>>2314952

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

Upon returning to the Spirit of Helena, you had guided her westwards to her original landing site before setting her down for a brief pause. Your original intention had only been to change into clean clothes and lock away your two newest prizes, but then you had ended up studying the crown and the time had started to slip away from you. Eventually, you had managed to tear your gaze away from it and return to the bridge.

There, Freddy had been listening intently to the radio, her face grim as she processed the news coming out of Iraklis. An anarchist group had taken advantage of the chaos – the chaos caused by the Palanquin's unexpected appearance – to plant and detonate a bomb. Twelve men were dead, and the news seemed to imply that that number would likely increase. Snapping the radio off with a harsh twist of her hand, the pilot had skulked away to her quarters.

You can't ever recall seeing her in such a foul mood.

-

Freddy's mood isn't the only dark cloud that hangs over you – inky black clouds have started to gather, threatening storms. “Doesn't look good, brother,” Gunny muses, sharing your own suspicions, “We'd better get out of here before we lose our window. I don't fancy flying in that weather – the shields should hold, but...”

Before he can finish that thought, the bridge door bangs open. “Boss, I need a word,” Keziah blurts out, gesturing you over. Sighing faintly, you rise and hasten over to her. “We need to go back,” she begins, “To Madama Lamia, I mean. I need to ask her about... some things. Research, like, for me ma.”

“You should have said something before,” you point out.

“Aye, I ken that, but I didnae want to push our luck. You dinnae want to ask her too many favours at once, after all,” wringing her hands for a moment, she looks away from you before continuing, “I figure she might be in a better mood now, especially since we've opened up that cave and all. So maybe...”

“This research,” you ask, “Masque?”

“Aye. Shortcuts, like, so she doesnae need to wait for the stars to enter the proper alignment, and...” Keziah gestures vaguely, “And that sort of thing. Might be, she could get by without Madame Lamia's help, but... well, quicker this way, aye?”

Shortcuts. You think again of the dark, dense clouds gathering overhead, and then you think about dealing with Madame Lamia again. Not exactly an ideal situation, by all accounts.

>Fine, we'll go back. Maybe we can be finished before that storm hits
>No way. I want to leave this place as soon as possible
>There's something else that I have to do... (Write in)
>Other

>>2314953
>Fine, we'll go back. Maybe we can be finished before that storm hits
"Guess I owe for the tip about this place. And the introduction to Lamia."

>>2314953
>Fine, we'll go back.

We rely on the witches too heavily to get on their bad sides.

“Fine, we'll go back,” you decide, “I guess I owe your mother for this – both her tip about this place, and her introduction for Lamia. At least, I think I should thank her for that last part...” Shaking your head in resignation, you wave Keziah off before she can say anything more to you. “Go on, you grab whatever you need and meet me down in the cargo bay. I'll tell Gunny the situation,” you add, “Maybe we can be finished here before that story hits, although... I don't know about that.”

“Got it, boss,” Keziah nods briskly, smiling with relief at your decision, “I'll see you down there.”

Matching her nod, you march back onto the bridge and set about powering down the Helena's engines. “We're staying here for a while longer,” you tell Gunny, “Something more we need from your favourite old lady. I know, I know – but do you think you can hold the fort here for a while longer?”

Gunny sighs heavily at your orders, but he doesn't look all that surprised. “I had a feeling that we weren't getting away that easily,” he grumbles, “What if that storm hits?”

“Then we lie low and wait until it's blown over,” you tell him, “We've got no deadlines to hit, no urgent business elsewhere. A little downtime won't hurt us.”

“Right you are, brother, right you are,” Gunny nods slowly, “It's getting dark, though, and I don't just mean the storm. Night falls quick out here, and it falls hard.” Looking out the ship's main window for a moment, Gunny lapses into an uncommon silence as he thinks of something – what, you could not guess. “Keep yourself safe,” he concludes, “We'll make sure the ship is still here when you get back.”

“Good man,” you tell him, slapping him on the shoulder, “Glad to have someone I can rely on.”

-

Down in the cargo hold, Keziah isn't alone. Grace is with her, looking more enthusiastic than either in you, albeit in her own strange way. Hardly any overt displays of excitement or eagerness, but a pointed air of determination about her. Hard to describe, but that seems all too common where she's concerned. “I was told that you were heading out to visit, ah... her,” the young scholar begins, “Would you mind if I accompanied you? I feel as though there's still a lot that I could learn from her.”

“Cannae believe that I'm sayin' this,” Keziah remarks with a smirk, “But I reckon our wee friend here likes the old crone. That'll be a first!”

“I wouldn't say that I like her, exactly...” Grace protests, “But it's a matter of perspective. After some of the tutors I've dealt with, she's really not all that bad.”

“Good lord...” you mutter, “That's just one more reason to avoid that academy of yours.” Thinking for a moment more, you can't come up with any reason to reject the young girl. Shrugging, you gesture for her to follow behind you as you set off for the witch's lair.

[1/2]

>>2315002

Gunny was right – the night is closing in quickly. Grace carries a lantern to keep the worst of the darkness back, but it still lurks around you like a prowling beast. The sound of the wind has dropped a little, leaving you with just the unlovely sound of water sloshing against rocks. After your time in the ancient library, the sound of the waves has started to feel somewhat threatening. To take your mind off it, you ask the first question that comes to mind. “So, Grace,” you begin, “What did you make of the murals down there?”

“I'm not entirely sure. I'd need to consult the pictures, but those need developing first. That'll take some time, and I'll need to pick up some special tools...” she replies, immediately straying off topic before correcting herself, “Well. What I mean is, it's too early to form a solid theory.”

“What about a vague theory, then?” Keziah prods, “Go on then, put that schoolin' of yours to good use!”

“I'm curious about that last panel, the prediction of the future,” you muse, “Winged figures descending from above?”

“A metaphor, perhaps, for men descending from Azimuth. They didn't take airships into account, obviously, but the idea remains the same,” Grace pauses, looking up at the darkening sky for a moment. As she thinks, you butt in with a question of your own.

“Do you believe in predictions?” you ask, “Prophecies, and all that?”

“I don't disbelieve in them,” the young girl counters cautiously, “And the locals certainly believed in them, judging by what I've read. Whether they were true or not is irrelevant – a prophecy can be an effective means of controlling people. For example... uniting a tribe against the threat of an invasion from above. The fact that men DID eventually descend from the sky is not necessarily relevant. For one thing, it's too vague – but then, that seems to be a common, and convenient, theme for predictions.”

After that, conversation lapses back into silence for a while. After an unknown span of time spent trudging through the loose dust, Keziah speaks up. “It still bothers me,” she complains, “That statue. Never seen stone movin' like that. Never heard about it movin' like that, either.”

“I wonder. Something to do with the stone itself?” you think aloud, “That Zenith stone – it was the only piece of it down there, the rest was local stuff. Basalt or granite, whatever. Grace, do you know anything about that kind of stone?”

“I don't believe that I do,” she answers after a moment, “But then, it's not really my area. I'm not even sure what it's called!”

[2/3]

>>2315033

By the time that you've arrived at Madame Lamia's lair, the storm has announced it's arrival with a deep boom of thunder and a flare of brilliant white light. Scowling up at the churning morass of clouds for a moment more, you tear your eyes away from the sky and approach the tent. “Should we knock?” you joke, gesturing towards the canvas flap that passes for a door. Keziah actually looks like she's considering it, but then you simply march inside and leave her to follow behind you. Grace turns the lantern's flame down before entering the gloomy tent, as if to avoid offending the darkness.

“We're back,” you announce to the inside of the tent, “No churchmen this time, as well.”

“I know. I can smell that much,” Madame Lamia replies, hobbling out from behind the looming serpent and waving her stick at Grace, “Light that, if you want. You might as well make yourselves comfortable, since I'm still playing host.”

As Grace cautiously brightens the lantern, you force yourself to meet Madame Lamia's cloudy, unclean eyes. “I thought you might like to know about that cave,” you tell her, “We... figured out a way of opening it.”

“Oh, you did?” the ancient witch lets out a thick, gurgling laugh, “I hope you didn't close it back up again.”

Trading a glance with Keziah, you notice her trying not to laugh aloud. “The way is still open,” you reply in a carefully neutral tone, “You don't need to worry about that.”

“Hrm,” Madame Lamia raps her cane against the dirt floor, “And you took a look inside, did you? What did you find?”

>Nothing. Just a mummified body
>There were some stone slabs there. Engraved, I think
>Some engraved stone slabs... and a golden crown
>Other

>>2315053
>Some engraved stone slabs... and a golden crown

>>2315053
>A mummified body and some stone slabs. Body was wearing a crown, but I nabbed that.

>>2315053
A mummy
A crown
Some stone slabs

“Some engraved stone slabs,” you tell Madame Lamia, hesitating for a second before pressing on, “And a golden crown. There was a mummified body wearing the crown, but-”

“But you took the crown for yourself,” Madame Lamia guesses, her eyes narrowing slightly, “Did it bother you, robbing a grave? A sacred grave, at that?” Before you can answer that, she turns abruptly away from you and lurches back into the depths of her tent. You notice Mute sitting a few feet away, watching you with eyes that catch the lantern's flame and reflect it back to you with a glint. “Bah, no matter. A crown, you say? You can keep it – it's no use to me. Consider it a reward for your honesty,” the witch grunts, “Besides, I dare say that it's original owner won't miss it. A man like you might not care, but it was a very important person that you met – King Grundvald.”

“You knew what was inside there,” Keziah points out, stopping just short of making it an accusation.

“I suspected,” the older woman corrects her, “And now I know for sure. I'll send Mute to take a look in the morning – he won't mind if I borrow his eyes.” Letting out that ghoulish laugh again, Madame Lamia starts to examine another stack of stone slabs, touching them with a palsied hand. “But that wasn't all that you came here to tell me, was it? There's something that you want in return,” she muses, “Go on, speak. A favour ought to be repaid.”

Keziah glances at you again, and you give her a tiny nod. “Aye, there was somethin' I wanted to discuss with you,” she declares, approaching the older witch and lowering her voice, “It's a sensitive matter, you might say, so...” She says something more, but you can't catch the words. Neither can you catch Madame Lamia's response, but they seem to reach some kind of agreement. When Keziah returns to you, she carries a small stone slab and offers it out to you and Grace.

“This might take a wee while longer, but I thought you might be interested in this. Sort of... somethin' to read while we work,” she explains, “It's a wee bit of local history, I think, about that King Grundvald. Needs translatin', but that's what we've got you for.” She nods to Grace as she says that last part, then shoves the stone into your arms and scurries back to Madame Lamia. Shrugging, you set the slab down and sit by it, with the young scholar taking a close look.

“I can read this. It's quite simple, actually,” she decides after skimming the crudely engraved markings, “King Grundvald of the Tower, whose reign lasted two hundred years...”

“Two hundred years?” you repeat, hissing the words to yourself.

“Probably a hereditary title,” Grace suggests, “Passed down to give the impression of an unbroken reign. Probably.”

Probably.

[1/2]

>>2315115

“Grunvald was one of the three major kings Nadir has seen, along with King Sanquir of the Pit and King Monot of the Plains,” Grace continues, following the words with a finger, “Grunvald was said to venerate the gods of the winds and the waves, while Sanquir favoured the gods of the soil and the flames. Sanquir built his city in the centre of what is now the Deep Forest. Monot scorned the gods, and his city...”

“Monotia!” you guess, “He was the city's original founder?”

“I assume so,” the young scholar nods, “At least, it was named after him. The other two kings aren't detailed here, though, beyond a simple mention. Grundvald, though... it's said that he was a faithful king, offering sacrifice to the gods every single day. Soon, the offerings began to pile up atop his grand tower and bones were said to rain down like hailstones. I suppose birds can only eat so many carcasses...” Grace lets out a small, skittering laugh as she says that last part, and the sound of it sends a faint shiver running down your spine.

“That's all, though,” Grace concludes, “No mention of how his reign ended. This is just a fragment, and-”

“We're done here,” Keziah interrupts, hurrying over and lowering her voice, “Apparently we should try the Yb Allul chant with an offering of ichor.”

“Okay,” you pause, “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“You dinnae need to worry about it. Me mam should be able to take care of the wee details,” Keziah waves off your concern, “We've got what we came here for, so I reckon that we can head back to the-”

“Wait,” Madame Lamia calls out, lurching to join you, “You're thinking of leaving?”

“We were,” you tell her, “I assumed that you'd want us out of your way as soon as possible. Was I wrong?”

The crone studies you for a moment, her eyes hard and piercing. “Don't,” she warns, avoiding your question, “This island is not a good place to roam after dark, especially during a storm like this. That lantern will not protect you, nor will that trinket you wear or those weapons you carry. Dawn will come soon – stay here until then. Maeve would not wish me to send you to your deaths.” Without looking away from you, the older witch raises her voice. “Mute, build a fire!” she orders, “Prepare a meal, as well.”

“Hold on, you dinnae need to...” Keziah begins, only to falter as the witch shoots her a withering glare.

>We'll stay the night then, but we need to leave at first light
>I'm sorry, but we need to leave as soon as possible. We'll take our chances
>Other

>>2315163
>We'll stay the night then.

Can't use the airship in this storm anyway. Maybe we should set a watch overnight though?

>>2315163
>>We'll stay the night then, but we need to leave at first light
>Radio Gunny and tell him the situation that we are hunkering down here for the night.

>>2315163
>>We'll stay the night then, but we need to leave at first light
>Radio Gunny and tell him the situation that we are hunkering down here for the night.
>Also no wandering men at night.

“We'll stay the night, then,” you decide, “There's no use flying in a storm like this, anyway. If things are that dangerous, though, should we set a watch?”

“If it makes you feel better,” Madame Lamia replies, her humped shoulders rising ever so slightly in an attempt at a shrug, “But it may not be necessary. This is a protected space, and I've never known them to...” She pauses here, unwilling to say anything more than that. “I have never feared for my safety, so long as I remain here,” the crone finishes, “The woods are a different matter. So, set your watch if you wish... but do not ask me to take part in it.”

Which is about as much as you expected from her. Her willingness to keep you safe extended this far, but only because she didn't actually need to do anything. So be it. “This might be a long shot,” you add, “But do you have a radio? I'd like to get in contact with my ship, if possible.”

Madame Lamia stares at you for a moment, and you get the impression that she's smiling coldly underneath that snakeskin veil of hers. She says nothing.

“So, no radio then?” you deduce, “Ah well...”

-

The meal that Mute prepares for you is not much to write home about, just a thin gruel of snake meat and mushrooms. It feels vaguely uncomfortable to be eating snake meat while Madame Lamia's familiar is looming nearby, but the creature makes no sign of noticing. Maybe, as a daemon, it doesn't see anything wrong about eating meat from its own kind. That makes you wonder about Masque – would he have any moral issue against eating human meat?

He might have a physical issue with it – you remember the ruin of his uncovered face. Eating anything might not be easy for him.

After you're finished eating, Mute tugs off his ragged tunic and flops down on a fur, turning away from you and quickly falling into a deep sleep. His back is covered with a rough scar, you notice, dark as if dirt had been rubbed into the intricate design. A bond, you assume, much like the one that links you and Keziah but more complicated, more complete – Madame Lamia did mention borrowing his eyes, after all.

You can smell the faint, perfumed smell of something burning, and your eyes are drawn to Grace. She delicately smokes her slender pipe as she rereads the stone fragment, her lips slowly moving as she translates the ancient words to herself. King Monot, you muse, who scorned the gods – that would make Roegar more of an heir to his legacy than Eishin, with the latter chasing after a more savage heritage. The pipe makes Grace look older, you decide, older and perhaps wiser.

Keziah decided to take first watch, sitting outside at the mouth of the tent, while Madame Lamia is... somewhere. When the lantern light dimmed, she seemed to melt away into the shadows.

Outside, the storm rumbles on.

[1/2]

>>2315209

You don't sleep, despite how tired you feel. The occasional boom of thunder sees to that, along with a tension that you can't narrow down to any one source. It's almost anticipation, although you don't know what you're supposed to be expecting. Trouble, maybe. A few drinks would sort you right out, but you don't have any wine on you. Thinking about a drink, you realise grimly, was a big mistake – it seems to rouse something new within you, ridding you of what little chance of getting any rest you had left.

Rising up from your fur, you look across at Grace. She's fast asleep, her face unlined and as calm as always. It's almost time for you to take Keziah's place, you console yourself, so going to sleep would have been pointless anyway. Slipping out of the tent, you see Keziah sitting and gazing up at the sky, watching as lightning crackles through the inky clouds. Sitting down beside her, you watch as a flash of brilliant white light sears through the air. With an easy familiarity, the witch lets her head rest against your shoulder.

“I know that it's awfully wicked of me, being part of an airship crew and all that, but I like storms,” Keziah whispers, her voice softer than normal, “Can you tell what I think when I see a storm like this, Milos? Go on, take a guess.”

“Hmm. You're thinking...” you pause, smiling faintly to yourself, “You're thinking something uncomplimentary about Freddy's piloting?”

“No!” she laughs, “Well... maybe a little bit. I'll tell you, but you have to close your eyes, okay?” She waits a moment until your eyes are closed before continuing. “When a storm like this is raging, I always picture an island – one of the tiny ones up in the Drift,” she whispers, her voice barely any distance away from your ear, “It's so small that there's only enough room for two people on it, and the storm is completely surrounding it. It's totally isolated from the rest of the land, and nobody can come to it or leave it. Can you picture it?”

You can, in fact. With your eyes closed, the packed dirt underneath you seems to transform into rough stone. The clouds descend to surround you, reducing the world to nothing more than an arm's length. Against your shoulder, Keziah's body feels warm but strangely insubstantial – as if she was speaking to you from some great distance away. Lightning stabs at your closed eyes, and thunder rumbles from what sounds like directly above you.

“What do you think?” Keziah asks after a moment, “How does it sound?”

>It sounds nice – just the two of us, sealed off from the rest of the world
>I couldn't live like that. I need to spread my wings and fly, and you can't fly in a storm
>I never realised you had such a vivid imagination
>It sounds... (Write in)
>Other

>>2315241
>It sounds nice. Though I don't know how long I could live like that.
>Maybe make that a small airship instead?

>>2315241
>It sounds nice - just the two of us, sealed off from the rest of the world.

Option 2 is tempting, but I doubt this is a permanent fantasy. Would raise all kinds of troubles about food and living space.

>>2315241
It does sound nice, but you know me. Given enough time I'll want to stretch my wings and fly. We'll just have to attach an engine and sails to the island once that happens.

Opening your eyes, you turn your head and look at Keziah, studying her face in the gloom. Her inhuman eye is what draws your gaze, the strangely doubled pupil shrinking to a pair of thin slits as another bolt of lightning cracks above you. When darkness returns, they fill back out again although they stop short of becoming truly circular once more. Like a moon that has been split in two, you think distantly to yourself.

“It sounds nice,” you hear yourself tell her, “But I don't know how long I could live like that. You know me, I need to spread my wings and fly. A small island like that... I think I'd prefer a small airship. A small airship, just the two of us and the skies. How does THAT sound?”

“Hmm,” Keziah ponders, smiling to herself as you pass the question back to her, “But you can't fly an airship in a storm like this.”

“We're just imagining things, aren't we? We can do what we like,” you point out, “Besides, if we're being realistic here then your little island wouldn't have much in the way of food or water, would it?”

“Details!” the witch scoffs, waving a dismissive hand through the air before relaxing against your arm. You sit like that for a while longer, a companionable silence filling the air between you. Even the storm seems to retreat, as if giving you the chance to savour the moment. “It does sound nice, though,” she muses, “Going wherever we liked, doing whatever we wanted. I could live like that, so long as... as...” A massive yawn cuts off the last of her sentence, and you laugh softly as she scowls.

“Too much time watching the skies,” you scold, “Especially when you were supposed to be watching out for... whatever has Madame Lamia so cautious about. Whatever it is, it must be pretty bad if she doesn't want to talk about it.”

“Huh, I wonder about that,” Keziah remarks, “I've never heard anything about the nights here being unsafe. If I didn't know any better, I might think that she wanted to keep us here for a while longer.”

“You think so?” you ask with a frown, “The question is, why would she do something like that.”

Meeting your eyes, Keziah offers you a deliberately vague smile and shrugs. “I wonder,” she repeats, “But I'm glad she did. Watching a storm like this... it's not an opportunity that comes around every day. Seems like it's dying down a little now, though.” Glancing up at the sky, she yawns again.

“Go on, get some rest,” you tell her, “That's an order.” As Keziah is rising to her feet, you quietly call out her name and stop her from leaving. “Why don't we compromise?” you suggest to her, “We'll keep that island of yours, but only if we can attach a few engines to it. The best of both worlds, that way.”

Keziah considers your suggestion for a while, then snorts out an honest, genuine laugh. “Boss,” you tells you, “You've got yourself a deal.”

[1/2]

>>2315308
I don't suppose her familiar could fly a note to the Airship?

>>2315308
Now hold haaaands!

>>2315308

“Hey,” you call out again, “Could you send Herod back to the ship with a note? Just something to explain the situation, say.”

Keziah freezes in place, then lets out a loud groan. “I cannae believe it!” she laments, “I'm so used to havin' him as a familiar, I forgot that he's a bloody bird! You got it boss, I'll get right to it. Cannae believe that I didnae think about it sooner...” Grumbling to herself, her usual self returned, she returns to the tent.

-

After Keziah retreats back inside, you shift around and make yourself more comfortable, settling in to watch out for anything hostile. You had meant to ask, you recall suddenly, if Keziah had seen anything. With all the talk of storms and islands, you had forgotten all about it. No matter, you decide after a moment, she wouldn't have been so casual if there had been any trouble.

Ahead of you, the emaciated trees rustle as a light breeze moves through the barren forest. You hardly feel the wind at all from your place at the tent, but the whisper of branches rubbing against each other seems to surround you. As the sound fades, you yawn and rub your aching eyes. Your fatigue seems to seep back into your body as you slouch down a little, but the actual urge to sleep remains a distant hope. Once you're back in your own bed, you'll probably sleep for a week.

Letting out a slow breath, you force back the tiredness and stretch some of the fatigue out of your shoulders. As you're looking this way and that, though, a white light catches your eye. Standing at the edge of the forest is a faintly glowing figure, an elegant woman made entirely out of light. Her clothes are not like those you'd expect a Nadir woman to wear, rather they are the fine dress and veil of a noble Pastonne woman. The longer you stare at her, the more details you can make out – long hair, delicate limbs, the impression of a beautiful face beneath her veil...

Swallowing heavily, you find yourself rising to your feet. As you rise, the glowing woman turns and silently withdraws into the forest. Watching her leave, you feel a sudden ache – desperate and piercing – close around your chest. You've already taken one step after her before you stop yourself from going any further. You were warned about the forest, but that warning... had it really meant anything?

Touching the revolver in your belt for reassurance, you glance back out towards the forest. You can still see the faint glow, growing fainter with each passing moment. Your chest only tightens as it dims.

>Chase after her. Danger or no, you need to see her again
>Stay put. Genuine or not, you were warned about the forest
>Other

>>2315364
>Stay put. Genuine or not, you were warned about the forest

>>2315364
>Stay put.

wisp trying to lead us into a swamp so it can eat our kidneys, calling it now

>>2315364
>Stay put. Genuine or not, you were warned about the forest

>>2315364
>Stay put. Genuine or not, you were warned about the forest

Clenching your fists so tightly that the nails bite into your flesh and draw blood, you force yourself to sit back down. Whether the warning was genuine or just one of Madame Lamia's capricious games is irrelevant, it was still a warning. You're not about to go chasing some mysterious light into the forest... no matter how much you might want to right now. Keeping your eyes locked to the forest – unable to tear them away, even if you wanted to – you wait until the light dims completely.

Only then can you relax, with the hollow ache sinking deep into your body. Thunder rumbles above, and that seems to drag you back into reality. The yearning feeling seeps from your body, leaving you just as you hear the tent flap rustling. Mute, wearing his ragged tunic once more, emerges with a crude wooden cup in his hands. He offers it out to you, and you take the warm cup – only to recoil at the stinging smell of alcohol. Some kind of rough spirit, you assume, served warm.

“You must have read my mind,” you tell the boy, drinking down a large gulp of the awful – but fortifying – drink. Mute nods and retreats, leaving you to your thoughts. Dimly, you consider the possibility of poison or some other trick, but you find yourself not caring. Sipping the hot spirit, you feel a comforting heat spreading out through your entire body, replacing the vague sense of absence within you.

That warmth lasts until you see the morning sun rising above the horizon.

-

“I slept well,” Grace remarks when you return inside, glancing between you and Keziah, “I thought that I might not. Sleeping outside like this, I mean. I thought that the storm might keep me awake. Did either of you have any trouble last night?”

“No trouble,” Keziah assures her, a smile in her voice, “I had a good night as well, I reckon. What about you, boss?”

“What?” you grunt, looking up and shaking the fog out of your head, “I... no trouble, no. I could do with a nap, but that's all.” Rubbing a hand across your brow, you glance around as the sound of Madame Lamia's cane draws your attention. The crone, stooped and bowed, hobbles closer. “Looks like we survived the night,” you tell her, “We must have your magic to thank for that. The sun is up and the storm has passed – now, we'll be out of your way.”

“Wait,” Madame Lamia snaps, lurching closer, “I have something to say, to each of you.” Limping across to Grace, she studies the girl for a moment. “You're not complete yet, but you'll get there. Eventually,” she tells the girl, before looking to you, “You – you've got great things ahead of you. Work hard.” Then, she moves to Keziah and falls silent for a moment. “And you,” the ancient witch says at last, “Even now, you remain bound within a prophecy.”

Having said her piece, Madame Lamia turns her back on you and slouches away.

>Head back to the Spirit of Helena
>Ask something else before you leave... (Write in)
>Other

>>2315482
>Ask about woman-shaped lights.

>>2315482

>>2315486
This

Then
>Head back to the Spirit of Helena

>>2315482
>Head back to the Spirit of Helena

>>2315482
>Ask something else before you leave... (Write in)

Ask about the woman shaped lights.

Ask about what it means to hold the crown we took, if anyone might recognize it and how they might react, and if it puts any obligations or privileges on the one who carries it.

Is it haunted is what I'm getting at.

>>2315482
Also
> Give her our contact info and address

"Mayhap one day I'll be able to repay your hospitality if you ever find yourself possessed of the urge to come to the City. We can go on a Church tour and argue with the clergy then hit up a bar or ten. See which is better for the soul."

“Wait,” you call out to the crone, “Just what's out there in that forest? I saw...”

“Yes?” she asks, slowly turning back around to study you, “What did you see, boy?”

“...A light,” you reply, inwardly wincing at how weak that must sound. “A light, shaped like a woman,” you correct yourself, “It seemed like it was trying to lead me into the forest. It wasn't just a shape, either, it had details, definition. I saw clothes and hair, a veil with a face behind it. All of it was made of light.” Having said this much, you give Madame Lamia a defiant look as if daring her to tell you that you were dreaming.

“There are things out there. I cannot claim to know exactly what they are,” the witch begins slowly, “Perhaps they are the spirits of those who were not burned. It was good that you were not here on the Festival of Walking Ghosts – even those who were rightfully burned have a way of forcing their way back into this world. The forests are... not quiet on that night.” Studying you in silence for a moment more, Madame Lamia nods bluntly. “That, I think, is what you saw,” she decides, “You brought it here, after all.”

“I did what?” you blurt out, scowling again before correcting yourself, “What are you saying that I did, exactly?”

“You brought it here. Whoever that spirit was, they had some connection to you,” Madame Lamia lets out a hoarse laugh, then, “Or, at least, they wished it to appear that way. Perhaps it was an unbound daemon seeking to lead you into madness and ruin. I wouldn't know – I've never tried following any of those lights. You were wise to do the same.”

“The crown that I took...” you ask next, “Could that have anything to do with this?” When the witch doesn't answer this, you press ahead with a flurry of other questions. “What does it mean to hold the crown? Are there any out there who might recognise is, or react poorly to it? Does it bestow any privileges or obligations upon whoever holds it?” you insist, “What I mean is... is it haunted?”

“My, so many questions!” the witch rasps laughter again, “You read too much into this, boy. The crown means nothing – costume jewellery, nothing more. It would mean nothing to all but those who study our history or collect such baubles. Even my own people have forgotten much of their history these days. Do what you wish with the crown – wear it yourself, melt it down, or sell it for drinking money... it matters not.”

“That's a relief,” you mutter, “So...”

“So no, it is not haunted,” Madame Lamia assures you, “Sleep soundly at night knowing that, at least.”

Sighing to yourself, you dig out a scrap of paper and scrawl down a number. “If you ever find yourself with access to a radio, this is my frequency,” you tell her, “You can call us if you need... help.”

“Help,” the crone repeats, looking at the paper as if it was a dead animal. Then, slowly, she takes it.

[1/2]

>>2315560
First the drink last night, now that jibe about drinking money - she knows about our alcoholism somehow. Maybe she can smell it on us.

>>2315482
>Ask about woman-shaped lights.

>>2315560

“You know, I think her chances of ever getting a radio are close to zero,” you remark as you walk back to the Spirit of Helena, “But what the hell, it's there's no harm in it. It was worth it, just to see the look on her face. In her eyes. Whatever.” Grace laughs a little at that, but Keziah just grunts. “This is about what she said to you, isn't it?” you guess, “About that prophecy.”

“Aye,” the young witch says bluntly, “You know what, boss? I dinnae think that I'm allowed good things. She knew that I was feelin' good, and then she just hit me with that old shite. Dredged up all sorts of... bah!” Kicking at a clump of dry, dead grass, Keziah scowls darkly at her feet before forcing herself to look back up to you. A moment passes, and then her dark mood vanishes. “What was all that about, before?” she presses, “You saw a woman made all out of light?”

“You heard what I said,” you point out, “There's nothing more to add.”

Your curt reply puts an end to conversation for a while, leaving your group to stomp through the dust in silence. Eventually, Grace speaks up. “I think I'm complete,” she says to herself, to nobody in particular.

-

The subdued mood doesn't change when you return to the Spirit of Helena, and the welcome you get is far from warm. The desolate landscape seems to be bad for morale, you note, and you can well understand why. Caliban sits out by the ship's entrance with a rifle resting across his lap, a thick cigarette held tightly in one corner of his mouth. “Captain,” he says as you approach, “Some storm last night, wasn't it?”

“It certainly was a storm,” you agree with a neutral tone, “Any problems on this end?”

“Not one. Your Iraklin pilot has been checking the radio every few hours and frowning a lot, and Blessings burned the breakfast this morning. Come to think of it, that last part was a pretty big problem...” taking a drag on his cigarette, Caliban blows smoke away from you, “I don't think this place agrees with the boy. Not enough chapels, probably.”

“We'll be heading back to civilisation soon,” you promise, “A short stop in Sybile, then we can head... wherever we want. Cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Nodding his approval, Caliban picks up his rifle and follow you inside.

-

With as little delay as possible, you send Keziah to get the Helena's engines warmed up and head for the bridge. Blessings is sitting slumped in one of the chairs, listening to a religious sermon crackling over the radio. The quality this far out is bad, but he doesn't seem to notice. When you collapse into the seat next to him, he jolts out of his trance. “Captain!” he blurts out, “Are we-”

“Leaving?” you finish for him, “Absolutely.”

[2/3]

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>>2315665

Your attention wanders as you guide the Spirit of Helena towards Sybile, the memory of that luminous figure nagging at you, but the crackle of the radio snaps you back to reality. “The scanner is picking up a contact,” Gunny reports, “Approaching real fast, brother, coming up behind us. We'll have a reading in...” He pauses for a moment, then blurts out a curse. “What in the blazes?” he snaps, “These readings aren't right, they can't be. I've got no hint about an identity, and the engine signature... Hell, Keziah, check your damn monitor!”

“I'm readin' this,” Keziah cuts in, her voice stark and disbelieving, “Her engines are runnin' real hot, boss, like they're just barely stable. That's dangerous, and-”

“That's not Guild regulation!” Stafford butts in, “That's not regulation at all!”

The babble of voices fades into the background as something races past you, trailing blue light behind it. The airship is small and crude, angular where a real airship should be sleek and smooth, and the pilot doesn't seem to have total control over it – the ship wobbles in the air, struggling to maintain a stable path. Passing you, it shudders around in a tight angle and slows, only to speed towards you.

“Shite!” Keziah wails, “I'm readin' no passive shields at all, magnitude bloody zero! Got a hull integrity estimate of about... only about fifteen, boss. Got a good cannon on her, boss, and she's chargin' it! She wants to fight!”

“Fight?” Blessings squeals, “But...”

>All hands to battle stations, we're taking her down!
>Hang on to something, we're running!
>Other

>>2315710
>All hands to battle stations, we're taking her down!
Gunny can finally test out his new toy.

>>2315710
>All hands to battle stations, we're taking her down!
We're not going to be able to run judging by its speed.

>>2315710
>>All hands to battle stations, we're taking her down!

>>2315710
>All hands to battle stations, we're taking her down!

Careful, they seem almost suicidal.

>>2315710
>All hands to battle stations, we're taking her down!

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“All hands to battle stations,” you order, “We're taking her down!” Blessings looks as if he's about to protest again, and you jab a finger at him. “Sit down, strap yourself in, and don't make a sound,” you warn, already turning your eyes back to the main window as the anonymous craft seemingly hangs in the air. The same ship that you saw from the ground, you realise, only it looks far uglier up close.

“I don't like this, brother,” Gunny warns, “She's not acting like any ship I've seen before. Her pilot...”

“Mad!” Keziah interrupts, “Suicidal!”

“Cut that chatter!” you snap, “What do you think “battle stations” even means? Now listen up...”

Licking your lips, you prepare your first order.

>Current Hull: 25/25
>Current Power: 10/10
>Recharge Rate: 5
>Missiles Remaining: 3

>Advance (Target becomes one range band closer)
>Fire Pleonite Cannon (1D8 damage, +2 damage for every 3 Power spent)
>Fire Missile (1-3, 1D4 damage each)
>Other

Going to keep voting windows short here. 10 minutes or so

>>2315762
>Fire Pleonite Cannon, +6 Power

>>2315762
Can we fire a warning shot or a non lethal shot that will incapacitate the aircraft?

>>2315774

>A warning shot would be possible, yes, but a non-lethal shot could be unreliable considering how unstable the hostile ship seems

>>2315779
Then ill put my vote towards a warning shot.

>>2315762
Backing >>2315770

>>2315774
They're rushing us with a charging cannon, I'd say we're justified in whatever self defense we take.

>>2315762
>>Fire Missile (1-3, 1D4 damage each)
3

>Okay, going to close the vote here. Pleonite Cannon, with 6 power sunk into it. With range penalties taken into account, that's a +1 bonus.
>So, calling for a 1D8+1 roll, and I'll take the best of the first three

>>2315806

Rolled 3 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2315806

Rolled 1 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2315806

>>2315806
boom

>>2315806

Rolled 8 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2315806

Rolled 6 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2315806
I know I put in dice. 4chan issues?

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Rolled 8 (1d8)

The time for warnings, you decide, has passed – and this lunatic of a pilot doesn't seem like the sort to listen to a warning of any sort. Taking a rough guess at the range involved, you pull up the radio and call down to the gunnery deck. “Gunny, take a shot at her,” you order, “Magnitude six, let's take her out before she gets too close.”

“Magnitude six, aye!” he calls back, “Let's see what these new toys can do...”

Hairs stand up on the back of your neck as the Helena's cannons charge up, blue lightning ripping its way out of the ship as they fire. Clapping his hands over his ears – although it's not really a sound that washes over you – Blessings grunts into his tightly clenched lips. You told him to keep quiet, and he's trying damn hard to obey that order – any Iraklin officer would be proud of how hard he's trying, how literal he's being.

The shot slams almost directly into the approaching ship, causing it to buckle and jolt mid-air. Even with the distance sapping away some of your hitting power, the shot is a brutal hit. They'll be cheering down on the gunnery deck, you're sure of that.

“That'll send them a message,” Gunny gloats, “Trying to get them on radio now -they'll be looking to surrender, after a-”

A horrific squeal of static rips from the radio and punches at you, causing Blessings to scream out in pain and shock. Even you feel tears blurring your vision as the distortion corkscrews into your thoughts. Blinking away the tears, you realise that the ship is still coming – with its powerful engines, it can advance and fire on you at the same time, while the Helena is too sluggish to match. As if the damage meant nothing to it, the hostile ship charges towards its own destruction.

But it wants to take you down with it.

“Incoming!” Keziah yells, “Captain, shields?”

>Current Hull: 25/25
>Current Power: 4/10
>Recharge Rate: 5
>Missiles Remaining: 3

>Devote how many power points to shields? (1 power per 1 damage reduced)

>>2315884
>4
Everyone gets high rolls.

>>2315884
4

>>2315884
>4

>>2315884
4

Good thing we picked up that 5 a turn upgrade. Let's save power for shields from now on.

“Full power, give her every last drop of charge that we have so long as we can stay in the air!” you order, “As soon as we're recharged, we can-”

That's when the bolt of lightning slams into the Spirit of Helena like the fist from some angry god, so bright as to leave dirty specks on your vision. Shields flare as Keziah extends the Helena's shields, opposing and countering the oncoming shot with everything you have left. It's not enough, and you feel your precious ship cry out as the damage is done.

No, wait, that's just Blessings crying out.

“We're heating up,” Keziah grunts, “Got some power back in the system now. Minor damage, boss, but we're still smiling compared with them. Passing you over to-”

“Those bastards!” Gunny bellows, taking over the radio link. Glancing aside, you watch as fresh data scrolls across one of the Helena's monitors.

>Current Hull: 21/25
>Current Power: 5/10
>Recharge Rate: 5
>Missiles Remaining: 3

“Focus, Gunny, focus,” you snap, “We're not dead yet, so listen up. Scanners suggest that we've got her on the ropes, so here are your orders...”

“Shouldn't we give them a chance to run?” Blessings pleads, “I mean-”

“Look at them!” you snap, “They're not running! Gunny-”

“Ready!” the artilleryman replies, anger still lurking deep in his voice.

>Advance (Target becomes one range band closer)
>Fire Pleonite Cannon (1D8 damage, +2 damage for every 3 Power spent)
>Fire Missile (1-3, 1D4 damage each)
>Other

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>>2315909

>>2315909
>Fire Pleonite Cannon +0

>>2315909
>>Fire Pleonite Cannon +0

>>2315914
>25/25 hull
what

>>2315909
>>Fire Pleonite Cannon (1D8 damage, +2 damage for every 3 Power spent)
4

>>2315909
>Fire Missile (1-3, 1D4 damage each)
2
Lets see if we can clean them up with missiles. Doesn't spend power.

>>2315909
>Fire Pleonite cannon +0

Bout a 75% chance this finishes them off, no additonal power.

>Going ahead to close this, Pleonite Cannon with magnitude 0. So, 1D8-2 once range penalties are included, and I'll take the best of the first three.
>I don't know if the dice support minuses, so just roll 1D8 and I'll include the penalty.

>>2315919

>Minor oversight, we're still at 21/25. I'll keep a closer eye on my figures from now on. As a rule, the text will take priority over images if there's a discrepancy there.

Rolled 3 (1d8)

>>2315954

Rolled 1 - 2 (1d8 - 2)

>>2315954
For negatives, I think you have to do +-

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>>2315960

Rolled 2 - 2 (1d8 - 2)

>>2315954

>>2315966
Oh my god

Ok those rolls are definitely on the other side of that 75% I mentioned.

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Rolled 7 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

“Hit them again,” you order, glancing across at the monitor again as the power levels scroll across, “Magnitude zero, we need to save our power for a counter attack.”

“Magnitude zero, aye,” Gunny repeats, his voice glum. You get the impression that he'd rather blow them to ashes, even it meant pouring every last drop of power into the cannons. No chance of a counter attack that way, he would reason it, and it would be so much more... fun. He's enthusiastic that way, Gunny.

Once again, you feel the airship humming with power as the guns are readied, although it's far less potent than before. The blue lance of lightning cracks out again and strikes the smoking, wounded ship as it moves closer in. This has to finish the job, you think desperately to yourself, it has to!

Yet, the shot is a poor one, glancing across the underside of the ship as it lurches up in a short, ungainly hop. You're almost entirely certain that it didn't mean to do that, but the end result is the same – what could have been a killing shot is reduced to a glancing hit. Something falls away from the airship and explodes, but still it charges forwards. “I cannae believe this!” Keziah wails, “Is she tryin' to ram us? I... she's chargin' her cannon again, boss!”

“Get the shields ready!” you bark, bracing against the worst of the incoming damage.

>Current Hull: 21/25
>Current Power: 5/10
>Recharge Rate: 5
>Missiles Remaining: 3

>Devote how many power points to shield? (1 power per 1 damage reduced)

>>2315985
>5

>>2315985
5

also FIRE OUR GOD DAMN MISSILES THEY ARE EXPLICTLY FOR LONG RANGE FIGHTS

>>2315985
5

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“Shields! Magnitude five!” you order, knowing all too well that the shields can only do so much. Before you can hear Keziah's reply, though, a voice rasps out of the radio.

“Won't! Save! You!” the voice – more of a howl of sheer malice, distorted by the hideous signal quality – jeers. Blessings cries out again at the sound of it, clutching his head and covering his ears, bent double by the force of it. It hits you just as hard, sending dull lances of pain through your skull. The actual blow comes a moment later, with the cannon fire gouging across the Helena's outer hull. Warning lights flicker across your monitor as a terrible roar of laughter boils out of the radio.

Then, abruptly, the signal is cut. Static whispers for a moment, and then you hear a voice. “The Light will protect us, The Light will protect us, The Light will protect us...” Gunny chants, seemingly unaware that the radio is back, “The Light will protect us-”

“Gunny!” you snap, “I need YOU to protect us. Can we still fight?”

“Yes captain!” he barks, more out of instinct than conscious thought. Beside you, the warning lights are replaced by a power reading – you've got some charge back, and you're still reading as far stronger than the hostile. “We can hit her again,” the artilleryman repeats, “We can... we can hit her again, captain!”

>Current Hull: 18/25
>Current Power: 5/10
>Recharge Rate: 5
>Missiles Remaining: 3

“Good...” you hiss, gripping the Helena's controls tightly.

>Advance (Target becomes one range band closer)
>Fire Pleonite Cannon (1D8 damage, +2 damage for every 3 Power spent)
>Fire Missile (1-3, 1D4 damage each)
>Other

>>2316022
>>Fire Pleonite Cannon (1D8 damage, +2 damage for every 3 Power spent)
+5 LETS GO

>>2316022
>Cannon+3
Ok, 87.5% this time. No way we get that unlucky twice.

>>2316027
Oh wait, make it +3 since the extra 2 wont do anything.

>>2316022
>>Fire Pleonite Cannon (1D8 damage, +2 damage for every 3 Power spent)
+3
>>Fire Missile (1-3, 1D4 damage each)
1 Missile

Let's make sure.

>>2316022
>Fire Pleonite Cannon +3

>Alright, just going to close this vote here and go with a +3 Cannon hit. Range modifiers give us a +1, so this will be 1D8+1, and I'll take the highest of the first three results

Rolled 3 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2316057

Rolled 1 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2316057

Rolled 8 + 1 (1d8 + 1)

>>2316057

>>2316065
I love you anon.

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“Gunny,” you order, before the man can lapse back into his maddened prayers, “Hit her. Cannons, as hard as we can. Magnitude three. We'll put her down for good this time.”

“Magnitude three,” Gunny repeats, with all the reverence of a man whispering his favourite prayer of all. “You heard me!” he then bellows to his assistants, “The captain wants that bird dead, magnitude three!”

“And if she's still kicking after that, hit her with some missiles as soon as we can,” you add, “I want to be sure about this.” Blessings moans from nearby, but you don't pay him any attention. By now, it's just one more piece of background noise. Gunny starts to say something else over the radio link, but it's cut off by another wail of static. This time, it doesn't even pretend to be words – it's just a garbled stream of noise, closer to the barking of hounds than to anything human.

It takes that one last bolt of lightning, of cannon fire, to make the laughter stop. Your last shot rips through the air and slams into the hostile craft. An explosion rips through it, followed by a second explosion as the reaction destabilises completely and erupts in a plume of blue fire. Dropping out of the sky like a stone, the remains of the ship plummet down below and crash into the northernmost shore of Nadir's largest landmass. Tilting the Helena's nose down towards the ground, you watch the pieces fall.

“Scanners indicate that the hostile is down,” Keziah reports unnecessarily, her voice thin and weary. The radio crackles silence for a moment more before she continues. “Man,” she sighs, “Fuck that guy.”

The feeling, you wager, is mutual.

>I think I'm going to close things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, and if anyone has any questions I'll answer them if I can
>I'm still tweaking and testing the combat system, so I'd like to especially thank you for your patience today!

>>2316111
Thanks for running!
I feel like some kind of an ablilty to manuever to make us harder to hit would be nice.

>>2316125
Or we can use missiles for long range like we are supposed too.

>>2316111
Thanks for running!

>>2316111
Thanks for running!

>>2316111
Thanks for running.

>>2316136
>Or we can use missiles for long range like we are supposed too.

Yeah. I know we only have 3 right now, but I don't want them to be this quest's elixirs where we never use them. At long distances where we have cannon penalties they should be our first shots.

>>2316111
Thanks for running!

Looks like we finally ran into one of these after hearing about them a couple threads ago. Wonder if the crew on these ships is getting possessed or replaced or driven mad or what.

Also I should pay more attention to those ranges. Missles don't suffer a penalty at range, do they? Probably should have started off with them.

What would've happened if we followed that woman into the woods?

>>2316125

That's something I wrestled with. Part of the issue is, I wanted to avoid too many rolls bloating things up and removing the "to hit" side of things was my brute force solution. I'm still not certain about it, though, and I may introduce future shop options to compensate.

>>2316158
>>2316151
Missiles do not suffer range penalties, no, and they pass through shields. Lower damage and limited use are the downsides. In terms of limited use, though, missiles are restored when we land at an aerodrome - so, they're only really "limited" in a single fight. I totally forgot to mention that at the start of the battle. I apologise for that

>>2316191
Spooky things!
Without wishing to reveal too much, it would have hinted at a few things that we're already starting to suspect, in-character. Minor danger may also have applied - wildlife can be dangerous!

>>2316210
>missiles are restored when we land at an aerodrome
I did not know this at all.

>>2316111
Thanks for running!

So how common would a missile boat type be, you know, something that carries like ten tubes to waste some fucker in one volley.

>>2316928
Remember the Dreadnought that Captain Douchebag has? It probably doesn't bother, instead of relying on its tanky structure and armor to deal with missiles while loading up on bigger guns and bigger engines so it can quickly close and tear opponents apart.

A bigger ship is less maneuverable, but bigger engines means it can actually go faster once it gets cruising.

A missile boat would be reliant on maintaining its range advantage, but at the same time remember they aren't guided so they would have to correct for both the movement of an enemy as well as their own in that case.

Although really it seems like the Airships maneuver more like a wet navy, which brings up another issue. Missiles aren't massless, and firing a bunch at once would throw the ship off its heading. So now you have to have some sort of stabilization system to keep the missiles aimed at a moving target while maneuvering your own ship to stay out of the range of their guns.

As for ships that aren't heavily armored, like those of merchant captains and other civilians, you gotta ask yourself "Why". If you're attacking them, it's probably with the goal of looting them and explosions are hard to loot. Meanwhile they take up valuable cargo space if you're on the Merchant side of things.

If someone was going to have a bunch of missiles for an Alpha Strike, they would most likely want to have them set up to face backwards and be evenly spaced lying parallel to the midline of the ship. That way you could start out by running away and then firing the missiles in sets of at least two and in pairs for every extra you decide to fire while heading straight so the recoil travels along the same axis as the ships movement and the spillover balances out. Likely the other ship will be making a straight line towards you in order to chase you, and I assume that they would be travelling too fast to easily divert their heading since if they aren't going that fast just running away is already working.

Missiles seem to be more useful to use either prior to closing in on an enemy to do some extra damage and tip the scales or to recent them from closing in on you while you make your escape.

>>2316111

Of course I could speak more confidently on this if there was a pastebin at the start with the mechanics explained for easy reference. So I could be totally wrong.

>>2316111
Also we should talk to Blessings and Grace about what happened. Everyone else has had to face the cruelty of necessity before except for them, and Blessings particularly seems vulnerable from his exposure to Nadir.

Maybe explain that man, beast, or demon can all be equally dangerous and equally mad. That in fact the obvious ones are usually less dangerous than the subtle ones who save their madness and viciousness for when you aren't expecting it.

We did steal his rightful inheritance after all.

It doesn't mean that fighting or killing your enemies is excusable if they attack first. Maybe we could have run away and escaped, but the risk was simply too much.

Maybe if we were alone, we would have attempted it regardless. But as Captain we're responsible for all the lives on this ship. It's one thing to risk your own life to keep your hands clean, but risking the lives of others just doesn't sit right.

Regardless of the other Airships actions, we chose to fight and kill to make sure everyone got through alright. We're directly responsible for choosing a course that protected the crew, but also for choosing to kill whoever was on that Airship to do so.

There's always a choice. There might not necessarily be a good choice available, but it's always there. Deciding if you made the best possible choice is impossible until it plays out so it's best to do what you feel is right.

Maybe things could have gone differently, but in the end we came out safe and sound and even used the minimum of force that was able to stop the Airship. Sadly THEY chose make getting shot down the point that they would stop.

We can probably check out the crash site so that if there are survivors we can notify the authorities and let them handle it. It is their job. But we aren't landing to help since it would be a shame to have to kill them if they attacked us again.

We might as well take a look so we can ask around about them later. The whole thing wad

>>2318246
The whole thing was super sketchy. Is it something personal against us? Or did Mirriam have enemies that weren't satisfied with her death and attacked us because we have her ship? Were they possibly working for someone who wants someone on this ship dead? Or were they just crazed for some reason and we happened to run into them? The last possibility is another reason to not land, if they have an illness . . . Or a taint.

We're mind bonded with a Witch, there was a spooky ghost in the forest and that's not even the worst we've seen since getting Mirriams ship and inheriting her quest with it. Pretty sure we didn't run into this many demons and such before, and while it makes some sense in view of where we've been going - I don't want to say it's understandable or reasonable because nothing about magic or the supernatural stuff we've dealt has been those things even when it helped us out - Kenzie lived with us on the ship in close quarters for a significant amount of time before all this, and her increased training and power didn't start until after we began needing it to deal with life getting weird in deadly ways.

I don't think it's superstitious to be worried about contagious craziness when there's Ghosts in the spooky forest.

> “You brought it here. Whoever that spirit was, they had some connection to you,”

It's actually more disturbing to me that this happened right after the Ghost appeared. Especially since the Crown wasn't haunted. Because because that could mean we might be haunted ourselves now, with something having taken an interest in us and maybe either trying to keep us from leaving.

Or the dude was just nutters. I'm not saying we know we're haunted because of the weirdness of our life now, just that the amount of being stituous that would be considered reasonable for people is no longer sufficient for dealing with the amount of fuckery that's been happening. Being cautious about getting too close to weird stuff is a sensible precaution now that we know that while there might be a mundane explanation, it's perfectly possible that there isn't one either.

tl;dr

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Circumstances, you decided, warranted an emergency meeting on the bridge. While Blessings had slunk away to his quarters, surreptitiously touching himself as if he couldn't quite believe that he was still alive, the other members of your main crew filed in and sat down. You keep the Helena circling the area, the smouldering ruins still visible below. Monitors still read off dire warnings and messages about power supplies, but nobody pays them any attention.

“So what I want to know is,” you begin, “What the hell did we just kill?”

“An airship, that-” Freddy begins, pausing a moment as Keziah snorts out mocking laughter before continuing. “An airship that did not fit into any patterns that I am currently aware of,” she explains, “It seems like all priority was given over to speed and firepower – no shields, no safety measures, nothing that isn't directly related to flying or shooting. The pilot, in addition, showed absolutely no concern for their own safety. Even Iraklins would have pulled out when they realised the odds were stacked against them. Dying pointlessly is of no use to the nation.”

“So this is something new,” you muse, “And the radio – can anyone explain just what was going on with the radio?”

“Bad things,” Gunny mutters, shuddering to himself, “Brother, I don't ever want to hear that again.” Taking a heavy draw on a cigarette, he exhales the thick plume of smoke and gathers his wits about him. “We outclass a ship like that two times over, easy,” he continues, “But the way they fight... it helps even the odds. They don't care about being hurt or killed, they don't care about the damage we do to them. They don't care, brother, and that scares me.”

Leaning back in your chair, you fight off the urge to send for a bottle of wine. “Speaking of that,” you ask next, “Damage report, anyone?”

“Cannae be certain until we land and I can take a closer look, but we took a few good hits,” Keziah offers, wincing a little, “It'll likely cost us a wee bit to patch the holes. No much, it willnae empty our coffers, but we ought to get it cleared up at an aerodrome sooner rather than later. Seems mostly external damage, mind you.”

“Damn it...” you mutter, rubbing your brow. Already, this is going to start eating into whatever profit you might make from selling that crown. If you're even going to sell it – that remains undecided. Looking up from the controls, you notice Caliban peering out of the main observation window. “Seen something?” you ask him.

“Bits and pieces,” he replies, his voice calm and unflappable, “Just some bits and pieces.”

[1/2]

>>2318478

“So... what?” Keziah prompts, gesturing around her with empty hands. She's still rattled from Madame Lamia, you suspect, and this whole mess has only pushed her further into stress and unease. She probably needs a drink just as much as you do.

“So, we might be able to go down and investigate,” the hunter explains, allowing himself a weary sigh, “You know, we might be able to learn something that way. Since we're all trying to figure out what just happened, why not go directly to the source? Think of it like hunting – if you shoot a deer and it runs off into the wilderness, you have to follow its trail and find the body. You don't just shrug your shoulders and leave.” Caliban looks around you all, an expectant look in his eyes. When you don't all stand up and salute his idea, he grimaces. “Or we can just blow it up from here,” he grunts, “That also works.”

“I like that idea,” Gunny agrees, “Brother, you've got some good ideas in that head of yours.”

“That wasn't supposed to be...” Caliban begins, before groaning and shaking his head.

“We could bring the ship down close and set her to hover, dropping down by wire,” Freddy suggests, “I wouldn't like to set down on that terrain. It looks... marshy, perhaps. Even the Eliza might be too heavy. This isn't all that far from where...”

“From where you dunked your last skiff?” Keziah suggests.

“Exactly,” the Iraklin agrees, nodding solemnly. You're never quite sure if she chooses not to rise to Keziah's bait, or if she just doesn't notice it. “Captain,” she asks, turning to you, “What are your orders?”

>Let's head down and investigate the crash site
>To hell with it, let's blow it up from here
>Let's just get out of here, as soon as possible
>Other

>>2318480
>>Let's head down and investigate the crash site
"Gunny, was this craft similar to the one that passed by earlier yesterday?"

>>2318480
>Let's head down and investigate the crash site

“Let's head down and investigate the crash site,” you decide, “Gunny – that ship down there, do you think it was the same one that you saw yesterday?”

Reluctantly crossing over to the window, Gunny gazes down at the crash site - you're not really sure why, though, since the charred remains hardly look like anything at all. Still, he seems to decide something as he looks down there. “Yes,” he concludes bluntly, “I'm sure of it. Maybe not that exact same ship, but the same kind. I don't want to imagine more than one of those things flying around out here, brother, but I can't rule it out either.”

Nodding slowly to yourself, you consider both his warning and his assessment of the situation. You'd have to agree with both of his points – the ship you fought was the same kind of ship you saw flying overhead, but perhaps not the very same ship. Focusing on the controls next, you guide the Spirit of Helena down towards the crash site and set her to hover nearby. Nothing moves down there, and you see nothing to indicate that there were any survivors – which is, honestly, how you prefer things.

“Keziah, Gunny. You two grab some tools and join me in the cargo hold. Freddy, get a gun – you're our escort,” you order, checking the controls one last time before rising from your seat, “Let's see what we can find out down there.”

The others file out, leaving Caliban to call your name quietly. “I saw the boy,” the Nadir hunter remarks softly, “He seemed... upset.”

“No kidding,” you grunt, “I'll have a word with him later, just to make sure he's okay. I'm surprised, though – I didn't think you'd be concerned about him.”

“Well,” Caliban points out, “When he gets upset, his cooking suffers for it. My motives are entirely selfish.”

You doubt that, somehow, but you don't press the point. Smiling wearily to yourself, you follow the others out and head down to the cargo bay.

-

Wind whips at you as the cargo bay door lowers, causing your coat to flap around like a pair of tattered wings. Clipping a cable around your belt you step out and allow yourself to drop, trusting the sturdy cord to slow your descent. As before, the rappel works its magic and soon your feet are sinking down into the boggy terrain below. Landing the Eliza would have been a mistake, you decide, the ground is definitely too unreliable for a landing site. The remains of the hostile airship seem to have come to rest on solid ground, but that seems to be more through luck than design.

Above you, Caliban leans out of the cargo bay with a scoped rifle against his shoulder. The first sign of trouble, and he'll put a bullet through it.

“Okay team,” you announce as the others join you, “Let's get to work.”

[1/2]

>>2318549

There isn't much to investigate, really, with just one piece of the airship remaining intact enough to warrant a closer look. Most of the other pieces are just charred, dented scraps of metal from the shattered hull, too damaged to offer any answers. At least, not to your inexpert eye. Slinging her rifle, Freddy bends down and digs a piece of the metal out of the swamp, studying it closely.

“Poor quality, cheap,” she deduces, “Mass produced, probably.” Dropping the useless fragment, she gestures towards the sole intact section. “That almost looks like the cockpit from a skiff,” the pilot adds, “Scaled up a little, though. Looks like the only piece of the ship with any decent armour.” Readying her rifle again, she aims it at the cockpit section as you approach. There isn't much in the way of windows, you realise, giving the ship an air of blindness. The single, narrow slit of toughened glass is blackened with soot, so charred that you can't peer through it.

“Boss,” Keziah announces, her voice sick with dismay, “This door, it's...”

“It's not a door,” Gunny corrects her grimly, “Doors are supposed to open.”

Silently repeating his words to yourself, you try and figure out just what he meant as you circle back around to the cockpit entrance. Then, you see what they see and all becomes clear. The door has no handle, no hinges – it's simply a plate of metal welded over the doorway, welded from the outside as if to seal something inside. Part of the plate has been buckled by the crash, jarred free from the door frame. A harsh smell seeps out from inside, like the burned and melted insides of a broken radio set.

Gunny produces a crowbar from his pack of tools and gestures towards the sealed door. “We should be able to pry it open...” he suggests slowly, his voice unusually hesitant.

>Do it. We need to see it all
>Forget it, we've seen enough here
>Other

>>2318574
>Do it. We need to see it all

>>2318574
>>Do it. We need to see it all

>>2318574
>Do it

Channel sheev and shia for this line.

“Do it,” you order, pronouncing the words through a dry mouth, “We need to see it all.”

Gunny nods curtly, wedging the crowbar into the gash and heaving on it, throwing all his strength into the attempt at prying the metal plate free. Freddy starts to sling her rifle again, but you quickly shake your head and gesture to Keziah instead. Maybe you're just being overcautious, but you want a weapon pointed at that cockpit when you unseal it. Reluctantly, Keziah moves over to Gunny and lends her strength to his efforts. Metal squeals as they struggle with it, and then-

With a terrible groan, the metal plate tears free from the doorway and thumps softly to the boggy ground underfoot. Keziah and Gunny fall with it, while Freddy tightens her grip on her rifle. Decay, sickly and sweet, rushes out from the cockpit in an overpowering wave. Keziah lets out a choked cry as it rolls over her, forcing her to twist around and retch. Gunny manages to keep himself from throwing up, but he has to clap a hand over his nose and mouth as he reels back.

Nothing emerges from the cockpit, save for that awful stench. Taking shallow breathes to fight back the sickly smell, you hold a scarf over your mouth and wait for the worst to pass. As your group falls silent, you realise that there is some other, tiny sound – a faint mechanical clunk, dry and repetitive. Drawing your revolver, you approach the cockpit and cautiously enter, following the source of that sound. It's... the pilot.

The pilot, or what passes for it, is still tugging weakly on the ship's controls as if expecting it to respond. With jerky, autonomous motions he turns the wheel left and then right, left and then right, repeating the motion over and over again. Their hands - which are the first things that you really notice - are pallid and splotchy, marked with the purple of bruised flesh. His arms aren't much better, with open welts and patches of decaying flesh. Holding your breath, you twist around and force yourself to look at the pilot.

Masque's bare face had been bad, but this thing is worse. Decay has eaten away at his lips and eyelids, his nose too, leaving him with a madly staring skull for a face. His body is in an equally poor condition, showing several wounds that had been crudely, carelessly closed up with dark cord. He had been gutted at one point, you realise as you stare down at the wound across his bare stomach, and his legs had been brutally cut away.

“Of course they were,” you rasp, “You don't need legs to fly a...”

Then it becomes too much for you, and you feel yourself desperately scrabbling for fresh air as acrid vomit surges up into your mouth. Dimly, you can still hear that repetitive clunk as the corpse wrestles with the airship's controls.

[1/2]

>>2318574
>Other

Let's get some long jabby things to hold off what might come out.

Even it's it's just a person too crazed to be stopped by a bullet

>>2318647
Never mind

>>2318642
Suicide daemon/familiar fighters. Great.

>>2318642

“How is it still alive?” Gunny protests, “Someone tell me, someone please tell me how that thing can still be alive!”

Sitting nearby, Keziah reluctantly looks around to him and swallows nervously. “It's not alive, not really,” she answers slowly, mopping vomit stains away from her mouth with an oily rag, “Whoever did this took a corpse, and they... they forced a daemon into it. Bound it, commanded it to do... this. To fly, and to fight. It's witchcraft, the worst kind of it...” Shuddering, she pulls her knees up to her chin and hugs herself. As she lapses into silence, Freddy emerges from the cockpit.

“The radio was wired into the... the body's throat. Their hands were bound to the controls, and their body was strapped into the seat. It would have been able to handle flying and operating the ship's cannon, but nothing else,” she hesitates for a moment, one hand clenching and unclenching by her side, “I found an Iraklin unit marking on the arm – Camp Prosperity, he must have been part of the garrison there.”

“They kidnapped some of the soldiers...” you murmur to yourself, recalling the gossip you had heard in Camp Prosperity, “Snatched them right out of their beds...”

Setting down the Imago device beside you, Freddy gestures back towards the ship. “I took pictures. Evidence,” she explains, “I thought it best to get some proof. Also, I tried...” Trailing off here, the Iraklin looks back to the crashed airship again and squares her shoulders. “I tried talking to it,” she adds, “But I couldn't get anything out of it. I don't think it even noticed that I was there. Sir... Captain, I mean, I think we should leave. There's nothing else for us here.”

It's quiet, but her voice carries a note of insistence in it. Please, she might as well be saying, can we leave?

Judging by the bleak looks that Gunny and Keziah share, she isn't the only one who wants to be done here.

>Right. We're finished here
>I want to try talking with it. I might be able to get something out of it
>There's something else... (Write in)
>Other

>>2318704
>There's something else... (Write in)
Keziah time to do some witching at lest try to find out who did this ir even let the deamon out

>>2318704
>There's something else
We need to try and find any serial numbers or other markings on the ship parts. Enlist Keziah to tell us where to look.
We need to know who built this ship.

>>2318704
Backing >>2318715
Airships aren't cheap. We need to find out where this one came from.

>>2318732
This one looks specifically designed to be cheap. More like a rocket than anything. Still I imagine the cannon and engine still cost something.

>>2318738
Not only do they cost something, they're technologically advanced. Not something you can make in a cave from a box of scraps.

“Keziah, I need you to help me search this ship for any... any identification, any way of tracing who built it,” you begin, “You'd know where to find that sort of thing, wouldn't you?”

“Most of the details would be on the engine components...” the witch tentatively replies, gesturing around at the ruins before her eyes widen a little, “Oh, but there might be some on the...” Her face falls again as she realises what she's about to say. “On the controls,” she concludes with an unhappy frown, “Back in there, with the... the pilot.”

“And I want to know,” you think to her, trusting the mental link more than you trust spoken words, “Is there anything you can do to tell me about the daemon itself? Any... witch tricks?”

“Maybe,” she thinks back to you, groaning softly to herself and glancing across at Gunny. “Here, Gunny, I need you to run back to the ship and fetch me some things,” she asks, “A set of lenses, like, these serials can be tiny. Should be a set in the cargo hold, or maybe the engine room. Definitely one of the two, so make sure you find them. Double check if you have to.”

“Got it, little sister,” Gunny quickly agrees, glad to be away from the crash site. Crossing back to the rappel lines, he fixes one to his belt and tugs it, signalling Caliban to activate the winch. As he ascends, Keziah lets out a sigh of relief and nods towards the cockpit.

-

With Freddy standing guard outside – there's barely enough room for you and Keziah in the cockpit, in either case – the witch starts to reluctantly daub a strange symbol on the corpse's forehead with dark engine oil. “A wee trick me mam taught me,” she murmurs, trying to ignore the corpse as its crossed eyes follow her finger, “So long as the daemon hasn't been sealed up – you know, like Masque – I might be able to talk to it. I dinnae really want to, but you got a point. We need to know.”

She wouldn't be doing this, you realise with a flush of guilt, if you weren't the one asking her. Murmuring a vague acknowledgement, you watch as Keziah daubs the same hooked marking on her own forehead and closes her eyes. A shudder runs through her as some kind of connection is made, and her lips begin to tremble. Mouthing a word that you do not catch, she sinks deeper into some kind of trance.

It's like watching someone sleeping, someone in the grips of a wild dream – or perhaps a nightmare would be more appropriate. Shivering and twitching, Keziah holds her trance for a moment more before recoiling, her eyes snapping open and a scream gathering in her throat. Before she can cry out, you grab her and clap a hand over her mouth. Struggling against you, Keziah's hands flap against her forehead until she manages to smudge the glyph into meaninglessness.

Only then does she allow herself to go limp and wilt into your arms.

[1/2]

>>2318773

You wait a moment more, then Keziah gives you a weary nod. When you take your hand away from her mouth, she swallows heavily and begins to whisper to you. “Eishin,” she murmurs, “He did this. No... he ordered this. The daemon was mad, maddened by what they did to it. That's the point, I think, he wants to release them like... like rabid dogs.”

“Flying rabid dogs,” you correct her, causing Keziah to smile with faint relief. It's not much of a joke, but it serves to take some of the tension out of the air. “But how could Eishin build an airship?” you ask yourself, “Even a piece of shit like this...”

“Captain!” Freddy calls, “Your lenses are here.”

“Later,” Keziah murmurs, heading outside to speak with Gunny.

-

Due to the lack of space in the cockpit, the task of examining the controls fell squarely to you. Trying not to notice the corpse watching you – although you have no way of knowing how much intelligence is in those eyes – you twist around and peer at the controls from several angles. Keziah listed off several locations where there should have been markings – factory proofs, serial numbers, other pieces of information that Guild regulations demand – but not one of them is present. Cursing to yourself, you check the controls over one last time before emerging.

“Nothing,” you announce grimly, “We've got nothing.”

“Captain, permission to speak freely?” Freddy asks, waiting for your nod before continuing, “This might help us, actually. Components with no serial numbers will be rare, and it might give us something to track down. There's only a limited number of places that could make components like these – you wouldn't just be able to piece these together anywhere. I may be able to think of a way to narrow down our search, as well. Just give me a little time to think.”

“Anything you can come up with will help,” you tell her, “Now, we're done here. Let's get out of here.”

One by one, with Keziah leading the way, you rappel back up to the Spirit of Helena. As you're clipping the cord to your belt, you watch as Freddy slowly draws her pistol and slips back into the cockpit. Tugging on the cord, you start to ascend as a single gunshot rings out across the swamp.

-

Back in the Spirit of Helena, the mood is understandable solemn. Even when you order the cannons to fire and blast apart the remains of the ship – destroying them so that nothing remains – your mood struggles to clear. Daemon controlled suicide ships... it still feels unreal to you, as if it was all part of an especially vivid nightmare. Keziah's warning – that Eishin was indiscriminately releasing these monsters – only makes the whole matter that much worse.

And you're tired. You're so damn tired.

[2/3]

>>2318830

The flight back to Sybile is mercifully uneventful, and you find yourself letting out a sigh of relief as you set the Spirit of Helena down on the outskirts of town. Shutting off the engines, you turn as Keziah enters the bridge. “Looks like we made it,” she begins, collapsing down into the chair beside you, “I need to visit me mam, tell her what Madame Lamia suggested.”

“You remember what it was?” you ask her, “Considering everything else that has happened...”

“My memory isn't that bad! The Yb Allul chant with an offering of ichor,” Keziah confirms, only to clap her hands over her mouth, “Ah, damn, I keep forgettin' that I'm no supposed to talk about this stuff with outsiders! Me mam would get so mad if she knew I was talkin' about this stuff with you...”

“Isn't that why you do it?” you point out with a soft laugh, “I know a slip of the tongue when I hear one, and that wasn't a slip of the tongue.”

“Hm, maybe,” Keziah tilts her head to the side, “Anyway, I have to go pass the news along. I dinnae ken if you wanted to dock here for a while and get some rest, but just dinnae leave without me, okay?”

>Got it. We'll be here when you get back
>I'll come with you. I'd like to speak to Maeve as well
>Other

>>2318854
>Got it. We'll be here when you get back
We should probably talk to Blessings.

>>2318854
>Got it. We'll be here when you get back

>>2318854
>Got it. We'll be here when you get back

>>2318854
>>Got it. We'll be here when you get back

“Got it,” you tell her, “We'll be here when you get back. I might be asleep, mind you.”

“Cannae say that you've no earned it,” Keziah replies, slapping you on the arm, “I'll let you know if she has anythin' useful to say. Miracles do happen, after all!”

Chuckling softly to herself, she then retreats from the bridge and leaves you to it – whatever “it” is. You sit slumped in your chair for a while longer before groaning and heaving yourself upright. You ought to check on Blessings, you decide, for the sake of dinner if nothing else. Fighting back a yawn, you head down to the crew quarters and find the boy's door. Knocking firmly, you listen for his voice before entering. To your surprise, he isn't alone.

Blessings sits on his bed, looking vaguely confused as Grace skims through his collection of books. “You need less religious texts,” she points out as you arrive, “Having an interest is all well and good, but you're getting too focused on one thing. Try reading some fiction, or... oh, captain!”

“Just here checking on Blessings,” you tell her, raising an eyebrow, “Although it looks like you've beaten me to it.”

“Well, we never got properly acquainted,” Grace explains, “And I thought that now was a good a time as any.” She says nothing more to that, as if nothing else needed to be said. Blessings turns to you, giving you a helpless shrug in response to your curious look.

“I, um, I heard that we took some... ah, some damage,” he says at last, forcing each word out with a futile attempt at sounding casual, “I hope it wasn't... bad.”

“It could have been worse,” you tell him with a dismissive wave, “That was your first real taste of combat, wasn't it? For both of you, I mean, although Grace wasn't so involved. You were on the front lines, so to speak.” Waiting a moment to see how Blessings reacts – to see if he's about to faint or cringe away – you continue on. “It isn't always so harsh,” you explain, “A lot of the time, a warning shot or a wounding hit will be enough to end a fight before it's really begun. Most people, even pirates or criminals, don't want to die.”

“But this time was different,” Blessings points out, “That radio...”

“Yes,” you agree, faltering as you try to find the right words, “This time was different.”

As you fall silent again, Grace seems to get the entirely wrong impression. “I understand,” she tells you, “This is a man's discussion. I'll leave you two to it.” Bowing ever so slightly, she retreats from the room and closes the door behind her. Her absence makes the room feel different – larger, perhaps.

“She just barged in here and started asking about my books,” the faithful boy laments, “I wasn't sure what to, ah, what to say to her.”

“I don't think anyone knows that,” you admit.

[1/2]

Eshin sketch with Iraklin contacts?

Methinks that our terrorist acquaintance is expanding his operations.

>>2318947
Eishin's men stole Iraklin soldiers from Camp Prosperity awhile back. This is probably what happened to them. We can't say for certain Sinclair was involved yet, but it's possible.

>>2318931

“I always thought that a student of the academy would be more... solemn,” he continues, staring off into space, “I often regretted that I never had the chance to study there. I don't think my mother would have wanted me to leave home, though, not while I was younger. As I got older, the urge somewhat left me. I had other duties, and...” Blinking suddenly, Blessings looks back around to you. “Why are we talking about the academy?” he asks, “I thought we were talking about...”

“Airship combat,” you finish for him, “The thing is... some people aren't rational. Warning shots don't scare them, and they don't back down when you hurt them. In a situation like that, it's kill or be killed.”

“Oh, well, I know that. Logically,” Blessings acknowledges, “But seeing it up close – on the front lines, like you said – is... different. From now on, I think it might be best if I leave the bridge whenever we have to fight. I... can't exactly help much, can I?”

“Well, not really,” you admit, “But neither can Doctor Barnum, and he's still an important part of the crew. There's more to life than fighting, after all.”

“Ah, yes. Absolutely,” he nods eagerly, and he seems content to let the matter lie there. As you're starting to leave, though, something seems to occur to him. “The... radio,” he asks slowly, “What was that? I heard something, but... it didn't sound human. It sounded wrong. What was it?”

He looks up to you with pleading eyes, seeking some kind of answer – but what kind? The truth, or some reassuring lie?

>It was a daemon – a piece of dark Nadir magic
>It was just distortion – our radio might have been damaged during combat
>It was... (Write in)
>Other

>>2318982
>It was just distortion – our radio might have been damaged during combat

>>2318982
>Other
"It wasn't human. The full truth is disturbing so if you want me to leave it at that I can, but if you want to know more I can do that as well."

>>2318982

>It was a daemon – a piece of dark Nadir magic

>>2318982
>The pilot of that ship was batshit crazy. That does things to your voice.

“I said that the pilot wasn't rational,” you begin, “That's because they weren't entirely... human.” You pause here as Blessings' eyes widen, but the boy doesn't blurt anything out. No cries of disbelief or protests. “The truth isn't a pleasant thing,” you continue, “But I'll tell you if you really want to know. If not, we can just leave it at that. You might be happier if you don't know the truth.”

Silent for a moment more, Blessings looks briefly away from you and nervously licks his lips. Hair flops down over his face as he stares down at the floor, but his voice still reaches you – quiet, and clear. “I want to know the truth,” he decides, “If I just ignore anything that I might not like... what's the point in being here?”

You'll admit, that wasn't the answer you were expecting. Without wasting further words, you launch into your explanation. “It was a daemon, bound to the corpse of a dead man,” you tell him, “A piece of dark Nadir magic. I don't know how it works, exactly, but daemons are just... part of life down here. Neither good nor evil, really, although this one was bad – it was made bad by the people who created it. Hell, it was worse than bad, it was totally crazy!”

“How do you... know?” Blessings whispers.

“Hey, I travel a lot. I hear things, and sometimes those things actually come in handy,” you deflect, keeping Keziah's name out of the discussion, “The point is, what was piloting that airship... it was bad. By destroying it, we've made this world a slightly better place. It would have attacked other people, anyone it came near. I'm sure that someone would have taken it down eventually, but...”

“I think I understand,” the boy nods slowly, looking up and meeting your eyes once more, “But, whoever created that thing... why would they do something like that?”

Thinking for a moment, you recall Madame Lamia and give Blessings a shrug. “Simple spite,” you suggest, “Sometimes, that's all the reason that someone needs.”

-

There isn't much else to add after that, with Blessings lapsing into a thoughtful silence as he considers your words. He seems to have shaken off the worst of his shock, although you can't claim the full responsibility for that. Did Grace deliberately shake the boy out of his shock, you wonder as you return to your cabin, or was that just a convenient accident?

“Captain,” Freddy calls out as you arrive at your quarters, “Could I have a word? It's about what we discussed earlier.”

“Of course,” you tell her with a nod, holding the door open, “Sit. I'm eager to hear any good news you can give me.”

“I can't promise any good news,” she apologises, “But I'll... I'll do what I can.”

[1/2]

>Minor correction, sorry.

>>2319043

Freddy watches as you pour out two cups of strong wine, pushing one across to her and taking a deep swallow from your own. She toys with her cup, taking an unusually nervous drink from it before setting the cup back down and clearing her throat. When she says nothing, you go ahead and start things moving. “Bad business, this,” you tell her, “Especially for you. Since he was one of yours, I mean.”

“Yes. I'm sorry, captain, I'm still a little... off. This came at the worst possible time,” pausing, Freddy takes another drink of wine, “I DID have something for you, but do you think we can... talk a little first? I've had a lot on my mind lately, and I haven't had the chance to speak with anyone else.”

Rather, she doesn't have anyone else she really trusts to speak with. Shrugging, you gesture for her to continue. “This is about the bombing,” you guess, “Isn't it?”

“More than twelve men dead now,” Freddy states with an abrupt nod, her brow creasing with a deep frown, “Soldiers, engaged in military manoeuvrers intended to keep the nation safe. They were working to defend their countrymen, but one of those... anarchists used the confusion as an excuse to murder them. I hate it – no decent man does a thing like that.”

“Maybe so,” you muse, swirling the wine in you cup, “But some might say that decent men don't invade other countries, either.”

As soon as you've said that, you realise that it was the wrong thing to suggest. “Are you saying that there's a connection here?” the pilot asks sharply, “That a Pastonne did this?”

“All I'm saying,” you counter carefully, “Is that a thing like that, annexing a country, creates a lot of ill will. Enough ill will, and you start seeing very angry men doing very foolish things. Maybe this has nothing to do with the Annexation War – I don't know. Then again, I wouldn't rule it out, either.”

Uncertainty creeps into Freddy's eyes as she considers your words. The Annexation War was supposed to keep the nation safe, you imagine her thinking to herself, but perhaps it had the opposite effect. The safety and the prosperity of the nation is paramount, so perhaps the Annexation War was a bad idea. Uncertainty starts to turn into doubt, but then a lifetime of discipline and training comes slamming down like a visor. “These anarchist groups...” she mutters to herself, “Who knows what they're thinking? It's futile to try and understand them.”

Grunting with frustration, you refill your cup of wine and take a sip as Freddy shakes her head. “Feeling any better?” you ask.

“A little,” she concedes, her voice crisp and clear once again, “Thank you for listening, captain, I can focus fully on my work now. Business, then.”

“Business,” you agree.

[2/3]

>>2319112

“I had two thoughts,” Freddy begins, her earlier frustration already seeming like a distant memory, “First of all. It would take specialist machinery to produce these airships – not a huge factory, perhaps, but not a simple workshop either. All factories in Iraklis have to be registered and monitored, to ensure that there is no misuse of resources. If there WAS an unlicensed factory producing these airships, it would be a serious crime.”

“So you're suggesting that we... what?” you reply, “We just tell the authorities and let them deal with it?”

“Yes, exactly,” the pilot confirms, “Of course, we might not get anywhere if the factory is in Carthul or even Nadir, but this is a start. The Iraklin authorities can devote far more resources to a search than us alone. Consider it a suggestion, at least.” Taking another drink, Freddy considers her next words. “Which brings me to my next point,” she continues, “The information about these airships – the Iraklin military would pay a reward if you bring it to them first.”

“Really?” you ask, perking up at the mention of a reward, “Ah, but the Carths might do the same.”

“Maybe so,” she concedes, “But as far as I'm aware, the Carths have no official policy of rewarding this sort of information. They might just thank you and sent you away again.”

That is, you decide, a perfectly possible outcome. “It bothers me, though,” you admit, “Your people wouldn't try to replicate these suicide ships, would they? The last thing we need are MORE of them flying around.”

“No, no!” Freddy blurts out, wincing and glaring down at her cup of wine, “No, they... this is not something that we would consider. Believe me, captain, the Iraklin military does not meddle in these sorts of affairs. There are lines that we do not cross.”

“Hmm...” you murmur, looking back down into your wine.

“That's everything that I have to tell you, captain,” Freddy concludes, rising to her feet and nodding across to the door, “Whatever you decide to do next, I'll follow your orders.” She lingers for a moment, almost saluting you before stopping herself and hurrying out. As she leaves, you empty your cup and consider your next move.

This is potentially valuable information that you have. What should you do with it?

>Take it to the Iraklins
>Take it to the Carths
>Keep the information to yourself for now
>Other

>>2319177
>Take it to the Iraklins
It was their man in the cockpit being used as a puppet.

>>2319177
>Take it to the Iraklins
Maybe we can even "hint" "hint" "nudge" "nudge" them that Eishin is doing this and have them bomb the deep forest for a lovely win-win.

>>2319177
>>Keep the information to yourself for now
they might not use deamons but they might start making this shipsand useing disgraced man to man them

>>2319177

>Take it to the Iraklins

Most likely to reward us.

>>2319177
>Keep the information to yourself for now

>>2319177
>Take it to the Iraklins
For the reward, and the possibility that dealing with these ships will distract them from those anarchists.

>>2319238
Why would want to distract them from the anarchists?

Le Iraklin scum?

Whatever else you can say about this whole mess, it was the remains of an Iraklin soldier you found in that cockpit. That alone tips the scales in their favour, to say nothing of their “official policy” of rewarding information. Draining your cup of wine dry, you reach your decision and nod firmly to yourself. Iraklis – you'll take the information to Iraklis.

Tomorrow, though. After you've had a good long sleep.

-

You end up sleeping for a lot longer than you intended, and your dreams were wild things, all storms and luminous figures beckoning to you from skeletal trees. Waking up was a bittersweet experience, as if you had just barely missed out on some unpleasant but necessary truth. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you throw on yesterday's crumpled clothes and head down to get a quick bite to eat. As soon as your hunger has been taken care of, you head for the bridge and order the crew to their stations.

When the Spirit of Helena is in the air, Keziah wanders onto the bridge and flops down into the seat beside you. “Mornin' boss,” she greets you, “What's our next destination?”

“Iraklis,” you reply, “Reichstag, to be precise.”

“No kiddin'?” Keziah remarks, “Business, or...”

“Freddy suggested that their military might pay for the information about these daemon ships. The Carths might pay as well, sure, but it wouldn't be official. I'd rather take the guaranteed pay, even if it means dealing with them,” you explain, “Besides, it was their man in that thing. They have a right to know.” When Keziah remains unconvinced, you sigh and change the subject. “You know, I got Freddy this close to admitting that the war was a mistake,” you tell her, holding your thumb and forefinger a few millimetres apart, “This close!”

Keziah lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You sure about that, boss?” she asks with a smile, “She was gonna admit it?”

“Well, she was considering it,” you correct yourself, “The point is, she's not as bad as you seem to think she is.”

“...Aye, I guess so,” the witch admits with a grumpy frown, “Well, so be it. I cannae really complain about a reward, seein' as we've got repairs to see to. You'll excuse me if I dinnae stray too far from the ship, though, Reichstag isnae really my kind of city. Too blocky, too drab. Even Salim is better than that – at least those churches look pretty!”

Shrugging, you look up at the approaching clouds that mark out the border between Nadir and Azimuth. “Your choice,” you tell Keziah, “You can watch over the repairs, make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“You got it, boss!” she agrees, all smiles again, “Dinnae worry about a thing, I'll take care of it!”

[1/2]

>>2319243
Because those anarchists are quite likely to acually be a Pastonian resistance.

>>2319250

When Freddy learns that you actually intent to share your information with her people, she looks genuinely surprised. Pleased, certainly, but surprised. Hastily pulling on her padded leather pilot's jacket, she thrusts her automatic pistol into its holster and hurries to join you. “We'll be headed for the Bureau of Military Intelligence,” she explains, straightening her tie as she walks, “I'll show you the way – it's not far, but you'll need to pass through a checkpoint along the way. I know how these things work, so it'll be quicker if I'm with you.”

“It's not what you know, it's who you know,” you remark, “Is that it?”

“Hardly. It's not as if I know “people” either,” Freddy corrects you, “I'm just one more ex-soldier now, no special privileges or responsibilities.”

“I was joking,” you tell her with a faint sigh, shaking your head as you spot Grace waiting in the cargo hold. “Going out?” you ask her, “Not alone, I hope. Your father would never forgive if he thought I was-”

“Oh no, I'm going with an escort,” the young scholar assures you, nodding towards Caliban as he arrives, “I needed to pick up some supplies here – papers and solutions, to develop those pictures we took. I noticed an empty storeroom that would be perfect for developing them, and I'd rather not take them to a public shop. More private this way, wouldn't you agree?”

“That reminds me,” Freddy puts in, “We need some of those slides. The most recent ones, taken at the crash site. Would you mind-”

Nodding briskly, Grace hurries off back to her quarters. Watching her leave, Caliban lets out a weary sigh. “I ought to change my career,” he mutters to himself, “These days, I feel more like a babysitter than a bodyguard.”

-

Compared with the last time you came here, there are more soldiers walking the streets of Reichstag. Armoured soldiers, with their rifles held ready for use. You're vaguely interested to note that the civilians you see don't seem to have any complaint with the increased levels of security – indeed, they hardly seem to notice the additional guards and checkpoints. Freddy doesn't seem nearly as relaxed as the rest of her people.

“Strange, isn't it?” she murmurs, noticing your look, “How quickly we become strangers. How long as it been since you were last home?”

“A very long time,” you answer, realising with faint dismay that you couldn't name a precise figure. “About five years since I was last in the Pastona Union,” you add, “I think you know why that is.”

Accepting your point with a nod, Freddy points the way ahead. “We need to meet with Administrator Gehrard. He's in charge of accepting information,” she says, “Unless that's changed as well, since I last heard.”

[2/3]

>Next post might be delayed. Unexpected issues on my end, I'm afraid.

>>2318660
Hey! That was my idea!

>>2319389
Moloch was taking notes.

>>2319360

When Freddy had mentioned an administrator, you had imagined some bloated bureaucrat or a doddering old man. By contrast, Administrator Gehrard is an ageing but powerful man with hard eyes and strong features. And a scar, you notice, as if someone took a knife and tried to carve a smile all the way up to one of his ears. All the while that he introduces himself, your eyes keep straying to that old and ragged wound.

“Many areas of Monotia remain lawless, despite our best efforts,” he explains in a cold voice, “I attempted to change that, and this was my reward.”

“Tough break,” you offer, not quite sure what else to say.

“I survived,” Gehrard states flatly, “I understand that you have information that may prove valuable to us, is that correct? Sit, and tell me. Answer whatever questions I ask you, and... yes, I am authorised to give out payment.”

-

Despite what he said, Gehrard asks few questions and even those are simple things to clarify what you would have written off as unimportant details. The colour of the hostile airship, say, or the precise layout of the controls. You were glad to have Freddy with you, as her memory of the crash site was far more precise than yours. Even when you talk of daemons and familiars, Gehrard shows no surprise. He simply nods and continues scratching notes in his folder. The shelves behind him are full of countless identical folders.

“Your ship was damaged in this encounter,” he says, “Correct?”

“Yes, that's right,” you reply with a nod, “Minor damage. We're getting it repaired now.”

“We'll take care of any fees,” the administrator notes, scratching an annotation to his paper, “And this theory you have, about an unlicensed factory or production line – this warrants an investigation. We take matters such as this very seriously.” Setting aside his fountain pen, the hard-eyed man gives his notes a slow, methodical inspection before making a tiny correction. The matter seems to be over, but then-

“Tell me,” Gehrard asks simply, without looking up from those pages, “Do you believe that Eishin, the self-proclaimed king in exile, is responsible for this?”

This gives you pause. You had been careful about your story, omitting any specific mention of Keziah or her craft. You recognised a daemon, true, but that was no unusual feat for a seasoned traveller. This question, though, seems to cut right through your carefully crafted story.

>I do, yes
>I don't think so
>I don't know. There was no proof either way
>I think... (Write in)
>Other

>>2319476
>>I do, yes
or atlest someone workign for him

>>2319476
>>Other
"It's my best guess. The corpse was one of the men lost a Camp Prosperity who was more than likely taken by Deep Wood natives. But most natives wouldn't be able the airship part of this incident off. Eishin is the only one I know of with the power and reach in the Deep Woods to make this possible, either with his own resources or partnering with someone."

>>2319476
>>2319526
>Seconding this

>>2319476
>I do, yes

Not sure who else would have the resources.

>>2319476
> If you mean that he was involved in the creation, no, warping of that abomination I can't see anyone else being powerful enough to do this without his knowing and therefore his consent which is as good as if he had done it himself.

> If you're asking me if he's the one behind this, I don't understand the motive. What we encountered was an uncontrolled weapon of terror let loose. He might have had a hand in building it, but that doesn't mean he was the one who wanted it.

“I do, yes,” you offer, “At least, I can't think of anyone else who could be responsible. The... the pilot was an Iraklin soldier, a man abducted from Camp Prosperity – presumably by natives loyal to Eishin. He's the only one with the power and authority to do something like this, but he couldn't pull off the airship side of this. He would have needed help with that.”

“Help from your unlicensed factory,” Gehrard agrees.

“Exactly,” you confirm, “But I can't figure out his motive. These things are not precise weapons – I don't even know if they can be controlled. They seem more like terror weapons than fighting machines.”

“I see,” the Administrator muses, “In truth I share your suspicions, although I have my own thoughts as to his motive. Eishin despises what he perceives as an invasion from Azimuth. These crude weapons of his would be a powerful tool in his attempts at driving away all those who come from above. As you say, there is no-one else to command power of this scale.” This, however, he does not note down. Your eyes fall to the folder, and Gehrard seems to read your mind.

“For now, this will remain unofficial. Proof is required,” he nods to the Imago slides sitting on his desk, “However, your logic is sound and it fits in with what we already know. Rest assured, though, we have our own plans to deal with Eishin. Do not concern yourself with them, Captain Vaandemere, we shall take care of our own affairs.” A warning edge enters his voice as he says this, warning against any attempts at prying further.

“I see,” you agree, “You would be wise to take him seriously.”

“We take all matters with the utmost seriousness,” Gehrard assures you coldly. Taking a letter of credit from his desk, he fills in a few short details and passes it across to you, along with a second note. “This is your fee,” he explains, “And give this to the Guild staff at whichever aerodrome you are currently docked at. As I said, we shall cover the cost of your repairs.”

Skimming over the letter of credit, you feel the urge to smile. Not a bad little reward for defending yourself. Money for nothing, really.

Funds increased by 2
Current Funds: 4

“I believe our business here is over,” he concludes, taking his slim folder – you can just about make out your name written on the front – and sliding it into the shelves behind him. You feel a faint chill as you watch it disappear.

That folder, YOUR folder, was not new – you were in his books long before you stepped into his office.

[1/2]

>>2319663

“So what is he?” you ask Freddy as you're leaving the stuffy, formal building, “Administrator Gehrard... what is he really?”

“I don't understand,” Freddy replies, “He's the head of the Bureau of Military Intelligence. Didn't I mention this-”

“Officially, sure,” you point out, “But I'm talking about unofficially. What else is he?”

“Oh,” the pilot hesitates, “I've heard... rumours. Internal police mainly, monitoring the military for any corruption or disloyal elements. Making sure that the gears of the nation run smoothly, in other words. To be honest, I don't like to dwell on such matters - especially when they're based on nothing but whispers and hearsay.”

“Secret police, then,” you murmur, watching as an armoured car rumbles past.

“I didn't say that,” Freddy protests, although she doesn't exactly deny it. Before you can press the subject, she points out a large building and starts to talk about the radio plays produced there. It's a fairly blatant attempt at changing the subject, but you go along with it for now.

But still... your name, in one of his files.

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

>>2319689
thanksfor raning

>>2319526
Or someone paid him to do it and he wasn't concerned about when it would inevitably be traced back to him.

Which makes me worried that there is another plot afoot. I figure we don't like the Iraklins much but if the people claiming to be fighting for Pastonne are capable of accepting that thing then they're not worthy of defending it.

Alternatively, the Iraklin society seems very martial. Those parts couldn't have been easy to get, and the whole thing stinks of a false flag to start conflict. Too much was invested in making that demon ship by Eshin and whoever supplied the Iraklin parts. The Anarchists don't have the capability I believe to seriously field enough of those ships to be effective, let alone the money to pay for it.

Follow the money, I say.

The only other possibility I can think of is that Eshin wants a war and the ship was a prototype that escaped. Except I don't see it running away from anything, and letting it loose would only put everyone on their guard and prepare them for the possibility of facing them again. Otherwise if he was planning on making more he could have released a bunch of them at once to overwhelm the other side and not give them time to process what was happening and come up with a counter measure.

I dunno. Maybe he's just batshit insane. Kings that are crazy in a way that squander their potential effectiveness tend to not last long in the position.

So I personally think that someone paid him to make it. The question who paid him, and with what. Money? Equipment or weapons he couldn't normally get? Maybe even in sacrifices, like what that old king we looted was all about. Or possibly why he gets is an opportunity to improve his position when the potential partner/client makes their move.

Or maybe our quest has brought us to the attention of his gods and they hate us specifically for trying and it was a personal attack on us once we made concrete progress by acquiring the crown.

Still not convinced we aren't haunted

>>2319689
Thanks for running!
So, we're on the books as a person of interest. This isn't good.

>>2319689
It's not too unsurprising. Milos was a captain in the war. They probably have files on all the pilots still alive. Right?

Thanks for running

>>2319689
Thanks for running! Hopefully my shadowrunning isn't annoying. You already stole my demon guided missile idea and scaled it up though so I'm going with the possibility there's something useful in wild speculation.

>>2319689
Thanks for running!

There are a lot of characters! It's a big world.

>>2319740
Probably an assessment of our relationship with Pastonne during our time as a Captain to make sure we weren't smuggling weapons and such.

Don't forget either that Freddy comes from an important family either, so they probably updated our file once we got our current ship as us being active again. Manpower is always limited though so it would probably just be flagged for possible further investigation if we started turning up in suspicious places or got in contact with people they were already suspicious of and had under observation.

And then when we rescued and hired Freddy they probably tool another look at us to check that we weren't going to try to use her as a connection or kidnap her or try to turn her against Iraklin.

One of the things investigators will do is also pit extra paper in people's files so it looks like they have a lot more information about them than they really do.

>>2319740
>>2319738
Oh, the Iraklins start a file on anyone who stands still long enough. Still, some files are more important than others!

>>2319746
I'm of the opinion that most QMs dip into theories and speculation from time to time. I see it as a pretty fundamental part of the experience. Plus, the idea of a daemon pilot was just too neat/gross to pass up!

Why do we hate Eishin again?
>Wants to get rid of degeneracy
>Wants to get rid of Iraklin occupation of Nadir land
>Wants to bring back the Nadir way of the rule of law instead of the anarchic mafia way it is nowadays
desu the dislike his way is unwarranted.

>>2319793
Because his version of "degeneracy" concerns people who aren't goat girls or fish people.

>>2319689
Thanks for running!

>>2319787
How do they keep track of all their files? Especially in a world without digital copies.

>>2319793
He also wants to kill scholars and burn books.
Plus >>2319798

>>2319787
Thanks for running.

Here's a song for our brave daemon pilot
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LX7WrHCaUA

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>>2319798
No where was t stated that non-corrupted or non-nadir folk are targeted by him.

>>2319793
Gruesome slaughterer, kidnapper and black magic man full of spite for the
>lands above

>>2319803
Its more likely that hes recruiting them for his college.
The book burning is a culture thing its stupid but he doesnt seem to be a fool he might be confined to let books be if he sees their benefit to him as monarch.

>>2319832
>Lands above invades you
self-defense and a resistance fight from the way i see it.
>Black magic
Again why is ''Black'' Magic bad? Its already established that daemons arent inherently good or bad but more likely represent those that brought them here morality wise.

>>2319803

In a lot of ways, they don't. Older or less important files often fall through the cracks or get lost in the system. The really important stuff is carefully managed to avoid anything being lost - and even then, mistakes happen - but it's a fairly inefficient process. Like an old library, but worse.

>>2319793

Honestly, Eishin does have kind of a point

>>2319880
If he didn't have a point, he wouldn't have any followers. He also uses nasty tactics though, and other people have better points.

>>2319880
How oppressed are the Pastonian people anyways? Labor force, 2nd class citizens, etc?

>>2320002

Not really oppressed at all. In fact, they were very deliberately treated well after the Annexation War - as a result, a lot of them came to regard people who fought against the Iraklins as something of an embarrassment, or potentially dangerous. That ambivalence is a large part of how Milos ended up sulking in Nadir.
Right now, life in the Pastona Union largely goes on as it did before the Annexation War, just with a different flag flying overhead and a few more soldiers in the streets.

>>2320025
Huh. Better than I thought. Sinclair, if he gets his way, is probably going to fuck that up though.

>>2320025
Sheep, all of them. Ready to sell their hides to whoever feeds them better.

>>2319793
Burning books and mutilating legs is not cool, in my opinion.

But in general, I'm not a fan of negative PR tactics like daemon ships. Those just get EVERYONE pissed at you, worse than Iraklin occupation. I don't want to be around when the daemons get their revenge on Eishin for being a dick.

>>2319787
To be fair, I planned on using a sort of stripped down sub-sapient demon. In like whatever the monkey analogues here are, maybe just a stripped down resurrected framework of muscle and nerve carefully sealed in an unassuming frame that would guide the missile without being creepy as fuck at first sight.

Not sure how to handle the indoctrination. Maybe make it just sapient even to understand that death will be its only release from the hell box that it now exists in cut off from any direct contact from reality but the optical lense its preserved eyed are hidden behind staring fixedly at the wall which the missile is stacked against until the eventual promised death.

Good missiles that give the proper replies to the Duty and Purpose ideological checklist get to pick from a selection of posters of enemy ships that they can hate for being the reason they're trapped here. Their preferences will be noted.

Bothering to build an entire cockpit and leaving the demon possessed corpse a mouth to speak with seems excessive. Probably much more cost effective to load them into a stripped down she'll and have them kamikaze, especially since that seems to be their inclination anyways.

>>2319798
Maeve is best girl. You cucks just don't have the nerve to go for it so you settle for a weird pseudo-incestual thing with Keziah who acts more like a younger sister or daughter or a dog around us than she does an equal.

I mean it's too late to switch now. But you all chose wrong.

>>2320073
That seems like a reasonable thing to do instead of insisting on making other people have to kill you to stop your murdering for your beliefs, rather than have to compromise your pride and ego by surrendering.

>>2321576
Oh yeah.
"It's your fault that we're killing you".
"We didn't want to invade you but we had no choice".
"We're only warring with your government who is too prideful to surrender and make you build more rifles for our next conquest that we'll totally be forced to undertake".

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>>2321585
Yeah that sucks for the guys in charge losing their sweet gig. Maybe if they had been better at fulfilling their responsibilities regarding the protection of the nation they wouldn't have lost.

But for the average person

> Right now, life in the Pastona Union largely goes on as it did before the Annexation War, just with a different flag flying overhead and a few more soldiers in the streets.

Nothing really changed. And hey, at least the Iraklins won't let some other invader oust th then get all pouty when people choose NOT to die for some dude who wants to keep being in charge, but not actually improving their lives at all.

Fuck those guys.

>>2321656
Is the irony of using that pic with that post lost on you completely?
>Nothing really changed
Some family members are dead, some homes bombed, you culture will be eradicated, your children brainwashed into mindless soldiers and your natural resources turned into weaponry for a war you have no interest in, but you can go to the same bakery on the corner so it's all good!

Anon, do you really think someone would conquer other countries to improve their citizens' lives? Pastonians will become meat for the meatgrinder in five more years, when Iraklis attacks someone else.

>>2321678
Problem is any actual rebellion that wants to be successful would have to shack up with Carth and basically have a world war for Pastonia's Independence. Pastonia would be the common front line in that conflict and would probably be devastated. If we won we would still have to have Carth as a protectorate lest we just get invaded again which is basically trading one master for another though with a potentially better deal. Also Pastonia would also probably be used as a staging area to invade Iralkin if Carth wishes.

Little fish in a pond with two big sharks. Our best bet is to find ancient super weapons when we steal from the gods and start making demands.

>>2321763
Unfortunately, that seems to be true.

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If you were called upon to name your favourite cities, Reichstag would never really make the list. Even setting aside your dislike for the Iraklins – and that dislike is waning with time, you've noticed – it's just never been a good city for you. The buildings are utilitarian at best and outright ugly at worst, while there's always an armoured car or a foot patrol to remind you of the military rule. Perhaps you've only seen the worst of it, but you just don't have many good memories of Reichstag.

Now, though, strolling through the streets with Freddy is almost enough to make you change your mind. It's not as though her company transforms the drab buildings into palaces or muffles the sound of diesel engines as they rumble past, but ignoring those things seems that much easier. You don't talk much as you roam, but the silence is a companionable one. Every so often she points out a specific landmark or mentions some unremarkable anecdote about the area. All of her anecdotes seem to be of the unremarkable kind, you note, as if she led a deliberately boring life before joining your crew.

“Do you see that shop there? The man who ran it owned seven dogs. Seven!” Freddy remarks, pointing out a small bookshop, “He barely had any time to look after them, so he paid a local boy to walk them every day. I saw the poor kid a lot, getting dragged along by these seven large dogs.” Smiling a little to herself, she nods towards a quiet little cafe and you head over to take a seat.

As you drink tea, brewed in an unfamiliar way, the radio plays some bold orchestral music. A little too much for your tastes, especially for a cafe, but that's just the Iraklin way. If you were in Carthul, the radio would be playing hymns or choir music. The bombastic tune comes to an end, and a short news broadcast fills in the void. Among other things, it gives a short update on the bombing – no further lead on the anarchists responsible.

“How do they know anarchists were behind it?” you ask, “I mean, it seems presumptuous of them to name a suspect group already.”

“It was an attack on society and the nation. That makes them anarchists in my book,” leaning forwards across the table, Freddy lowers her voice a little, “But really, they use the same term for any hostile element that can't be traced back to Carthul or Nadir. It's... just the term they chose.”

“Get people nice and scared, so they don't question their leaders” you chuckle, “Sorry, do I sound cynical?”

“Maybe a little,” Freddy agrees, allowing herself a tiny hint of a smile.

[1/2]

>>2321778

“That crown,” the pilot asks as you're leaving the cafe, “What do you plan on doing with it?”

“I'm still not sure about that,” you admit, “There's not much else to with it other than sell it. I mean, I don't have much use for a crown. It doesn't really match my eyes, does it?” Laughing to yourself, you shake your head and continue. “It's difficult, though, to know what to do with it,” you add, “We can't exactly stroll into any old shop and see what they'd give us for it. What we need is an expert evaluation, someone who can tell us what it's really worth.”

“Take it to a museum,” Freddy suggests after a moment's thought, “I think there's one in Reichstag – not exactly a large one, mind you. Let me think... the Wellager University collection has some Nadir artefacts. One of the scholars there might be able to tell you about it.”

“There was a museum in Pastona...” you begin, your eyes widening as you remember Miriam's notes. The Pastona Grand Museum where one of the key fragments had been located, at least before the Annexation War. The museum was seriously damaged in the fighting, and while you've heard that it's been rebuilt now, you have no idea if the fragment is still there. Realising that Freddy is looking at you, waiting for you to finish your remark, you shrug and take Gehrard's note from your pocket.

“Here, take this and head back to the Spirit of Helena,” you tell her, “This should keep the Guild off our backs. I'll join you later – I need to take a walk, think a little.”

“Yes, captain!” she snaps, nodding briskly and striding off back towards the aerodrome with your note in hand.

-

After Freddy hurries off, you find yourself wandering for a while more and thinking, just as you said you would. Rather than thinking about the crown, and what to do with it, you end up thinking about Sinclair. If he really was behind this latest bombing, he's putting Pastonne lives at risk. He's never going to bring down the Iraklin regime, he's just going to make things worse for your homeland.

Leaning against a wall and closing your eyes, you think back to the tailor's shop and its gloomy basement, with boxes of rifles piled up and targets pinned to the walls. The more you think about it, the more certain you feel – you could find that shop again, and perhaps Sinclair with it. The question, then, is whether you should or not. Perhaps it would be best to stay well away from him, leaving the man to self-destruct on his own.

>Track down Sinclair and confront him about the bombing
>Stay away from Sinclair and leave him to his own devices
>Other

>>2321782
I think it's a really, really dumb idea to face Sinclair alone and on foot. I also think he's not honorable to give us where he's going to strike next for an airship battle.

>Either we confront Sinclair with our crew, or we face him if we ever catch it happening on our airship

>>2321782
>Stay away from Sinclair and leave him to his own devices
Leave him be he sees us as a neutral significant player if we confront him he might think were in league with the Iraklin.
Best to keep our nose out of this.

>>2321782
>Stay away from Sinclair and leave him to his own devices

On second thought >>2321794 is right. Also the secret police might be watching us.

>>2321794
insignificant *

>>2321793
yes, but the only thing we're going to say is "no, this is a terrible idea, please reconsider" which will just get us shot.

and if we try to get info on where the next attack is by lying, either he'll catch on or we'll be betraying him, and both kinda suck.

Wanted to add that IF Sinclairs Militia starts gaining traction's it would be best for us to not be seen as an enemy.
Also in the real world most terrorist groups gain huge amount of followers AFTER terror attacks or gaining land.

>>2321782
>Stay away from Sinclair and leave him to his own devices
This man is doing what we are too tired and jaded to do. We have no right to criticise him.

You've already made the decision to pull back from Sinclair's mad schemes once before, and you see no reason to change that now. He can have his crusade, but you want no part of it – you have no intention of being drawn back into his orbit. You picture that file in Gehrard's office, the file with your name on it, and then you picture some clever informant following you to Sinclair's den. Associating with a member of an “anarchist group”... that could make your life very difficult indeed.

Let Sinclair follow his own path, you decide, wherever that may take him. You've warned him once already, and your words seem to have had no effect on him. Would a second warning really make him change his mind?

You doubt it. Let the man self-destruct, then. You'll mourn him, but you refuse to be dragged down with him.

-

Walking purposefully now, rather than wandering at random, you head back to the aerodrome to see how the repairs are getting on. Glancing over your shoulder every now and then does not reveal any obvious evidence of surveillance or pursuit, but then... it wouldn't be obvious. If Gehrard has secret police monitoring you, his people won't be amateurs. They won't make mistakes. So long as you're doing nothing illegal, though, there's nothing they can do to you. At least, you hope.

At the aerodrome, Guild workers are crowding around the Spirit of Helena and working on repairing the damage. Watching them work and occasionally shouting out some instructions, Stafford bustles back and forth. He's in his element here, you consider, making sure that Guild regulations are followed to the letter. Still, you're a little surprised to see him supervising the repairs instead of Keziah – she normally handles these matters personally. Frowning, you approach the engineer and call out his name.

Reminding you of a beetle, as he usually does, Stafford twitches around at the sound of your voice and gives you a stiff nod. “No complaints here, captain,” he reports, “These are good men. Hard workers. We'll be ready to fly sooner than expected. I'm told that the bill has been taken care of already?”

“Correct. Call it a perk of the job,” you confirm, “Where's the chief engineer? I thought she'd be here?”

“Oh, yes. She was, but she asked me to take over,” Stafford fiddles with his spectacles for a moment, “She had a migraine, said she needed to take a lie down. We were specifically instructed not to interrupt her. Is she authorised to give orders like that?”

“Stafford, when a woman tells you that she has a headache, you don't argue with her,” you tell the man in a grave voice, “It's just not worth it.”

Leaving the engineer to ponder on that, you hurry on inside the airship.

[1/2]

>Migraine

Oh boy I can't wait for three eyes to turn into four eyes.

Keziah going from Sharingan to Mangekyo Sharingan

>>2321833
that's not it. The double iris will split into a quadruple iris, making her FIVE eyes.

....and then we get her GLASSES!

>>2321833
>>2321836
>>2321838
Oh you guys.

Maybe she's just growing a tail and hooves.

>>2321828

The smell of chemicals, sharp and pungent, jabs at you as you pass one of the vacant store rooms. Nudging open the ajar door, you look around at the trays of unknown liquids and sheets of thick paper soaking within them before turning away. Grace must have found the chemicals she needed for her pictures, you assume, and she's already started work on developing them. Trusting her to know what she's doing, you close the door behind you and head on up to the crew quarters.

This migraine, you suspect, is no normal headache. When you reach Keziah's quarters, you knock lightly on the door and wait for her-

“Piss off!” she yells, her voice muffled by the thick door, “I told you to piss off!”

“You didn't tell me that,” you reply, waiting and listening as you hear a quick scuffling sound. A moment passes, then the door cracks open. With her hand held tightly over her eye – her normal, human eye – Keziah looks out at you.

“I didn't know it was you,” Keziah admits in a sullen voice, too tired to bother with her normal manner of speech. “I've had the doctor knocking on my door enough times already, offering me all kinds of potions. They won't work – I know they won't,” she adds, already starting to close the door in your face, “Still, you can leave me alone and all. I don't feel like company right now.”

You're not so sure about that, and you've always been able to tell when she's lying. “Are you sure?” you question, bracing the door before she can shut it completely. Keziah's brow creases with a frown, but your question makes her hesitate.

“...They were looking for you,” she answers eventually, dodging the question, “Grace, and Fredrika as well. Had something they wanted to discuss with you.”

With that, she falls silent and gives the door another half-hearted shove, barely trying to close it. You could, you judge, force your way inside without any effort at all.

>Invite yourself inside
>Leave her be, see what Grace and Freddy wanted to discuss
>Other

>>2321877
>Invite yourself inside
"Can I see it?"

>>2321877
>Invite yourself inside

>>2321877
>Invite yourself inside

>>2321877

>Invite yourself inside

>>2321877
>>Invite yourself inside
honestly, I think Keziah should stop diving deeper into the witchery. She might not be able to be a certified engineer with the eye thing, but we've basically been forcing her to do work she spent her whole life avoiding and the only benefit is very slightly better relations with her mom.

Sighing inwardly, you give the door a light shove and push it open, causing Keziah to abandon her token effort and scurry back. Her room is dark, barely lit, and you feel something skitter away as your foot clips it. How she could see anything at all is a mystery to you, but then you recall how dark Madame Lamia kept her tent. Perhaps, you wonder with a faint chill, she doesn't need light to see.

“Hey!” Keziah protests weakly, remembering that she was supposed to be keeping you out, “Who said you could-”

“I'm the captain, and this is my ship,” you point out, allowing the door to close behind you, “I can invite myself in if I want to.”

Groaning instead of arguing the point, Keziah shuffles around you in the gloom and rummages around in her desk drawers. The dry scratch of a match sounds as she light a candle, and soon a meagre glow is warming the room. With her back still facing you, Keziah blows out the match and covers her face once more. “I'm warning you now,” she mutters, “I'm no a pretty sight right now.”

“Even so,” you reply, “Can I see?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Keziah turns around and takes her hand away so that you can see her eyes. What had previously been a human eye is now filmed with blood – so much that you can barely make out anything else. Her iris has started to change colour, changing into the same acid green as her other eye, and the pupil has started to split. Digging a cloth out of her pocket, Keziah dabs at her eye as it waters, murky fluid leaking out of it. “Won't last,” she explains, “At least, I hope it won't. By tomorrow morning...”

“You'll have a matching pair,” you tell her with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood a little. Suffice to say, your efforts go unrewarded. “Stress, do you think?” you ask instead, “Or... that little trick you tried with the daemon?”

“Who knows?” she replies with an angry shrug, “Maybe both. Maybe neither – maybe this was always going to happen, sooner or later. This was inside me all along, just waiting for the chance to... force its way to the surface.” Grimacing, Keziah reaches out and picks up some random piece of metal, some machine component that you could never hope to name. Toying with it, just for something to do with her hands, the witch stares off into space. “I'm scared,” she admits after a moment, “I don't know what it'll be next time. I don't know if there WILL be a next time.”

“Is there any way of knowing for sure?” you ask, bending down and picking up whatever it was that you kicked. Another meaningless piece of machinery, the iron heavy in your hand. Setting it aside. “I mean,” you add, “Is there anyone you can... ask?”

Slowly, Keziah shakes her head.

[1/2]

>>2321941
I think she at least needs a hug.

>>2321941

“You know what that is?” Keziah asks suddenly, pointing to the piece of metal that you just set aside. When you shake your head, she continues. “It's part of a pressure regulator, heavy duty,” she explains, “I spent... gods, I don't even know how long. I spent years learning how crap like that works, coming to appreciate how everything fitted together. It was logical, it made sense – it was like the opposite of everything that I'd been raised with.”

Everything that she had been running from, you think to yourself. When Keziah nods bluntly, you realise that she must have skimmed that thought off the top of your mind.

“My mother... she said that this would happen. The land has a way of calling to its own, she told me, calling to them and dragging them back. Now, I don't know if I ever had a choice in the matter,” tentatively dabbing at her eye again, the witch looks around at you, “Maybe she tried the same thing when she was young, running away only to find herself being pulled right back. I feel like... hey, Milos, do you ever feel like you're turning into your father?”

Your father, always chasing after the big prize. Always digging himself into deeper and deeper holes in a doomed attempt at convincing himself that everything was okay. “Sometimes,” you admit, “It's not exactly... comforting.”

“No,” Keziah agrees, “It's not.” Rising, she searches around the dimly lit room for a moment until she finally finds a bottle and two cups. Carelessly sloshing some of the strong wine – strong enough for the smell to hit you like a closed fist – into each cup, she takes one and nods to the other. “Let's drink,” she suggests as you take the cup she offers, “To being our own men! Or women, I guess. To being our own people!”

“Cheers,” you reply joylessly, trying not to think of how much your father drank as you tap your cup against hers. The wine tastes as bad as it smells, but the act of drinking feels like a relief. “Maybe you should stop with the whole “witchcraft” thing,” you suggest, “I mean stop completely. Cut off all contact with your mother, if you have to. Just pretend that you never learned any of it and go back to being my chief engineer.”

Pausing with her cup halfway to her lips, Keziah stares at you for a while. “Inconvenient for you,” she says eventually, “You might need a witch, doing what you're doing. Better to have one that you trust, right?”

>Maybe you're right about that
>Even more inconvenient for you, being that witch
>You sound like you WANT to keep doing this to yourself
>Listen to me... (Write in)
>Other

>>2322019
>>Even more inconvenient for you, being that witch
>Listen I'm just trying to look out for you Kez.

>>2322019
>You sound like you WANT to keep doing this to yourself

>"No complaints if you do, just saying. You shouldn't put my needs over your own."

>>2322019
>Even more inconvenient for you, being that witch
"Look if you want to keep doing it that's fine. But make sure it's what YOU want to do, not whether or not it's convenient for me. You didn't want to delve into that daemon pilot's head but you did it anyways cause I asked. You don't have to do that and I won't think less of you if you say no ever. You know more about the risks of witchcraft than I ever will."

>>2322019
>Even more inconvenient for you, being that witch

>>2322019
>Even more inconvenient for you, being that witch

Everything about Keziah is so boring to me

“Better to have one that I trust...” you repeat, trying to figure out just what is going on inside Keziah's head. Normally so easily read, her face becomes a closed book as she gulps down some wine and sets the empty cup aside.

“You must know what witches are like by now,” Keziah explains, hints of a humourless smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, “Nothing is free, and they ask the worst kind of price. They'd ask all kind of awful things of you, and you might not have a choice in the matter. Get on their bad side, and things could be even worse for you. Inconvenient, see?”

“Inconvenient for YOU, being that witch!” you counter, anger creeping into your words, “I don't want you acting like some mindless servant, obeying every order I give you without question. That's not... right. That's no way for you to live, it's no way for either of us to live!” Setting down your cup with a hard clatter, you give Keziah a furious, frustrated gesture. Her eyes widen a little – which only seems to make their inhuman nature clearer – but still she says nothing. “Why are you doing this?” you ask her simply, “All of this. Any of this.”

Keziah opens her mouth, searches for an answer to that, then closes her mouth again and shrugs helplessly.

“Because to me, you almost sound like you WANT to keep doing this to yourself,” you point out, “And if you do... Fine, that's your call. It's your choice to make – but I want it to be your choice. You didn't want to talk with that daemon, but you did it anyway... because of me. You did it because of me, and now this is happening to you.” Reaching across, you touch Keziah's face as you say this, your fingers brushing across her temple. “I don't want that,” you add, “I don't want you putting my needs ahead of your own.”

Reaching up, Keziah briefly touches your hand for a moment before pulling away as if scalded. “My choice. My needs...” she murmurs, as if those were alien concepts to her, “I've never thought about about it like that, really thought about it I mean.” Then, something clatters outside and she rises to her feet in a sudden burst of movement, moving like a startled animal. Too quick – she wilts as her eyes roll up in her head, and you have to hasten to grab her. Clutching onto you, Keziah's body shakes as she lets out a soft, silent laugh.

“Jumpy. Just the repairs,” she whispers, falling silent for a few seconds more before adding, “Maybe I do.”

“Maybe you do what?” you repeat, torn between holding her for longer and helping her to her seat.

“Maybe I want to keep doing this to myself,” she tells you, thinking the words into your mind rather than speaking them aloud.

[1/2]

>>2322060
Sounds like you have a terminal case of shit taste. I recommend seeing a doctor, maybe there's still a chance to fix you.

>>2322108
Now now, let's play nice. It's ok to find a character boring or not to your taste, and isn't a medical condition. However, I agree that Keziah is probably the most well developed female in our roster, and I'm happy to accept her with her mother issues and tech-witch skill set.

>>2322102

Pulling back, you look down at her as an unpleasant light creeps into her eyes. “I've tried running and that didn't work,” Keziah explains, “Maybe it's time to embrace it, to grab the bull by the horns and be what I was supposed to be. I'm still bound within a prophecy, after all.” Reaching up, she rubs her seeping eye and blinks hard, the film of blood clearing to reveal what lay beneath. As you watch, her pupil peels apart like wet paper and splits into two ragged crescents.

“You don't mean that,” you murmur, thinking back. Mother will devour daughter or daughter will devour mother...

“Maybe I do,” she replies with a low giggle. Her eyes squirm, pupils shifting like oil on water.

Then her eyes roll back in her head again, and she collapses in a dead faint.

-

What began as a faint soon turns into a deep, deep sleep. She shifts about and mumbles to herself, but Keziah shows no sign of waking up. You carry her into bed and leave her there, shuddering a little as you slip out of her quarters. The last time this happened to her, you recall, she spoke of being delirious. Perhaps the same applies here – at least, you hope so. Her last words still linger, leaving you with an uneasy feeling.

Still thinking to yourself, you don't catch Caliban's first greeting. It's only when he touches your arm that you snap back to reality and look around at his sardonic smirk. “Sorry,” you tell him, “I was... thinking.”

“I know,” Caliban agrees, nodding back towards Keziah's quarters, “Too much time around women, captain, that's your problem.”

Right now, you're not sure if you can really disagree with him.

>I'm going to have to take a pause here. Next post should be up in an hour or so, I hope, and I apologise about this delay. Family matters, so blame them

>>2322192
Look at you being all mature. I personally prefer Freddy and Trice, but Kez is fine and were already pretty damn far down this path already.

You're not quite sure how it happens, but you end up in Caliban's quarters. The gold ingot he earned sits on his shelf like a trophy, gleaming faintly in the corner of your eye. The room smells of smoke, various different fragrances warring for your attention, and there's hardly anything to see here. You're struck, looking at the room, by how little Caliban owns. Some clothes, some weapons – knives, mostly – and that's about all. No books, no mementoes from home. Looking around, you feel a strange sense of impermanence – as if he was just a guest here, soon to be on his way.

“People keep pouring me drinks,” you remark as Caliban pushes a cup into your hands, “Not that I'm complaining, mind you.”

“You look like you need it,” the hunter replies simply, taking a drink from his own cup and looking down at his arm, “It healed up nicely, didn't it? I told you that it wouldn't leave much of a scar – and besides, Nadir folk heal up quickly.”

“I told Mara that you'd been scarred for life,” you tell him with a laugh, “You've gone and made a liar out of me.”

At the mention of Mara's name, Caliban grunts with forced ill-will, a bad temper that he doesn't really feel. “Speaking of spending too much time around women...” he mutters, shaking his head before giving you a very deliberate look. “Nothing happened, you know,” he adds, “Nothing at all – much to her disappointment.”

Surprised that he was the one to bring up the subject, you give him a shrug. “Okay?” you tell him, “I'm very happy for you. I think.”

“We're just too different, her and I,” Caliban begins to explain, scratching at one unshaven cheek, “And yet, we have too much in common. Corruption, essentially. We both have it, but we carry it in different ways. I resent it, and if I could purge every last trace of Nadir blood from my veins...” Trailing off, he covers up a grimace with a sip of his drink. “Mara, on the other hand, she wears her corruption like a crown – she takes pride in it, revelling in it. Disgusting,” he muses, “So, it would never work between us. That's all there is to it.”

Finishing your drink, you set the cup aside and give Caliban a bemused look. “Thanks for sharing,” you offer after a long pause, “But I'm still not sure why you're telling me this. Did you feel a burning need to unburden yourself?”

“Quite the contrary,” he explains, “You looked like you needed to take your mind off something. Am I wrong?”

“Not exactly,” you admit, “Well... thanks for the drink.”

“Any time. I took it from your own kitchen, after all,” the hunter points out, allowing himself a short-lived smirk. “Oh, and Grace was looking for you. Her quarters, last time I heard,” he adds, the smile falling from his face, “Better you than me.”

Again, that forced surliness.

[1/2]

>>2322404

Standing at the entrance to Grace's quarters, you hear an unexpected sound – innocent, girlish laughter. With no idea of what you might be walking into, you open the door and step inside. The first thing you notice is that Grace is wearing the crown you took from the north, King Grundvald's crown. It's too big for her, slipping down until it lies askew on her head. She had been laughing as you entered, but now she stands frozen in place.

Freddy, holding the Imago device and smiling – actually smiling – freezes as well, slowly looking around at you and wincing.

“Well,” you remark, breaking the silence, “You two look like you're having fun.”

“Yes, ah... yes,” Freddy concedes, as if this was some mortal sin that she was confessing to. Clearing her throat, she reaches across and delicately plucks the crown from Grace's brow. “You see, captain, we were taking some pictures of this,” the Iraklin explains, gesturing to the crown, “So you could show them to people, evaluators. It's not always safe, carrying a golden crown around with you. Far safer to carry an Imago.”

“Then we got bored,” Grace adds honestly, causing Freddy to wince again, “So we took turns trying it on.”

“You were wearing it?” you ask Freddy, desperately trying and failing to fight back a smile.

“That's not the issue here-” she begins, only for Grace to speak up again.

“It fits her better than it fits me,” the young scholar tells you, flicking through the stack of Imago slides, “We took an Imago, it must be here somewhere...” As she searches, and as Freddy looks as though she could be anywhere else but here, Grace continues to talk. “I had an idea about this crown. That was what we wanted to discuss,” she thinks aloud, “Is this it? No, maybe... Anyway. Father knows people, he might know who collects this sort of thing. Collectors DO tend to be wealthy...”

“Yes,” Freddy agrees bluntly, two streaks of colour lingering in her cheeks, “It might be worth a try. The Wellager University doesn't have especially deep pockets – most of their collection is provided by the state, artefacts recovered from the military forces in Nadir. What do you think, captain?”

“Ah!” Grace announces, holding up an Imago slide, “Found it!”

>We should take the crown to the Wellager University, since we're already here
>I'd rather see what the Pastona Grand Museum says about it
>Okay, let's see what Salazar can find out
>I think I'd rather hold onto the crown for now
>Other

>>2322418
>>Okay, let's see what Salazar can find out

>>2322418
>Other
ask Freddy try it on, see how it looks on her
>I think I'd rather hold onto the crown for now

>>2322418
>We might as well take the pictures to the Wellager University, since we're already here.

>More importantly, let me see that Imago.

>>2322418
>I'd rather see what the Pastona Grand Museum says about it
We have to go there anyways for another clue so two birds with one stone.

>>2322418
>I'd rather see what the Pastona Grand Museum says about it

>>2321678
The hypocrisy was intentional.

That's the joke.

But still. Can't argue with someone not wanting to die to make some randos life better.

I mean even your solution to them being possibly sent "into the meatgrinder" for the Iraklin war that *might* happen, is to send them into a DEFINITE meatgrinder now?

Besides it's not like the Iraklin won't be marching into any meatgrinder with then.

>>2322468
You seem to base your arguments on the assumption that Pastona had a radical divide between a small ruling elite and basically everyone else, and that no one but that small elite was harmed by the war. I don't see any justification for such a view.

>>2322455
>>2322418
This. Otherwise tell her we could order her to wear the crown for us. It's vital for the morale of the Captain.

>>2322518
The fact that most people are content under Iraklin rule. You can't claim it's for them if it isn't what they want.

And deciding that you know so much better that they should die for you is the definition of elitist.

>>2322527
They should have fought for themselves, not for someone.
Deciding that a bowl of food is worth a chain and a collar is understandable, but unbecoming of a human being.
They also don't think about what they'll do if their master stops filling the bowl.