Dargon. (Original Fantasy)

Dargon 3.3: Ferocity


You are a dragon, and you are currently in battle. Some say that it is a dance, that it is a constantly-changing rhythm of blows and exchanges. But you know the truth, the truth that most tried to hide whenever they went to war.

There was no rationality in it. No logic. There was only instinct, ferocity, and rage.

And so, you immerse yourself in it, for only in rage can you draw your full strength. You move quicker, dodging lightning bolts with a hair's breadth when they would've burnt off your scales. You strike harder, your claws cleaving through the other dragon's wargear with ease, even past the layered barriers and wards that they would've no doubt placed upon it. Your ferocity burns hotter. Your rage proves stronger. Your cunning and ruthlessness increases with every aerial exchange, every clash of claws, and every blast of magic that you dodge.

In and out you go, dancing in between strikes that would've pulverized your scales from the sheer force alone. Your wings work overtime, shifting every second, every moment, every instant, in maneuvers that would've strained the wings of your wayward 'student' far beyond what she could handle in a few centuries. And through it all, you are a hurricane of blows, chipping away at the other dragon's wargear for that one opportune moment.

With every strike they make, you make five. With every swing of their halberd, you swing thrice. With every gesture to summon magics that would've razed an entire forest in mere seconds, you strike five times. You made sure that they felt every blow. Every frustration. Every ounce of rage you currently held in your body, as with one final roar, you strike.

Armor shatters, the other dragon's own weaponry wrenched from their hands. The other dragon tried to breathe on you, to trade one damage for another, but you were already moving, a blur of steel slamming against the other dragon's flank just as the full force of their breath hits you.

Twin blurs falls from the sky, both of them roaring in pain.

…

When you come to, it is to the sight of the other dragon trying to drag themselves up, trying to wrench out the halberd buried deeply into their left flank. But you know that removing it would just cause them to die sooner. As for yourself… you hadn't gotten out of that last encounter unscathed.

Pain threaten to overwhelm your mind as you look at your left arm, charred black from the other dragon's flames. Whatever remained was a horrid amalgam of scale and flesh, charred in different-colored hues. An injury of this severity can still be healed… but it would take decades, perhaps even centuries, for you to return back to fighting strength once more.

Lawbringers. How you hated their ilk with a passion that burns brighter than a thousand suns.

Slowly, painfully, you rise up from your own crater, starfire ready to burst at any given moment, directed at the other dragon themselves. "So here I was… getting ready to meet up with my old buddy and pal…"

You hiss at the other dragon's movement, a gesture to summon their own magic to protect them. A blast of starfire quickly burns through the tip of their tail, and they roar in pain, no doubt already feeling the heat that was spreading throughout the rest of their body. "Try and more of your fancy magic, and I'll ensure that there won't be enough of you left."

'I… what is it you want me to do, your Liege?'

'Shut up, and stay quiet.'

"Fine then. Kill me." The other dragon rolls onto their backside, hacking and wheezing ichor onto the ground below. They were… defeated. The injuries that they took in your short battle would ensure that they would not live past a week, at most. "Take the child of prophecy, for all that I care… I'd sooner die rather than be given mercy… by the likes of you."

"But tell me…" Another hack, another cough. Yet this time, with a victorious glimmer in their eyes. "Can you keep on doing this? Already, the Order of the Silver Hand knows of the landmass that you have raised. It is already a landmark – an odd one, at that… And the Knights of Belfior have already been… dispatched…"

"You're a fucking idiot if you thought I cared about that." Especially since a single gout of starfire could easily turn whatever forces they dispatched into nothing more than ash on the wind. You roll your eyes at the other dragon, exasperation crossing into your tone even as you kept an eye on the other dragon's form. "I originally came here to talk about the dargs that you stored in your lair."

"What? Looking for another fix? That was… all I had."

Ugh, you weren't a blabbering idiot. Did you really have to spell it out for this pathetic excuse of a dragon? "No. You've got distributors, suppliers, and retailers of these dargs. One of them is in your little town. I have a vested interest in making sure that they are eliminated. Destroyed. Rendered a terminal case of non-existence."

The other dragon blinks. Then blinks once more, as if something finally connects. Then their expression quickly turns into a snarl, their mouth leaking flame once again. "What's your angle?"

You roll your eyes. "Why do you 'Lawbringers–'" You turn around and spit, just to drive the point home, "–Always assume that we're always up to something?"

"Because you always are–"

"And you aren't? What with all of your talk of 'the child of prophecy'?" You snarl back, dangerously close to letting out your own bout of starfire, "I came here to engage in discourse, to let you know that I will be taking care of matters that you should've taken care of in the first place. And yet I am greeted with the boorish screams of an idiot, screaming about 'insolence' and 'tarnished honor'."

"I am done with you." You finish with a snap of your jaws, "Your territory is now my own. If you cannot even protect it from mortal dangers, then you cannot be trusted in dealing with my ilk. Flee with your vaunted 'child of prophecy', if you so wish. And for that matter, I'm done with you as well. Consider this a last parting gift."

'What are you doing?'

'What I should've done the moment I found you.'

You plop the sapient blade out of your mouth, snapping it in between your fingers before tossing the remains towards the pathetic cur bleeding out on their own crater. Their scream of shock and rage was cut short as well, which was a blessing on your ears.

Trade done. Diplomacy… done. By goodness you've had enough of this diplomacy thing. The next time this happens, you'll bring your own wargear. Learn your own magic. Blast their position with starfire before laying down their terms of surrender over by the next mountain. This was getting tedious.

Why couldn't other dragons be more like Mestina, for goodness's sake? Not that you would tell her that, however. It wouldn't do anyone good if you were to stoke a juvenile's ego like that.

Nonetheless, it takes a few hours of hobbling before you get to an outcrop overlooking the village, clutching your burnt arm and applying pressure past a jury-rigged bandage filled with medicinal herbs. From this vantage point, you could see the other dragon slowly wrench the halberd from their flank, echoing another roar of pain, before gently coaxing the snapped pieces of the once-sapient blade and hobbling back to the forest, their form morphing into an old man.

Like you had said earlier, you've given them a week, at most. After that, and they were still lounging around in your territory? Then there would be no more second chances.

You turn your gaze back towards the village of Arnias itself, eyes narrowed and dark thoughts swirling in your mind. With a sniff, you narrowed down the location of the dargs in an instant, and you send a blast of starfire to vaporize it all.

Down below, a miniature sun flares to life for but a few seconds, before eventually dying down to reveal a crater lined with smooth glass, over what had once been another nondescript storehouse. Bells were rung, the people were roused, and the militia and guards began fanning out to search for the perpetrator, a certain fear in their step.

But you weren't there to see their fear turn into paranoia. No, you were already flying back towards your lair, hugging your left side more than normal, as you mulled over the other dragon's words.

You wouldn't trust a Lawbringer's words. But on the off-chance that they were right… you would have to make preparations. Just in case.

What do you do when you get back to your lair?

[x] Tell the goblins to beef up their defenses and expect a fight. Whoever these Knights of Belfior are, it wouldn't do to let them roam free. Greet them with open arms… and a few thousand ballista bolts headed straight towards them at high speed.

[] Order… Order of the Silver Hand… It's a memory that niggled at you, but you could dig up nothing. You could remember your Grandmomma muttering about them whenever she took inventory of her darg empire, but other than that? Nothing.

[] Continue on dealing with the darg distribution, while telling the goblins to expect trouble. The sooner you can get this sort of illict trade within your territory gone, the sooner you can move onto other tasks. Nothing was going to stop you from doing that – especially some no-name organizations that you're pretty sure the other dragon just pulled out of a hat.

[] Write-in.

Vigilance, ahoy. Keep your eyes peeled, for they may be armies over the yonder.

Dargon 3.4: Vigilance


You are a dragon, and for the first time in quite a long while, you felt like you've gone through the wringer. "Momma's tits, what happened to you?"

The mere image of it was enough to make you gag. Actually, you did gag, which only made you lean on your left arm, which made you hiss in pain even more. By goodness did it hurt. "For goodness's sake, don't say that again or I'll hit you again. And I'm pretty sure I told you where I was going."

"'Negotiating' with another dragon, right?" Mestina drawls, and you pin her with a glare that quickly wipes away whatever thoughts she currently had. "From the looks of it, I'm guessing it went bad."

"It went swimmingly." Relatively, that is. "My injuries are just a charred arm, and would need quite a bit of molting and healing. It would take me a while to recover, but I'll live. Them, however…"

An image flashes across your eyes, that of the other dragon lying in their own crater, unable to move of their own power. Scales broken, their wargear fused to their scales or rent away by your claws, and their entire body wracked in pain as the heat from the starfire slowly works their way throughout their body.

For the first time since the fight started, you could breathe in the relative safety of your lair, and confirm one thing. That you won. That this was your victory, as was expected. A Lawbringer bringing forth their greatest arsenal and array of magics had only managed to singe your arm, despite the options at their disposal. They fought with their all, only for it to not be enough.

…

But was it? You could've – should've seen that last attack coming, to get out of that encounter unscathed. There was no doubt that you've been tricked – it was the one thing that your Grandmomma nailed upon your head every time the topic came to draconic Lawbringers, but the fact that they hit you in the first place rankled you.

It was… Surely you could've done better. You know that you could've done better. So why…

"Hm."

"What is it?" Mestina asks, her own wings flared as she tries to keep herself from toppling over, feet spread out and wobbling due to the gale-force winds currently hitting her. "I'm sort of busy here, what with you training me and all that. Do you want me to stop so that I can listen to your troubles?"

"Learn how to fly first, and we'll see if you're allowed some cheek." You snap back, stifling another groan of pain as you shift your left arm overhead, watching as flakes of dead scales and skin fall off, and wincing as raw flesh meets bitingly-cold winds. Goodness, that hurt. But it was necessary, so it had to be done. "Have you told the rest of the goblins to prepare for darkened skies?"

"I'm not your courier." The juvenile pipes back, but they nod nonetheless, their expression shifting towards a dour note. "And I dislike commanding others, even if they are… goblins."

"Their minds are simple. It is not your fault for seeing that as your own weakness – it shall go away in time."

Roaring winds fill the silence between you and your 'wayward' student, as the both of you stare at the silver moon, so close yet so far. You remember a myth, one told by your Momma in the rare times she actually felt maternal. About how some dragons grew so old that one gust of their wings allows them to travel the stars, free to pursue their dreams and wishes, unbound by any terrestrial desire.

Then she told you to forget all about the myth as soon as Grandmomma walked in.

"You're in an awfully pensive mood."

Mestina's voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you send a blank glare in her direction. "If you can speak, then that certainly means you're ready to fly once more."

She blinks, not understanding, but you quickly clarify with a quick push from your right arm, sending her plummeting off your floating lair. From below, you could hear her roar, a gout of emerald-green flame spewing forth from her mouth just as she shoots off into the night, cursing you all the while. You chuckle, leaning back on the outcrop of rock that you found yourself on, and basking in the deep cold of your–

Sniff.

Magic.

You fly down to your lair, eyes narrowed and body tensing for a fight once more, and it is with great relish that you see the improved defenses being turned inwards, stern-faced goblins manning the ballistas, net-throwers, and bolt arrays that have been set up since your command. Others held their pikes and weapons at the ready, a shield wall facing the insides of your lair, with pikes jutting out of it to stymie any attempts at simply breaking through the line.

How you loved competency. Especially since you made sure to keep an eye on their 'training'.

The goblins don't take heed of your presence, the bowing and praise having no place in such a dire situation. You respect that, and quickly bark out a command to report of the current situation.

Another goblin makes their way through the crowd, hunched over and wearing various artifacts that smelled of magic as well, albeit a few magnitudes more diluted than the one that you had smelled just a few moments ago. They speak of a sudden intrusion in the middle of your lair, tripping forth all sorts of magical wards and barriers, and how they were now in the middle of isolating and pinning the intruder in place.

Good.

You begin coordinating the goblin army through their leaders, the one with you acting more as a mouthpiece than anything potentially useful, as you track the intruder who dared to defile your lair with their filthy magic. Maybe you'll splatter their remains all over the walls as a warning for other, future intruders.

As the reports start to file in about finally spotting the intruder, and the box starts to close in, a grin of vicious satisfaction forms on your face, your mind already conjuring images of an unlucky intruder impaled upon pikes, their dessicated head mounted on the front step to deter future idiots from entering…

… Then all of a sudden, the scent of magic is gone, and the reports that you receive from your goblin lackeys corroborate their statement. Nothing more than a puff of dust, and an apparently-invincible piece of paper that contains a written message.

You get there immediately. Or at least, as fast as you could. Bringing the piece of paper up to your eye, watching as the magic within it unravels at your touch, you decipher the language as quickly as it was written, a mish-mash of words and phrases coming from some of your history lessons with your Momma and Grandmomma.

Mages' Cant. And the Order of the Silver Hand had the gracious courtesy to invite you, an elder mage who has successfully performed a magical feat that defies the very laws of nature… pfft. You can't even finish the sentence without descending into laughter.

So they thought you were a mage, eh? Well. Should you go and pay them a visit? You know the meeting place, after all.

The Floating Archives of Parnul, repository of ten millennia's worth of knowledge… and coincidentally, your Momma's lair.

[X] Visit. It's been a while since you saw your Momma. You'll leave Mesti– you'll leave the goblins in charge of the defenses, for the meantime.

[] Don't visit. There's still the Knights of Belfior out there, whoever they are.

> Be a dragon
> Be apprenticed to ur teacher, who is also a dragon
> Assume that u have authority if teacher's gone
> Teacher tells goblins that they can take care of things while he's gone
> Mfw

- Mestina, posting on 4Drag.

Dargon 3.5: Inspiration


You are a dragon, and quite a patient one at that. It took you two decades to find a territory to call your own, all of it filled with memories laden with pain. Some might even call you a saint, with the seemingly endless patience that you seem to have.

But not this time. This time, you were this close to blowing your fuse. The fact that it was for a completely inane reason only riled you up even further.

"I still cannot believe you didn't pick me." Mestina whines, because it was whining, and the both of you knew it. "Out of all the possible options that you could've taken, you chose the goblins."

"If you do not pick another topic for conversation, then you would be arriving to my Momma's place with a few broken scales." You growl back in response, because you have argued with her on this before, back when you broke the news that you would be leaving for 'important matters that need not concern you'. The goblins understood, competent little underlings that they are, and continued on fortifying your lair – even constructing something akin to a production line for their little 'guns'.

Someone who shall not be named however, seemed miffed that she was passed up for the responsibility. So she settled for the next best thing: Needling you about it on the journey. "You know, I should still be resting."

"Your wings are healed. If you don't use them, then they'll atrophy." You huff, doing a lazy roll in the air as you struggled with the urge to simply leave Mestina in the dust. But that would be bad manners, especially after you – hrk – 'graciously volunteered' the juvenile to come along with you so that she doesn't leave your sight.

Frankly, you weren't worried about her. You were more worried about what your Grandmomma's reaction would be if you return her with even a single scale displaced. Which well… you already popped her wing sockets out a few months back. Your Grandmomma was definitely going to kill you when Mestina blabs about it. If she blabs about it in the first place.

Was all of this just a convoluted plan to keep your wayward 'student' distracted enough that they can't actually blab to your Grandmomma about the state of their 'training'? Most likely. Yes. Yes, that was the case.

"Just a few more kilometers and we'll get to the Floating Archives." You grouse, already feeling yourself age decades just by replying to Mestina's own babbles. But still, you were anticipating this. After all, once you're there, you could leave Mestina to be taught by your own Momma, and your Momma would finally have another assistant to boss around her archives that wasn't an automaton of some kind. You could have some peace and quiet, and your Momma can go bother someone else that's not unthinking machinery. It's a win-win. "Keep on flying. Maybe you'll lose some weight in the process."

"I'm losing plenty."

"Not enough." You snort, quickly shifting your position with a quick maneuver, keeping pace with Mestina even with the less-than-efficient posture that you were currently taking, what with the fact that you were flying sideways and all that just to cross your arms at the juvenile. Did you do it to prove a point? Yes. Was it uncomfortable? Also yes. The winds certainly didn't help. "We are meant to fly, and we are meant to fly fast. Going slower while you're in the air just makes you a target for ballistae, and that means you die."

"You fly fast, you maneuver fast, and nothing's going to hit you. That is our strength. Why we stand at the top." You pause to let the message sink in, only to find Mestina looking like she was half-asleep, her head bobbing up and down in time with the wind. A sigh escapes your lips, and you let a grim smile form on your face at a thought. "The fact that you're basically untouchable is also an advantage when fighting something above your weight class. You could simply outrun them. What are they going to do? Run at you with their stubby wings?"

Mestina snorts. That was a good sign as any. "And what if they breathe at you?"

"If you get hit, that would be your fault."

Another bout of laughter. But this time, you weren't joking. If you couldn't see a dragon's breath coming as another dragon, then you're objectively a disgrace. Any dragon worth their salt knew that using it in combat would be more trouble than it was worth, which meant that it was only limited to opening attacks, and exploiting opportunities made by the other party.

"So, are we–"

"We are." You grouse, flicking your trajectory upwards, trusting that your wayward 'student' would follow in your wake. She does, following through the thick cloudbank right on your heels, and the two of you emerge to a clear blue sky after a few seconds of flying through the unnaturally thick clouds, breaking through with a little trail denoting your passage.

Here, the air is thinner. Thin enough that any mortal would find difficulty breathing at this height, not to mention the bitter cold. Here, at this height, lies the Floating Archives of Parnul.

It is a colossal landmass, an entire mountain and its surrounding landscape brought to float far above the land by a combination of magic and long-forgotten technology. Its central mountain bore large metallic plates that brought vision to the vast complex located underneath, and even now natural formations brought through artificial means prosper in its vast landscape, drifting masses of waterfalls spilling forth their water into the skies below, yet its supply seemingly endless.

This was your inspiration for your floating lair. A vast land full of wonders, a world over the world.

"Keep your jaw up." You speak, mostly for Mestina's benefit, as there was no doubt that the juvenile had their maw hanging loose from the sight. "I have been told that it elicits that same reaction for those who visit the first time in their lives. But we're wasting time – we best get inside before someone else gets any ideas."

"Who would even visit this place?" In response to such a question, you simply stare down Mestina. She blinks, crossing her eyes for a few seconds, before wincing and covering her snout. "… Ugh, I can't believe I just said that. Right, the mages. I– let's just go."

You oblige her, just this once. With another flap of your wings, you immediately zoom to full speed, leaving her in the dust as you fly towards the entrance of the floating archives. She struggled to follow up, her flying still not as good as you wanted, but she managed nonetheless, lagging behind by quite a few paces.

A good thing, since gouts of lights appeared all over your scales, a second later, coming from automaton installations that suddenly appeared everywhere.

"MAH'RIIKAHN, FALHIIR!"

The gouts of lights immediately winked out, and you let out a shuddering breath as you spy just some of the many, many automatons go back to their preassigned tasks. That had been too close. Did your Momma assign the automatons to another pattern again? You just got a measure of the last one!

… Then again, perhaps that was the point. Or perhaps it was also due to the fact that there was a coven of mages assembling in a few days or so.

Whatever the case, you land on the ostentatious walkway with not a single scratch on your scales, but with a raised blood pressure to compensate. That had been tense. And as per usual, your wayward student got away scot-free because she was too caught up in everything that she didn't even understand what could've happened to her.

"Who built this place?"

"No one knows." You reply, passing through the large, almost draconic (heh) walkway that led into the main spire itself, all but dragging your wayward 'student' along with you. Mestina had the attention span of a mortal, and while you could leverage it to work for you in some situations, this was not one of them. "Momma Konnta found it whenever she was trying to make her own lair. The automatons in this place seems to maintain it as well as protect these archives from intruders."

"Automatons?"

"You'll see them later." You won't reveal that they had nearly killed you and her. For now. "For the moment…"

You were through. The main floor of the Floating Archives of Panul now stands before you and your wayward 'student', and you could hear Mestina let out a strangled gasp at the sheer size of the space before you.

Books flap through the air, seeking their own destination in whatever archival system your Momma had selected for the decade. A lot of books, considering that there were continuous streams of flying books spread out all over the area. Large, open shelves, winding staircases, hanging floors with chains as thick as your arm – it was a multi-tiered place where knowledge is stored and collected, and it seemingly extends through the rock wall and up to somewhere far, far away.

And in the center of it all, stood a draconic statue that was perched upside down, the size of an entire village hanging on a metallic foothold that seems to ascend into the skylight. Beneath the statue laid an obsidian black tablet, sporting glowing blue runes that seems to shift like the ephemeral tides. Mestina gasps at the sight, carefully snaking her way forward to try and get a closer look, as if afraid that she would break anything in this place.

Not that you can blame her.

But you? You could only roll your eyes and try to hold back a snort. You face the 'draconic statue', let out a sigh, and say:

[] "Thank you for saving our hides, Momma."

[] "I heard your voice earlier, Momma. You're not fooling me."

[X] "Before you ask, she's your youngest sibling."

[] Write-in.

Damn, the sassy option. At least you headed it off before things got weird, which is nice.

Dargon 3.6: Talks


"Before you ask, she's your youngest sibling."

The 'draconic statue' hanging upside down blinks. Mestina screams, causing some of the books to waver in their flight, and she quickly scampers off deeper into the archives while loudly babbling about curses and whatnot. You sigh, placing a palm over your snout while griping about the juvenile's superstitions. It was shoved away by a talon however, and you find yourself staring at your mother's blue eyes, thick spectacles laid upon her snout.

She was sending a blank glare in your direction, one that you return just as quickly. "Tell me, dear. Do you fancy her?"

Of all the– "She's my aunt. And a juvenile, at that! Shouldn't you be more relieved at this?"

"I am. There is no doubt that I am relieved. If I saw that you fancied her for but a second, then I would have to take matters into my own hands." Your Momma's golden scales shimmer with a red glow, and you gulp mostly out of instinct. "She and I are far too similar for my liking. Did Mother and I somehow swap eggs when we weren't looking?"

Not that you didn't mind actually being Grandmomma's child, though. And judging from the stormy look on your Momma's face, it seems she knew it as well. "Never mind. I was simply thinking out loud. You do not visit for long, and you never visit without reason. What is it this time?"

You produce the note that the Order of the Silver Hand had given you. Your Momma adjusts her spectacles, taking the note in her claws and sending it up to the light, and she reads the note with narrowed eyes before letting out a guffaw.

"What a haul." She mutters, turning towards you with curiosity glimmering behind her eyes. "Did find any artifacts on their corpse? I'm more than willing to trade a few books in the archives for some of them."

"They got away." You reply, this time with a growl to your voice. "Came into my lair and slipped through my defenses, before dropping this note and disappearing without a trace."

Your Momma blinks at that, before leveling another blank stare in your direction. "You didn't even prepare magical defenses?"

"In my defense, we only had the aetheric engine up and running for less than a month." It wasn't a defense, you knew that there were spells, barriers, and wards that could serve as an impromptu defense against magical incursions, but you didn't know any magic. And the mages within the goblin army were well… 'piddling' was not the word you'd use, but it was close. "Any wards that my underlings could've done in such a time would take at least a few."

"A lair. You have a lair. That is news." Your Momma speaks, surprise coloring her tone. It hurt you just a little bit, but then the last time you probably visited had been over half a century ago, and that was to ensure that she hadn't neglected to take care of herself. "Since when have you established one? Describe to me what it looks like."

"Just a few months ago." You grouse, hoping that your Momma would get the hint and get off her little trapeze. "It's a floating mountaintop, with a fortress made of wood and packed stone jutting out."

That got her attention. Enough to make her get off her 'disguise' as a dragon statue, and land down on her four feet. Your Momma was… not as large as Grandmomma, but she was sizable nonetheless, and the ground shook at she landed. Not that you were about to tell that to your Momma's face, though. You still needed help, and she had less tolerance for ah, tomfoolery with you.

"Floating?" She asked, and you grunt in reply. "How does it work?"

"Scrapped together with an aetheric engine as the base. At least, that was what I had with an initial look. The rest are well… scrapped together. I'm sure you'd be able to figure things out."

Your Momma pauses, blinks, and narrows her eyes at you. "… If this a ploy to get me out of the archives, then it's not going to work."

"You do know that the automatons would just kill anyone that tries to sneak in, right?"

"I will not take lip from you, child. Last I remember, there's still twenty-three years before you can talk back." She grunts, but nonetheless conceding your point. "I will have an automaton sent to study the device in your new lair. Do you at least know who built it?"

"Goblins."

She stares. It lasts a few seconds, before she speaks up once more. "You're shitting me."

Rare were the times that your Momma cursed. Mostly because you haven't really spent that much time with her, and she wasn't the type of dragon to do that anyway. But you could see as to why she could be so surprised by such a development. Even you were surprised at the fact that they built such a thing. "I'm not."

"Damn it." She hissed, quickly turning around and almost nailing you in the head with her tail. You ducked of course, opening your mouth to reprimand your Momma, but the look in her eyes told you that she wouldn't listen, trapped up in one of her fugues once more. "This brings up the Larchesi and Besamu theories out the window… No, no, they still work. The fact that these goblins – somehow – managed to make fucking flying machine that ran on aether is good. In fact, it reinforces some of the things that I've been working on…"

You roll your eyes, leaving your mother to her own devices. You could talk to her later, when you found Mestina in this place, but… well, maybe snapping your mother out of her fugue and letting her deal with your request for the moment would be better. Goodness knows that trying to break her out of her fugues when she was really getting into it made her… angry.

The Floating Archives of Parnul used to be bigger than what you see now. You could remember the time when you climbed onto your Grandmomma's back, complaining about how you wanted to see your Momma again, and how your Grandmomma all but barged into the archives and snapped your Momma out of it.

Well… at least the broken landscape didn't fall into any populated areas, but that was just cold comfort.

To search for Mestina to avoid getting your hide tanned by your Grandmomma, or risk provoking your Momma's wrath just so you could snap her out of her fugue? Questions, questions…

[X] Command an automaton to find Mestina and escort you to her.

[] Snap your Momma out of her fugue.