we still need to messenger daemon Freddy to see what horrible situation she is in too. If it's bad we may need to split the team up.

>>3209559
my guess is that DuPont, Freddy, and her brother are all on the Palanquin or the other giant ship, and there's a three-way fight between the 2 ships and a wyrm.

>>3209567
Freddy is over in Iraklis doing something for Hess which I really fucking hope doesn't involve Eishin. I think the Palanquin is a giant immaculate ship.

>>3209529
>Press ahead now, search the upper levels of the prison for any sign of Rhea

>>3209571
exactly, I think the "do something for Hess" involves "riding a skiff into a giant fuckass ship"

>>3209584
I'm not sure about that. Seems like a suicide mission with no payoff.

>>3209571
Palanquin is a giant airship, with significant portions composed of Abrahad stone. It was the pride and joy of the Carth fleet, but now Dogma seems to have hijacked it

>>3209589
That's what I mean. I think the itself is it's own entity now that serves Dogma.

I wonder happened to the poor bastards on board.

>>3209593
Something straight out of Dead Space I imagine.

“We're moving now, before the rest of the daemons arrive,” you snap, “With luck, they'll keep the immaculate busy. I'm not leaving here until the job is done. Come on – we've got the upper level of the prison to search through!”

Caliban and Masque leap to obey, following you out into the main body of the corridor. As you hurry through the now desolate cells, the hunter presses something into your hand – the Abrahad pendant, now reclaimed from the young soldier. “Just in case,” he tells you, by way of explanation. Replying with a curt nod, you drop the pendant into your pocket for safekeeping and continue on. If your memory serves, Rhea's office shouldn't be too far now. If she's not there, then...

Then you'll keep looking, damn it. You owe her too much to abandon her now!

-

The upper levels of the prison are deserted, the cells not yet filled with captives. What you see here is a strange mixture of materials, metal doors slowly being overgrown with white stone. The church modified the prison to fit their own purposes when they first arrived here, and now the Zenith structure is reclaiming its true form. Rounding the corner, you see Rhea's office ahead of you, but the door is guarded by two sentinels. A pair of the immaculate block the corridor, these statues a full head taller than the others you've seen. Carrying heavy broadswords instead of spears, they cast a formidable silhouette.

Moving faster than such a sizeable creature has any right to move, the first immaculate bats away Caliban's opening shot with a sweep of its sword, stamping forwards with murderous intent. Masque charges ahead to meet the statue's advance, allowing you to slip past and engage the second target. It slashes down at you with an overhead arc, a quick dodge seeing the blade slam down into the stone floor to your left. Stamping one foot down onto the sword to pin it in place, you ram your sword up into the statue's broad neck. Damn near shearing the thing's head clean off, you stumble away as it blindly shoves out at you with an empty hand.

Maeve's pendent, that defiled sliver of Abrahad stone, flies out from your shirt as you lurch backwards, and the statue hesitates as its faceless head swivels to focus on the pendant. It sags, all will drawn into the hungry abyss that the defiled pendant possesses, and you strike out before it can free itself. Your second blow strikes its head from its shoulders, and the looming statue collapses down in an ungainly heap.

Even as it dies, the construct's head seems to follow Maeve's pendant. Pushing past the body, you barge into Rhea's office and recoil at the sight that awaits you.

[1/2]

>>3209593
1. Still alive on there as captives
2. Became Abrahad and merged with the ship
3. Slaughtered by Immaculates
4. Delivered to Cloudtop at the first opportunity

Also why are people bringing up DuPont? I make jokes about stuff being secretly him all the time, but they're just jokes. Did I miss his name in an update?

>>3209614
I don't really know why either. I think he mixed up Gunny and DuPont?

>>3209607
Looks like we can use Maeve's pendant as a distraction. Might be handy.

>>3209614
We're in a World of Ruin state. Every relevant NPC who is still alive gets a 2nd character arc.

DuPont was part of the bigass ships category of plot, and this is a sky pirate quest: if not here, where else are we going to get 2 giant airships duking it out with each other?

>>3209614
Mixed up Worthington and DuPont.

>>3209631
DuPont's ship is a piece of shit compared to the Palanquin though. It wouldn't be much of a fight.

>>3209642
Yeah I imagine we are going to need another coordinated assault from both powers to bring that beast down.

>>3209607

Like frost gathering in midwinter, everything inside of Rhea's office is covered in a thin layer of white Abrahad stone. The air glows brightly, humming with a power that tingles against your skin, and nothing is hidden from you. In a way, you wish it was. Sitting behind what should have been Rhea's desk is the still-human form of Bishop Worthington, the man fused with the throne he sits in. Most of his body has been turned to stone as well, the infection creeping up his body and limbs to leave just his face uncovered. Locked in a grimace, the old man's face speaks of terrible things.

“You defile this place with your mere presence,” a voice snarls, seeming to come from the air rather than Worthington himself, “Were you the one who brought those unclean spirits to this place?” All through this, Worthington's face remains frozen. His eyes, though, they roam imploringly about the office. “I have... seen you. In a dream, perhaps,” the disembodied voice continues, “You are a pawn of the unclean one, are you not?”

“I'm my own man,” you counter, “Where's Rhea? What did you do to her?”

“She is above, being punished for her arrogance,” the voice replies coldly, “She who thought to usher in a new world... a fitting punishment, to witness all the horrors that she helped to unleash. Yet she was only one part of a larger conspiracy – you are the true architect of this ruined world. You have chosen to wallow in filth, to stain your spirit with blood and dirty your hands. What you have done, there can be no forgiveness.”

Then there's no point in talking, is there? As you're turning to leave, you see Worthington's lips tortuously forming words. “You,” he mouths, “You did this. You did it all.”

Grimacing, you start to reach for your revolver before hesitating.

>Put Worthington out of his misery. Nobody deserves this
>Leave Worthington to his fate. He brought this on himself
>Other

>>3209662
>Put Worthington out of his misery. Nobody deserves this

I'd rather not leave the loose end to be honest.

>>3209662
>>Put Worthington out of his misery. Nobody deserves this
>Sometimes Worthington, to fix a badly healed bone, you have to break it again. But yes, I did it all.

>>3209662

>Put Worthington out of his misery. Nobody deserves this

>Ask him where Dogma is first

>>3209662
>>Put Worthington out of his misery. Nobody deserves this

“Sometimes you need to break an ill-formed bone for it to be healed,” you tell Worthington, drawing your revolver, “But I won't shy away from it – yes, I did this. I'll carry that to my grave.”

“...Sooner than you might think,” the fallen priest mouths, one corner of his lips twisting up in the slightest hint of a smirk as he senses your intent, “The Light will burn you alive.”

“Dogma. I know,” you hiss, “Where is he?”

“He has... manifested,” Worthington gloats mutely, “The Palanquin has become His temple, invulnerable and inviolate. Stand against Him, and He will burn your greatest ships to ash.”

The Palanquin... it's just as you feared. That's a problem for another day, though. For now, you've got one last loose end to tie up. Cocking back the hammer on your revolver, you step forwards and place the muzzle against Worthington's still-human forehead. Even if he could have moved away or put up some hint of resistance, you get the feeling that he wouldn't have lifted a finger to stop you. For all his gloating and taunting... this is a release.

His body barely moves when you fire, the Abrahad creeping up his body preventing him from doing much more than slumping slightly. Leaving him with a surprisingly small trickle of blood leaking out of the hole in his head, you return to searching for Rhea.

-

Above can only mean one thing – the tower, where you once meditated in an attempt at reaching out to Dogma. Resigning yourself to clinging that long flight of stairs, and perhaps climbing back down with a burden, you attack the spiral staircase with all the strength you have left. Caliban and Masque remain below, guarding against anything that might seek to follow you up. Gasping and panting after countless steep steps, you emerge out into the open tower and see Rhea slumped in the centre. Outside, winged daemons circle the tower at a cautious distance, content to screech and cry in some harsh, inhuman tongue. Rhea's hands are flat against the stone floor, and you see the first signs of Abrahad stone creeping up her flesh. The woman's face is impassive, her eyes hollow.

“Rhea!” you snap, hurrying over and crouching down beside her. Shaking her by the shoulders, you see her slowly turn to face you. “Just hold on, I'm going to get you out of here,” you tell her, looking down at her hands in dismay, “But... I can't promise that it's going to be painless.”

“I knew that the road would be hard,” Rhea whispers, and you're left wondering if she heard your words at all, “But... not like this.”

Murmuring an apology, you reach around the woman and start to lift her. There is resistance, the bond between skin and stone fighting against you, and Rhea screams out in pain as something starts to give. With one last burst of effort, you pull her free and lift her up. With blood streaming down her torn hands, Rhea shudders and clings to you.

[1/2]

>>3209749

As much as you'd like to take the time to comfort her, circumstances are not so merciful. Perhaps drawn by the scent of fresh blood, one of the winged beasts finally finds the courage to attack. Swooping down, it slams into the walls of the tower and reaches through the empty window, grasping for you with one leprous claw. Holding Rhea tightly, you back away and flee down the spiral stairs. Above, you hear the daemon huffing and snorting as it continues to claw at the tower. Then, a crash.

“Hold on!” you yell, glancing behind you as you race down the stairs. A wild shadow plays across the walls, a grim omen of the daemon's arrival. You hear Masque calling out a curt warning as you approach the bottom, and you throw yourself low. The bestial daemon lunges down after you, only for Masque to stab out with his thinner blade and spit the beast through its yawning jaws. With a mewling cry, the daemon slides off Masque's sword and dies.

-

“Rhea?” you ask as you bandage the woman's bloodied hands, “Rhea, can you hear me?”

“Remember your place,” she chides gently, her words softened by the merest suggestion of a smile, “I'm still a bishop.”

Despite everything, you let out a quiet laugh of disbelief. “Listen, one of my people was being kept below here. He was being forced to stare into one of those damn mirrors,” you explain quickly, “I got him loose, but he's not... right. He's barely responsive, it's like his mind was swallowed up by that cursed thing. What did it DO to him? How can I fix this?”

“The mirror...” Rhea considers this, then shakes her head, “You won't need to do anything, other than to give him time. He will recover on his own.”

You hesitate, unsure if you really believe this or not. You can't shake the feeling that Rhea is leaving something out, something important. Before you can press the point, though, the howl of a hunting hound echoes out through the prison corridors. Caliban grabs you by the shoulder, pulling you upright and gesturing back towards the atrium with a savage jerk of his head. It's not hard to guess the significance of that howl – the first of the Nadir warriors have arrived.

With Rhea following close behind you, you run back down to the atrium and out through the ajar door. The Spirit of Helena hovers in place, the cargo ramp shuddering down as you approach. Hardly breaking stride at all, you jump into the familiar confines of the airship and hold out your hand for Rhea. Gracefully accepting your hand, she steps onto the like a noblewoman mounting her carriage. The dignified act lasts only a moment before she wilts, the weight of her fatigue pressing down on her.

“Get her to the infirmary,” you order Caliban, leaving Rhea in his hands as you hurry to the bridge.

It's time to get out of here.

[2/3]

>>3209815
Well that's 2 out of 5 cute girls rescued (Yes Gunny is included of course). We still got our work cut out for us.

>>3209815

With so many prisoners crammed into your ship, you have to fight your way up to the bridge. Glancing in on the infirmary as you pass by, you realise that Rhea is going to have to weight in line – Barnum has his hands full with wounded men and women, even with Branwen obediently helping him out. She might be more of a herbalist than a surgeon, but she can certainly bandage a wound quickly and efficiently. Barnum meets your eyes as you hesitate, giving you a calm nod. Everything, that nod seems to say, is under control.

Trusting him on that, you continue on to the bridge. Gunny sits in one of the empty chairs, a precious cigarette from Dwight's dwindling supply burning between his lips. He stirs a little as you enter, not quite fully turning around. Glancing at him in confusion, you turn to Dwight. “Hey,” you ask the pilot, “Did you give him that cigarette?”

“He looked sad without one, so I gave him one of mine. Can't you see how happy he looks now?” Dwight chuckles, guiding the Helena away from the prison, “Where next then, chief?”

“Back to the Sandoval estate, I guess,” you reply, “We need to drop off these people before we do anything else. I'd like to rest up for a while too, but I don't know if we can spare the time. There's a lot of work-” A soft whine from the radio cuts you off, and you look down in alarm. Louder and louder, the terrible song begins to boil out of it once more. At the sound of that song, Gunny jolts upright and lets out a terrible cry.

“It's coming!” he yells, clawing blindly at the harness Dwight buckled around him, “Oh god, oh Light, it's coming!”

Ahead of you, the clouds part to reveal the vast and ponderous shape of the dreadnought Palanquin. Dogma's temple, according to Worthington's last words. A slow beast, slower even than a common dreadnought, but all the more formidable for it. Even with the extensive modifications Keziah applied to your ship, can you really fight that monster head on?

“What do we do?” Dwight groans, his hands tightening around the controls.

>Give me the controls. I'm taking us in to attack!
>We can outrun it. Just get us back to the estate!
>We need to... (Write in)
>Other

>>3209875
>We can outrun it. Just get us back to the estate!
Nope™

>>3209875
>We can outrun it. Just get us back to the estate!

I do want to dunk on Dogma now, but we need to save Kez first. Plus removing him early might unbalance things in Impurities favor.

>>3209875
>>We can outrun it. Just get us back to the estate!

Our boat is full of civilians and I don't know if the Megiddo Cannon is operational. We'll revisit the Palanquin situation. Maybe Sandoval or the Hierophant can give us a weak point.

>>3209875
>We can outrun it. Just get us back to the estate!

“We can outrun it,” you order, trying to ignore the awful, atonal song as best you can, “Just get us back to the estate, as quickly as you can!”

“Running away, got it,” Dwight replies, his hands already dancing across the controls, “Yeah, I can do that. Sure thing.” Throwing forwards the thrust lever, he fires the engines up to their full power and the Spirit of Helena lurches forwards like a whipped horse. Shooting through the air and cutting straight past the Palanquin, your ship slashes through the clouds in a steep angle, bound for Azimuth once more. Even once the Palanquin vanishes into the blind spot behind you, you feel an instinctual fear nagging at you.

Turning away from the front window, you start to hurry from the bridge. “Stay on this course!” you call back to Dwight, “I'll check the rear!”

Leaving Dwight to grunt an answer, you fight your way through the panicking refugees and make your way back to the side of the ship, pressing yourself up against one of the thickened glass windows. Craning your neck to look as far behind you as possible, you see a flock of winged shapes following close behind you. The Palanquin itself might not be able to match your speed, but it looks like you've got a cluster of the winged immaculate trailing you. Even with the Helena moving at top speed, the gargoyles are gaining on you. What kind of damage can those glowing spears do to an airship's hull?

You never get the chance to find out. A cluster of explosions ripple out, shattering many of the gargoyles and scattering the rest. You catch a glimpse of red as a skiff roars by you, the heavy cannon slung under its cockpit glowing with the heat of recent fire. As the skiff vanishes back into the clouds, you let out a low sigh of relief. You're safe – for now.

-

Making your way back to the bridge, you see Gunny looking about him in confusion. His are the motions of a man adjusting to blindness all over again, and you feel your heart sink at the sight of them. Dwight has reduced your speed a little, and the radio has fallen silent once more, but he's clearly still on edge. Giving him a wan smile and a nod of thanks, you kneel down beside Gunny's chair.

“Hey, old man,” you mutter to him, “You keep fidgeting like that, someone might think you've got lice.”

“Milos, brother, is that you?” he whispers back, “I... I had a dream that you came and spoke to me, only someone chased you away before long.” He pauses for a moment, sifting through his disordered thoughts. “Wasn't a dream though, was it?” he guesses, “You found a way to...”

“You know me, Gunny,” you assure him, patting the older man on the shoulder, “I like to keep in touch with my people. I wasn't going to let a little thing like the end of the world stop me. Just hang in there, we're heading back to the estate now.”

[1/2]

>>3209957
Gunny is best girl

>>3209957
Mybe we shpuld joke about how we are a knight and on a quest to save the princesses

>>3209957

Sandoval is waiting for you when you arrive back at the estate, her expression set in a mixture of gratitude and dread as she watches the freed prisoners filing out. “I don't wish to sound ungrateful, because I really do appreciate this, but... I don't know if we have enough bedrooms for all these people,” she laments, shaking her head as she mulls over your explanation, “I suppose anything will be an improvement compared with Cloudtop Prison, though. The ballroom has plenty of floor space, and we should be able to get some blankets. Our food supplies, though...”

“We've started to plant seeds here, but I doubt we'll have time for a harvest,” Al-Farabi adds, her voice bleak, “The scouts have been gathering up whatever supplies they can, both for us and for the evacuation column. Delaying the inevitable, I fear...”

“Enough!” Sandoval chides, “We need to stay hopeful. The evacuation column is bound for the hidden city, and there should be ample supplies there. It'll hold them for a while.” Frowning, she dismisses the other churchwoman with a nod and turns back to you. “I have news,” she continues, “A report from Nadir. One of our scouts passed low over Monotia, and what they saw was... they claimed to see strange creatures roaming the streets, beasts created from human bodies. Living sculptures of flesh, that was how they described them. I know not what this means, but... I thought you'd want to stay updated. At least it's one danger we won't need to worry about... so long as it stays down in Nadir.”

Beasts sculpted from human flesh... you recall Eishin's creation, a worm-thing of flesh and bone, with a shudder. Is this just some mad artist unleashing their creations upon Monotia, or part of some greater plan?

Nodding your thanks, you slip out of Sandoval's study and trudge back to the Spirit of Helena. You need to plan your next moves, and that means sending the messenger daemon on another set of errands. Sitting heavily down in the cargo hold, you sketch out the summoning circle from memory and call up the minor daemon. This time, you hold Freddy's name and image in your mind and murmur a tentative greeting. It takes a long time for the answer to come.

“Captain?” Freddy whispers, “You're alive? I'm sorry I went AWOL, but I...” She pauses here, and the daemon faithfully carries her quiet grunt of pain to you. “I'm in Iraklis now, the capital. The museum, of all places. Hess needed help, and I... I volunteered,” her voice falters here, “There were scholars here, academics, but they were trapped by a daemon. Hah, I got it good – took the bastard's arm. It's still out there, though. Cat and mouse... I wish Caliban was here, he'd enjoy this. He-”

Sudden silence. “Freddy?” you hiss, but your hail goes unanswered.

[2/3]

>>3210065
Hess sent her with no backup? I swear these people.

>>3210065

“Sorry,” Freddy whispers at last, “I thought I heard footsteps, thought that thing was nearby. I think it can smell the blood...”

“Just hold on,” you urge her, “Are you hurt?”

“I took a hit, but it's not... it's not too bad,” the Iraklin replies, although her voice is strained, “I got a bandage on it pretty quickly, so... hold on.” Another tense silence, and you look down to see your hands clenched into tight fists. “Okay, I think it's gone. Captain, I can't talk now. I need to keep quiet,” Freddy concludes, “I can keep my head down for now, but... I could use a little help over here.”

With that, the link is broken and the daemon puffs apart in a cloud of dust. Staring down at the summoning circle for a moment more, you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Slowly, you repeat the ritual – this time, reaching out to Keziah once more. When you are met, instead, with the voice of her inhuman tormentor, it comes as little surprise. “Little insect,” the daemon growls, “You bother me once more.”

“Let me talk to her!” you snarl, “Just let me talk-”

“Who do you think is better with a blade, the mother or the child?” the daemon sneers, “You men place wagers on such competitions, do you not? I wonder, which one would get your bet?” A rich, mocking laugh rings out as the daemon allows its ancient scorn to pour forth. “But I pity you, insect. Come to the Lamia's den, and you will find us,” it continues, “I, Gàire an Donas, invite you here. Come... you can make your wager in person, if that is your wish.”

Another contemptuous laugh rings out, abruptly cut off as your messenger is cruelly banished. The silence that falls is a heavy one, pressing down on you like a funeral shroud. Your next move...

>Follow Freddy's trail to Iraklis
>Descend to Nadir in search of Maeve and Keziah
>Investigate the beasts roaming Monotia
>Other

>>3210145
Ok, Freddy sounds like she's doing better than Keziah. She took a hit, but she also cut her enemies arm off. Kez on the other hand would get stomped by both her mom and this daemon, so she gets priority.

>>3210145
>Other
Alright let's try this.

Helena drops Milos and Masque off at Sybile to go assist Kez and Maeve

Then it continues onto Iraklis (take the Iraklin soldiers from the Prison with us) and Caliban and the soldiers go reinforce Freddy. The soldiers would want to go back anyways.

Can we borrow a Carth skiff?

>>3210145
>>3210152
Post made it pretty clear, but for ease of counting votes:

>Descend to Nadir in search of Maeve and Keziah

>>3210156
>Can we borrow a Carth skiff?
That would be possible, yes. Sandoval could arrange for one to join us

>>3210156
>>3210145
It's Lamia's place not Sybile but I'll second this

>>3210211
Cool. Masque and Milos can take the skiff down to Lamia's as the Helena goes by.

>>3210145
>>3210156
Yeah actually this sounds better.

>>3210156
This is very good.

>>3210156
Supporting this

The Lamia's den. That must mean Madame Lamia's island home – Maeve spoke of travelling there, and Keziah must have followed her. It seems odd that the daemon would help you in this way, and you feel your chest tightening as a terrible idea takes form in your mind. Maybe the daemon is only helping you, you think, because it's already too late to change anything. Then again, maybe it's only trying to distract you and make you doubt yourself...

“No!” you hiss, standing bolt upright. You can't wallow in indecision now – you need to act, before it really is too late. With the makings of a plan forming in your mind, you hurry out to find Sandoval.

You're going to need to borrow a skiff.

-

In defiance of your worst fears, the radio in Sandoval's study works immediately and she is able to get a solid signal. As you pace restlessly in the background, she delivers her clipped orders before ending the radio transmission. “You're in luck”, she tells you, turning your way, “There's a skiff on approach now. Should be arriving soon.”

Thanking her again, you rush back to Spirit of Helena to pass on your orders. If they take reinforcements, the former soldiers that were imprisoned in Cloudtop, and travel to Iraklis, you can take the skiff down to Lamia's den. For support, you'll take Masque with you – his blade will be a fine asset. By the time you've finished explaining the plan and rounding up volunteers from the former prisoners, a church skiff is setting down beside the Helena. Her red paint has been dulled by dust and ash, but you recognise the Saint Ann at a glance. That means...

“Get in!” Trice shouts, gesturing for you to climb aboard. A smile of disbelief finds it way onto your face as you enter the cockpit, sitting down next to the provost and strapping yourself in. “You're awfully cheerful, considering that it's the end of the world and all,” she points out, frowning at you, “What's that smile for?”

“Glad to see you, that's all,” you reply, watching as the Helena begins to take flight, “What happened to keeping a professional relationship?”

“I was ordered to give you a lift, and here I am – obeying orders like a perfect professional,” Trice counters, “Would you prefer to walk?” Snorting dismissively, she fires up the small craft's engines and kicks it into motion. The flighty motions of the speeding skiff cause your stomach to lurch, as always, and Trice smiles a little at your look of discomfort. “Look, I won't lie to you – what you told me, it hit me hard,” she continues at last, gesturing back with her thumb, “That thing you've got there, it killed my buddy. That's not a small thing, but... when Alexander picked up a rifle, he made a choice. I can't hold a grudge forever.”

“Besides,” she adds as an afterthought, “These days, you need all the friends you can get.”

[1/2]

>>3210324
We found a good timeline.

>>3210324

Trice pushes her skiff hard, so hard that if you'd eaten lunch, you might have been worried about losing it. Still, you appreciate the haste – you can't shake the feeling that every second might count now. She flies low once you part ways with the Spirit of Helena, guiding her craft down towards Nadir. You pass close to the vast tree at one point, close enough that you see bloated centipede-like creatures clinging to the craggy bark.

“I hate bugs,” Trice mutters, glancing aside at them as they flit past, “Especially huge bugs. The way they wriggle just-”

“Eyes forwards!” you yell, seeing one of the winged immaculate racing towards you. Trice jolts around in alarm and jerks the controls, causing the skiff to jink low. The construct flies narrowly above you and continues on its way without stopping, apparently too busy to bother you now. Another small mercy. Flashing you an apologetic smile, Trice keeps her attention focused on flying from now on.

-

Giving her directions, you lead Trice down to Madame Lamia's island. Her tent home looks undisturbed, but a curious stillness hangs over the entire area. No birds chirp and no beasts howl, while the skies are devoid of any enemies – daemons or immaculate. Trice draws a small handgun as she follows you up to the tent, and you gesture for her to stay back for a moment. There is a faint smell of decay in the air, drifting out from within the tent. Brushing back the hide flap that covers the entrance, you step into the gloom. Despite your orders, Trice follows a moment later and clicks on a flashlight. Playing the bright beam about the tent, she lets out a strangled cry of revulsion.

A small body lies in a crumpled heap near the entrance. Tentatively approaching the body, you realise that it's Mute, Lamia's servant boy. His neck was broken, and his midsection has been torn open with enough force to spill his insides out. Retching, covering your mouth, you stumble back. As you struggle to get your breath back, the warm light of a lantern slowly illuminates the tent.

“That is better,” Masque rumbles, setting down a lantern, “Now we can all see.”

“And you call that better?” Trice moans, turning away from the child's body. Swallowing back your revulsion, you allow your gaze to wander about the tent in search of... anything out of place. Anything aside from the obvious, at least. Madame Lamia herself isn't here, and neither is the snake. Last time you came here, the witch had been accompanied by the mummified corpse of a vast albino snake. You had never been quite sure if it was a familiar, or just something that an eccentric witch might keep. Now that it's gone...

“No signs of a struggle,” the provost whispers after a moment, falling back on her investigative instincts, “Other than the body, I mean. Nothing upset or damaged. Just... nothing.”

[2/3]

>>3210484
Poor Mute.

>>3210484
Masque is a treasure.

>>3210484

Even with the threat of time weighing down on you, you made the time to give Mute a hurried cremation. Madame Lamia had enough firewood stocked in her tent to make a small pyre, along with some of the same flammable resin that Branwen carries. It almost feels like the supplies were left for you, which you don't like to consider. Even less palatable is the idea that Mute's remains looked... incomplete. Something, and you tell yourself that it was a scavenging animal, took a taste of his insides.

“The Northern Labyrinth,” you decide as you watch the funeral pyre burn. Trice looks around with questioning eyes, wordlessly gesturing for you to continue. “It's a set of ruins not far from here,” you explain, pointing the way, “Mostly underground. We've been there once before. That said, they're not easy to get to and Lamia is an old woman. She would struggle to get there by herself.”

“Unless she is more than she appears,” Masque points out, “The very oldest witches often are.”

“Either way, we should keep moving,” Trice states, turning and walking back towards the skiff, “Come on, this'll be quicker than walking.”

-

The trip to the Northern Labyrinth is little more than a short hop in the skiff, but you take advantage of the view from above to look out across the dusty crater. Angular ruins jut out of the sparse soil, but you see no signs of life. No daemons lying in ambush, no bodies stretched out on the dry ground. Your heart skips a beat when you see something unfamiliar, a tall post stabbed into the dirt. Gesturing for Trice to land by it, you jump out of the cockpit and hurry over as soon as possible. A battered cage hangs from the tall pole, with the limp form of a bird slumped inside. “Herod!” you cry as you approach, your boots kicking up plumes of dust.

“Did he just talk to that bird?” Trice asks Masque quietly, her hushed voice drifting across to you.

“He does that sometimes,” the daemon replies simply.

Ignoring them both, you watch as the bird sluggishly stirs. One wing hangs at a terribly twisted angle, and you wonder if the familiar will ever be able to fly again. Reaching up, you manage to fumble the cage down to get a closer look. Herod looks up to you with coldly intelligent eyes, but of course your attempts at sharing thoughts are met with failure. The cage was left here for you, you realise as you look beyond, to mark out the entrance of the labyrinth. A few paces away, a hole yawns open and invites you inside.

It would be rude to refuse an invitation like that, wouldn't it?

>I think I'm going to close things here for today. I may try to run tomorrow, but I'm not certain yet. If not, expect a bonus interlude on Wednesday as normal
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>3210701
Thanks for running!

And really Trice? Is it so weird for people to call the names of their pets?

>>3210701
Thanks for running!

>>3210701
Looks like it's time to stop a family from trying to murder each other.

Man we are going to have to fight Maeve with her spear aren't we?

Thanks for running.

>>3210765
Herod isn't a pet, he's a strong independent bird who don't need no witch!
>>3210888
You know, that's starting to look like a distinct possibility. Still, it may be too early to draw any conclusions

>>3211035
At least we know Maeve is only worth 1.5 Freddies in combat, and that was before Freddy got her kickass Abrahad glaive.

Man, I never thought that silly question would come in handy.

>>3210701
I wonder if the demon had been hiding in Mute? And it's tried to frame Maeve or Keziah as being responsible.

>>3211238
What if we were the demons all along?

>>3211311
And then Milos was demons

>>3211624
The true daemons were the friends we made along the way.

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

88 KB JPG

This is not the labyrinth that you once knew.

When you came here before, seeking out one of the key fragments, it was – despite the name – relatively simple in design. Hardly a labyrinth at all, in fact. Now, that has all changed. More organic than artificial, the tunnels wind and twist around each other like the entrails of some great beast, an impression that is only reinforced by the gloom and the slick, wet walls. Wet with condensation, you hope, but you have your doubts. Unclean water drips from the ceiling, trickling down the back of your neck and dampening down your hair. The water is warm, which makes it all the worse.

Behind you, Trice murmurs a prayer to herself before Masque interrupts her with a low growl. “Stop,” he rumbles, “That will not help us here.” The provost starts to argue this point before biting her lip and silencing whatever she was going to say. Nodding with cold satisfaction, Masque turns his blank face to you. “Milos Vaandemere,” he intones, “What do you know of this daemon?”

It's odd, him asking that question of you rather than it being the other way around. “It called itself Gàire an Donas, I think,” you recall, “Is that a name?”

“A title,” Masque answers, “It would not surrender something so valuable as its name so easily. No, it gave you a title – one that speaks of a great and powerful arrogance. Strange. This boastful behaviour is more akin to your kind than mine.” He stops abruptly, stooping down to take a closer look at the stone floor. Deep scars have been gouged in the rock, but they match no animal claw that you know of. Stretching out your own hand, you see – with little surprise – that the spread of the marks matches human fingers... only scaled up an obscene size. With a low, unreadable grunt, Masque straightens up and continues to march.

-

“Okay, hold on, stop,” Trice pleads, “We're lost, aren't we?”

You were hoping that she wouldn't ask you that. It's hard to deny – you've been roaming these tunnels for some time now, constantly expecting to find some way of getting your bearings. There was, perhaps, a trace of desperation in the way you attacked the tunnels. No stopping to think things through, no working out a plan. You're almost there now, almost to Keziah's side, and that's clouding your judgement. Of course, you say none of this aloud. “I think we're lost,” you admit instead, “This place... it's not like it used to be.”

“It has regained its true form,” Masque corrects you. His voice is as flat as ever, but something about his words just seems... smug.

“Well that's great, I'm really glad for it!” the provost snaps, “But that doesn't help us at all, does it?”

You silence her with a curt gesture, wincing as her words echo down the twisting corridors. On and on they echo, the words twisting themselves into peals of mocking laughter.

[1/3]

>>3212722

Perhaps roused by this raucous sound, Herod stirs on your shoulder. The bird had been still up until now, as still as an emptied out corpse, but now he flaps his broken left wing in a desperate bid to get your attention. “What?” you mutter, painfully aware that no answer will come. Again, Herod thrashes his broken wing at you, his head jabbing forwards slightly. Realisation dawns, and you look up to the branching tunnel before you. “You want us to go left,” you guess, “Is that it?”

Herod nods, as much as a bird can nod. Emboldened, you allow the familiar to guide you further into the labyrinth. When you come to a junction, he flaps either left or right to indicate which direction you should go down. Picking up the pace now, you follow Herod's directions until he stops you with a jab of his beak, restlessly jabbing his head down at the ground. The bottom of the wall opens up to reveal a crawlspace, and Trice quickly stoops down to check inside with her flashlight.

“Looks like a tunnel. Not very long, though, I can see the other side,” she reports, “Is that... a tin? It looks like someone left their trash lying about in there.”

Finally, a sign that someone has come here before you. Without further delay, you lower yourself down and start to crawl through the narrow tunnel. The warm, slick stone beneath you feels grotesque, and the low ceiling threatens to gash your scalp open with every motion you make, but you carry on regardless. As Trice follows you, you hear her hissing in pain. “Cut my hand on something, that's all,” the provost whispers, “Damn it...”

“I'll take a look at it,” you assure her as you drag yourself out of the tunnel and into a low chamber. There's not much to look at here – a small pool of water, some scattered trash, and another tunnel opposite the entrance. More a place to stop and rest than your destination itself. Trice follows you out a moment later, setting down her flashlight and peering at her cut palm. As Masque joins you – dragging Herod with him – you crouch down beside Trice. A piece of sharp flint has broken off and stabbed into her palm, with a thin trickle of blood leaking out around it. “It doesn't look too deep,” you murmur, aiming for a reassuring tone, “Does it hurt?”

“What do you think?” she shoots back, patting a small pouch on her belt with her uninjured hand, “I've got some medical supplies here, just give me a minute.” She fumbles out a small vial of some cleansing potion and a cloth, wincing as you gently pull the flint out. A sweet smell fills the room as she pours some of the liquid on her wound, biting down hard on her lip to keep from groaning in pain. Once the wound is clear, you help tie a clean cloth around her palm and turn away, preparing to search the rest of the chamber.

[2/3]

>>3212726

As you turn, your stomach lurches with a sudden nausea. The air twists, distorts, and you feel an unnatural power pressing in around you. This is the domain of a powerful daemon, and it's not going to let you forget that. The puddle glows with an eerie light, droplets of water rising up out of it to splash against the ceiling above. When you approach, you see a toothy smile reflected in the surface of the water, grinning up at you.

“You could die here, if I wished it to be so,” the daemon, Gàire an Donas, sneers, “I could command these tunnels to twist and turn until you were lost beyond all hope of escape. You would find nothing here but the slow death of starvation.”

“Do not speak with it,” Masque warns, his voice even graver than normal, “It seeks to break your spirit.”

“I seek to offer you a gift,” it counters, “Mother and child both sheltered here, for a time. They both spoke words, not knowing that I listened to them. Would you like to know what they said? I would be willing to share these secrets. Mother or child, one or the other... which one would you like to hear?”

What a poisonous offer this is... you have no guarantee that it would tell you the truth, and yet you feel curiosity gnawing at you. If someone is to die here, then this might be the last chance you get to hear their voice. Is that not worth the risk?

>I refuse to play your game, spirit. Begone!
>I wish to hear the words of the mother, Maeve
>I wish to hear the words of the child, Keziah
>Other

>>3212728
>I refuse to play your game, spirit. Begone!
Seems like a bad idea from something called The Manipulator. Gotta stay focused on killing it and rescuing the girls.

>>3212728
>Other

Get Masque to taunt the demon.

>>3212728
>>I refuse to play your game, spirit. Begone!

>>3212728
This>>3212738

>>3212728
>I refuse to play your game, spirit. Begone!

>>3212728
>Certainly a tempting offer
>BUT I REFUSE

I have no faith in Masques shittalking ability

File: Airship crew in 3019.jpg (130 KB, 1710x900)

130 KB JPG

>>3212738
>>3212751
>>3212728

Get Masque AND Herod to taunt the demon. Herod is fab at condescension.

We can just ask them why this demon acts more like a man than us, who refused the Throne because that's for chumps.

Maybe this demon is just scared of us, that would be a rational response. We've chumped tons of demons before, and hung with Corruption itself who offered to kneel before us (sorta).

Honestly, it better watch itself or else it might not end up having a place in the new world order.

>>3212728
this >>3212738 sounds like the pettiest option. All in!

File: 1243561232543.gif (422 KB, 268x288)

422 KB GIF

>>3212756

>>3212726
>Cut my hand on something, that's all,” the provost whispers, “Damn it...”
PANIC

>He might be distracting us for a poison to worm its way into Trice

File: Airship crew in 3019.jpg (236 KB, 1710x900)

236 KB JPG

>>3212756

>>3212764
My guess is that we are going to get separated and that hand wound might be the difference between the real one and a fake.

>>3212767
Also possible. Man, shooting people when they're disguised all the time is probably wearing on Milos.

>>3212767
I dunno man, changelings haven't been seen in a while.

>>3212791
Could be more illusion than changeling. This is it's domain after all and it's talking to us through a smiling puddle

“You offer much, spirit,” you spit, gesturing to Masque with a flick of your finger, “But I have little desire to play your games.”

“Power need not flaunt itself,” Masque adds, his voice as pitiless as rocks grinding together, “But you... you dearly wish us to hate and fear you. Are you afraid? Afraid that you might be forgotten here?” No answer comes to his, and you see Herod cocking his head to the side as he trades thoughts with Masque, talking as only one daemon can talk to another. “How very much like a man you are,” Masque continues, “To fear the embrace of the void. When this world leaves you behind, what will you do?”

“I will never be forgotten!” the daemon spits, “Their curse will follow these wretched women no matter where you go – they are too weak to break its hold, to do what must be done!”

The daemon continues to curse you, but in words that you cannot understand. Masque steps forwards and very deliberately stamps his heavy boot into the puddle, shattering the daemon's mocking smile and dispelling the image. The uncanny tension fades from the air as normality is restored, and Trice lets out a nervous laugh. “I guess some people can give it out,” she remarks, “But they just can't take it. What did it mean, they're too weak to break the curse?”

“I will think on this,” Masque lies. He doesn't need to think, you realise – he's already figured something out. “Come,” he continues, pointing to the new tunnel, “We are making progress.”

-

This second tunnel is no longer than the first, but you take it at a slower pace. One injury is bad enough, and you don't care for the idea of having open wounds in this place. As you worm your way out into the open, you find yourself standing at the top of a vast chamber. Circular, spiralling down to uncharted depths below. “Another staircase,” you breathe, kicking a loose pebble off the side and listening to it clack off the walls as it falls, “Why are there so many of these things?”

“The spiral is a symbol with ancient meaning to the men of Nadir,” Masque explains, “It represents the inevitable, of fate ushering men in one direction. There can be no fighting against it, that downward path that leads to one end.”

“Great, that's optimistic,” Trice curses softly, wiping her face with her bandaged hand. Despite cleaning out the wound she looks pale and feverish, with a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her hair, normally light and fluffy, is plastered to her scalp in lank sheets. “Don't look at me like that,” she chides, noticing your gaze, “I'm fine. I'm just... this place creeps me out, that's all. Give me the open skies any day.”

“Are you sure?” you press. The last thing you need right now is for your pilot to faint... or worse. Swallowing hard, Trice gives you a stubborn nod and marches on ahead. Masque watches her go, his posture typically unreadable.

[1/2]

>>3212728
>I refuse to play your game, spirit. Begone!

>>3212797

“So go on then,” you murmur to Masque as you descend the stairs, “Amaze me.”

“I do that on a regular basis, do I not?” the daemon replies, his voice utterly deadpan, “But this time, you speak of knowledge. Yes, it may be that I have some of the answers you seek. Though I am yet unsure of the cause, I believe that the spirit, that Gàire an Donas has been bound this bloodline. This curse, of mothers devouring daughters, is no curse at all – it is what must be done to release the daemon from its bonds.”

“That's no small demand,” you point out. A short silence follows, and you glance about at the chamber around you while you wait for Masque to decide on his next words. There's not much to see here – just a spiral staircase with the occasional alcove hacked into the wall, empty rooms that constantly suggest the threat of ambush. Water trickles down the steps, but never so much to make your footing uncertain.

“No,” Masque agrees at last, “And that is why the spirit remains bound. Now, I sense desperation beneath the arrogance. It truly does fear the coming of a new world, although I cannot say why. Perhaps the witch herself will have more answers.”

“Which witch?” Trice asks from up ahead, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. Then, even before her laughter has faded, she seems to lose her footing on the slick stone steps, lurching down to one knee and bracing herself against the wall. Hissing in alarm, you rush ahead and reach down to help her, shuddering at the clammy feel of her skin. Her legs tremble when you heave her upright, and you hurriedly pull her into the closest alcove. Masque lingers outside, blocking the doorway just in case. “My kit,” the provost murmurs, “Pills. The blue ones.”

Opening up her pouch of medical supplies, you find a tiny wooden box of pills – some red, some white, and a few tiny blue ones. Trice holds up two fingers, and you fish out a pair of the tiny pills. She swallows them dry, shudders, then lets out a rasping gasp of air. “No idea what's in those things,” she murmurs after a moment, “But I'm feeling better already. Just let me rest here a moment. I just need to rest for a while.”

You're close now, damn it, and now this. “I can't stop,” you try to tell her, “I need to keep going.”

“Don't leave me alone!” she pleads, the first notes of a drugged slur entering her voice, “A few moments, that's all I need. Where's... where's the harm in that?” Then, tugging on your arm until you crouch down beside her, she leans up to whisper in your ear. “I don't trust him,” she whispers, nodding to Masque, “He's stained in so much blood. So... much blood. Just stay with me for a little.”

You hesitate, and...

>Stay with Trice until she recovers
>Carry on, leave Masque to watch over Trice
>Carry on with Masque, leave Trice alone
>Other

>>3212890
>Carry on, leave Masque to watch over Trice
Sorry, my waifu is there in danger.

>>3212890
>Other
Maybe we can just carry her while Masque takes point until she gets better. She said it wouldn't take too long though she may have been optimistic. We've got strong mutated Nadir arm.

I just think splitting up here would be a bad idea.

>>3212890
>Carry Trice
>"You're not well at all, are you? Forget the flint, something else happened to you."

>>3212890
>Carry on, leave Masque to watch over Trice

>>3212890
>Carry her piggyback, we have crazy Nadir mutant strength.

>>3212890
>Carry Trice

You hesitate, and then you pull Trice back to her feet. “Come on, we're not stopping here,” you grunt, turning and offering her your back, “I can carry you, but we're not stopping.” The provost stares at you in amazement for a moment before reluctantly hooking her arms around your neck and allowing you to carry her. She's lighter than you expected, as if those pills she just took have somehow thinned her out, and you can feel her trembling against your back.

Masque watches this without comment, and you nod for him to lead the way. Trice might not slow you down that much, but you can't really fight with her holding onto you like this. If there's killing to be done, he'll have to do it. “You're not well, are you?” you ask as you carry her, “Never mind that flint. There's something else, isn't there?”

“Tired...” she murmurs, her voice creeping into your ear, “I've barely slept since... since this all began. A nap here and there, but that's all. Too busy, always something else to do.” She lapses into a short pause here, and you wonder if she HAS fallen asleep. Then she convulses, jolting out of her reverie with a hoarse cry. “It wasn't...” she rasps, “It wasn't a flint.”

Without breaking stride, you glance around at her sweat-slick face. “No?” you ask, “Then what was it?”

“A stinger,” she breathes, “Like from a bee. Hollow, fat, dripping with poison... I can feel it now, burning the blood in my veins.” Trice falls silent again, and you take the chance to peer over the edge of the stairs. You're almost to the bottom now, and you can hear distant voices – shouts and yells of rage, voices so full of bestial anger that they cannot form words. Trice tenses up as if afraid, and then her arms tighten around your neck. “You're a cold one, aren't you?” she hisses, an entirely different voice leaking out of her mouth, “You didn't even stop for a moment. She pleaded with you, and you wouldn't even let her rest.”

The spirit, Gàire an Donas. Whether it's a product of Trice's weakened state or if she just provided a convenient host, the daemon has resurfaced to taunt you once more. “You're just trying to slow me down,” you reply, forcing your voice to stay calm, “You're afraid of me – afraid that I'm going to ruin things for you. Well, maybe you're right to be afraid.”

“The future is mine to read, insect,” the spirit snarls, “I've seen this already. You will arrive just in time to see the life leave her eyes. There is nothing you can do to save her now. Beg, and I will make sure that she does not suffer. Beg me to be merciful!”

Spitting over the edge of the stairs, you leave the daemon's demand unanswered. Even when it makes Trice shriek and curse, threatening you with the most vulgar insults imaginable, you ignore it.

That's what really irks it, after all.

[1/2]

>>3212966
I mean. Freddy would never jeopardize the mission. She's Iraklin as they come.

And as bad as what the demon is experiencing right now, it can always get worse. We can just apply that to it until it heals Freddy. What's the life of a person to a demon, compared to what we're going to do to it if it keeps fucking around.

I mean, we aren't some random person saying this. It should think a moment on what's going on right now and what its options are now - and what they'll be later.

>>3213017
Trice you mean?

>>3213022
Trice yeah. Sorry trying to sneak this in at work haha.

Trice is a hard as nails Provost, she would never jeopardize the mission. As Carth as they come.

>>3212966

What waits at the bottom of the stairs is not stone or soil, but hide – a thick layer of pale hide drawn taut across the whole chamber. A thin gap has already been slashed in the skin, leaving ragged edges that pulse with a sickening rhythm. Those terrible shouts continue, drifting up through the gap in the hide, and you finally recognise what you were afraid to admit – one of those distorted, feral voices belongs to Keziah. The daemon lapsed into a sullen silence some time ago, when it realised that you weren't going to take its bait, but now Trice stirs. “Huh?” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, “What's that noise?”

“The reason why we're here,” you murmur, squeezing through the taut hide as Masque stretches it open for you. Trice shudders as the trailing edges of the hide brush against her skin, but she says nothing more. A terrible heat washes up and over you as you pass through the curtain, the air sour with the smell of sweat and violence. This new chamber is a kind of arena, a pit yawning wide beneath a stone rim. Deformed statues look sternly out over the area, as if judging the two women fighting before them.

In the arena below, Maeve and Keziah are locked in a brutal, ugly fight. Keziah bears the sword from her mother's house, swinging it with a fury unlike any you've ever seen in her. Her swings are artless, but driven by the manic strength of fear and madly quick. Maeve fights with a long spear, more a harpoon, and even at a glance you can tell that she's holding back – fighting defensively, keeping her distance, doing everything she can to keep herself controlled. It's a side of her that you've never seen before – her long skirts and shabby robes have been replaced by a snug layer of hide armour, cut short to keep from impeding her inhuman legs. A beaded cape swirls around her, and her hair flies wild and free.

As you watch, Keziah lets out a scream of mad desperation and hurls herself forwards, bringing the sword down in a wild arc. Maeve reacts fast, spinning her spear and smashing her daughter aside with the blunt end. As Keziah lands hard on the sandy arena floor, you hear a deep, fluid laugh bubbling up. Looming opposite you, on the other side of the arena, you see something move. What you thought to be one of the statues is really a giant monstrosity – the daemon you came here to find.

Larger than an Iraklin armoured car, larger than the skiff you flew here in, the daemon sprawls out before you with a mockingly casual pose. Two pairs of human arms sprout from the worm-like lower body, while the upper half feigns humanity. From an eyeless face, a familiar smile leers out as Maeve stalks closer to the younger witch. Moving as if no longer in full control of her own body, she raises her spear to strike a killing blow. Drawing your revolver, you...

>You... (Write in)

>>3213064
>Order Masque to restrain Maeve (and Kez when she comes to) while we fight the demon.
>If we see that Masque can't make it in time though, we'll have to shoot Maeve, so take aim at her leg right now.

>>3213064
Shoot Maeve in the arm or something
Hell, we can shoot them both in the arm, in both arms, their hands too just to be safe
Milos, the appendage crippler

>>3213064
>Shoot Maeve in the shoulder

>Have Masque break them up while we daemonslay

>>3213064
Not an easy choice. Shooting Maeve's arm is the obvious one but I don't know if a maddened Keziah would take advantage and kill Maeve.

Maeve *was* holding back though and now it seems like she is being controlled. Pain from a gunshot wound might not falter her if the daemon is controlling her.

So in that case.
>You... (Write in)
Shoot the daemon in the face in hopes that the gunshot sound and a bullet to the face will break whatever hold the daemon has on them.

Also have Masque disarm the two witches.

>>3213079
>Shooting Maeve's arm is the obvious one but I don't know if a maddened Keziah would take advantage and kill Maeve
That's why I said to shoot them both.

>>3213064
I'll support these two.
>>3213073
>>3213078

>>3213083
The issue with shooting Kez is that it's a much harder shot to not hit anything vital with her on the ground like that and if she springs up for the kill that's just a harder shot in general.

>Okay, going to close the vote now and write. We're going with a bit of shooting and a bit of restraining
>Please wait warmly!

>>3213093
My waiting will be as warm as possible.

>>3213077
>>3213078
I hope you undestand that a hand is hard to hit and will cripple Maeve if hit, and a shoulder is actually a dangerous place to be hit to.
At least a crippled leg is not as bad as a crippled arm, imho.

>>3213083
There's a logic here.

We gotta keep an eye on Trice as well. No telling how influenced by the demon she's been.

>>3213093
> Can we be sure to drop Trice first so that she doesn't spoil our shot?

>>3213105
I think this is pure snap shot within the next half second. No time for anything but a shot before that spear comes down.

>>3213103
Yea but people don't stab someone on the ground with their legs, which are also difficult or dangerous to hit.

>>3213105
>drop trice
>she falls back
>cracks her head open like an egg

>>3213109
Nah, we could slough her off like menses.

File: Gàire an Donas.jpg (152 KB, 1024x749)

152 KB JPG

Trice grunts softly as she falls off your back, shaken loose by the haste with which you draw your gun. Barely noticing her, you yell an order to Masque and reluctantly bring your revolver up to Maeve and fire. Your bullet flies wide, deliberately so, and catches her on the wrist before she can plant her spear in Keziah's chest. Hesitating in her attack, she lurches back a step and stares down at her wounded arm in disbelief. Her expression is vague, that of a woman woken suddenly from some terrible dream.

“Insolence!” the daemon shrieks, “You interrupt a sacred rite, a duel between two-”

The spirit's words are cut short as you fire your next shot straight into their face, the bullet causing their eyeless head to jolt back. Masque lunges past you, leaping straight down into the arena and charging to intercept Maeve before the witch can fully recover. His swords, you're glad to see, remain sheathed for the time being. Her face becomes blank, mask-like as she spots the attack, swiftly leaping backwards and bringing her harpoon down into a low guard. Masque doesn't even bother to dodge, allowing her blade to spit him through the the gut and stick fast. Pulling himself further onto the blade, Masque grabs Maeve's arms and pins them roughly to her sides.

As you draw your sword and run around the outside edge of the arena, closing with the daemon, you see Keziah stumble to her feet. She reaches for her sword, snarling with mindless bloodlust, but Trice manages to kick it away before the witch can seize the weapon. She's still unsteady on her feet, barely capable of holding herself upright, but those little blue pills are doing just enough to keep her going. Swaying back as Keziah throws a wild hook at her, the provost prepares to restrain her opponent.

“Do not interfere! I command it!” Gàire an Donas howls, a frustrated fury turning the daemon's voice into something truly nightmarish. The voice causes Masque to shudder, his grip on Maeve loosening. With her wounded arm hanging loosely by her slip, she wriggles free before kicking away from the daemon. The spear remains stuck fast in his torso for now, keeping it out of Maeve's grasp, but how long can that last?

Long enough, you hope.

Skirting closer to the daemon, you duck behind one of the disfigured statues as it lashes out, smashing the reddish stone to rubble. “Do you think them innocent?” it rages, “They were the ones who started this! They were the ones who brought this curse upon themselves! A debt must be repaid!” It drops low and prowls closer here, growling softly as it tastes the air. The spiced scent of a mummified corpse engulfs you as it stalks closer, still sniffing the air. Even at this short distance, it can't seem to sense you.

[1/2]

>>3213126
Don't care
Choppy choppy time mr weird fucked up centaur

>>3213126
Four rounds rapid to the face then gut him.

>>3213126

“The Lamia begged the gods for the gift of foresight, the gift of prophecy, and they listened. They offered me, and my price was simple... the life of her child. The price was paid, and I came – but she LIED,” Gàire an Donas snarls as it searches for you, “Not her child, but a child taken from her people. The rite was performed in error, the debt left unpaid. The gods are not kind to those who cheat them, little insect. I am the flail of the gods, and you seek to stand between me and my prey?”

You risk a glance aside at the arena. Maeve slips around Masque and strikes, coiling her leg behind his and sweeping the daemon from his feet. As he falls, she reaches down to grab her spear and pulls it almost entirely from his body. Before she can free the weapon entirely, Masque grabs her wrist and throws her aside. Turning her fall into a flip, the witch lands on her feet and crouches low, eyeing up her opponent. Behind that duelling pair, Trice is just barely keeping Keziah pinned down against the arena floor, although you can see the red of spilled blood marring the provost's face. This could get messy if you don't finish this quickly.

“Who cares about what the gods say?” you yell, jumping out from cover and emptying your revolver into the daemon's blunt face. It rears back and roars in pain, clutching its face with one of the many human hands, but that leaves its gut wide open. Plunging forwards with your sword, you bury the glowing blade in the discoloured flesh and rip down. Only a little blood flows from the daemon's unnatural flesh, and you see no entrails through its shorn hide. It's almost as solid as a stone, your blow coming as more inconvenience than injury. Before you can back away and rethink your attack, one of the daemon's lower arms sweeps out and slams into you, the fingers closing tight around your torso.

“I will crush you like the insect you are,” Gàire an Donas promises, bringing up another hand to squeeze you tightly. Bones groan within you as the daemon slowly begins to crush the life out of you, and then-

And then, like a bolt of lightning, something strikes it from the side. Stuck fast through the daemon's throat is Maeve's harpoon, thrown with near perfect aim. With a vile, gurgling howl, the daemon drops you heavily to the ground and starts to flail blindly, trying to smash you with all four of its lower limbs. Even its tail slams into the ground behind it, blind fury driving the beast into a frenzy. Ducking around a thrashing arm, you hurl yourself down into the dubious safety of the arena. There, you see Maeve scowling at the result of her throw.

“Good aim,” you pant.

“Hard to throw with a wounded hand,” she replies, “I was aiming for the head.”

[2/3]

>>3213212
Hey, isn't this all Lamia's fault then? What gives him the right to take it out on her family line?

File: YeahFuckYouToo.gif (3.76 MB, 498x213)

3.76 MB GIF

>>3213212
>The rite was performed in error, the debt left unpaid. The gods are not kind to those who cheat them, little insect. I am the flail of the gods, and you seek to stand between me and my prey?”

Gif related

>>3213226
I wanna get in on this, but that gif is perfect.

Pure Vaandermere.

>>3213221
What about that random kid that got sacrificed? WTF is that shit. Can it bring the kid back, or did it just take them.

So she gave the power of foresight and prophecy but never got the memo that we're gonna fuck up the gods?

Tunnel vision is a dangerous thing.

>>3213212

With a wet scream of anger, the daemon hurls itself down into the arena and lands with a thunderous crash, the force of its impact knocking you off balance. When the dust settles, you cast a quick glance around the arena. Masque is crouched low, his torso still split open by Maeve's spear blows, but that has done little to dampen his fighting spirit. Even now, he draws both blades and prepares to battle with the larger daemon. Falling back on her provost training, Trice has managed to lash Keziah's wrists together with a belt, although all the fight seems to have gone out of the witch. Whatever it was that had blinded both mother and daughter with fury, the effects seem to be fading fast.

Clawing at its throat with one hand, the daemon clumsily tears the spear out and hurls it away before letting out a howl of rage. Maeve cries out in pain, clutching her head and sinking to her knees. Her pained cry soon deepens, warping to match the daemon's anger. Keziah, too, is suffused with new vigour, thrashing against her bonds and snarling like a beast. Hoping that Trice can keep the younger witch under control, you look around as Maeve rises to her feet once more, her face a blank and murderous mask.

“Again and again and again,” Gàire an Donas gurgles, a thin trail of blood dripping out from its throat, “This hunger will never leave you.”

“Captain,” Masque growls, moving to put himself between Maeve and her fallen spear, “Orders?”

>You'll keep Maeve busy, he can focus on the daemon
>You'll leave Maeve to Masque, you'll focus on the daemon
>You've got a plan... (Write in)
>Other