Powder, Gears, and Blessed Steam - A WHF Engineering Quest

Doubts tread at the edge of your thoughts. For a long moment you question whether what you see is true, wonder if perhaps it was not the work of Morrisleb being twisted by ghosts in revolt of the afterlife awaiting them...

And then you see them in the crowd outside. A child holding a bunny tight to her chest even as she holds up a trembling hand. A teena- No, a soldier's spirit with hints of chainmail poking out around the hole in their torso that clink quietly in your ears as they step forward to shield the little girl.

You watch as the priest's mouth opens but your body moves before more words can leave her mouth. Fingers tightening around your weapon as you pop out from the door and find yourself driven by some unseen hands to steady your footing. A bracing posture, head tilted to stare down the length of the barrel now leveled at the supposed priest only now noticing your presen-

They stumble backwards as Gromdottir goes off. Blood spatters onto the cobblestones from the gaping hole in her chest and bits of flesh and cloth fall to the ground amidst the spectral crowd only to catch fire as black flames ripple across the torn flesh. You watch aghast as the blood flows back towards the priest, the red shade turning a dark black that glitters in the moonlight of Morrisleb overhead only for the surface to boil and catch fire.

Your mind screams at you to dive to the side but your body doesn't respond fast enough, the ball of burning blood splatter across the half open door and across your chest bringing with it a pain that drags a scream from your throat. You expected heat but instead it was more akin to your flesh being flayed by the flames that roar to life on your torso, a hurried hand batting at them in a desperate bid to put them out before they can spread further... And instead leaving your palm singed and sliced apart.

'At least the blood put it ou-'

"Tsk, was aiming for your head," A voice ringing in your ears brings you back to the present just in time for an ethereal hand to claw into your shoulder, nails biting through flesh as the clothing you are wearing starts to crumble and rot. Burnt flesh. Rotting wool. The smell of decay that hits you like a wall now that they're right upon you. Your skin withering and rotting as it too speeds towards being little more than dust dripping from between those ghastly fingers...

"Useless scraps, you dare-"

Ghostly hands appear all around you as the figures of those spirits that had warned you surround the necromancer and begin to grasp at her. Fingers pass harmlessly through robes and flesh, hands disappearing as they try to cling to her legs, and only a few manage to find purchase upon those pitch black chains dangling from her arms. Trapped between a horde of resentful spirits and you, the necromancer glowers as her blood starts to flow upwards once more and you try desperately to do something.

Your attempt to dodge turns into a stumble as your legs give way underneath you. Gromdottir barks in the night once again, the flare of the muzzle and the smoke doing little to distract you from the mere graze you inflict as their spell forms in full. Only a few feet away, you can hear it this time. Black blood bubbling violently as an unseen force causes it to curdle and ignite.

Your end nears.

And yet, you are not alone this night.

Ghosts throw themselves between the two of you as the sphere takes flight and you watch as the flames eat holes through your spectral allies with remarkable ease. One. Two. Three.

Three.

Three of them wail silently as their forms are consumed by tainted flames.

You can see the hatred flashing in the fallen priest's eyes as she struggles to fight free of those weighing her down. You can hear it in her voice as she scrambles to prepare a third orb. Chains rattle maddeningly as the ghosts trapped at their ends weep and turn upon the crowd gathered around them.

"Trash, I'll flay your souls for an etern-"

Gromdottir drowns her words out as you fire.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

'A bullet for each.'

A poor repayment, but the only one you can offer.

It is only as the second round burrows into the necromancer's head that everything stops.

Suddenly, unnervingly so, the world falls silent.

And then you notice it.

The green tint coating the world is gone.

Your feet carry you forward, your body struggling to stay upright through the pain lancing through it, and out the door where a soft white light illuminates the city beyond. Some deep seated instinct drives you to look to the sky above and what you see causes your legs to give out.

Above the city of Wolfenburg a great host of ravens circles embroiled in a battle with itself as the birds peck and claw and batter at each other only to plummet towards the city below. Your heart jumps as one crashes into the cobblestones at your fe-

You awake with a gasp. Your heart pounds in your ears and your body screams at you to stop as you scramble up from the floor with Gromdottir still clutched in your hand. A bullet ridden corpse lays upon the dirt only a few feet from you, the smell of burnt flesh and rot still linger in the air, and the host of spirits still surrounds you though now many regard you with a gentle smile.

A raven's cry breaks the quiet that has fallen over your workshop and over half of the specters turn to walk towards it. You watch as their bodies vanish from existence right before your eyes after stepping across some threshold beyond your sight.

And then you feel a gentle tug on your pants.

Looking down you find a little girl with a silly grin on her face as she shoves the rabbit she was clinging to so dearly towards you.

"Thank you, big sis. I get to go see daddy again... But he said I can't take Mr. Rabbit with me... You'll keep Mr. Rabbit, right? He's a good rabbit, I promise!"

You watch as the child's spirit anxiously shifts in place and...

What do you do?
[] Accept the rabbit.
[] Offer to take the rabbit to where she's buried.
[] Refuse the rabbit.
[] Write in.



QM Note: Well that was closer than I was expecting. I can now introduce Wounds properly though so that's a plus!

Wounds are a measure of how much punishment and harm you can suffer before you die. At base your number of Wounds is equal to your Body attribute. If Wounds reach 0 then that is it, the character is dead. Wounds recover at a rate of 1 per turn by default though stuff like medical attention, potions, etc can speed that up and some injuries may require extra care to remove such as in this case where one of Margaret's shoulders is now a shriveled, cracked husk of what it once was.