Well, we have a shotgun. If it doesn't fall from the first few blasts, we'll have to leg it and bring backup. For now though it's better to use what's there.
No, we've got the mage-pistol. Don't know how good it is for this, but I want to find out. Less sure about melee, though.
[X] Shoot the thing while it's fighting; try to kite the thing away until the gargoyles can recover. Billhook out for defense, but don't get stuck in melee if you can avoid it.
[X] Shoot the thing while it's fighting; try to kite the thing away until the gargoyles can recover. Billhook out for defense, but don't get stuck in melee if you can avoid it.
Whoops, I should've just said 'it' that second time. Anyway, props for cool monster design, @Wicked Sanguine - the helirotor-shield-winged brass golem is now the second bit I want to see illustrated, after the "well, lucky Grail" line. Still keeping an eye out for an appropriate artist, by the way. Just have to find someone with the combination of style-I'm-picturing-for-this, and ability to dash these things off casually.
(Honestly, I might well wind up finding them seperately, and seeing if the latter can mimic the former. I'm fairly sure there's someone with each of those.)
[X] Shoot the thing while it's fighting; try to kite the thing away until the gargoyles can recover. Billhook out for defense, but don't get stuck in melee if you can avoid it.
Your enthusiasm for my content always makes my day, dude, thank you! I've gone back in the post to edit in a slightly better description of the Cicada.
Your enthusiasm for my content always makes my day, dude, thank you! I've gone back in the post to edit in a slightly better description of the Cicada.
Glad to hear it! Dunno what to think of the extra details. The flashlight eyes are kind of neat, but the black iron skin redefines its whole aesthetic to me. Less steampunk-colors-cyberpunk-tech, more... hm. Humanoid black helicopter.
Which means it can't be mostly-its'-own-agent, if Signamancy holds true. "We were studying it and it broke out" is no longer a plausible backstory; this is an act of war. Did somebody manage to poison Dial? Questions.
Also, I assume Grail can be trusted to aim for holes and such without explicit direction? I ask mainly because I'm still guessing something along the lines of a homing effect from her Fernali, and she might not have gessed that yet.
[X] Shoot the thing while it's fighting; try to kite the thing away until the gargoyles can recover. Billhook out for defense, but don't get stuck in melee if you can avoid it.
As the thing looms over the gargoyles, those searchlight eyes cutting through the smoke, you clutch your gun, the gray-green foggy substance of your magic coalescing in your fist and soaking into the grip, you draw your billhook, keeping it folded until it's time to move, you tense your entire body in anticipation, and you remember exactly why you're so scared.
One of the reasons the time you first learned about Cicadas, at the tender age of probably seven or eight, is so indelibly carved in your brain is because it's the first time you heard the word blasphemy. You'd been taught up til that point that the only incorrect thing is to refuse to pursue your ambitions, that any act of violence or theft or trickery was correct if it made you stronger or got you what you desired. All of you had, and between schoolings you would roughhouse, gamble, and cheat with the other children, preparing for the day when you would need to do so to survive, to get anything at all, and even looking forward to that day. On that still, chilly day, sometime after you had gotten your first knife, you learned there was another sin among your people, a second act so vile that not even the Vesakh would pursue it.
The Cicadas, you were taught, did not consider the gifts of the gods to be enough to make them everything they wanted to be. Viciousness, weapons, magic, experience and the Ves were insufficient for those that became the first Cicadas, and so they turned to machines. Not using machines, not siege engines or guns or alchemy, which you'd been taught the basics of, but of rejecting the Ves as not good enough to transform them to the weapons they desired to be, and supplementing it by implanting mechanical parts into their very bodies. What would kill an unchosen by dint of the sheer stresses it placed on the body worked perfectly on resilient, mutated Vesakh bodies, and the first Cicadas became blends of Ves-altered flesh and profane machinery. You remember the illustrations you were shown, the stories of metal tearing into flesh with every motion of the piston-powered arms, and, most of all, the actual piece of Cicada the children were shown, a mummified arm with a steam-powered cannon and multiple plates of armor sutured directly into the flesh. You wouldn't even touch anything made of metal for days afterward, the nightmares of it infecting you and turning you into a Cicada tormenting you for weeks. You got over it, but the horror of the concept remained with you.
Seeing the thing in front of you, so armored-up and laden with weapons that you can't even make out where the flesh is, but unable not to smell the rust-adulterated stench of Ves-suffused blood, all of that comes rushing back to you in an instant.
You tear yourself back to reality with a force of effort, raising your gun and quickly sighting down at the weakest point you can see, the hissing gap between head and shoulders, and you open fire, feeling the magic seep out of you minutely but tangibly with every buck of the grip. The bullets sear out of the gun, glimmering yellow-green and trailing fog in their wake, curving and twisting in the air as they seek the gap. The thing doesn't even have time to turn around before the three shots you sent off slip precisely into its inner workings, and it jerks as if in the grip of a seizure, the wings jerking and clattering against each other as their rotation judders and falls out of sync. It's barely seconds before it's turning towards you, beginning another of those awful tearing roars, but you're already moving, extending your billhook with the old familiar clack and ducking behind it, scoring a long line of bright metal along its side with the hook.
"Hoy!" you shout, not really thinking about what you're saying, only trying to keep its attention. "Why don't you pick on somebody, uh, one fifth of your size! Oh shit..."
It's turning to track you, raising an armored hand, and greasy black flame is beginning to coalesce in its palm. You fire again, this one ricocheting off its forearm, before turning all of your concentration towards getting out of the way as the flame splatters behind you, a long wake of smoky liquid flame tracing you as you run and roll and dodge. Out of the corner of your eye you notice the gargoyle move back, beginning to rummage amid the corpses for a new weapon. You just hope they manage to actually use that thing before you're flash-fried.
The next period of time is probably less than two minutes, maybe even a minute, but in the fog of terror and battle it feels like hours of rolling, shooting, ducking, and the occasional jab or swipe at the thing. Many's the time you wished you were stronger and bigger, so you could deal damage with impunity, but as this thing continues to incinerate or crush to gravel everything immediately behind you, you've never been more grateful to be so fast. It may look like a lumbering hulk, but it's almost fast enough to catch up to you, and it's only because of how exceptional you are that that "almost" is a factor. Still, your lungs are starting to burn before there's a tremendous rifle report, breaking the air apart, and an impact strikes the thing's head hard enough to knock it backwards. It gives you enough time to swivel around and see the standing gargoyle, reloading a rock gun and grinning fiercely.
<Eat it!> they snarl in Ashvakrev, firing again, this time clipping one of its wings and sending the blade skittering across the floor. You take advantage and reload your gun, the bullets once again flying directly into gaps in its armor, sending it further reeling. You feel the smile spread across your face as you and the gargoyle alternate firing, ensuring that a second never passes without a bullet crashing into the Cicada. Bit by bit, you drive it back, dodging the occasional abortive jets and spurts of oily flame, and it feels fantastic--and then you hear a dry, final click from inside the gargoyle's rifle.
<I'm out of ammo.>
"Shit," you eloquently respond.
The blades start whirling again, and it steps forward slowly, gathering a ball of flame in each hand. A low mechanical chuckling, like a train engine, echoes from deep within its chest. You hold the billhook up, ready to try and jab for a gap, and the gargoyle reverses their grip, ready to use the rock gun like a club.
Then...
[ ] The roof collapses.
[ ] A voice speaks from behind the Cicada.
[ ] A voice speaks from behind you.
[ ] The injured gargoyle makes a move.
[ ] The floor collapses.
The next period of time is probably less than two minutes, maybe even a minute, but in the fog of terror and battle it feels like hours of rolling, shooting, fucking, and the occasional jab or swipe at the thing.
The Cicadas, you were taught, did not consider the gifts of the gods to be enough to make them everything they wanted to be. Viciousness, weapons, magic, experience and the Ves were insufficient for those that became the first Cicadas, and so they turned to machines. Not using machines, not siege engines or guns or alchemy, which you'd been taught the basics of, but of rejecting the Ves as not good enough to transform them to the weapons they desired to be, and supplementing it by implanting mechanical parts into their very bodies. What would kill an unchosen by dint of the sheer stresses it placed on the body worked perfectly on resilient, mutated Vesakh bodies, and the first Cicadas became blends of Ves-altered flesh and profane machinery. You remember the illustrations you were shown, the stories of metal tearing into flesh with every motion of the piston-powered arms, and, most of all, the actual piece of Cicada the children were shown, a mummified arm with a steam-powered cannon and multiple plates of armor sutured directly into the flesh. You wouldn't even touch anything made of metal for days afterward, the nightmares of it infecting you and turning you into a Cicada tormenting you for weeks. You got over it, but the horror of the concept remained with you.
Seeing the thing in front of you, so armored-up and laden with weapons that you can't even make out where the flesh is, but unable not to smell the rust-adulterated stench of Ves-suffused blood, all of that comes rushing back to you in an instant.
Hm. So that's what's going on - they're more-transhumanist heretics. I bet Vesakh who are best-suited for mech piloting, like they grow loads of tentacle-arms or something, aren't well-accommodated in mainline Locust society.
Neither would people who spend so much time in armor that they engulf it when they mutate, I imagine. Non-surgical cyberintegration certainly seems like it wouldn't be given a pass.
I wonder why the split got bad? Was it because Cicadaism requires money, and most Locusts are poor, or at least were at the time? That's my best guess at the moment.
I kind of want to see Dis's Cicada community. Modern Cicada tech is probably a lot less gross, and it might be good to knock the edge off that prejudice of Grail's. That said, it's only a long-term goal.
Also, I wonder what bio-grafting has been tried for Vesakh. There are probably stuff like manticores and dragons, things from which ripping off some armor or a weapon and pressing it to one of your stumps might be clearly worthwhile. It's... probably halal? Breeding creatures for part-implantation might be a bit more questionable, though.
Many's the time you wished you were stronger and bigger, so you could deal damage with impunity, but as this thing continues to incinerate or crush to gravel everything immediately behind you, you've never been more grateful to be so fast. It may look like a lumbering hulk, but it's almost fast enough to catch up to you, and it's only because of how exceptional you are that that "almost" is a factor.
[ ] The roof collapses.
[ ] A voice speaks from behind the Cicada.
[ ] A different voice speaks from behind you.
[ ] The injured gargoyle makes a move.
[ ] The floor collapses.
I am NOT putting up with someone stealthy appearing behind us. Nope. Nope nope nope.
On the other hand, while you can't negotiate with roofs, their collapses can reveal interesting things! Like the locations of valuable objects previously concealed, or the tensile strength of one's own skull! (Or at least our reflexes. Those should be good, right?)
"I should really get the wards updated," a dry, unruffled and familiar voice observes from behind the Cicada. It whirls around, back and whirling blades now facing you and the gargoyle as the smoke and ash part to reveal the tattered, singed, but largely unharmed form of Dial, standing tall and proud amid the flaming rubble.
"It seems that just any vermin can slip in whenever they please while I'm busy communing, in the current state of affairs as they stand. Absolutely untenable. It will be rectified."
The Cicada spins up its blades faster, actually hovering a few fingerspans off the ground in a whirling cloud of ash and dust, a ball of flame growing in each palm. A harsh, crude metallic buzz of a voice emerges from somewhere in its chest. "kkkrrrhkk finally you decide to show your face. March of Time Broken Upon An Endless Wheel. I grew bored with slaughtering your hangers-on khrkkrhk"
She simply stands there, cloak fluttering and charms jingling, head tilted at a self-assured angle.
"I hadn't thought any of you bold enough to attempt to strike me directly at a center of my power, but of course I might have expected such impatience from a Cicada--after all, you couldn't bear to wait for Xhaal and Damalu's gifts to come to fruition, could you? No, you turned to infernal devices, adulterating your sacred flesh for the sake of immediate power. Even under that smog and steel, I taste the distinct flavor of Rhakui's influence on you."
Only context lets you decipher the awful crackling noise the Cicada makes as a snarl of anger. "krhkrhkk the gifts of your gods were insufficient to save these from my strong hand and flame kkkrkh" it replies, gesturing to the corpses with its burning limbs. "khkhkh it will not save you either hhhkrhrk"
With that, it leaps forward, blades tearing the air, oily smoke in its wake as it raises its balls of flame, ready to tear or incinerate Dial as she tracks its movement, the plates of her head unfurling like a clasped pair of hands as the air suddenly begins to smell of burning paper and cold sand. You and the gargoyle throw yourselves to the ground as the ambient magic in the air ignites.
Seconds or hours later, one of those, you crawl to your feet, coughing out dry, cold dust. The room is dark and dusty and completely fireless, the lights of the city outside casting barely-sufficient illumination through the smoke-clogged holes in the ceiling. Dial stands where the Cicada did, holding a dust-streaming, torn-asunder piece of its shell in each of four hands.
"It is truly amazing the amount of destruction that can be wrought when you're caught in an unavoidable prior engagement," she muses, the plates of her head folding back into place. As you dust yourself off, unable to keep your eyes off the wreckage of the Cicada, her attention turns to you, something that feels like dozens of moths alighting on your exposed skin.
"Lucky Grail! What a pleasant surprise! Not only do you return so soon, but you help my darling gargoyles fight the intruder. To what avail, I'm unsure, but such speed and diligence recommends you well. I do, of course, assume you return in triumph. You don't taste of shame, so that bodes well."
You cough, wetting your throat from your canteen as quickly as you can before trusting yourself to answer.
"I do, boss. Return in triumph, that is. The mission, with the gunsmith, that you sent me on, I found her."
You mentally review that sentence and groan. The fight, combined with how scary/beautiful (in Ashvakrev it's the same word) you find Dial, has apparently scrambled your brain entirely. Her answering smile is encouraging, however.
"Marvelous. And you secured some manner of connection, I trust?"
"I got her to agree to a meeting with you, to discuss terms of, uh, contract. We came back to the fight, so I stashed her somewhere safe before going in."
You feel a little more confident with every word, until you're talking like a functional person again. She rattles something under her cloak, clearly pleased.
"Absolutely superlative, lucky Grail. Obviously, the full reward I owe you might be slightly delayed, given the exigencies of rebuilding, but I will offer you a little down payment."
She tosses a piece of Cicada high into the air. As it soars, she makes a brisk gesture with that hand, conjuring a cloth pouch with a black-enameled key tied to the securing string. She tosses it to you before the chunk of armor lands with a clack securely in her hand.
"Send in the gunsmith, and return in a few days for the rest... and a new job, I think. You've earned further consideration, lucky Grail."
You bow briefly in thanks and respect, glancing over to the gargoyle who fought alongside you. They give you a grunt of acknowledgement.
<You did good, kid. If you're drinking in this side of town, ask around for Yonder.>
With that, you take your leave, as Dial begins to interview Yonder about the fight.
Outside the embassy, you run into Clatterer again.
"The fire's out, Dial's safe and the Cicada's dead," you explain.
"Oh. Well, that's less of a headache than might it have been. Reckless of you to run in, but there can be no argumentation with the visible results. Here. Stay lucky and in addition stay hungry."
They toss you a small bundle before ascending the stairs, their collection of charms and bones earning them their name.
You find an inconspicuous wall to lean against while you tabulate your spoils. +1 Black-Enameled Key! You can scent it back to the lock it's supposed to open. +200 Astrels! Money! Gleaming bone steel coins stamped with stars and towers. +1 Tooth Knife! A knife made from a single enormous tooth, blade the length of your hand and handle wrapped in sinew. Smells dangerous.
You've completed your first job from Dial, and reaped at least some of the rewards, as well as poked your face into a handful of new opportunities. Feels good! Your very next act is going to be to retrieve Shelev and send her in, and after that you'll follow the key. Luck willing it'll be a place to sleep. After that...
[ ] Go looking for the Scab Palace.
[ ] Pick up some extra jobs before looking for the Palace.
[ ] Explore the city before getting yourself into any new business.
"I hadn't thought any of you bold enough to attempt to strike me directly at a center of my power, but of course I might have expected such impatience from a Cicada--after all, you couldn't bear to wait for Xhaal and Damalu's gifts to come to fruition, could you? No, you turned to infernal devices, adulterating your sacred flesh for the sake of immediate power. Even under that smog and steel, I taste the distinct flavor of Rhakui's influence on you."
Checked who Rhakui is, and I'm still not terribly sure. Seems to be their least-favorite abusively-symbiotic deity?
My immediate thought, though, was "what about 13th treatments that want to keep going?" Granted, it's possible that Vesakh priests have an actual monopoly on Ves, and won't let people reach the higher treatments if they aren't sufficiently scornful of cyberization, but I still wonder.
So I had been thinking she had disintegrator breath, but now I'm guessing nanites. Something like that, anyway. TK-sandblasting? Actual moth summons? If it's that last one, it'd be focused on the "moth doth corrupt" theme more than the "giant insect monster with poison powder" one, I imagine - which is cool, and I wish I'd thought of it.
(Incidentally, because I'm pretty sure I forgot to mention it when you covered the Oriza: it's cool to see someone else had the idea for a humanoid species with dart-hair. I'm not sure if yours was based on the myth of porcupines firing their quills, Lindsay from Kevin and Kell, or the wikipedia page for Sonic the Hedgehog followed by the page for anthropomorphization, but I think it's neat.
Are they based on anything else in particular? "The Cleric race", possibly? I'm fairly certain the Locusts are the Barbarians - and the Rogues - and props for how you've portrayed that, by the way.)
As it soars, she makes a brisk gesture with that hand, conjuring a cloth pouch with a black-enameled key tied to the securing string. She tosses it to you before the chunk of armor lands with a clack securely in her hand.
Inventory magic! Is that a known spell, or is it probably an aspect of Dial's magic? Given her full-name, I'm almost wondering if her powers are to do with timefreeze/send-this-into-the-future and rapid aging, more than pocket dimensions and portal cuts.
+1 Black-Enameled Key! You can scent it back to the lock it's supposed to open. +200 Astrels! Money! Gleaming bone steel coins stamped with stars and towers. +1 Tooth Knife! A knife made from a single enormous tooth, blade the length of your hand and handle wrapped in sinew. Smells dangerous.
The Tooth Knife was your prize from Clatterer, who would have shown up along with a couple more guards if you had chosen the other backup option.
Confirming any of your delightful speculation on Dial's true abilities would be spoilers but you're definitely in a good place
The Oriza evolved from a number of sources, almost none of which you mentioned
I just like quills as a design element, something that hails back to the Chaos Weaver assets from Dragonfable, and the porcupine thing factored into them being able to use said quills as crude tools and weapons.
And, despite them evolving from my design for orcs, if you had to map them to any cultural stereotype group from the Dungeons and Dumbledores milieu I'd say dwarves fit closer.
Tucking your prizes away safely, you hurry back to Loupe's hideout, hoping you didn't make a mistake by sending Shelev there. The door opens up again at your touch, and you duck into the dim interior to see Shelev, smelling terrified and sitting stock-still across from Loupe, hands locked in a whiteknuckled grip around a cup of tea. The Augur, looking none the worse for wear from their self-disemboweling, fixes you with their six-eyed gaze.
"Spirebaby Grail! What a treat to see you again so soon. This delightful young Erzan says you sent her here to keep her safe from the debacle above. What a grand and intoxicating trust in me you've displayed to send her here!"
You nod to Shelev, who extremely carefully makes it back to your side.
"Your generosity is appreciated, Loupe. I apologize for dropping in before retrieving your item, but nob--but we didn't expect a Cicada attack."
They wave a hand airily.
"Think nothing of it, Grail, but I'd ask of you a slight addendum to your quest, to account for my hospitality."
You don't visibly tense, but you're suddenly filled with worry.
"Of course."
"When you infiltrate the Palace and Mock Vey's chambers...make a mess, will you? Take from them whatever you like and can get away with, only ensure the bird, whole and unharmed, makes its way to me before the Confirmation."
Oh, that's not much of an imposition at all. You show your relief no more than you showed your intention.
"It'll be done. May we take our leave now?"
"Oh, do run along, spirebaby and her friend. I'll see you... quite soon, I think. Watch your step," they address Shelev. "It's been quite... muddy, as of late."
Once you're out on the street again, Shelev lets out an enormous sigh of relief.
"Gods below, that was terrifying. Thanks, I guess?"
You pretend like you weren't just as worried.
"Someone as canny as Loupe wouldn't damage the business deal we already had going. It was the best option I had. This whole business was... glad we got out alive, is all. Anyway, Dial wants to see you now, and the guards will let you through. It's like I said--she'll look out for you as long as business is good, and you can renegotiate, I guess? That's not my business."
She nods, visibly steeling herself.
"I guess I'll go see her, then... just go up there and ask for Dial?"
You nod, giving her your idea of a reassuring smile.
"Yep! Don't worry, you'll be fine."
Her answering smile is much more strained.
"I better be."
You leave Shelev behind to track the key to its assigned lock. The trail leads you deeper into "Little Vespergren," until the winding and vertiginous streets even out into a flatter, cleaner, less cramped chunk of the area. The lock holds shut a door on the twelfth floor of a grey-stone-and-wood tenement block within sight of the Embassy, which opens upon a small, cramped set of rooms with a view of Little Vespergren and the edge of the Pillar's shore, buildings blocking the rest of the city. There's a cot, a tiny stove, an area given over for a pile, some cabinets, a cold-box, a dry lamp. It's dimly-lit, grimy, high up and cramped.
It's perfect.
You lock the door behind you, moving some debris to block it, and spend a little time setting up some tripwires and traps, using your miscellaneous tools, around the window, door, and any parts of the ceiling or roof that look weak and accessible, before taking off your coat and curling up underneath it on the cot for a few hours' sleep.
You dream of dark water, a cave of silver, and a moving hole in the air you just know is the Walking Wound Loupe prophesied. Everything collapses into a giant maze of wet, red walls, like living muscle, your sleeping-brain's idea of the Scab Palace, and bells ring through the halls before you wake up. That bodes well.
You leave the tenement block after checking to sure everything is in order, gun at your side and fully loaded, billhook across your back, snacks eaten and spurs honed, the coins from your reward stashed in several locations across your gear.
Time to find the Scab Palace.
Grayish gloom fills the air outside the tenement, cold barely-lit mist lining the streets like muffling cloth in a bag of coins. It's sometime just before dawn, the sun not having made it above even the outer horizon, let alone the lip of the hole in the cavern ceiling. You've always found yourself comfortable in the hours of two lights no matter which end of the night they're at, so that's perfectly fine by your standards. You take a deep breath of chill, damp air and smile, before setting off at a light half-run, your footsteps clicking against the wet cobbles. You may have little idea of where the Scab Palace may be found, but there's always something interesting to be found when you get yourself lost with a goal in mind. It's carried you this far, and has yet to convince you it's not a working strategy for getting you what you want. You're a Vespergrenite, after all! Urban navigation and hunting, among other things, run in your blood.
The Fog wouldn't let you down.
You move through the streets until you find sufficiently high ground from which to get a clear look at the city. From here you can see this part of the Rise, the island of Irontown, and another island that continues up to the surface like a set of stairs, all in a sleepy predawn state, relatively quiet and still. You hop down and, remembering the crude map from the station on Irontown, start heading for...
[ ] The shore and docks, to explore the islands you've visited already.
[ ] The edge of the Rise, to better explore it and the Lodgepole.
[ ] Diemen's Steps, the staircase island.
[ ] Little Sister.
[ ] Not Much Sink.
[ ] Halfbright.
[ ] The surface.
On your way out of "Little Vespergren," you notice a few things in the residential area surrounding the little slice of home. Notable along the streets are several storefronts, only their signs telling you anything about them: A coffeehouse called the Red Heron, a bakery next to a butcher, and a little kiosk of some kind calling itself a newsstand. These'll come in handy for later, in all likelihood, given that this is where you live for now, and you haven't eaten in hours, so you decide to avail yourself of what's so graciously accessible to you now and satisfy your appetites for both food and information.
You observe each location for a little bit before stepping forward, watching people buy and sell, ensuring you know what it means to make a purchase from a small store like this, before sliding a few coins from sleeve into palm and going to stimulate the economy. -2 Astrels (New Total 198)
+3 Crescents, 8 Bits (New Total 3, 8)
+1 Onion Bialy
+1 Chunk of Salt Pork
+1 Chunk of Salt Fish
+1 Cup of Chelqathi-Style Coffee
There are a lot of different 'newspapers' at the newsstand, and they appear to be written versions of a crier or message squawk, a printed sheet bearing information about recent events in the city and the world at large. A few of them stand out to you, and at a crescent apiece you've got your choice of:
(Choose as many as you'd like)
[ ] The Qoman Bulletin, a local newspaper. Headline: LONGWINTER BOMBER STRIKES AGAIN! A picture of a destroyed building.
[ ] The Common Sun, a local newspaper. Headline: RAIDERS RAIDED? A picture of the burning Vespergrenite Embassy.
[ ] The New Leviathan, provenance unknown. Headline: SABER RATTLING IN THE EAST. A map of the area.
[ ] The Certain Sure, from Pandemonium. Headline: MOLOCH ROLLS OFF LINES. An image of a ferocious-looking horned war machine behind a smiling devil.
[ ] The Bone Echo, from the nation of Nashax. Headline: CONTINENT A POWDER KEG? An exaggerated drawing of a burly, stupid-looking Erzan shaking a spear at a hideous Locust holding a bag of money.
[ ] The Obsidian Herald, from the city of Mhar Zirax, capital of the Erzan-and-Oriza Confederacy. Headline: RUMORS OF WAR? A picture of two guns crossed behind the profile of a generic Vesakh with a question mark superimposed over it all.
[ ] Nothing.
You take some time to eat your breakfast before continuing on to your destination. A passerby looks horrified to see you gulp and chew like that, but whatever, it was delicious, and now your stomach doesn't howl quite so bad! Win-win.
Now, to business.
[x] Diemen's Steps, the staircase island.
[x] The Common Sun, a local newspaper. Headline: RAIDERS RAIDED? A picture of the burning Vespergrenite Embassy.
We are no raiders. We are respectable privateers.
But yes, I wonder what they write about the incident.
[x] The Certain Sure, from Pandemonium. Headline: MOLOCH ROLLS OFF LINES. An image of a ferocious-looking horned war machine behind a smiling devil.
An interest in war machinery is always warranted because chances are, one time we will find ourselves on the business end of it.
[X] The Qoman Bulletin, a local newspaper. Headline: LONGWINTER BOMBER STRIKES AGAIN! A picture of a destroyed building.
[X] The Common Sun, a local newspaper. Headline: RAIDERS RAIDED? A picture of the burning Vespergrenite Embassy.
[X] The Bone Echo, from the nation of Nashax. Headline: CONTINENT A POWDER KEG? An exaggerated drawing of a burly, stupid-looking Erzan shaking a spear at a hideous Locust holding a bag of money.
[X] The Obsidian Herald, from the city of Mhar Zirax, capital of the Erzan-and-Oriza Confederacy. Headline: RUMORS OF WAR? A picture of two guns crossed behind the profile of a generic Vesakh with a question mark superimposed over it all.
Local news is always interresting. And we ought to know if the tension between the Erzan and Vesakh ratchet up .
You've got some plot hooks buried in the backmatter, but your only ticking clock is the Scab Palace, which must be raided in one quest week's time, by the Confirmation of the Brass Saint.
