A space-fantasy quest about an out-of-his-depth artist dragged onto a quest by a party of Chosen heroes!
Voidwalkers' Ballad: A Trashy Space Fantasy Quest
- Thread starter Ajey Pandey
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User Total Ajey Pandey 22
Voidwalker's Ballad Introduction
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hi, folks!
I'm Ajey, and I'm a game designer and play-by-post game master.
I'm now trying my hand at writing a play-by-post quest, because that sounds like writing a serial novel with a small, lightly clamoring audience, so that I can literally Give The People What They Want.
The World:
This quest will take place in the Jharavi Spiral, the space-fantasy setting of a BOLT RPG hack I wrote called Divinity in the Void. You don't need to buy that supplement to understand the setting, since I didn't write much lore for it!
In terms of style, it's influenced largely by Star Wars, but especially the part where everything is ancient and space magic gets weird. There's also flickers of Kill Six Billion Demons (especially the quasi-Hindu stylings of that world) and the filk music (that's...sci-fi folk) album of Carmen Miranda's Ghost. It's my chance to write a space fantasy setting that's less about fighting empires and exploring ""uninhabited"" worlds, and more about running into weird people, weird food, weird art, and weird shit, period.
Also, it's a vision of space not put together by some straight white dude.
The Pitch:
You are Mirin Jyenar, a poet and (relatively) regular person in the Spiral, who gets dragged into an epic quest with a smuggler ship's worth of Chosen heroes--that is, people literally chosen by space gods for a Great and Largely Unspecified Destiny and gifted spacetime-warping powers to do so.
Mirin is...not Chosen. He's just along for the ride. The horrible, terrifying ride. But, he's surrounded by absolute badasses here to Change the Galaxy! They're all incredibly hot, and also far too occupied with more important things than a stable relationship with Mirin.
I don't know how spicy I want the romance to get. We'll play it by ear. But by the ear of a disaster bisexual moved by thirst--like me!
The Ruleset
This is going to run off a simplified version of the Notepad RPG system I wrote. That system is primarily written for play-by-post mystery games, but it'll work pretty well for a choose-your-own-adventure novel. Basically, Mirin's "character sheet" (as well as the character sheets of supporting characters) will be a list of Skills, Domains (of Expertise), Gear, Givens, and Complications. Those traits will roughly key into what a character is "capable of" in an adventuring context. Personality wouldn't really factor into these; these are primarily abilities that characters can invoke to Make A Thing Happen.
Skills: The practical kind. Pistols, starship piloting, poker, rock climbing, hacking, martial arts, fixing up junked technology.
Languages: This isn't in Notepad, but language diversity matters in the Jharavi Spiral.
Domains: Of expertise. If a character invokes a Domain, it means they just know something--or at least where to go to get a piece of information. Starship engineering. Religious traditions of the Arayi. Architecture of Qiffar cultures. Military tactics. Matamika culinary arts.
Gear: In particular the interesting gear that would come up in an adventuring context. Rope, money, and food are assumed (unless it's important that such equipment is missing). Advanced scanning gear. A well-maintained pistol. A light freighter starship. A set of hacking scripts on a datacard set. A well-stocked field medic kit.
Givens: These are things one can safely assume about a character, at least in tense situations.
This story is going to start with a flirtatious conversation at a bar that will go hopelessly wrong. But first...we need to finish up Mirin's character sheet. Right now, we're missing:
I'm really excited, folks.
I'm Ajey, and I'm a game designer and play-by-post game master.
I'm now trying my hand at writing a play-by-post quest, because that sounds like writing a serial novel with a small, lightly clamoring audience, so that I can literally Give The People What They Want.
The World:
This quest will take place in the Jharavi Spiral, the space-fantasy setting of a BOLT RPG hack I wrote called Divinity in the Void. You don't need to buy that supplement to understand the setting, since I didn't write much lore for it!
In terms of style, it's influenced largely by Star Wars, but especially the part where everything is ancient and space magic gets weird. There's also flickers of Kill Six Billion Demons (especially the quasi-Hindu stylings of that world) and the filk music (that's...sci-fi folk) album of Carmen Miranda's Ghost. It's my chance to write a space fantasy setting that's less about fighting empires and exploring ""uninhabited"" worlds, and more about running into weird people, weird food, weird art, and weird shit, period.
Also, it's a vision of space not put together by some straight white dude.
It is well-known that space fantasies (a particular franchise comes to mind) are extremely flexible mashups of genre. Within one galaxy, one can consider gunslinger Westerns, fantasy epics, science fiction speculations, war stories of several eras, and more, all with a somewhat unified aesthetic texture. With millions of planets and trillions of lives, any story is possible. This setting document is one such attempt at the meta-genre. Typically, space fantasies have an unfortunate history of using alien species as caricatures of human cultures, and I would like to imagine a galaxy of gunslingers and space wizards that does better by people of color, hence the focus on Automata around the galaxy, as opposed to the details of specific species, within a world where the peculiarities of astrophysics are given holy weight.
Automata
In the most literal sense, all characters are Automata (singular: Automaton)—they move (and decide for) themselves, which is a blessing little other known life has. Legend says Automata were first made by the Undying, the beings of yore, the gods who made the greatest marks on the Spiral, whose ruined enclaves cradled the likes of your home, who still live in small numbers, seemingly immortal. Automata typically appear with bodies and features that play as variations on a single theme.
Eyes, into which one can read their souls.
Mouths, for which those souls can manifest their thoughts.
Hands, for which those thoughts become actions.
For the reader, Automata look, breathe, and act similar to humans. The specific details of an Automaton's physical form are up to interpretation, although the lack of differentiation by way of species is very much intentional.
The Undying
Before they were the gods of the galaxy, they were a civilization of Higher Powers, with the capacities to mold spacetime like un-fired clay. They were for this reason immortal and infinite, although such gifts did not stop them from destroying themselves in an galaxy-wide war for which the scars are still visible as aberrations of reality.
Stars with spikes run through them.
Hollow planets held in place with black holes.
Nebulas granted will, and language.
If it is impossible, it is likely the work of the Undying. Many have names--or at least an approximation thereof. But there are no absolutes in the Jharavi Spiral.
Example names of Undying: Nab'guul, Khzra'gorai, Tell-Dyjara, Eiysia
It is said that Automata were created as fodder for those ancient wars, granted enough autonomy to act on their orders, but no more. Some scholars argue that Automata have since grown as life-forms, beyond the bonds of their constructed nature, but others argue that their current level of free will is still considered "constrained" by the metrics of the Undying. Some Undying still live (while still being dead, that is), as local deities and such. They still speak to Automata—often in cryptic (to Automata) sigils and signals, sometimes as direct connections to the Chosen.
Chosen
For what, is deliberately unclear. Through some fateful encounter with an Undying god, rare Automata have been gifted with the power to warp, shift, and tear the weave of space and time. Whether they use this gift depends on them— they are still Automata, they still have free will. Chosen can hide your unique blessings in casual encounters, but they are special, and fate has already singled them out even if the place they inhabit hasn't yet. Chosen are RPG protagonists by way of divine intervention.
Relatively Common Languages
There are more languages than one could reasonably count in the Spiral. But a fair number are common in the Spiral.
Av'erai: Multicolored consonants, tumbling up a spiral staircase. A language with a thousand faces.
Khezhia: A million-and-five needles weaving an infinite rug. Almost exclusively spoken backwards.
Menuksha: Vowels in a seventeen-piece choir. Everyone speaks it with a foreign accent, especially native speakers.
Viya-Kota: Phonemes gurgling like inquisitive snowmelt. A chimera of languages that have all since died out.
Yeoti: Flame held in formation by wire. Eight of the seventeen most beautiful songs are in this tongue.
There Are No Absolutes
The Jharavi Spiral is home to hundreds of billions of people.
There is no one biome.
No one star system.
No one galactic power.
No one language.
No one culture.
No one religion.
No one history.
No one future.
There are city-planets with buildings towering into the upper atmosphere.
There are temperate planets with a range of biomes from warm to cold to watery to dry.
There are desert-planets and ice-planets and gas-planets with people making homes, seemingly out of spite of the word "uninhabitable."
There are space stations in the void that nevertheless are home to many.
I don't know where this story will go, but I'm going to pull names out of hats, splice phonemes out of nowhere, and make references to aspects of the world that I refuse to explain. The more the world sprawls, the more interesting it gets.
Because the Jharavi Spiral is too big for generalities.
Automata
In the most literal sense, all characters are Automata (singular: Automaton)—they move (and decide for) themselves, which is a blessing little other known life has. Legend says Automata were first made by the Undying, the beings of yore, the gods who made the greatest marks on the Spiral, whose ruined enclaves cradled the likes of your home, who still live in small numbers, seemingly immortal. Automata typically appear with bodies and features that play as variations on a single theme.
Eyes, into which one can read their souls.
Mouths, for which those souls can manifest their thoughts.
Hands, for which those thoughts become actions.
For the reader, Automata look, breathe, and act similar to humans. The specific details of an Automaton's physical form are up to interpretation, although the lack of differentiation by way of species is very much intentional.
The Undying
Before they were the gods of the galaxy, they were a civilization of Higher Powers, with the capacities to mold spacetime like un-fired clay. They were for this reason immortal and infinite, although such gifts did not stop them from destroying themselves in an galaxy-wide war for which the scars are still visible as aberrations of reality.
Stars with spikes run through them.
Hollow planets held in place with black holes.
Nebulas granted will, and language.
If it is impossible, it is likely the work of the Undying. Many have names--or at least an approximation thereof. But there are no absolutes in the Jharavi Spiral.
Example names of Undying: Nab'guul, Khzra'gorai, Tell-Dyjara, Eiysia
It is said that Automata were created as fodder for those ancient wars, granted enough autonomy to act on their orders, but no more. Some scholars argue that Automata have since grown as life-forms, beyond the bonds of their constructed nature, but others argue that their current level of free will is still considered "constrained" by the metrics of the Undying. Some Undying still live (while still being dead, that is), as local deities and such. They still speak to Automata—often in cryptic (to Automata) sigils and signals, sometimes as direct connections to the Chosen.
Chosen
For what, is deliberately unclear. Through some fateful encounter with an Undying god, rare Automata have been gifted with the power to warp, shift, and tear the weave of space and time. Whether they use this gift depends on them— they are still Automata, they still have free will. Chosen can hide your unique blessings in casual encounters, but they are special, and fate has already singled them out even if the place they inhabit hasn't yet. Chosen are RPG protagonists by way of divine intervention.
Relatively Common Languages
There are more languages than one could reasonably count in the Spiral. But a fair number are common in the Spiral.
Av'erai: Multicolored consonants, tumbling up a spiral staircase. A language with a thousand faces.
Khezhia: A million-and-five needles weaving an infinite rug. Almost exclusively spoken backwards.
Menuksha: Vowels in a seventeen-piece choir. Everyone speaks it with a foreign accent, especially native speakers.
Viya-Kota: Phonemes gurgling like inquisitive snowmelt. A chimera of languages that have all since died out.
Yeoti: Flame held in formation by wire. Eight of the seventeen most beautiful songs are in this tongue.
There Are No Absolutes
The Jharavi Spiral is home to hundreds of billions of people.
There is no one biome.
No one star system.
No one galactic power.
No one language.
No one culture.
No one religion.
No one history.
No one future.
There are city-planets with buildings towering into the upper atmosphere.
There are temperate planets with a range of biomes from warm to cold to watery to dry.
There are desert-planets and ice-planets and gas-planets with people making homes, seemingly out of spite of the word "uninhabitable."
There are space stations in the void that nevertheless are home to many.
I don't know where this story will go, but I'm going to pull names out of hats, splice phonemes out of nowhere, and make references to aspects of the world that I refuse to explain. The more the world sprawls, the more interesting it gets.
Because the Jharavi Spiral is too big for generalities.
The Pitch:
You are Mirin Jyenar, a poet and (relatively) regular person in the Spiral, who gets dragged into an epic quest with a smuggler ship's worth of Chosen heroes--that is, people literally chosen by space gods for a Great and Largely Unspecified Destiny and gifted spacetime-warping powers to do so.
Mirin is...not Chosen. He's just along for the ride. The horrible, terrifying ride. But, he's surrounded by absolute badasses here to Change the Galaxy! They're all incredibly hot, and also far too occupied with more important things than a stable relationship with Mirin.
I don't know how spicy I want the romance to get. We'll play it by ear. But by the ear of a disaster bisexual moved by thirst--like me!
Skills:
Domains:
Languages:
- [Poet] Poetry
- [Mini-Painter] Tabletop Wargames (Specifically, Painting the Pieces, Less So the Playing)
Domains:
- [Far Falauches] History of the Far Falauches; contested space since Automata have existed
- [Devotional Architecture] Ancient Devotional Architecture in the Spinward Reaches
Languages:
- Norte (Native tongue, specific to Mirin's homeworld)
- Cana'siin (Deftness of a poet, Common in this sector)
- Av'erai (Enough to get by, Common)
- [Easy Demeanor] I'm a disarming presence whom people find easy to talk to.
- [Not an Adventurer] I am not cut out for adventuring.
- [Disaster Bi] I am a disaster bisexual who will crush on just about everyone.
- Relby & Daviid R-5 "Suggestion" [Electroshock, Point-Blank, Less-Lethal, Untrained]
Skills:
- [Gunslinger] Gunslinging
- [Hot-Rodder] Hotrodding starships
- [Hotshot Pilot] Flying said starships like he stole 'em
- [Barfly] Fancy cocktails
- [Gun Nut] Handguns
- [Flash-Forward] A sense of what will happen, a few seconds in advance.
- From a statue who turned to Hascha, telling him to prepare strength for a heroic journey to come.
- Cana'siin (Fluent, Common in this sector)
- Av'erai (Native, Common)
- Menuksha (Enough to Get By, Common)
- [Fast Shot] I always shoot first.
- [Easy-Peasy] I make it look easy.
- [Heartbreaker] I can break hearts with a wink and a smile.
- [Wandering Aim] I don't shoot straight--and that's not (just) an innuendo.
- [Don't Worry About It] I'll tell you everything is fine, regardless of whether it is
- Starship: Double Dog Dare [Fast, Custom, Overpowered]
- Hip Pistol: Relby & Daviid R-9 "Truce Breaker" [Hair-Trigger, Modified, Beautiful]
- Jacket Pistol: Dieter-Asahara "Introduction" [Concealed, Pocket]
Skills:
- [Diplomat] Diplomacy (Plan A)
- [Brawler] Arm Breakin' (Plan B)
- [Painter] Landscape Painting
- [Underworld] Underworld economics
- [Qin'taari Arts] Qin'taari visual arts
- [32 Eyes] Portable eyes that can leave behind anywhere.
- From a constellation-god whose name Chiera does not know and who has scarcely spoken to her since it granted Chiera this gift.
- Cana'siin (Fluent, Common in this sector)
- Av'erai (Fluent, Common)
- Menuksha (Enough to Get By, Common)
- Asa-Xiumi (Native, Homeworld)
- [Strong Like Bear] I'm an ex-athletic powerlifter.
- [Photographic] I have a sharp memory.
- [Cool Head] I am supremely unflappable.
- [No Scrubs] I don't suffer fools.
- [Heights??] I'm afraid of heights.
The Ruleset
This is going to run off a simplified version of the Notepad RPG system I wrote. That system is primarily written for play-by-post mystery games, but it'll work pretty well for a choose-your-own-adventure novel. Basically, Mirin's "character sheet" (as well as the character sheets of supporting characters) will be a list of Skills, Domains (of Expertise), Gear, Givens, and Complications. Those traits will roughly key into what a character is "capable of" in an adventuring context. Personality wouldn't really factor into these; these are primarily abilities that characters can invoke to Make A Thing Happen.
Skills: The practical kind. Pistols, starship piloting, poker, rock climbing, hacking, martial arts, fixing up junked technology.
Languages: This isn't in Notepad, but language diversity matters in the Jharavi Spiral.
Domains: Of expertise. If a character invokes a Domain, it means they just know something--or at least where to go to get a piece of information. Starship engineering. Religious traditions of the Arayi. Architecture of Qiffar cultures. Military tactics. Matamika culinary arts.
Gear: In particular the interesting gear that would come up in an adventuring context. Rope, money, and food are assumed (unless it's important that such equipment is missing). Advanced scanning gear. A well-maintained pistol. A light freighter starship. A set of hacking scripts on a datacard set. A well-stocked field medic kit.
Givens: These are things one can safely assume about a character, at least in tense situations.
- I'm the best archer in the Kingdom of Mist.
- I win every game of chance.
- I fly anything quickly.
- I'm a trained soldier.
- I'm hopelessly gullible.
- I am a Knight of the Arista System, and I need to act the part at all times.
- I have a family waiting for me back home.
- I have student loans up to my neck and no good way to pay them back.
This story is going to start with a flirtatious conversation at a bar that will go hopelessly wrong. But first...we need to finish up Mirin's character sheet. Right now, we're missing:
- One more Skill. Preferably something more artsy and foppish than anything useful in an RPG.
- Two Domains. Something related to history, architecture, or songwriting of some random system or ancient culture. Think of what you'd want to get a lot of worldbuilding attention.
- Two Common Languages. One that Mirin's a literal poet in, another that he knows a little of.
I'm really excited, folks.
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1-1: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Painting Wargame Minis
[X] The History of Far Falauches - the most contested system in the Spinward Reaches
[X] The Architecture of the Undying (such as it is)
[X] Language: Canasian
[X] Language: Norte
Thanks, @DragonCobolt! I'll tweak things a bit, but here's Mirin's character sheet!
1. Where the Story Goes Sideways.
Location: Ghimadala's Tavern, City of Izuraa
Planet: Thrieva Noru ; Thrieva System ; on the outskirts of the Cana system. Home.
Your story doesn't start in Ghimadala's Tavern--that would be rather presumptuous of a storyteller to claim.
But it certainly goes sideways here...
In fairness, Izuraa isn't your home city; it's several hours away by shuttle, but still. On a planet of 300 million, you can't have that much of a change of atmosphere from Yu-Kezaahi. It's still Thrieva Noru. Still a kinda-cold world that's only truly inhabitable near the equator, known mostly for its forestry and woodworking, as if an entire world could be reduced to a single industry.
Anyway, Ghimadala's Tavern is a Jeranian-themed bar, with its suncatcher lights crisscrossing the ceiling, its imported carradium barstools, and its specialty whiskey (jokingly dubbed "bomb juice" for its extreme potency). You're not sure why anyone from Jerania would come here, but...well, you've tried the specialty whisky at a place back home, and it's too much. You puked pretty badly; it was not pretty.
You order a regular ale.
As the barkeep pours, you ask her, "So what's up in Izuraa?"
She sighs. "Same old, same old. Economy's on the fritz. A bunch of markets are freaking out, since the Nabjiin are moving on another system...what's it called..."
"Matamika?" You suggest. You know about about the Matamika Sector; there's a lot of ancient architecture out there. You've heard it's quite beautiful.
"Yes!" the barkeep says. "That's the one. You'd think they'd decide they have enough cash, but nope."
"It might be more a doctrine thing at this point?" You say. "Typically, if an empire has enough resources, they keep expanding out of a broader sense of, 'our presence will make the Spiral stronger.'"
"Uh-huh." The barkeep wasn't listening anymore. Shit, you'd talked too long.
"Anyway, uh..." You try to course-correct, tongue flailing. "Thanks, for the drink."
"My pleasure," the barkeep says, as if it really was her pleasure.
As the barkeep pours your drink, the figure to your right catches your eye.
A smuggler type, with a sturdy leather jacket. His shining black hair floats down the back of his head and around his ears in effortless waves, and his angular jaw is emphasized by a light stubble. He seems to be contemplating a swirling green liquor in his tumbler, gloved hand on his chin.
Something...glimmers about him.
[ ] "Hey, there."
[ ] "Come here often?"
[ ] [Hold out your hand] "I'm Mirin. Nice to meet you."
[ ] "Do you know anything about this place?"
[ ] "Did you know you're really hot?"
[ ] [Lie] "Have I met you somewhere?"
[ ] [Stare until someone comments]
[ ] Write in!
These above options are things that (I think) would occur to Mirin to say. Vote on what you want to happen, and I'll make it happen. However, I'll probably make things more chaotic and dramatic, regardless of what Mirin does--what matters is what KIND of chaos happens. You're always free to write in new ideas, though, especially if they key off Skills, Domains, Givens, and Complications!
[X] The History of Far Falauches - the most contested system in the Spinward Reaches
[X] The Architecture of the Undying (such as it is)
[X] Language: Canasian
[X] Language: Norte
Thanks, @DragonCobolt! I'll tweak things a bit, but here's Mirin's character sheet!
Mirin Jyenar (he/him)
Skills (x2):
Domains (x2):
Languages (x3):
Skills (x2):
- Poetry
- Tabletop Wargames (Specifically, Painting the Pieces, Less So the Playing)
Domains (x2):
- History of the Far Falauches; contested space since Automata have existed
- Ancient Devotional Architecture in the Spinward Reaches
Languages (x3):
- Norte (Native tongue, specific to Mirin's homeworld)
- Cana'siin (Deftness of a poet, Common in this sector)
- Av'erai (Enough to get by, Common)
- I'm a disarming presence whom people find easy to talk to.
- I am not cut out for adventuring.
- I am a disaster bisexual who will crush on just about everyone.
1. Where the Story Goes Sideways.
Location: Ghimadala's Tavern, City of Izuraa
Planet: Thrieva Noru ; Thrieva System ; on the outskirts of the Cana system. Home.
Your story doesn't start in Ghimadala's Tavern--that would be rather presumptuous of a storyteller to claim.
But it certainly goes sideways here...
In fairness, Izuraa isn't your home city; it's several hours away by shuttle, but still. On a planet of 300 million, you can't have that much of a change of atmosphere from Yu-Kezaahi. It's still Thrieva Noru. Still a kinda-cold world that's only truly inhabitable near the equator, known mostly for its forestry and woodworking, as if an entire world could be reduced to a single industry.
Anyway, Ghimadala's Tavern is a Jeranian-themed bar, with its suncatcher lights crisscrossing the ceiling, its imported carradium barstools, and its specialty whiskey (jokingly dubbed "bomb juice" for its extreme potency). You're not sure why anyone from Jerania would come here, but...well, you've tried the specialty whisky at a place back home, and it's too much. You puked pretty badly; it was not pretty.
You order a regular ale.
As the barkeep pours, you ask her, "So what's up in Izuraa?"
She sighs. "Same old, same old. Economy's on the fritz. A bunch of markets are freaking out, since the Nabjiin are moving on another system...what's it called..."
"Matamika?" You suggest. You know about about the Matamika Sector; there's a lot of ancient architecture out there. You've heard it's quite beautiful.
"Yes!" the barkeep says. "That's the one. You'd think they'd decide they have enough cash, but nope."
"It might be more a doctrine thing at this point?" You say. "Typically, if an empire has enough resources, they keep expanding out of a broader sense of, 'our presence will make the Spiral stronger.'"
"Uh-huh." The barkeep wasn't listening anymore. Shit, you'd talked too long.
"Anyway, uh..." You try to course-correct, tongue flailing. "Thanks, for the drink."
"My pleasure," the barkeep says, as if it really was her pleasure.
As the barkeep pours your drink, the figure to your right catches your eye.
A smuggler type, with a sturdy leather jacket. His shining black hair floats down the back of his head and around his ears in effortless waves, and his angular jaw is emphasized by a light stubble. He seems to be contemplating a swirling green liquor in his tumbler, gloved hand on his chin.
Something...glimmers about him.
[ ] "Hey, there."
[ ] "Come here often?"
[ ] [Hold out your hand] "I'm Mirin. Nice to meet you."
[ ] "Do you know anything about this place?"
[ ] "Did you know you're really hot?"
[ ] [Lie] "Have I met you somewhere?"
[ ] [Stare until someone comments]
[ ] Write in!
These above options are things that (I think) would occur to Mirin to say. Vote on what you want to happen, and I'll make it happen. However, I'll probably make things more chaotic and dramatic, regardless of what Mirin does--what matters is what KIND of chaos happens. You're always free to write in new ideas, though, especially if they key off Skills, Domains, Givens, and Complications!
Last edited:
1-2: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Come here often?"
[X] [Hold out your hand] "I'm Mirin. Nice to meet you."
Let's merge these two...
Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, Mirin...!
You spend an uncomfortably long time, first accustoming your eyes to the presence of someone so beautiful, then to working up the courage to say...well, anything. And the whole time, this stranger continues to ruminate over his drink, as if asking whether it had a piece of the barkeep's soul distilled into it.
And after quelling a rebellious vow of silence in your throat, you choke out:
"Uh...come here often?"
The stranger turns to you, and you forget your name as you see the stars in his eyes, as flecks of iridescent purples and greens in his void-black irises.
"Come again?" he says.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...
"Oh!" you manage, "uh...yeah."
You hold out a hand, your face burning from the embarrassment. "I'm--" Remember your name, you fool! "--Mirin. It's good to meet you. Do you come here often?"
The stranger smiles, his slightly crooked teeth bringing a ringing light to the slightly-too-dim bar. "Nah, I'm pretty new 'round here."
He shakes your hand. "I'm Hascha."
By the immortals, that's a really firm handshake...!
You manage to sputter, "Nice to meet you," and let go of his hand before it got even more awkward.
Hascha says, "How 'bout you? You a regular?"
"No," you say. "I'm...from this planet, though. Just from a different city. I just thought I'd take some time to travel, see some new places, get out of Yu-Kezaahi for once."
"A fellow wanderer," Hascha says with a gleam in his eye, "'Preciate the company. What'cha looking for, out away from home?"
"Um..." Well, telling him you had a mental breakdown and needed to get away from life is probably not a great way to introduce yourself. "I'm a poet. Figured I'd start writing a book, and, well, it's a cliché that the best poetry comes from travel. Y'know, see the Spiral, wander around, do some odd jobs here and there, learn stuff about worlds you don't know."
"Poetry..." Hascha looks actually interested. Seems like a good sign... "I'll be flat with you, I ain't an artsy type, so pardon me if I ask some silly questions."
"For a writer, there are no silly questions," you say.
Hascha chuckles. "Try this one for size: What...is...poetry? Is it just gotta rhyme?"
You know what, if he wasn't so pretty, you probably wouldn't have entertained that question.
[ ] "...Okay, that is a silly question."
[ ] "That's actually a really hard question."
[ ] "This might take a bit to explain, let me buy you a drink."
[ ] "Buy me a drink, and I'll tell you all about it."
---[ ] [Try to wink as well]
[X] [Hold out your hand] "I'm Mirin. Nice to meet you."
Let's merge these two...
Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, Mirin...!
You spend an uncomfortably long time, first accustoming your eyes to the presence of someone so beautiful, then to working up the courage to say...well, anything. And the whole time, this stranger continues to ruminate over his drink, as if asking whether it had a piece of the barkeep's soul distilled into it.
And after quelling a rebellious vow of silence in your throat, you choke out:
"Uh...come here often?"
The stranger turns to you, and you forget your name as you see the stars in his eyes, as flecks of iridescent purples and greens in his void-black irises.
"Come again?" he says.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...
"Oh!" you manage, "uh...yeah."
You hold out a hand, your face burning from the embarrassment. "I'm--" Remember your name, you fool! "--Mirin. It's good to meet you. Do you come here often?"
The stranger smiles, his slightly crooked teeth bringing a ringing light to the slightly-too-dim bar. "Nah, I'm pretty new 'round here."
He shakes your hand. "I'm Hascha."
By the immortals, that's a really firm handshake...!
You manage to sputter, "Nice to meet you," and let go of his hand before it got even more awkward.
Hascha says, "How 'bout you? You a regular?"
"No," you say. "I'm...from this planet, though. Just from a different city. I just thought I'd take some time to travel, see some new places, get out of Yu-Kezaahi for once."
"A fellow wanderer," Hascha says with a gleam in his eye, "'Preciate the company. What'cha looking for, out away from home?"
"Um..." Well, telling him you had a mental breakdown and needed to get away from life is probably not a great way to introduce yourself. "I'm a poet. Figured I'd start writing a book, and, well, it's a cliché that the best poetry comes from travel. Y'know, see the Spiral, wander around, do some odd jobs here and there, learn stuff about worlds you don't know."
"Poetry..." Hascha looks actually interested. Seems like a good sign... "I'll be flat with you, I ain't an artsy type, so pardon me if I ask some silly questions."
"For a writer, there are no silly questions," you say.
Hascha chuckles. "Try this one for size: What...is...poetry? Is it just gotta rhyme?"
You know what, if he wasn't so pretty, you probably wouldn't have entertained that question.
[ ] "...Okay, that is a silly question."
[ ] "That's actually a really hard question."
[ ] "This might take a bit to explain, let me buy you a drink."
[ ] "Buy me a drink, and I'll tell you all about it."
---[ ] [Try to wink as well]
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1-3: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "This might take a bit to explain, let me buy you a drink."
Don't worry, I won't ALWAYS update this quest so quickly; it's just the weekend and I'm having an urge to write trashy romance. Things will slow down enough for folks to vote once I have to...hhhhhhhhh go to work...
------
You smile. "So...funny you ask that, it's actually a lot more than the rhyme! This...okay, this might take a bit to explain."
Do it do it do it do it...
"Could I..." you say, "Buy your next drink?"
Hascha smirks, and you feel your heart rush at the base of your neck. "I'll never refuse a drink," he says.
The barkeep leans on the other side of the table and asks, "So what'll it be, then?"
"I'll take a Mennaran Pipe Dream," Hascha says with a snapped finger pistol, "Don't be shy with the accelerant."
The barkeep grins and serves Hascha a wide glass half-filled with a liquid coursing like magma, wreathed in a flame that--judging from how Hascha nonchalantly sips it--is cool to the touch. Where did he hear of this?
"So..." Hascha says, waving for you to continue, as if you could take your eyes off him enough to remember what poetry was.
You try to gather your thoughts, then you say, "Well...poetry in a nutshell is about taking a language--any language will do--and trying to stretch it in interesting ways to pull extra layers of meaning. So rhyme is part of it, patterning long and short vowels is part of it, setting a rhythm is part of it, even how you write poetry on the page is part of it. It's like trying to make a painting, but instead of paints and brushes, you're working with the way words roll in your mouth, how they look on the page, and all the little sub-meanings attached to words and phrases."
"Like..." You wave your hands, looking for the right words. "You know how sometimes people say a particular name or phrase 'has a ring to it?' It's that, but except the entire poem has a ring to it."
Hascha nods. "I'm listenin'." He's looking at you, shit shit shit shit...
"Like...uh...um...how about I give an example? There's this Av'erai song that's pretty good, even if I'm not great with the language--"
"Hold up," Hascha says, "Songs count as poetry?"
You nod. "They do! It's not just fancy people saying words on a silent stage--although it is also that."
You pull yourself back on track. "Like there's this one verse in the song, it depends on the beat to really work, so I'll tap it out..."
You tap out a steady march on the bar and recite--by the immortals, you don't sing--this song you once heard on a holoplayer back home.
Go tell that long tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter
Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down
Tell 'em that God's gonna--cut 'em down
You say, "So the rhyming isn't all that complicated--and it's not exact, either, because whether words rhyme also depends on your accent a bit. But the real magic of that verse is in the rhythm. It's keying off that steady beat underneath it, but instead of following it rigidly, it's skipping over it and advancing on off-beats, like the outlaws and whatnot who are not following a moral path--that's the steady beat: the moral path, according to whoever wrote the song. And the line about the rambler and gambler, it rolls a bit, a bit like the gait of this riding animal in a lot of Av'erai-speaking worlds--I think they ride that animal to cross difficult terrain at speed. Then, we get to the last two lines, which actually follow the beat, because that's when this god's judgement comes down for the outlaws the writer is talking about. It's repeated for effect, but the second time around, there's a pause before the word 'cut.' Partially it's there to keep the rhythm interesting, partially because it means that that steady marching beat gets to land before the word 'cut' instead of on the word--like a guillotine or something comes down before the words, 'cut 'em down.'"
You can't read Hascha's expression. Interest? Boredom? Feigned boredom?
"Huh..." he says. "I've heard that song before, and I never really thought of that...You got a spark in you, friend. I like it."
Oh no, he likes you. Change the subject!
"...Thanks!" you force out, almost certainly blushing like a lunar eclipse. "Uh...so what brings you to Izuraa?"
Hascha nods. "I've been striking out on my own. I got a ship, I got a co-pilot, and I got a gig. Cheira's handling the cargo, so I'm takin' a load off, seeing the sights. Might start expanding the crew a bit, too, since the Dare is bit too big for two to manage."
"What kind of cargo?" You ask, probably unwisely.
Hascha's eyes sparkle with mischief. "The kind where I didn't ask too many questions."
Okay, so the scoundrel getup isn't a mere aesthetic; he's the real deal.
At this point you recognize the gun--a plasma pistol holstered at his hip, with a filigreed wood handle and a stainless steel finish on the back. In fact, you're so lost in a swirling mess of fear and anticipation and admiration that you fail to realize that you're surrounded.
Three goons, each easily a foot taller and wider than you, loom over you and Hascha, each carrying rusty-looking iron pipes.
"Do you understand why we are here?" One of them asks.
Hascha winks at you and whispers, "I got this," before speaking to the lead goon. "I don't believe we've met. Lemme guess...Dorne sent you?"
"That is correct," the goon says, "and if I am not mistaken, my employer is still owed payment for the havoc you wrecked on his property."
Hascha sucks at his teeth. "...Yeahhh, listen, I did apologize, and I told him who started the mess. So why don't you tell Dorne to take up with the Black Dow crew?"
"You are correct," the goon snaps back, "Save for the suggestion that we address the other gang--because that matter has already been handled."
Hascha--just for a moment--seems at a loss for words. "Well...I could tell you I'm one gig away from making it up your boss-man, buuut you've heard that before, haven't you?"
The goon's face hardens from steel to stone. "I have no sympathy for--"
He is interrupted by a shot to the leg, and crumples to the ground. For a moment, everyone stands still: the two remaining goons still holding their weapons, the barkeep halfway through polishing a glass, and Hascha, pointing his pistol from his hip.
Hascha takes the liberty of finishing his drink with a final swig.
[ ] "Listen, I'm not involved here..."
[ ] [Hold out wallet] "Will this help?"
[ ] [Ask the barkeep for advice]
[ ] [Ask Hascha for advice]
[ ] [Stand still and hope nothing bad happens]
[ ] [Run]
--- [ ] [Throw your drink at one of them first]
Don't worry, I won't ALWAYS update this quest so quickly; it's just the weekend and I'm having an urge to write trashy romance. Things will slow down enough for folks to vote once I have to...hhhhhhhhh go to work...
------
You smile. "So...funny you ask that, it's actually a lot more than the rhyme! This...okay, this might take a bit to explain."
Do it do it do it do it...
"Could I..." you say, "Buy your next drink?"
Hascha smirks, and you feel your heart rush at the base of your neck. "I'll never refuse a drink," he says.
The barkeep leans on the other side of the table and asks, "So what'll it be, then?"
"I'll take a Mennaran Pipe Dream," Hascha says with a snapped finger pistol, "Don't be shy with the accelerant."
The barkeep grins and serves Hascha a wide glass half-filled with a liquid coursing like magma, wreathed in a flame that--judging from how Hascha nonchalantly sips it--is cool to the touch. Where did he hear of this?
"So..." Hascha says, waving for you to continue, as if you could take your eyes off him enough to remember what poetry was.
You try to gather your thoughts, then you say, "Well...poetry in a nutshell is about taking a language--any language will do--and trying to stretch it in interesting ways to pull extra layers of meaning. So rhyme is part of it, patterning long and short vowels is part of it, setting a rhythm is part of it, even how you write poetry on the page is part of it. It's like trying to make a painting, but instead of paints and brushes, you're working with the way words roll in your mouth, how they look on the page, and all the little sub-meanings attached to words and phrases."
"Like..." You wave your hands, looking for the right words. "You know how sometimes people say a particular name or phrase 'has a ring to it?' It's that, but except the entire poem has a ring to it."
Hascha nods. "I'm listenin'." He's looking at you, shit shit shit shit...
"Like...uh...um...how about I give an example? There's this Av'erai song that's pretty good, even if I'm not great with the language--"
"Hold up," Hascha says, "Songs count as poetry?"
You nod. "They do! It's not just fancy people saying words on a silent stage--although it is also that."
You pull yourself back on track. "Like there's this one verse in the song, it depends on the beat to really work, so I'll tap it out..."
You tap out a steady march on the bar and recite--by the immortals, you don't sing--this song you once heard on a holoplayer back home.
Go tell that long tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter
Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down
Tell 'em that God's gonna--cut 'em down
You say, "So the rhyming isn't all that complicated--and it's not exact, either, because whether words rhyme also depends on your accent a bit. But the real magic of that verse is in the rhythm. It's keying off that steady beat underneath it, but instead of following it rigidly, it's skipping over it and advancing on off-beats, like the outlaws and whatnot who are not following a moral path--that's the steady beat: the moral path, according to whoever wrote the song. And the line about the rambler and gambler, it rolls a bit, a bit like the gait of this riding animal in a lot of Av'erai-speaking worlds--I think they ride that animal to cross difficult terrain at speed. Then, we get to the last two lines, which actually follow the beat, because that's when this god's judgement comes down for the outlaws the writer is talking about. It's repeated for effect, but the second time around, there's a pause before the word 'cut.' Partially it's there to keep the rhythm interesting, partially because it means that that steady marching beat gets to land before the word 'cut' instead of on the word--like a guillotine or something comes down before the words, 'cut 'em down.'"
You can't read Hascha's expression. Interest? Boredom? Feigned boredom?
"Huh..." he says. "I've heard that song before, and I never really thought of that...You got a spark in you, friend. I like it."
Oh no, he likes you. Change the subject!
"...Thanks!" you force out, almost certainly blushing like a lunar eclipse. "Uh...so what brings you to Izuraa?"
Hascha nods. "I've been striking out on my own. I got a ship, I got a co-pilot, and I got a gig. Cheira's handling the cargo, so I'm takin' a load off, seeing the sights. Might start expanding the crew a bit, too, since the Dare is bit too big for two to manage."
"What kind of cargo?" You ask, probably unwisely.
Hascha's eyes sparkle with mischief. "The kind where I didn't ask too many questions."
Okay, so the scoundrel getup isn't a mere aesthetic; he's the real deal.
At this point you recognize the gun--a plasma pistol holstered at his hip, with a filigreed wood handle and a stainless steel finish on the back. In fact, you're so lost in a swirling mess of fear and anticipation and admiration that you fail to realize that you're surrounded.
Three goons, each easily a foot taller and wider than you, loom over you and Hascha, each carrying rusty-looking iron pipes.
"Do you understand why we are here?" One of them asks.
Hascha winks at you and whispers, "I got this," before speaking to the lead goon. "I don't believe we've met. Lemme guess...Dorne sent you?"
"That is correct," the goon says, "and if I am not mistaken, my employer is still owed payment for the havoc you wrecked on his property."
Hascha sucks at his teeth. "...Yeahhh, listen, I did apologize, and I told him who started the mess. So why don't you tell Dorne to take up with the Black Dow crew?"
"You are correct," the goon snaps back, "Save for the suggestion that we address the other gang--because that matter has already been handled."
Hascha--just for a moment--seems at a loss for words. "Well...I could tell you I'm one gig away from making it up your boss-man, buuut you've heard that before, haven't you?"
The goon's face hardens from steel to stone. "I have no sympathy for--"
He is interrupted by a shot to the leg, and crumples to the ground. For a moment, everyone stands still: the two remaining goons still holding their weapons, the barkeep halfway through polishing a glass, and Hascha, pointing his pistol from his hip.
Hascha takes the liberty of finishing his drink with a final swig.
[ ] "Listen, I'm not involved here..."
[ ] [Hold out wallet] "Will this help?"
[ ] [Ask the barkeep for advice]
[ ] [Ask Hascha for advice]
[ ] [Stand still and hope nothing bad happens]
[ ] [Run]
--- [ ] [Throw your drink at one of them first]
1-4: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [Ask the barkeep for advice]
You half-look towards the barkeep and say, "Uh...what should I do?"
But out the corner of your eye, you see said barkeep yank the loading bolt on a twin-barrel blunderbuss.
"Y'all are gonna settle this outside," she growls, "Or I'll wipe your guts off the floor. It's hardwood. It'll be easy."
Well, that's some rather threatening advice...
Hascha gives her a curious look. "Y'know, I'd offer you my comm ID on any other day--"
"Don't flirt with a lady pointing a gun at you," the barkeep snaps.
Hascha holds his hands up. "Good idea. Have a good evening, miss." He nods towards the door while looking at you.
You take the cue to follow this strange, beautiful, dangerous man. Slowly, gently, until you venture out the front door.
Then, he grabs your wrist and bolts. "Time to go!" he says.
With an incredible (and alluring) strength, he pulls you through the Izuraa Market Quarter, ducking through side streets, rushing past food carts, skirting around store fronts. People and landmarks and flotsam fly past you so quickly that you lose any sense of where you are, where you're going, and whether people are even chasing you still. Either way, you're tiring, fast.
Mercifully, Hascha finally stops, pulling you around a corner and lightly pinning you to a LiquiStone wall. Despite your exhausted wheezing, he seems to only look more alive after the chase.
"Alrighty, partner," he drawls, "We're in a pickle, but we've lost those jokers for now. Here's the plan: we're gonna get from here to the docks, ring up Chiera, and we'll scoot. How're you 'bout taking rooftops?"
"...What?" You say.
Hascha nods. "Allright. Rooftops are out. We gotta shoot our way there, then...you packing?"
"No?"
He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a pocket pistol, and places it in your hand. "Then you'll want this."
[ ] "I think you're making a mistake."
[ ] "I don't know how to shoot a gun!"
[ ] "Where are we?"
[ ] "Why am I going with you?"
[ ] [Joke] [Lean in to kiss him]
You half-look towards the barkeep and say, "Uh...what should I do?"
But out the corner of your eye, you see said barkeep yank the loading bolt on a twin-barrel blunderbuss.
"Y'all are gonna settle this outside," she growls, "Or I'll wipe your guts off the floor. It's hardwood. It'll be easy."
Well, that's some rather threatening advice...
Hascha gives her a curious look. "Y'know, I'd offer you my comm ID on any other day--"
"Don't flirt with a lady pointing a gun at you," the barkeep snaps.
Hascha holds his hands up. "Good idea. Have a good evening, miss." He nods towards the door while looking at you.
You take the cue to follow this strange, beautiful, dangerous man. Slowly, gently, until you venture out the front door.
Then, he grabs your wrist and bolts. "Time to go!" he says.
With an incredible (and alluring) strength, he pulls you through the Izuraa Market Quarter, ducking through side streets, rushing past food carts, skirting around store fronts. People and landmarks and flotsam fly past you so quickly that you lose any sense of where you are, where you're going, and whether people are even chasing you still. Either way, you're tiring, fast.
Mercifully, Hascha finally stops, pulling you around a corner and lightly pinning you to a LiquiStone wall. Despite your exhausted wheezing, he seems to only look more alive after the chase.
"Alrighty, partner," he drawls, "We're in a pickle, but we've lost those jokers for now. Here's the plan: we're gonna get from here to the docks, ring up Chiera, and we'll scoot. How're you 'bout taking rooftops?"
"...What?" You say.
Hascha nods. "Allright. Rooftops are out. We gotta shoot our way there, then...you packing?"
"No?"
He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a pocket pistol, and places it in your hand. "Then you'll want this."
[ ] "I think you're making a mistake."
[ ] "I don't know how to shoot a gun!"
[ ] "Where are we?"
[ ] "Why am I going with you?"
[ ] [Joke] [Lean in to kiss him]
1-5: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "I don't know how to shoot a gun!"
"But..." You sputter, "I don't know how to shoot a gun!"
"Don't worry, it's simple!" Hascha says, "Just point the mean end at the bad folks, and pull the trigger! Oh, and flip the safety first. Made that mistake before."
He looks down the alleyway, and points to a dumpster. "Hiding behind something helps, too." And then he lunges into the middle of the alley, out of the corner you were hiding in, firing one, two, three shots of his pistol, pirouetting to the corner opposite you.
However, you only hear two heavy thumps around the corner. Tentatively, you steal a peek at what fresh hell is approaching, and you see three goons approaching, stepping around the bodies of their...buddies? Do street toughs have buddies?
You look over at Hascha, who nods towards them and whispers, "Git 'em."
You steel the ragged remnants of your nerves, flip the safety of your new pistol, whip around the corner, and pull the trigger--which doesn't move. Apparently, you had flipped on the safety.
The shortest goon looks at the goon with the red scarf with some confusion, while you hurriedly flip the safety again, point the pistol at Red Scarf Goon, and pull the trigger, which lets loose an echoing BANG and a disorienting white flash.
Wait, that's not right...
You recoil from the explosion, only to feel a rugged, calloused hand grab your wrist and pull you away from the scuffle.
Hascha's voice shimmers "Time to scoot!" in your ears as you're once again dragged through the city, now even more lost and disoriented as the ringing in your ears clouds your senses, until you hear Hascha shout, "Hey Cheira, we're flying hot!"
"Company?" A gruff voice booms, rattling against your throat.
"The unwelcome kind!" Hascha shouts back.
You notice the ground under your feet shift from cobblestone to diamond-stamped metal as you're hurriedly escorted into a seat, strapped into something, and lurched into the air to the tune of a rumbling turbine.
Wait.
You're in a spaceship.
[ ] "What's happening?"
[ ] "Where are you taking me?"
[ ] "Get me off here!"
[ ] "Am I your prisoner now?"
[ ] Unstrap yourself.
Hascha has dragged you into his adventuring party! Here's his character sheet:
"But..." You sputter, "I don't know how to shoot a gun!"
"Don't worry, it's simple!" Hascha says, "Just point the mean end at the bad folks, and pull the trigger! Oh, and flip the safety first. Made that mistake before."
He looks down the alleyway, and points to a dumpster. "Hiding behind something helps, too." And then he lunges into the middle of the alley, out of the corner you were hiding in, firing one, two, three shots of his pistol, pirouetting to the corner opposite you.
However, you only hear two heavy thumps around the corner. Tentatively, you steal a peek at what fresh hell is approaching, and you see three goons approaching, stepping around the bodies of their...buddies? Do street toughs have buddies?
You look over at Hascha, who nods towards them and whispers, "Git 'em."
You steel the ragged remnants of your nerves, flip the safety of your new pistol, whip around the corner, and pull the trigger--which doesn't move. Apparently, you had flipped on the safety.
The shortest goon looks at the goon with the red scarf with some confusion, while you hurriedly flip the safety again, point the pistol at Red Scarf Goon, and pull the trigger, which lets loose an echoing BANG and a disorienting white flash.
Wait, that's not right...
You recoil from the explosion, only to feel a rugged, calloused hand grab your wrist and pull you away from the scuffle.
Hascha's voice shimmers "Time to scoot!" in your ears as you're once again dragged through the city, now even more lost and disoriented as the ringing in your ears clouds your senses, until you hear Hascha shout, "Hey Cheira, we're flying hot!"
"Company?" A gruff voice booms, rattling against your throat.
"The unwelcome kind!" Hascha shouts back.
You notice the ground under your feet shift from cobblestone to diamond-stamped metal as you're hurriedly escorted into a seat, strapped into something, and lurched into the air to the tune of a rumbling turbine.
Wait.
You're in a spaceship.
[ ] "What's happening?"
[ ] "Where are you taking me?"
[ ] "Get me off here!"
[ ] "Am I your prisoner now?"
[ ] Unstrap yourself.
Hascha has dragged you into his adventuring party! Here's his character sheet:
Skills:
Domains:
Languages:
- Gunslinging
- Hotrodding starships
- Flying said starships like he stole 'em
Domains:
- Fancy cocktails
- Handguns
Languages:
- Cana'siin (Fluent, Common in this sector)
- Av'erai (Native, Common)
- Menuksha (Enough to Get By, Common)
- I always shoot first.
- I make it look easy.
- I can break hearts with a wink and a smile.
- I don't shoot straight--in any way.
- I'll tell you everything is fine, regardless of whether it is
- Starship: Double Dog Dare (Fast, Custom, Overpowered)
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1-6: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "What's happening?"
-[x] "Follow up, WHY?"
-[x] "I'm a poet, not a swashbuckler!"
"Wait, wait, wait, what's going on?" You stammer at the woman in front of you as she opens a hatch in the floor. She's built like a power-lifter, with a broad and soft frame that hide her true strength, as well as close-cropped bleached hair contrasting with her dark, almost silvery skin. Chiera, you think.
"We're making an exit!" she barks at you, "Now, are you gonna complain, or are you gonna help?"
"What?" you protest, "I'm a poet, not a damn--"
You're interrupted by a heavy blast, shaking the paneling and sending the ship into a keel. The lights above you flicker, and the woman curses in some language you recognize.
"That's the engine..." she mutters to herself before turning to you. "Poet-boy! Get in the turret! Joystick turns it, red button shoots! Shoot anything shooting at us!"
You look at her, speechless, to which she snaps, "Now!" before scrambling to the back of the ship.
Fuck.
You unstrap yourself from your seat, shimmy across the rocking floor into the open hatch, and drop into a gimballed seat surrounded by a dizzying array of screens and readouts that make zero sense to you.
But sure enough, there was a joystick, and a big red button.
You try to test the feel of the joystick, gripping it in your clammy hands, when another blast hits the ship, knocking your hand askew and sending the seat spinning in circles. Through some strange muscle memory, you jam your thumb on the red button, and realize with horror that you're streaming plasma fire all around the docks. Stray shots ping off ship shields, blast LiquiStone balcony railings to dust, carve pockmarks into the cobblestone street below, and in one case bore a hole clean through a food cart.
You manage to yank the control stick back to center, and try to spin yourself towards whatever is shooting at you. It takes you several precious moments to figure out where the spray of multicolored plasma fire is coming from, but then you notice--on the roof of some commercial building--what looks like a giant cannon, flanked by two ruffians loading a salvo.
You do your best to aim your turret at them, despite not knowing where the crosshairs for this gun are supposed to be, and hit the shoot button.
Unsurprisingly, the shots don't hit the cannon. Instead, they hit the wagon of shells behind these goons.
The wagon erupts in pearlescent green-and-indigo flame, knocking the two artillerists into a wall and collapsing the roof underneath the wagon with a plume of flame-carrying dust.
You hear the echoes of staticky voice chatter above your head--a headset. Probably to tell you how bad you fucked up.
You take the headset, ready to face the music, only to hear
"--'s how you do it! WOOOO-HOO!"
"Wait, what?" you shout into the headset.
"Jump coordinates punched! Time to fly!"
And reality twists around you.
Out the window of this turret, you see the world stretch like chewed gum and warp until sky is sea and down is west-northwest. You feel time itself fray like old thread against your scalp and the air around you crackle with an ionized thrill.
And then you see stars, flying past you at impossible speed.
"Goooood evening, friends and guests," a voice croons on the headset--Hascha?--"Welcome to Double Dog Dare Starlining, I'm your humble pilot Hascha Tarrn. We've got a day and a half to our destination of Canas III. You're free to undo your safety belts and pour yourself a drink. Which...I think I'm 'bout to do myself."
You take a moment to calm yourself, and failing that, you then try to climb out of the the turret. You find a handhold and a drop-down foothold, which lets you clamber out, sprawled and heaving on the floor.
Above you looms the burly woman, who offers you a hand up. You take it, only for her to yank you upright with scarcely any input from your wobbly legs.
"...Thanks..." You stammer, realizing she's a good half-foot taller than you.
She nods approvingly. "Good shooting, poet."
"Glad to see you're 'live," Hascha drawls, a shimmering blue-and-silver liquor in his hand.
He points at the woman. "Friend, this is Chiera Dynaara, my partner-in-crime on this ship. Chiera, this is..." he pauses.
"I beg your pardon, I'm blanking on your name..."
[ ] "Mirin Jyenar. I'm a poet, I guess..."
[ ] "Mirin Jyenar. Hascha brought me here."
[ ] "Wait, Canas III?"
[ ] "Listen, can you just drop me back home?"
[ ] "'Sweetheart' works just fine."
-[x] "Follow up, WHY?"
-[x] "I'm a poet, not a swashbuckler!"
"Wait, wait, wait, what's going on?" You stammer at the woman in front of you as she opens a hatch in the floor. She's built like a power-lifter, with a broad and soft frame that hide her true strength, as well as close-cropped bleached hair contrasting with her dark, almost silvery skin. Chiera, you think.
"We're making an exit!" she barks at you, "Now, are you gonna complain, or are you gonna help?"
"What?" you protest, "I'm a poet, not a damn--"
You're interrupted by a heavy blast, shaking the paneling and sending the ship into a keel. The lights above you flicker, and the woman curses in some language you recognize.
"That's the engine..." she mutters to herself before turning to you. "Poet-boy! Get in the turret! Joystick turns it, red button shoots! Shoot anything shooting at us!"
You look at her, speechless, to which she snaps, "Now!" before scrambling to the back of the ship.
Fuck.
You unstrap yourself from your seat, shimmy across the rocking floor into the open hatch, and drop into a gimballed seat surrounded by a dizzying array of screens and readouts that make zero sense to you.
But sure enough, there was a joystick, and a big red button.
You try to test the feel of the joystick, gripping it in your clammy hands, when another blast hits the ship, knocking your hand askew and sending the seat spinning in circles. Through some strange muscle memory, you jam your thumb on the red button, and realize with horror that you're streaming plasma fire all around the docks. Stray shots ping off ship shields, blast LiquiStone balcony railings to dust, carve pockmarks into the cobblestone street below, and in one case bore a hole clean through a food cart.
You manage to yank the control stick back to center, and try to spin yourself towards whatever is shooting at you. It takes you several precious moments to figure out where the spray of multicolored plasma fire is coming from, but then you notice--on the roof of some commercial building--what looks like a giant cannon, flanked by two ruffians loading a salvo.
You do your best to aim your turret at them, despite not knowing where the crosshairs for this gun are supposed to be, and hit the shoot button.
Unsurprisingly, the shots don't hit the cannon. Instead, they hit the wagon of shells behind these goons.
The wagon erupts in pearlescent green-and-indigo flame, knocking the two artillerists into a wall and collapsing the roof underneath the wagon with a plume of flame-carrying dust.
You hear the echoes of staticky voice chatter above your head--a headset. Probably to tell you how bad you fucked up.
You take the headset, ready to face the music, only to hear
"--'s how you do it! WOOOO-HOO!"
"Wait, what?" you shout into the headset.
"Jump coordinates punched! Time to fly!"
And reality twists around you.
Out the window of this turret, you see the world stretch like chewed gum and warp until sky is sea and down is west-northwest. You feel time itself fray like old thread against your scalp and the air around you crackle with an ionized thrill.
And then you see stars, flying past you at impossible speed.
"Goooood evening, friends and guests," a voice croons on the headset--Hascha?--"Welcome to Double Dog Dare Starlining, I'm your humble pilot Hascha Tarrn. We've got a day and a half to our destination of Canas III. You're free to undo your safety belts and pour yourself a drink. Which...I think I'm 'bout to do myself."
You take a moment to calm yourself, and failing that, you then try to climb out of the the turret. You find a handhold and a drop-down foothold, which lets you clamber out, sprawled and heaving on the floor.
Above you looms the burly woman, who offers you a hand up. You take it, only for her to yank you upright with scarcely any input from your wobbly legs.
"...Thanks..." You stammer, realizing she's a good half-foot taller than you.
She nods approvingly. "Good shooting, poet."
"Glad to see you're 'live," Hascha drawls, a shimmering blue-and-silver liquor in his hand.
He points at the woman. "Friend, this is Chiera Dynaara, my partner-in-crime on this ship. Chiera, this is..." he pauses.
"I beg your pardon, I'm blanking on your name..."
[ ] "Mirin Jyenar. I'm a poet, I guess..."
[ ] "Mirin Jyenar. Hascha brought me here."
[ ] "Wait, Canas III?"
[ ] "Listen, can you just drop me back home?"
[ ] "'Sweetheart' works just fine."
1-7: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Mirin Jyenar. I'm a poet, not a swashbuckler!"
-[X] (sotto voce) "Yet."
"I'm Mirin Jyenar," you say, "And...yeah! I'm a poet. Not some swashbuckler, like you two."
Chiera cocks her head. "You sure? That was strong shooting back on Thrieva Noru. I saw you hit that ammo cache."
Are you blushing? Oh no, you're blushing...
"Yeah, I...wasn't actually aiming for it," you admit.
Hascha laughs, "Ya think I ever aim?" He claps you on the shoulder. "A few more scrapes like that, and I think you'll make a damn good spacer."
He looks to Chiera. "Wanna show Jyenar here the ropes? I'll check up on some folks down on the Sprawl."
Chiera scoffs. "You mean the boys you've fucked there?"
Hascha rolls his eyes and says, "Just the ones who don't wanna shoot me." He turns around and saunters back to the cockpit, and as he exits, you consider that all those boys in the Canas Sprawl might have been on to something.
And then you see a hand wave in front of you—and sadly, you fail to resist the impulse to jump in shock.
"Ready for the tour, poet?" Chiera says.
"Uh..." She totally noticed you staring, didn't she? "Sure. Lead the way."
The Double Dog Dare, as it turns out, is pretty small for a freighter starship. It used to be a luxury yacht, the kind that would be sold as a "racing-inspired" ship for fancy-pants nobles' kids, but once it got into Hascha's hands, he managed to hot-rod it into a genuinely fast (in a straight line) dragster. As far as cargo, the Dare mostly dealt in small-but-pricey equipment—spices, precious textiles, medicine, and so on. Apparently one time, Hascha was the getaway pilot for a heist nabbing a bunch of art from some snooty collector type!
"Hascha may be the pilot," Chiera was explaining, "But I'm the quartermaster 'round here. Meaning outside the cockpit, I'm in charge. So there are some ground rules here. One, sit on the toilet, no exceptIons. Two, always knock before barging into someone's quarters or the bathroom..."
Around the ship, Chiera wears a pilot's jumpsuit, except with the top unzipped and wrapped around her hips, revealing a grey ribbed leotard tight enough to highlight the sculpted contours of the back of her shoulders. You catch the glimpse of what looks like a tattoo of an eye on her back, just below her neck, in an indigo ink barely visible against her dark skin, as she turns to you.
"And most importantly, if you're gonna stick around on the ship, you'll need to pull your weight on the chores front. Am I clear?"
[ ] "I'm sorry, could you repeat those rules?"
[ ] "I can help with cleaning around the ship, sure!"
[ ] "Listen, I just want to get back home..."
[ ] "...I just realized, I don't have any of my belongings."
[ ] "What's the eye tattoo on your back?"
-[X] (sotto voce) "Yet."
"I'm Mirin Jyenar," you say, "And...yeah! I'm a poet. Not some swashbuckler, like you two."
Chiera cocks her head. "You sure? That was strong shooting back on Thrieva Noru. I saw you hit that ammo cache."
Are you blushing? Oh no, you're blushing...
"Yeah, I...wasn't actually aiming for it," you admit.
Hascha laughs, "Ya think I ever aim?" He claps you on the shoulder. "A few more scrapes like that, and I think you'll make a damn good spacer."
He looks to Chiera. "Wanna show Jyenar here the ropes? I'll check up on some folks down on the Sprawl."
Chiera scoffs. "You mean the boys you've fucked there?"
Hascha rolls his eyes and says, "Just the ones who don't wanna shoot me." He turns around and saunters back to the cockpit, and as he exits, you consider that all those boys in the Canas Sprawl might have been on to something.
And then you see a hand wave in front of you—and sadly, you fail to resist the impulse to jump in shock.
"Ready for the tour, poet?" Chiera says.
"Uh..." She totally noticed you staring, didn't she? "Sure. Lead the way."
The Double Dog Dare, as it turns out, is pretty small for a freighter starship. It used to be a luxury yacht, the kind that would be sold as a "racing-inspired" ship for fancy-pants nobles' kids, but once it got into Hascha's hands, he managed to hot-rod it into a genuinely fast (in a straight line) dragster. As far as cargo, the Dare mostly dealt in small-but-pricey equipment—spices, precious textiles, medicine, and so on. Apparently one time, Hascha was the getaway pilot for a heist nabbing a bunch of art from some snooty collector type!
"Hascha may be the pilot," Chiera was explaining, "But I'm the quartermaster 'round here. Meaning outside the cockpit, I'm in charge. So there are some ground rules here. One, sit on the toilet, no exceptIons. Two, always knock before barging into someone's quarters or the bathroom..."
Around the ship, Chiera wears a pilot's jumpsuit, except with the top unzipped and wrapped around her hips, revealing a grey ribbed leotard tight enough to highlight the sculpted contours of the back of her shoulders. You catch the glimpse of what looks like a tattoo of an eye on her back, just below her neck, in an indigo ink barely visible against her dark skin, as she turns to you.
"And most importantly, if you're gonna stick around on the ship, you'll need to pull your weight on the chores front. Am I clear?"
[ ] "I'm sorry, could you repeat those rules?"
[ ] "I can help with cleaning around the ship, sure!"
[ ] "Listen, I just want to get back home..."
[ ] "...I just realized, I don't have any of my belongings."
[ ] "What's the eye tattoo on your back?"
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1-8: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "What's the eye tattoo on your back?"
[X] "...I just realized, I don't have any of my belongings."
"What's with the tattoo on your back?" You ask before you find the wherewithal to be smart about it.
Chiera pauses, looks at you with a sideways smirk, then chuckles. "You...weren't paying attention."
Uhhhh...
She turns to face you and rolls her shoulders, contours rippling in her arms and neck. "Cute. I'd say it's rude to stare, but I quite like the attention."
She shifts the hem of her leotard, revealing a similar eye tattoo by her waist. "Let's just say I have eyes everywhere," she says.
"Wait, what?" you ask.
Chiera gives an impish grin. "Do you ever dream of a constellation speaking to you?"
"...No?" you say.
"Okay, then...You're a writer-boy, you know about some of those fancy-pants heroes with statues?"
"That doesn't narrow things down."
Chiera sighs and leans on a door frame, "Most of those heroes are gifted with fun magic powers, jumping from place to place, seeing the future, floating, setting people on fire--which sounds like fun..."
You know what she's talking about. "Those stories are myth," you say, "The civilizations that existed prior to ours had some strange artifacts sure, but that's all that remains: artifacts."
Chiera wags a finger. "Uh uh uh! Those old gods are still around. And one of them gave me more eyes than I know what to do with. And when I asked it, it told me to go explore!"
You give her an incredulous look. "Really?"
Chiera thinks for a moment before saying, "Well, what actually happened was that I asked the constellation 'I have too many damn eyes, what the hell am I supposed to do with all these eyes,' and it told me, 'Sounds like a you problem.' And then my hometown saw that their local heartthrob now had all these creepy eyes all over her body, and they were all 'burn the witch!' so I told them to fuck off."
"Wait," you ask, "So what do these 'eyes' do?"
Chiera cackles. "They're eyes, dummy. Except eyes I can slap onto shit and leave wherever!"
Your head's starting to hurt. "How...does that even work?"
"Don't care!" Chiera says, "Weird space god shit! What's real weird, though, is now I keep running into other people with weird space god powers all the time. Hascha's like that too."
"What's his power?" You ask, foolishly, to which Chiera offers a wicked smile.
"Try to swing a punch at him," she says, "Trust me, tell him I made you."
This whole exchange feels...too much for you. Too much weirdness all at once. It's times like this when you'd want to take a shower to gather your thoughts, except...
You check your pockets. You have your wallet, with your ID and a Norte cred-chip, a pen, and...
"Wait..." you say, "I don't have any of my belongings."
Chiera pauses, then nods. "That's right...Hascha does this sometimes, dragging cute boys into his messes. Usually they can find their own way out, though...You can use some of Hascha's spare clothes. It'll fit better than mine, for sure. We'll take that cred-chip of yours and we'll get you some proper clothes and equipment, and I'll set you up in the ship."
"But...that's my rent money," you say. Well, half of it was rent money, for that spare room you'd rented out in Izuraa to reset yourself.
Chiera nods, then says, "Sit down for this."
When you oblige her, she says, "You're not going back to Izuraa. You've got a merc gang on your ass now. If you go home, you're gonna get blown up, and if you call your folks, they'll get hunted too. You're an outlaw now."
[ ] "How can you do this to me?"
[ ] "I'm really not cut out for this!"
[ ] "I'll need a new notebook for writing."
[ ] "Will I need to buy a gun?"
[ ] "This is not as sexy as I imagined it would be."
[ ] Write in!
Chiera is now part of the party! She has a full character sheet now:
[X] "...I just realized, I don't have any of my belongings."
"What's with the tattoo on your back?" You ask before you find the wherewithal to be smart about it.
Chiera pauses, looks at you with a sideways smirk, then chuckles. "You...weren't paying attention."
Uhhhh...
She turns to face you and rolls her shoulders, contours rippling in her arms and neck. "Cute. I'd say it's rude to stare, but I quite like the attention."
She shifts the hem of her leotard, revealing a similar eye tattoo by her waist. "Let's just say I have eyes everywhere," she says.
"Wait, what?" you ask.
Chiera gives an impish grin. "Do you ever dream of a constellation speaking to you?"
"...No?" you say.
"Okay, then...You're a writer-boy, you know about some of those fancy-pants heroes with statues?"
"That doesn't narrow things down."
Chiera sighs and leans on a door frame, "Most of those heroes are gifted with fun magic powers, jumping from place to place, seeing the future, floating, setting people on fire--which sounds like fun..."
You know what she's talking about. "Those stories are myth," you say, "The civilizations that existed prior to ours had some strange artifacts sure, but that's all that remains: artifacts."
Chiera wags a finger. "Uh uh uh! Those old gods are still around. And one of them gave me more eyes than I know what to do with. And when I asked it, it told me to go explore!"
You give her an incredulous look. "Really?"
Chiera thinks for a moment before saying, "Well, what actually happened was that I asked the constellation 'I have too many damn eyes, what the hell am I supposed to do with all these eyes,' and it told me, 'Sounds like a you problem.' And then my hometown saw that their local heartthrob now had all these creepy eyes all over her body, and they were all 'burn the witch!' so I told them to fuck off."
"Wait," you ask, "So what do these 'eyes' do?"
Chiera cackles. "They're eyes, dummy. Except eyes I can slap onto shit and leave wherever!"
Your head's starting to hurt. "How...does that even work?"
"Don't care!" Chiera says, "Weird space god shit! What's real weird, though, is now I keep running into other people with weird space god powers all the time. Hascha's like that too."
"What's his power?" You ask, foolishly, to which Chiera offers a wicked smile.
"Try to swing a punch at him," she says, "Trust me, tell him I made you."
This whole exchange feels...too much for you. Too much weirdness all at once. It's times like this when you'd want to take a shower to gather your thoughts, except...
You check your pockets. You have your wallet, with your ID and a Norte cred-chip, a pen, and...
"Wait..." you say, "I don't have any of my belongings."
Chiera pauses, then nods. "That's right...Hascha does this sometimes, dragging cute boys into his messes. Usually they can find their own way out, though...You can use some of Hascha's spare clothes. It'll fit better than mine, for sure. We'll take that cred-chip of yours and we'll get you some proper clothes and equipment, and I'll set you up in the ship."
"But...that's my rent money," you say. Well, half of it was rent money, for that spare room you'd rented out in Izuraa to reset yourself.
Chiera nods, then says, "Sit down for this."
When you oblige her, she says, "You're not going back to Izuraa. You've got a merc gang on your ass now. If you go home, you're gonna get blown up, and if you call your folks, they'll get hunted too. You're an outlaw now."
[ ] "How can you do this to me?"
[ ] "I'm really not cut out for this!"
[ ] "I'll need a new notebook for writing."
[ ] "Will I need to buy a gun?"
[ ] "This is not as sexy as I imagined it would be."
[ ] Write in!
Chiera is now part of the party! She has a full character sheet now:
Skills:
- Diplomacy (Plan A)
- Arm Breakin' (Plan B)
- Landscape Painting
- Underworld economics
- Qin'taari visual arts
- Portable eyes that can leave behind anywhere.
- From a constellation-god whose name Chiera does not know and who has scarcely spoken to her since it granted Chiera this gift.
- Cana'siin (Fluent, Common in this sector)
- Av'erai (Fluent, Common)
- Menuksha (Enough to Get By, Common)
- Asa-Xiumi (Native, Homeworld)
- I'm an ex-athletic powerlifter.
- I have a sharp memory.
- I am supremely unflappable.
- I don't suffer fools.
- I assume the worst, every time.
1-9: Where the Story Goes Sideways
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "This is not as sexy as I imagined it would be."
[X] "I'll need a new notebook for writing."
The dull, echoing shock of realizing your home is gone.
Your family.
Your old apartment.
Your friends, or whatever passed for such.
Gone.
And instead, your mind is trained on the neckline of Chiera's leotard.
"This isn't as sexy as I thought it would be..." You mutter.
Chiera cackles in response. "Ah, damn, I gotta disagree about that! Freedom? Danger? Violence? Please! There's nothing sexier in the Spiral! Sure, it's a lot to learn in a short time, but once you learn the ropes, you're set! You never run out of things to impress pretty strangers."
She traces your eye-line and winks. "And I'll say this much--once you get good at this, it starts to show, you know?"
Wax in your throat.
You try to cough up some excuse, but instead, she stands up and pats you on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I was pretty spooked at first. The firsts are always tough. First time shooting someone, first time getting shot, first time waking up next to someone sent to kill you... But you get used to it!"
"Wait, what was that last one?" you ask.
"Don't worry about it!" Chiera says with a gleaming smirk, "Point is, you'll figure it out."
You look nervously around, and say, "...Okay. I'll figure it out."
"That's the spirit!" Chiera opens the door to an intercom panel, pushes a button, and shouts, "Hey, cowboy! All good if this lost gasha-puppy borrows some of your clothes?"
"No mind," the intercom crackles back, "Just nothin' with the sequins. They're delicate."
"Careful, Hascha, he's in earshot!"
"Ah, shit, the erkka's out of the cage. Ain't much I can do 'bout that."
Chiera closes the panel door and smiles. "Clothes handled. Might be a bit tight in places, but it's just for a day. Shower's down the hall, I'll leave the spares outside the door."
Okay. Breathe, Mirin, breathe. Pretend you didn't hear anything about getting shot...
The shower itself is suspiciously large for what you'd imagine for a starship, as if it was built to fit two. Seems like a bit of a waste when space is supposed to be at a premium, but you've never been in a starship before (hell, you haven't been off planet before...), so who are you to talk?
You realize, as you scrub yourself down, that--all things considered--you should be a lot more scared and angry about this whole...situation. But you're not. You're thrilled. You're glad to be out of Izuraa, out of Yu-Kezaahi, away from home.
But away, towards what?
You open the door out of the restroom, peeking out to find, sure enough, a small pile of clothes, neatly folded and warm. As it turns out, Hascha has a roughly similar frame to you (albeit with a lot more...muscle definition...and whatnot), so his spare grey sweatpants and white tee (with an oddly plunging neckline) seem to fit well enough, save for being a bit tight at your belly and hips.
Wait. No. It's tight around your ass, is what. Whatever, it fits well enough, although...
You fish out a note in one of the sweatpant's pockets, written in near-impeccable script:
But...you're not ready to sleep quite yet.
You want to check something.
Hascha, as it turns out, is still in the cockpit, reclining against the captain's chair and admiring the view of stars and nebulas and space anomalies whirring by. Clearly unaware, clearly worth a shot.
You creep towards the cockpit, as silently as you can, through the already-open door. You pause, wind up a swing, and...your wrist is caught in the air. You find yourself whirled in a spiral, caught in a gentle-yet-firm headlock, your cheek pressed against the lightly-prickly neck of a somehow-standing Hascha Tarrn, smelling of leather, liquor, and hints of clove and mint.
"Lemme guess..." Hascha's voice rumbles against your cheekbones, sending an electric thrill down the back of your neck. "Chiera dared you to try and deck me?"
No sense in lying. "...Yeah," you admit.
Hascha chuckles, still holding a sinewed forearm against your throat. "Well, you ain't the first to try. Wanna know how I did that?"
You try to nod, but you realize your head is locked into place. "...Yes," you croak.
You feel Hascha smile, his jaw shifting against your temple. "You need to learn how to struggle more. Thrash about an' whatnot. Anyway, I got...a gift. Some ol' statue up and spoke to me, and said, 'Hey Hascha, I'm gonna need you for something. Go toughen up. See the Spiral. Get a crew. Become hero material. 'Cause someday...you'll need to be a hero.' So I packed up. Got my hands on a ship. Met Chiera. And...well, I see things. Seconds 'fore they happen. Gives me an edge."
"Have you heard from that statue since?" You ask.
"Nah..." Hascha says, "But it's coming. I feel it. Everything happening to me...can't be a coincidence. Destiny's calling, you feel me?"
You certainly feel him--the warmth of his chest, radiating from the alcohol. His heartbeat, pulsing in the wrist pressed against your neck. His breath, damp against your ear.
"...Maybe?" you say, "I haven't had any experience like that. I...I'm just a writer..."
Wait. That reminds you...
"I need to get a new notebook," you say, "I lost my old one."
Hascha pauses, then starts laughing so hard that he abruptly lets go of you--at which point you realize you had so completely melted into Hascha's embrace that you had stopped using your legs for standing. As you pick yourself up from the floor, reeling from the spike of pain in your lower back, Hascha says, "Y'know I was about to apologize for dragging you into this hotshot biz, but if your takeaway from today was 'I gotta write this down,' well... Damn, you really do got a spark in you."
He holds out a hand to help you up. As he pulls you to your feet, he says, "Rest up, Jyenar. As good as you look in my clothes, I'm gonna want that shirt back. And the gun."
His eyes sparkle against the streaks of starlight outside the cockpit window, his face mere inches from--
"Welcome to the crew," he says. "We'll be coming in at sunup on the Sprawl. Best be ready."
CHAPTER 2 IS COMING UP NEXT!
[X] "I'll need a new notebook for writing."
The dull, echoing shock of realizing your home is gone.
Your family.
Your old apartment.
Your friends, or whatever passed for such.
Gone.
And instead, your mind is trained on the neckline of Chiera's leotard.
"This isn't as sexy as I thought it would be..." You mutter.
Chiera cackles in response. "Ah, damn, I gotta disagree about that! Freedom? Danger? Violence? Please! There's nothing sexier in the Spiral! Sure, it's a lot to learn in a short time, but once you learn the ropes, you're set! You never run out of things to impress pretty strangers."
She traces your eye-line and winks. "And I'll say this much--once you get good at this, it starts to show, you know?"
Wax in your throat.
You try to cough up some excuse, but instead, she stands up and pats you on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I was pretty spooked at first. The firsts are always tough. First time shooting someone, first time getting shot, first time waking up next to someone sent to kill you... But you get used to it!"
"Wait, what was that last one?" you ask.
"Don't worry about it!" Chiera says with a gleaming smirk, "Point is, you'll figure it out."
You look nervously around, and say, "...Okay. I'll figure it out."
"That's the spirit!" Chiera opens the door to an intercom panel, pushes a button, and shouts, "Hey, cowboy! All good if this lost gasha-puppy borrows some of your clothes?"
"No mind," the intercom crackles back, "Just nothin' with the sequins. They're delicate."
"Careful, Hascha, he's in earshot!"
"Ah, shit, the erkka's out of the cage. Ain't much I can do 'bout that."
Chiera closes the panel door and smiles. "Clothes handled. Might be a bit tight in places, but it's just for a day. Shower's down the hall, I'll leave the spares outside the door."
Okay. Breathe, Mirin, breathe. Pretend you didn't hear anything about getting shot...
The shower itself is suspiciously large for what you'd imagine for a starship, as if it was built to fit two. Seems like a bit of a waste when space is supposed to be at a premium, but you've never been in a starship before (hell, you haven't been off planet before...), so who are you to talk?
You realize, as you scrub yourself down, that--all things considered--you should be a lot more scared and angry about this whole...situation. But you're not. You're thrilled. You're glad to be out of Izuraa, out of Yu-Kezaahi, away from home.
But away, towards what?
You open the door out of the restroom, peeking out to find, sure enough, a small pile of clothes, neatly folded and warm. As it turns out, Hascha has a roughly similar frame to you (albeit with a lot more...muscle definition...and whatnot), so his spare grey sweatpants and white tee (with an oddly plunging neckline) seem to fit well enough, save for being a bit tight at your belly and hips.
Wait. No. It's tight around your ass, is what. Whatever, it fits well enough, although...
You fish out a note in one of the sweatpant's pockets, written in near-impeccable script:
The Double Dog Dare is small enough that you can find the bunk easily enough--it looks like there are only five such rooms in this ship, in fact. The room itself is sparse, owing to your lack of stuff, but it's well-lit, and comfortable, and the bed's already been set up.
But...you're not ready to sleep quite yet.
You want to check something.
Hascha, as it turns out, is still in the cockpit, reclining against the captain's chair and admiring the view of stars and nebulas and space anomalies whirring by. Clearly unaware, clearly worth a shot.
You creep towards the cockpit, as silently as you can, through the already-open door. You pause, wind up a swing, and...your wrist is caught in the air. You find yourself whirled in a spiral, caught in a gentle-yet-firm headlock, your cheek pressed against the lightly-prickly neck of a somehow-standing Hascha Tarrn, smelling of leather, liquor, and hints of clove and mint.
"Lemme guess..." Hascha's voice rumbles against your cheekbones, sending an electric thrill down the back of your neck. "Chiera dared you to try and deck me?"
No sense in lying. "...Yeah," you admit.
Hascha chuckles, still holding a sinewed forearm against your throat. "Well, you ain't the first to try. Wanna know how I did that?"
You try to nod, but you realize your head is locked into place. "...Yes," you croak.
You feel Hascha smile, his jaw shifting against your temple. "You need to learn how to struggle more. Thrash about an' whatnot. Anyway, I got...a gift. Some ol' statue up and spoke to me, and said, 'Hey Hascha, I'm gonna need you for something. Go toughen up. See the Spiral. Get a crew. Become hero material. 'Cause someday...you'll need to be a hero.' So I packed up. Got my hands on a ship. Met Chiera. And...well, I see things. Seconds 'fore they happen. Gives me an edge."
"Have you heard from that statue since?" You ask.
"Nah..." Hascha says, "But it's coming. I feel it. Everything happening to me...can't be a coincidence. Destiny's calling, you feel me?"
You certainly feel him--the warmth of his chest, radiating from the alcohol. His heartbeat, pulsing in the wrist pressed against your neck. His breath, damp against your ear.
"...Maybe?" you say, "I haven't had any experience like that. I...I'm just a writer..."
Wait. That reminds you...
"I need to get a new notebook," you say, "I lost my old one."
Hascha pauses, then starts laughing so hard that he abruptly lets go of you--at which point you realize you had so completely melted into Hascha's embrace that you had stopped using your legs for standing. As you pick yourself up from the floor, reeling from the spike of pain in your lower back, Hascha says, "Y'know I was about to apologize for dragging you into this hotshot biz, but if your takeaway from today was 'I gotta write this down,' well... Damn, you really do got a spark in you."
He holds out a hand to help you up. As he pulls you to your feet, he says, "Rest up, Jyenar. As good as you look in my clothes, I'm gonna want that shirt back. And the gun."
His eyes sparkle against the streaks of starlight outside the cockpit window, his face mere inches from--
"Welcome to the crew," he says. "We'll be coming in at sunup on the Sprawl. Best be ready."
CHAPTER 2 IS COMING UP NEXT!
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