Morkskittar

Or use T.Z. as a distraction/sacrificial lamb. Which isn't a bad strategy, really. :P

Work: Mei//Red Queen Li spent several minutes in the shadows, out of the cameras' fields of view, and did a quick analysis of the room, trying to identify likely hard access points. They finally identified, using their sensors, a likely place: behind the false rock that they had footage of people opening. That was likely the best place for a hardwired access point. That done, Li bailed, skirting the cameras with no issue and returning to Mei, with, to the best of their knowledge, no one else being the wiser. As Li and Mei conferred briefly, making plans to retrofit the Angel with a makeshift access jack, the Red Queen managed to quickly build a clandestine link weaving through the shared cross-team TacNet connection. They did not hack T.Z., but rather rode along with his hacking programs, establishing a secret linkInfosec roll: 12. That'll do it. between the Red Queen and their cult. There was some lag as the data passed through multiple checkpoints and hoops, but it was passable. The digital feed from their 'top' cultist, who had designated itself as the "Red Pope," got the Red Queen up to speed. The infiltration mission was a bust; the dozen or so proper cult members were quickly uncovered by the very diligent mesh security systems of the colony. The mesh network was patrolled by enslavedGiven the location of the colony, this would be scandalous if it got out. (not paid) infolifes who had nothing to do but look for trouble. They had found it in the form of the Red Queen's worshippers. However, in a feat of quick thinking, the Red Pope had managed to spin the Red Queen as a sort of savior of infolifes and ALIs, who had freed the original cultists from Mars and had now come to free them too. The Red Pope, naturally, didn't mean for it to be taken so seriously, but had managed to convert 85% of the habitat's low- and mid-level infolifes to join the red cult as provisionary members. In the span of a couple of hours, the Red Queen's cult had obtained access to everything in the residential area, but was stalled breaking into the mesh networks of adjacent areas. The research area was guarded by powerful infolifes that reminded the Red Pope of the Players of Kronos Keep, and the firewalls of the other areas were too strong without a backdoor in. While most of the cult's activities had passed unnoticed by the habitat (due to the infolifes being in control of most of the information flow), the server the enthusiastic new cultists had created to hide their activities had attracted notice from the few physical morphs that also worked on the mesh. They had set T.Z. to investigate the cult as a sort of prank, and it seemed T.Z. had managed to worm himself into the cult as a "Grandmaster." He had yet to do any harm to the cult, aside from angering and humiliating the Red Pope's right hand, the Red Cardinal. The Red Pope assured the Red Queen that, although he had earned the respect of the newly indoctrinated cultists, the old guard would always remain loyal. OOC Sorry, I completely glossed over Li looking for that access jack. XD

So for the ship upgrades, no more free stakes, sorry. :P However, since setting out from Verdurance, you have earned three stakes (listed on the Slipfang sheet under "Notes") to spend. If you decide to turn in K's express post here, you'll get a fourth. As your travel, not every port will grant you the ability to spend stakes, but Alfred has unlocked an opportunity for you all to not only spend the stakes, but have access to a small list of... shall we say unusual fittings, that you can spend them on.

Simulspace@Work: T.Z. T.Z.'s mount charged at a spare thought from its master, even as T.Z. brandished a hefty sword. It felt somewhat nostalgic. The masked walker leveled its cannon and fired a burst of digital flechettes that took the form of wasps with razor wings. T.Z.'s white mare leapt over the cloud, landing with hardly more than a soft thud before bearing down on the walker. The cloud of wasps turned to pursue, but it was too late; T.Z. was in range. Its blade flashed, long-disused subroutines activating as T.Z. was, for a moment, a boss again. The walker's limbs all fell from its body, which contorted and twisted as it attempted to reform. The wasps fell to the ground. T.Z. coolly sliced off reforming limb after limb, until the walker was nothing more than a head wearing a mask and a small set of scuttling legs. Even then, its mask charged the mare's hooves, and the mare kicked it aside. T.Z. sheathed its sword. The defeated infolife glared balefully up at T.Z., and then finally spat out, "ALL HAIL THE GRANDMASTER." T.Z. accepted its due, and told the foolishbrave infolife that they showed promise, and would do well in its service, just as soon as it regrew its body. The walker's head stewed in silence. Before T.Z., the crowd of ALIs cheered and parted, opening up a path to their new champion, who had so effortlessly dispatched one of their own. T.Z. rode its mare through their ranks and through the gate to the shrine. As it passed, the cultists acknowledged him. "All hail the Grandmaster!" It had spoken his creed, and then put it into action. The gate shut firmly behind it, even as the conquered foe's body began to reconstitute itself, pulling its subroutines back together. Inside, T.Z. surveyed its new domain. The shrine's interior was little more than a massive room whose walls were lined with mirrors. Each mirror showed a different scene, though some were simply black. There was only one infolife inside, its avatar resembling an old-style "Pope," but clad in red instead of white. The Red Pope looked at T.Z. suspiciously and then inclined its head. "My apologies, Grandmaster, but we have not yet carried out the Red Queen's instructions. We were instructed to infiltrate the habitat's security and mesh networks." He gestured to several doorframes, currently blocked off. "We have built this shrine as a firewall to prevent prying eyes from discovering our backdoors, and to pay homage to She who liberated us from the Keep. Understand that some of us are Her devotees from Her time before She played human, and while we acknowledge you as Grandmaster, you will never supersede Her in our eyes, though you may have won over the weak-minded natives of this place. They, unfortunately, proved necessary to infiltration." The Red Pope showed T.Z. around; currently, only the residential area had been infiltrated, with the mirrors showing security feeds and several lecterns, topped by thick, dusty tomes, representing various personnel files, maps, status reports, and operations files. Most everything in the residential servers could be accessed through them. "We are next focusing on breaking through to the research sector, but there be dragons." The Red Pope gestured to one doorway, bricked off like the others, that had a missing brick that served as a peephole of sorts; a connection to the research mesh. "None of the infolifes who have ventured there have returned." Simulspace@Work: Aeos "Of course, and as a member of the psychiatric staff here, you have full access to them." A thin pamphlet materialized in Aeos' hands, and she looked down at it, quickly flipping through it. Alas, the medical records were not particularly useful; they merely provided the doctor with the Egocrashers' cover story for Null's identity. Experienced miner on Titan, let go as part of a reorganization, a propensity to paranoia, but otherwise normal. Aeos knew, however, that the records were meaningless. Who was the real Null, under all of this? One part wounded man, one part prisoner, and one part... swarm of flies? The swarm of flies did not make sense. Aeos could understand Aeos' psyche having a split perception of itself, but the swarm of flies? That did not make sense. Speaking of which... Aeos looked up, and noticed that the paint on the room's ceiling was beginning to crack and peel. Some flakes of paint fell, transforming into flies to join the descending swarm as they fell. The bleeding man on the couch spoke. "Hey, I'm right here you know. I can hear you. The whole place is falling apart. Check the corners." "Some nonsense," the doctor said. "What do you think the image of corners symbolizes?"

Sevenstones Montage/Scenes: Dawn Helena – Rogue's Den, Drunken Cobble Hisjam, Duo – Slipfang Alfred – Blackturn Distillery, Lesser Cobble Kryk T'k – Missing! Ham—Wordwhim, Greater Cobble, to the Slipfang Ham stepped back from the table, leaving the whispers behind, and the cloak's arm reached out. The bottle's cork popped out, seemingly of its own volition, and a thunderous roar of hushed voices briefly whirled through the air. Ham could make no sense of any of them as they melded together. He staggered briefly, dazed, as the invisible words danced around him and flew away into the secret corners of the building, where they continued to murmur and susurrate. One whisper coiled about his head and draped itself over his shoulders before flowing into his mind and settling there. "A prison of skin and bark." The thought unsettled Ham, and he wondered what secrets, exactly, the old ektus from Verdurance had been keeping in that crate. Ham looked over to the counter, but the dusty cloak was now draped over a chair, no longer animated. Hesitant, Ham crept closer, but his conversational partner was gone. Footsteps sounded behind him, and up the stairs from below walked an ardent with a bag slung over his shoulder. "Hisjam? The postmaster said you had an injured wordbearer that needs looking at. I'm the local surgeon they keep on staff. Lead the way." It took a Ham a moment to get moving, and in the dim light, Ham made out a wry smile on the surgeon's face. "Sorry, the postmaster has a flair for the dramatic. They're a strange one; a being of woven whispers, kept from dispersing by this building. He builds and unbuilds himself with every letter and word that passes through here. Best to just think of them as a bit of a ham. Shall we?" With that, Ham led the surgeon back to the Slipfang. Duo was still on the ship, having been carefully inspecting the mindcatcher plant, and finding it to be especially discomfiting; they felt that the plant considered them prey. Upon sight of Ham and the surgeon, they politely greeted their comrade, and followed them down to K's room. A spectral slink rubbed up on the doctor's leg, and he leaned down to scratch it, only to get a ghost of a scratch on his well-meaning hand. "Cats; always the same." He chuckled and knelt down to inspect K. He inspected her for over an hour. Ham kept vigil the entire time, but Duo ducked out to bring Ham tea (the surgeon refused the offer). At long last, the surgeon stood. "The news is not good, I am afraid. But... not all bad, either. She is in no danger of death, but also seems to be... unable to resurface. She has been injected with a type of somnovenom; I can only imagine how it may have happened. Her physical injuries are easily treatable, and i have done the best I can with them, but for the rest of her... you will need a Ghostspeaker." They all left the room and sat around a table. "There are two options before you, friends; you can leave your compatriot with me, here, in Sevenstones, and we will employ the services of the next sufficiently skilled Ghostspeaker who comes through. We owe her that, at least, and the postmaster liked your honesty, Hisjam. "Your other option is to keep her with you, checking on her physical injuries routinely as you have been, and go here." He handed Ham a leaf, onto which an address had been burned: a bough, limb, and twig. "An old friend of mine, and the wordbearers, who dwells in Port Sakura. Mention my name, and she will probably be able to heal her spiritual wounds. Or maybe you could find someone else on the way. You need not choose now, though of course you can, but let us know before you leave port." OOC Ham has gained a whisper and a chart and the crew has gained a stake. Ham also has an option regarding K's care; he can make the decision, or discuss with the crew. Alfred—Blackturn Distillery, Lesser Cobble A plan in mind, Alfred began his work. The others helped him at first, but Alfred quickly began working with such speed that they could not follow, and instead simply stood back and watched, awed, as Alfred (with some help from Cecily) not only completely reworked the distiller's energy system, but rigged up a series of redundant power systems and even managed to (this time with some help from the others) reattach the windmill and get it working again. The workers had assumed they would be out of commission for days more at least, it not weeks. Alfred had done it all in the span of a few hours. Covered in sweat, Alfred stood back and admired his work. "Sir, you've done and fixed it all right up. You have all our gratood. How can we ever repay you?" The ketra spoke, while the ektus was at a complete loss for words. One of the other works gave Alfred a small jar of pure, clean, distilled water, newly produced using Alfred's work. "You want some drinks? We know a place down on Drunken Cobble that'll treat you right. Or maybe you want news? Or work on yer ship? Though I can't see how a rattlehand skilled as yerself would need help with that. But we know a few people with... fittings that y'can't find anywhere else." OOC Alfred has done wonders with the distillery, earning himself the "Friends in Distilled Places" milestone, as well as the regard of all of Lesser Cobble; word spreads fast. Alfred can ask for most any news he wants and get something, and/or join his new friends for a drink, and/or gain access to a small set of unique less-than-legal ship upgrades to spend some stakes on. ;)

Deathblossom, Angler's Spire: Montage/Scenes Atus—Philosophizing with a storm Park—Engaging in sophisticated culinary discussion at the Charred Mantis Tharr—Earning respect in a gardener's shed Tolliver—Tempting a tzelicrae Charred Mantis—Park The view from the loft was commanding, and Park spent a moment admiring the bright red color of the stew below him; was it a spice that gave it that vibrant color, or maybe some quality of the large mantis that was said to be boiling at its bottom? He could ask, he supposed. He turned his attention back to the small group of butchers before him, admiring the way they cleanly removed chitin from flesh, making as few cracks as possible in the insectoid armor. The young ardent char, who he presumed was in charge, noticed him immediately, of course, but made no move to remove him. Park continued sidling closer, and determined that she and the gau were discussing what the flesh of the Tyrant's HeraldFrom the Almanac: "The sixth and last is the Tyrant's Herald; it's like a big moth-bee that judges the worth of those who approach. It tries to sink most. It comes back from the dead when it's killed, so fighting it is only a delaying tactic. It's unmistakable; can't miss it.", the Sixth Sign of the Bloom, would taste like. The ardent had a gleam in her eye as she hypothesized that it would have the floral timbre of a bee combined with the gaminess of giant moth-meat, while the gau seemed to think that it would taste only of "dreams and bitter regret," whatever that meant. The woman eventually whirled around to face Park. "And who are you? What do you want?" The gau chuckled. "Look at his poise; he is a fellow char. Perhaps he would weigh in on how a moth-bee hybrid would taste?" The gau sheathed his cleaver and made a half-mocking bay. "Greetings, wanderer, I am Shahan Farr, the Wandering Char, captain of the Grand Gourmet. I came to offer this young lady some sage advice about the proper balance of spices in that stew there, but she has since derailed the conversation. Tell me, don't you think the stew could use some more gingerweed? Or maybe you think blue chilipepper would do the trick?" "It's fine, interloper," the ardent replied, glaring daggers at the gau. "It's a communal stew; anyone can add anything to it, provided it passes the approval of the stirrer on duty." She glanced at Park. "If you add something worthwhile to it, you'll get extra helpings." OOC Park has options again; he can ask questions of either the head char or Shahan Farr, and/or he can go over and try to add a specimen to the stew (you can use a Cook [+Tides or Instinct] test to determine what ingredients might work best, or just wing it). Gardener's Shed—Tharr The two gardeners barely had time to react as Tharr shifted his frame of reference and grabbed the machete from them. With his powerful eyes and twitching antennae, he noted how the mothryn's hemolyph flowed in visible patterns beneath the skin, and how the tuber's bulging growth sucked it in and then shunted it away, replacing the mothryn's lifeblood with its own. Like any beast, its heart is its weakpoint. The machete flashed once, twice, thrice as Tharr first sliced off the part of the tuber sticking out above the skin, then gouged a hole in the flesh to rip out a pulsing core, and then finally ripped the shelled remnant out of the mothryn's flesh. Hemolyph flowed freely from the gaping hole left behind, and the ketra scrambled to press bandages over it, while the ektus crushed some leaves into a disinfecting paste. Tharr laid the machete down carefully and stared at the fleshy core in his hand. It did not look like any sort of plant he had seen before; it actually pulsed, like a heart, and seemed to bleed. He carefully laid it down in a thick piece of nearby cloth and wrapped it up before washing it off his hands. The mothryn's breathing eased, and the ektus looked at Tharr, impressed. "A maneuver worthy of a Deathblossom hunter." The ketra nodded in agreement. "Should you wish to pass up to Spire, or to mark yourself as one of us, simply speak the password: 'the bee flies far, but always returns home.' You shall receive aid from those who know those words, and in return, we ask you give aid to them, fierce hunter of flowers." That description seemed somewhat absurd, but it was meant in all sincerity here. It seemed to Tharr a small thing, but his impromptu surgery had clearly left a mark. The two gardeners promised to take care of the mothryn, and Tharr decided they were in good hands. OOC Tharr has acquired a specimen: Tuberous Heart. He has also obtained the passcode for the Deathblossom; he can pass up to the Spire unhindered and identify himself as a hunter of flowers. This, of course, means that Park and Tharr have endeared themselves to different hunting clans. Heart of the Storm—Atus Atus' body stiffened and thrummed in response, the lightning speaking through him again. "Oh rhyming spark of future storm, The shattered sky has not been born. Your origin you say you seek; Pray choose one, your soul too weak. That which birthed you, with lightning true; Or that which looms; the Tyrant's Bloom. Past or future, there is only one; Which answer would you see be done?" A choice; the storm knew something about Atus' past, or at least claimed to. How, he did not know. But she also knew something about the Bloom, which did not surprise him. But the storm would not answer questions about both, unless he was very clever in his asking. Aster's Scar—Tolliver Tolliver's rival growled. "You aren't seriously considering another offer?" The tzelicrae shrugged. "What can I sssay? I am an oportunissst. My friend here has offered me a great quantity of greater squirrel-meat. The quantity impressssessss, but not the ssstyle. My crew and I are more partial to unique tasssstesss. What do you have that we have never tassssted before?"

I'll be updating the Slipfang tomorrow, so and , if you want an update for your montage scenes by then feel free to get a post up!

Sorry, meant to update this weekend then got wrapped up in the finale of an eight-year long Roll20 campaign; should get to it tomorrow. :) So if you haven't posted yet, get them in soon!

I wonder if it may have been that I had half of it drafted, then had to wander off for a few hours (so my computer went to sleep with the half-written post up), and then finished it when I got back; maybe it posted the half-done version when the computer napped? Glad it all seems to be working now!

There might very well be, but I don't see it. :S I had a bit of a site hiccup when I tried to post it. Or I may have mixed up a name. What'd I do? :P I also too love the whisper mechanic. You are also, of course, always free to simply use any (relevant) inventory item you have to try and improve your chances, but not in as twisty a manner as whispers.

The distillery was originally powered by wind, yes, but Alfred can use the ceramic battery and attempt to... rewrite the place so it is not reliant on windpower. Though then they'd have to find a way to recharge the battery (maybe with wind!), but it would serve as a stopgap and make power smoother.

Don't worry, you shall not. :)

Deathblossom, Angler's Spire: Montage/Scenes Atus—Dancing the Tempest's Waltz Park—Eating at the Charred Mantis Tharr—Earning his medical botany degree at the Garden of Memory and Sorrow Tolliver—Bartering with a Tzelicrae and Ketra at the Aster's Scar Charred Mantis—Park Immediately distracted from his resolve, Park beelined toward the cookery, even the ominous clouds above him forgotten as he lost himself in the smell. It eas fortunate for his clothes that he was so eager to step inside the stone building, for not a moment after he opened the wooden door and he stepped inside, the deluge began. Park did not notice, however, as he found himself inside a single large room full of heat. An actual, honest-to-goodness fire was roaring in the center of the room fed a constant supply of wood, leaves and aromatic herbs and spicy roots. The fire was built on a massive pit, with a gargantuan iron cauldron (it could easily have fit Park in there ten times over) suspected above it. An impenetrable cloud of steam poured from the stew inside, whisked away by a series of complex vents in the ceiling. Scaffolding had been built around the cauldron, alongside a more permanent stone platform, allowing people access to its top. Several individuals stood there, of mixed bloodlines, while others were lined up in two lines below it. Park's eye fell on the large (but not overly large) spigots at the cauldrons' bottom, their handles covered with a bright red rubbery substance. Attendants stood there, turning the handles to let stew into the bowls held by those waiting in line. Unsurprisingly, the divine smell was coming from the stew. Park watched in fascination as chars carrying massive dishes loaded with seasoned and chopped insect parts, alongside a wide range of herbs, climbed the scaffolding and dumped their delectable cargo into the stew. A semi-inebriated man with a bowl of steaming stew nearly stumbled into Park. "Ah, sorry, friend! Here to get your pot of immmmmmmortal mantis stew? Been cooking for twenty seasons, they say, never stopped. Same... same mantis drake at the bottom. So god. Neverending. And free! It's all free!" He giggled. "Just gotta wait in line." Park looked at the two lines; they were so long that they curved in on themselves, and one of them even extended out the door into what Park finally registered as a torrential downpour. That did not seem to bother those waiting, though. As the drunken man stumbled on, Park's eye fell then on a familiar site; a staircase led up to a loft overlooking the rest of the room, where a half dozen people were processing and rendering massive insectoid carcasses. It took him back to Verdurance, which, he realized, really hadn't been that long ago. Around the edge of the room were tables for two or three, where people sat eating their stew, some in silence, some in gossip. Distracted as he was by the heavenly scent of stew, Park did catch some snippets of conversation wafted about the aromatic breeze. At a nearby table, a mothryn, their chin dripping with stew, was discussing the Tyrant's Bloom legend animatedly with a more dour-looking squat gau, whose stew was untouched and cooling. In the loft above him, where there were literal bug butchers, Park saw a short gau with a massive, spade-like head who looked like he didn't quite fit in waving an oversized cleaver about, talking about the "pinewood shark," while a strapping young ardent woman rolled her eyes and assured him that the "Tyrant's Herald, butchered, would taste much better than a mythical... what did you call it? 'Shark'?" At the end of the shorter line for stew (Park didn't know why one line was shorter than the other), a gaggle of ketras were talking about "replenishing the stew's stock with the mantid drake prowling about up north." Of course, the chars standing atop the scaffolding stirring and seasoning the stew also intrigued Park. There were many possibilities before him. Gardener's Shed—Tharr The gardeners frowned. "We prefer our plants to grow in... well, either through the bark of trees or in proper soil, like here," said the ektus. The ketra knelt by the mothryn and inspected the chest wound. "Sorry, friend, but this is more the domain of a doctor, I think. I... I'm not sure I can yank this thing out without killing them." They leaned in close. "Looks like a dahlia tuber though." "That would be fitting," rumbled the ektus. "Those were cultists of the Tyrant's Bloom, which is said to be a dahlia, or a distant relative at least." The sprinkles from above became a proper, light rain. Another peal of thunder rolled across the sky. The ektus joined their ketra friend, then shook his head. "Just yank it out, I say." The light rain became a downpour. All four of them were immediately drenched. The ketra began cursing, and the ektus scooped up the fallen mothryn. "Follow!" Tharr did, and soon found himself out of the rain, a cup of fragrant tea in his hands, in a wooden building filled with ceramic pots and gardening tools. Firefly lanterns made the shadows of shears and rakes seem wicked and long, and the rain drummed hard on the roof of the shed. There was a small leak in one corner of the room. The fallen mothryn was lying, twitching, on the table, eyes still unfocused but now very damp. Their breathing was shallow, and their skin squirmed around the tuber. The ketra looked to Tharr. "You saved her; your call. Your responsibility. It looks like this tuberous parasite is growing rapidly; we can try to just rip it out here and quickly staunch any bleeding... or we can go for a more... surgical approach." They nodded to a rusted machete the ektus was holding thoughtfully. "Or we can leave it in them and see what happens. Or drag them off to a proper doctor." "I'm not sure if a doctor or gardener would be more helpful here," the ektus said morosely. "We can remove it, certainly... but I am not sure at what cost. I doubt this will kill them... physically at least. But it sems to be acting quickly. Shall we try to remove it?" Heart of the Storm—Atus Atus left the dazed and semi-sputtering guard behind him, shutting the door to the spire firmly out of courtesy. As the door slammed closed, the storm - Dajel - answered in kind with a roar of thunder. The rain followed, sharp, cold, and piercing, questing, obscuring his vision like a thick grey curtain. Atus' world shrank to include just him and the storm. He initiated the conversation, or dance, with words enunciated clearly, punctuated with lightning and its sonic counterpart. The storm's response was immediate; the world turned blindingly white and so loud that it became silent. After a moment he realized that his feet were no longer on the ground; he was soaring through the air, his metallic body tingling as the storm's lightning dragged him through the air, higher and higher. He briefly glimpsed the bright light at the top of the spire as he flew up and over it, and then even it fell from sight, and all there was around him was lightning, rain, and power. Atus had the vague sensation that he was being tossed back and forth between hands of lightning, electromagnetic forces striving to rip apart his metallic body. He kept himself together by sheer force of his will. After some time, he realized that there were patterns to the electromagnetic tugs and the rumbling of thunder. The storm was speaking to him. He loosened his mind (just a bit), and allowed the storm to speak directly to him, strumming his spirit, using his metallic body as a conduit. "Little raincloud, why do you call to me?" Atus could not form a reply with words; instead, he could only speak via lightning, approximating speech through releasing the energy passing through his hands, combined with focusing his thoughts; he felt the storm worm its way to the back of his mind, eavesdropping on his reflections and ruminations. Thoughts, emphasized with lightning and energy; that was how to speak to Dajel. If it was Dajel. Aster's Scar—Tolliver The tzelicrae tilted their head in Tolliver's direction, and prompted him again. "Have you an offer for my chart, friend?" As if to underscore his words, thunder boomed, and the relentless drumming of rain on the roof began.

Sevenstones Montage/Scenes: Dawn Helena – Rogue's Den, Drunken Cobble Hisjam – Wordwhim, Greater Cobble Kryk T'k – Missing! Alfred – Blackturn Distillery, Lesser Cobble Duo – To be determined. Ham—Wordwhim, Greater Cobble The cloaked figure's hooded head turned with interest to, Ham assumed, gaze at the bottled secrets. "You hold my brothers and sister in hand, there." The cloak extended what Ham assumed was an arm, but there was no hand visible beneath it. In fact... ...Ham peered more closely at the cloaked figure, and with some alarm realized that the cloak was entirely empty; it was animated, but there was nothing inside it. And it spoke! Was it, perhaps, a living cloth, like Kryk T'k's fur? Or something different. Despite the emptiness Ham saw in the dim light, he felt that something was filling up the space inside the cloak. "It is cruel to keep whispers and words bottled up so. Words were meant to be exchanged, not imprisoned. No good comes from bottling secrets, my young friend. Unstopper my siblings, and we can help your friend. My words can summon aid, in exchange for your words, jarred, then freed." Around Ham, the omnipresent whispering grew louder, and more urgent. Behind him, coming up the winding stairs heading down, a lithe female ardent with a sack of letters climbed up, and gave the cloaked one (and by proximity, Ham) a cheery wave before pushing the door open and heading out into the sunlight. This was, without a doubt, the strangest post office Ham had ever been in. OOC Should Ham unleash the bottled secrets, he will still gain the stakes and a whisper of his own... but to release whispers in a place such as this, resonating with voices without mouths... what will happen? Alfred—Blackturn Distillery, Lesser Cobble The ektus said. "Help good, get all working, ka. Need link pipers, get paddles worping, powa goin. You good for that, ka?" The ketra translated. "He means, sir, we need to get the piping system between tanks back up and running, get the automixers turning again, and most 'portantly, get power back. Windmill fell off when the cobble shook, sir; we thought were gonna sink just like-" The ketra paused a moment, voice catching. "Middle cobble. Might take a bit to get it back up and running, so we may be back to hand-cranking once stuff is fixed up. We'll take what help we can get, sir. Thank you." OOC There's a lot of broken bits lying around, so Alfred can simply take a Rattle + Appropriate Edge to help fix something up. Please also select what part of the distillery you'll try to help with; piping, paddling, power, or something else. You can also use any single relevant salvage from your inventory to get an additional +1 to your die pool and possibly some other bonus when done. I'll also count this as for Surefire Smith, though it's a bit of a stretch. :P Helena—Rogue's Den, Drunken Cobble One of the possible pirates chuckled. "Oh, you're looking for a war-fur?" With a flourish, he produced Kryk T'k's memorial fur, which was tied up tightly with twine and shivering. "Like this one? Let's say we make a deal; let's say, everything you've got for this fur. It's very nice; cozy and warm. Doesn't like to listen, though." He and his friend laughed mirthlessly. His friend's blade was slowly coming out of its scabbard. From the other end of the bar, a tired woman's voice rang out. "If you're going to mug her, Joren, take her outside. I don't want blood in my place again. Bad for business and my maid's sensibilities." The one with the fur - Joren, presumably - grimaced. "Alright, Hilde, we'll take the lass outside." The fur still in hand, he reached for one of Helena's arms, while his compatriot reached for the other. "Come quiet now." OOC Helena can do what she wishes here; dance away to stay in the bar (Vault and Grace), swipe at them with her anchor (Break and Iron), go with him, fast-talk/bluster them (Outwit plus Iron), snatch the fur from his hands (Break + Grace, methinks) or anything else she can think of, or a combination thereof.

I will accept another burn point according to the Rule of Cool. Excellent stuff, you two. I had not planned on the Red Queen unleashing her cult on the local mesh and then T.Z. attempting to conquer it. Stellar work. :)