(Misprint has no home, no clan at this point, so this was his letter...)
To whoever finds this:
This letter marks the existence of what hopefully will be known as the Third Crew. There are things that need fixing out here on the sea, and we're going to try to fix them. There are Outsiders intent on destroying the wonders here, and we're going to try and stop them. There are bad things afoot, whether by ill intent or because mistakes were made, and we're going to try and set things right again. We claim these troubles as our own, and set as our mission to calm these waters. Not just because what happens here will affect Sornieth next, if not stopped, but also because there's much here worth saving...because it's the right thing to do.
If things don't work out, if our aid isn’t enough to stem to the tide, then send out the word: help is needed. Prepare, and be ready. But we are determined, and we will not give up without giving it our best fight.
- Misprint, member of (claws crossed) the Third Crew
(Misprint has no home, no clan at this point, so this was his letter...)
To whoever finds this:
This letter marks the existence of what hopefully will be known as the Third Crew. There are things that need fixing out here on the sea, and we're going to try to fix them. There are Outsiders intent on destroying the wonders here, and we're going to try and stop them. There are bad things afoot, whether by ill intent or because mistakes were made, and we're going to try and set things right again. We claim these troubles as our own, and set as our mission to calm these waters. Not just because what happens here will affect Sornieth next, if not stopped, but also because there's much here worth saving...because it's the right thing to do.
If things don't work out, if our aid isn’t enough to stem to the tide, then send out the word: help is needed. Prepare, and be ready. But we are determined, and we will not give up without giving it our best fight.
- Misprint, member of (claws crossed) the Third Crew
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[i]Some of her crewmates are excited and cheered by Shadoweater's Cove, but Keres is worried. They still haven't found their own boat yet, and the Deadman's Canal dragons are probably fed up with dragging around an extra crew. Third Crew can't help anyone on the zee without a boat. Right now, they're just dead weight.
Keres steps off the boat with a frown hidden behind her snarling guise. If she's honest with herself, she'd rather stay behind and help fix the engines. She's no Lightning engineer, but ever since helping to build the ship's sonar Keres harbored a soft spot for tinkering with machines. As it turns out, they're like corpses. They don't talk back to you, and they make sense. Most of the time.
But, as an Ice dragon, there isn't much Keres can do. Anything she conjures will soon be melted away if the machine is working properly, which after all is the goal. So she is here, on the shore, looking for another way to help. The Shadoweaters seemed friendly enough, and eager to socialize. It wasn't Keres' idea of a fun time, but they offered an exchange of information. Maybe she could suffer through a bit of talking, if it helped answer some questions.
She wanders around, trying not to look as out of place as she feels. Her smile is a little tight. Her wings are folded close. Her tail tip twitches. Eventually, she makes eye contact with a Shadoweater who nods her over. She thinks she hears a soft hissing, but that could be anyone anywhere. These dragons and their strange accents. Keres bolsters her courage as she makes her way over.[/i]
[b]"Secrets, right?"[/b]
[i]She has no desire to make small-talk. The sooner she makes her trades, the sooner she can get out of here.[/i]
[b]"I once met a dragon with wings made of glass. He, he use illusion magic to make them seem normal. That was his secret."[/b]
[i]Keres pauses. That wasn't very good. She takes a deep breath, and tries another.[/i]
[b]"I... am a coroner, with years of experience. It makes me... adept, but. But I wasn't always. I don't. I once cut into a dragon to find out what killed her. Only, she wasn't dead."[/b]
[i]She covers her face. Her greatest mistake. It's embarassing and terrible, but hopefully she'll never see these dragons again. And, she supposes, it makes for a decent story.[/i]
[b]"We both screamed loud enough to wake half the lair."[/b]
[i]She clears her throat. One more. She has time for one more. And this one had better be good. Maybe, maybe something that the Shadoweater can relate to. What did they care about stories from Sornieth? Nothing, that's what. Keres had to step up her game. She chews on her thoughts, trying to think of a good secret to share.[/i]
[b]"There is a hole, in a tunnel. Uhm, north of here. It has a, a portal. With weird magic. It takes you somewhere else. Nowhere on this world. An island floating in a strange ocean under strange stars. A whole new place to explore."[/b]
[i]Hopefully that's a good one, at least.[/i]
Some of her crewmates are excited and cheered by Shadoweater's Cove, but Keres is worried. They still haven't found their own boat yet, and the Deadman's Canal dragons are probably fed up with dragging around an extra crew. Third Crew can't help anyone on the zee without a boat. Right now, they're just dead weight.
Keres steps off the boat with a frown hidden behind her snarling guise. If she's honest with herself, she'd rather stay behind and help fix the engines. She's no Lightning engineer, but ever since helping to build the ship's sonar Keres harbored a soft spot for tinkering with machines. As it turns out, they're like corpses. They don't talk back to you, and they make sense. Most of the time.
But, as an Ice dragon, there isn't much Keres can do. Anything she conjures will soon be melted away if the machine is working properly, which after all is the goal. So she is here, on the shore, looking for another way to help. The Shadoweaters seemed friendly enough, and eager to socialize. It wasn't Keres' idea of a fun time, but they offered an exchange of information. Maybe she could suffer through a bit of talking, if it helped answer some questions.
She wanders around, trying not to look as out of place as she feels. Her smile is a little tight. Her wings are folded close. Her tail tip twitches. Eventually, she makes eye contact with a Shadoweater who nods her over. She thinks she hears a soft hissing, but that could be anyone anywhere. These dragons and their strange accents. Keres bolsters her courage as she makes her way over.
"Secrets, right?"
She has no desire to make small-talk. The sooner she makes her trades, the sooner she can get out of here.
"I once met a dragon with wings made of glass. He, he use illusion magic to make them seem normal. That was his secret."
Keres pauses. That wasn't very good. She takes a deep breath, and tries another.
"I... am a coroner, with years of experience. It makes me... adept, but. But I wasn't always. I don't. I once cut into a dragon to find out what killed her. Only, she wasn't dead."
She covers her face. Her greatest mistake. It's embarassing and terrible, but hopefully she'll never see these dragons again. And, she supposes, it makes for a decent story.
"We both screamed loud enough to wake half the lair."
She clears her throat. One more. She has time for one more. And this one had better be good. Maybe, maybe something that the Shadoweater can relate to. What did they care about stories from Sornieth? Nothing, that's what. Keres had to step up her game. She chews on her thoughts, trying to think of a good secret to share.
"There is a hole, in a tunnel. Uhm, north of here. It has a, a portal. With weird magic. It takes you somewhere else. Nowhere on this world. An island floating in a strange ocean under strange stars. A whole new place to explore."
Hopefully that's a good one, at least.
Secrets~
Secrets, eh? Interesting folk, these Shadoweaters... Misprint mused over what secrets he had to offer; he had no clan to detail any comings and goings of, nor had he been travelling on his own for all that long, to pick up the secrets of others. But that was the key, wasn’t it? The two major events that had shaped him, were at this moment still shaping him, testing him...they were forcing him to see things about himself, things he would otherwise probably have chosen not to see. He smiled ruefully at the realization. Heh, but do I really want to share those things? But wanting to keep them secret...was what made them secrets.
Better a confessional of strangers, than dragons he actually knew, he supposed.
1. The Cleaver.
He jokingly thought of it as his +8 Cleaver of Annoyance, for the way it boosted his fighting ability, and for the way it never wanted to shut up. But the truth of the matter was, he was afraid of the thing, of what it might do, what it might make HIM do--and that was only increasing, as time went on. He’d found it, scavenged it as he’d done with most of the things he called possessions...minus the nice coat, boots, and gloves set that’d been bought for him as a reward for lending a hand, and which he was a bit proud of. “Rather snazzy duds, those.”
But the Cleaver, oh, the Cleaver--it was poking out of the dirt, in some desolate spot he’d decided (or had IT decided, he considered for the first time) to camp for the night. “What have we here, a shiny,” and he’d dug it up, with care for the wicked-looking blade as soon as he’d unearthed it enough to realize it was a sword, and finally gotten to where he could lay his hands on the hilt, and…
: WIELDER. :
The voice filled his mind, startling him enough to jump, except he couldn’t, he couldn’t unloose his grip from the hilt, and…
: I AM NOW YOU, AND YOU ARE NOW ME. WE ARE OF ONE MIND, ONE BODY. :
He awoke the Eleven knows how long later, hungry and feeling drained, his face in the dirt and his claws still wrapped around the hilt. He spat out grit and moaned. “What..happened?”
: THE BONDING. WE ARE BONDED, WIELDER. NEED WE ONLY TO COMPLETE IT, AND WE WILL REACH OUR TRUE POWER. :
He winced at the voice at his head, and let go of the hilt, yanking his hand back as if he’d been stung. Without knowing how he knew, he KNEW it was the sword speaking. “I...can't say I like the sound of that. At ALL.” He forced himself up from the dirt. “And can you, maybe, stop shouting?” He stood back from the cleaver as it was a particularly poisonous snake, his fear--but not caution--somewhat mitigated by the fact that he felt a little silly talking to a sword.
Well, from that point on it stopped BOOMING against the sides of his brain when it spoke--most of the time. But that didn't make what it had to say any less worrisome. It didn't seem to have a name: when Misprint asked, it replied, “My name is the same as yours.” The first advice it came up with, unsought, for most situations of dubious nature was invariably some variant of “Let me kill them for you” or “Let us kill them together.”
It spoke of “allowing it to complete the bond,” and made allusions to grandiose strength and unbeatable skill in battle, if only, if only he would. He threatened to throw it in a deep hole. It also warned him of dangers before he saw them, and flew lightweight and true in a fight, with a heavy impact that belied the weight he felt in his hands. And he somehow never quite found that hole to toss it in.
And when he was at his most weak...injured, tired, afraid, it called to him to allow it to save him. Most of those times, he told it to shut up, and somehow pushed through. But some of those times...
Some of those times, when he was at his utter limits...he DID give into the cleaver. And the only reason he knew he had done so, was because afterwards, some indeterminable amount of time later, some PLACE later, he would come back to himself. With a cleaver...and himself...covered in blood, or other gore that he was too horrified to Look. Too. Closely at.
Especially depending on the last thing he could remember before that. A band of travellers he’d journeyed with for a time, come along the wrong road at the wrong time, where hostile beastclan waited. Merchants, patrons at a crossroads, something started by a stranger over a deal gone wrong. A family of dragons, sharing their food with him around a campfire, suddenly beset by brigands.
There were hatchlings with them.
This is is what he tried not to think about, but had to think about. Had to maintain control for. Had to not allow himself to give in to. Because he hoped, hoped hard that the worst hadn't happened...but the Cleaver did not say.
And he was too afraid to ask.
And this was why, privately, intently, he hoped and prayed that if he failed--if terror overtook him on this voyage--that the others would somehow wrest the Cleaver from him. Before the worst.
2. The first time in battle.
Misprint swallowed, and paused for a bit, fiddling with his ring and getting his thoughts together. “Hardest one down...though this one is partly related. Got lucky with that, though.”
Misprint liked to think of himself as a halfway decent fighter, even not yet fully trained, and that “training” being mostly of the real-life experience, trial-and-error sort. He had thoroughly enjoyed the tourney fights with his grand imp partner, Erin--oho, to have a healer mage at his back in battle!--and he left the prison grinning with adrenaline, memories of the camaraderie of working with his partner and the battledance they’d made together, and of having been thoroughly put through his paces by the other teams from the crew, playing in his mind.
But then, the true battle began.
Oh, sure, he’d been in plenty of scraps before, roving from place to place in Sornieth. The worst of those, though, he didn't actually remember, and the best, he either had an advantage, used trickery, or just plain got lucky. Then thought, well, that worked--now why did that work? And tried to put it into use for the next time.
He had no such experience to draw on for a wide-ranging, fullscale battle. This was his first, and but for such moves that were so practiced that he didn't have to think about them, and greatly, the aid of his crewmates and Cleaver, he’d’ve fallen there, and he knew it. He spent most of his time lost, gone away from the allies he’d begun with, finding different ones, losing them. And there was so much going on, everywhere, with only the scantest moments of downtime to process, regroup--he found it impossible to think, only do, and do and do again.
And all the doing led to the most exhausting fight he’d ever had in his life. Which in turn, had almost, almost brought about the thing he feared worst. He knew how close it had been--he’d lost time. He was lost, and alone, and utterly spent, at that point, and the Outsiders were many, and you couldn’t let them touch you. You couldn’t.
But when he came back to himself, he was ascending a ridge, a high ground above the maddening, writhing death below--and the only evidence he bore of where he’d passed to get there was that of the foe, his blade stained with the dark ichor of the Outsiders from where it had cut a path through them. He’d been terrified for a moment, truly afraid of what he might see on the sword, his clothes, the ground nearby. But the Cleaver had done well for him, and only done well, this time.
He had thought he’d been ready for this. Visions of running in to aid his crewmates, one after another, of laughingly dispatching their enemies...they were just that, visions in his mind, swept out by the reality of what had been.
And outside of this place, he would never, ever speak of it.
3. The closest thing to a clan.
Having gotten the most difficult secrets out of the way first, Misprint felt a bit less tense, as he started in on the last thing he would not say, outside of this place. If a little wistful. Maybe it really is as some say, confession is cathartic. “I have no clan. Before I left the clan of my birth, I was intended to be fodder, and as such, know little to nothing of them. I belong nowhere, and to no one. That’s not the secret, tho. What is, is that I was basically all right with that, before this journey on the Outlier Sea. Could go where I wanted, do what I felt like doing...really, all in all not a bad way to live. But here, on this voyage...for the first time, I feel like i know what it’s like, to be in a clan. To be part of a group, a family. To be working together to survive, to reach shared goals, to have each other’s backs when the chips are down. To belong.” He toyed with his violant ring, spinning on his finger.
“And i don’t want it to end.”
He looked away as he spoke. “The others, when the voyage is over--when hopefully we’ve accomplished what we’ve set ourselves to do, contributed our part of the grand adventure--they’ll go home. Back to their clans, their friends or families, whoever waits for them...the ones I hear them talk about. Me? Heh, I’ll go wherever I please...but to no one, to nowhere in particular.” He looked back up.
“I don’t want them to leave. Where I'd please to be, would be with them. And that’s the secret.”
Secrets~
Secrets, eh? Interesting folk, these Shadoweaters... Misprint mused over what secrets he had to offer; he had no clan to detail any comings and goings of, nor had he been travelling on his own for all that long, to pick up the secrets of others. But that was the key, wasn’t it? The two major events that had shaped him, were at this moment still shaping him, testing him...they were forcing him to see things about himself, things he would otherwise probably have chosen not to see. He smiled ruefully at the realization. Heh, but do I really want to share those things? But wanting to keep them secret...was what made them secrets.
Better a confessional of strangers, than dragons he actually knew, he supposed.
1. The Cleaver.
He jokingly thought of it as his +8 Cleaver of Annoyance, for the way it boosted his fighting ability, and for the way it never wanted to shut up. But the truth of the matter was, he was afraid of the thing, of what it might do, what it might make HIM do--and that was only increasing, as time went on. He’d found it, scavenged it as he’d done with most of the things he called possessions...minus the nice coat, boots, and gloves set that’d been bought for him as a reward for lending a hand, and which he was a bit proud of. “Rather snazzy duds, those.”
But the Cleaver, oh, the Cleaver--it was poking out of the dirt, in some desolate spot he’d decided (or had IT decided, he considered for the first time) to camp for the night. “What have we here, a shiny,” and he’d dug it up, with care for the wicked-looking blade as soon as he’d unearthed it enough to realize it was a sword, and finally gotten to where he could lay his hands on the hilt, and…
: WIELDER. :
The voice filled his mind, startling him enough to jump, except he couldn’t, he couldn’t unloose his grip from the hilt, and…
: I AM NOW YOU, AND YOU ARE NOW ME. WE ARE OF ONE MIND, ONE BODY. :
He awoke the Eleven knows how long later, hungry and feeling drained, his face in the dirt and his claws still wrapped around the hilt. He spat out grit and moaned. “What..happened?”
: THE BONDING. WE ARE BONDED, WIELDER. NEED WE ONLY TO COMPLETE IT, AND WE WILL REACH OUR TRUE POWER. :
He winced at the voice at his head, and let go of the hilt, yanking his hand back as if he’d been stung. Without knowing how he knew, he KNEW it was the sword speaking. “I...can't say I like the sound of that. At ALL.” He forced himself up from the dirt. “And can you, maybe, stop shouting?” He stood back from the cleaver as it was a particularly poisonous snake, his fear--but not caution--somewhat mitigated by the fact that he felt a little silly talking to a sword.
Well, from that point on it stopped BOOMING against the sides of his brain when it spoke--most of the time. But that didn't make what it had to say any less worrisome. It didn't seem to have a name: when Misprint asked, it replied, “My name is the same as yours.” The first advice it came up with, unsought, for most situations of dubious nature was invariably some variant of “Let me kill them for you” or “Let us kill them together.”
It spoke of “allowing it to complete the bond,” and made allusions to grandiose strength and unbeatable skill in battle, if only, if only he would. He threatened to throw it in a deep hole. It also warned him of dangers before he saw them, and flew lightweight and true in a fight, with a heavy impact that belied the weight he felt in his hands. And he somehow never quite found that hole to toss it in.
And when he was at his most weak...injured, tired, afraid, it called to him to allow it to save him. Most of those times, he told it to shut up, and somehow pushed through. But some of those times...
Some of those times, when he was at his utter limits...he DID give into the cleaver. And the only reason he knew he had done so, was because afterwards, some indeterminable amount of time later, some PLACE later, he would come back to himself. With a cleaver...and himself...covered in blood, or other gore that he was too horrified to Look. Too. Closely at.
Especially depending on the last thing he could remember before that. A band of travellers he’d journeyed with for a time, come along the wrong road at the wrong time, where hostile beastclan waited. Merchants, patrons at a crossroads, something started by a stranger over a deal gone wrong. A family of dragons, sharing their food with him around a campfire, suddenly beset by brigands.
There were hatchlings with them.
This is is what he tried not to think about, but had to think about. Had to maintain control for. Had to not allow himself to give in to. Because he hoped, hoped hard that the worst hadn't happened...but the Cleaver did not say.
And he was too afraid to ask.
And this was why, privately, intently, he hoped and prayed that if he failed--if terror overtook him on this voyage--that the others would somehow wrest the Cleaver from him. Before the worst.
2. The first time in battle.
Misprint swallowed, and paused for a bit, fiddling with his ring and getting his thoughts together. “Hardest one down...though this one is partly related. Got lucky with that, though.”
Misprint liked to think of himself as a halfway decent fighter, even not yet fully trained, and that “training” being mostly of the real-life experience, trial-and-error sort. He had thoroughly enjoyed the tourney fights with his grand imp partner, Erin--oho, to have a healer mage at his back in battle!--and he left the prison grinning with adrenaline, memories of the camaraderie of working with his partner and the battledance they’d made together, and of having been thoroughly put through his paces by the other teams from the crew, playing in his mind.
But then, the true battle began.
Oh, sure, he’d been in plenty of scraps before, roving from place to place in Sornieth. The worst of those, though, he didn't actually remember, and the best, he either had an advantage, used trickery, or just plain got lucky. Then thought, well, that worked--now why did that work? And tried to put it into use for the next time.
He had no such experience to draw on for a wide-ranging, fullscale battle. This was his first, and but for such moves that were so practiced that he didn't have to think about them, and greatly, the aid of his crewmates and Cleaver, he’d’ve fallen there, and he knew it. He spent most of his time lost, gone away from the allies he’d begun with, finding different ones, losing them. And there was so much going on, everywhere, with only the scantest moments of downtime to process, regroup--he found it impossible to think, only do, and do and do again.
And all the doing led to the most exhausting fight he’d ever had in his life. Which in turn, had almost, almost brought about the thing he feared worst. He knew how close it had been--he’d lost time. He was lost, and alone, and utterly spent, at that point, and the Outsiders were many, and you couldn’t let them touch you. You couldn’t.
But when he came back to himself, he was ascending a ridge, a high ground above the maddening, writhing death below--and the only evidence he bore of where he’d passed to get there was that of the foe, his blade stained with the dark ichor of the Outsiders from where it had cut a path through them. He’d been terrified for a moment, truly afraid of what he might see on the sword, his clothes, the ground nearby. But the Cleaver had done well for him, and only done well, this time.
He had thought he’d been ready for this. Visions of running in to aid his crewmates, one after another, of laughingly dispatching their enemies...they were just that, visions in his mind, swept out by the reality of what had been.
And outside of this place, he would never, ever speak of it.
3. The closest thing to a clan.
Having gotten the most difficult secrets out of the way first, Misprint felt a bit less tense, as he started in on the last thing he would not say, outside of this place. If a little wistful. Maybe it really is as some say, confession is cathartic. “I have no clan. Before I left the clan of my birth, I was intended to be fodder, and as such, know little to nothing of them. I belong nowhere, and to no one. That’s not the secret, tho. What is, is that I was basically all right with that, before this journey on the Outlier Sea. Could go where I wanted, do what I felt like doing...really, all in all not a bad way to live. But here, on this voyage...for the first time, I feel like i know what it’s like, to be in a clan. To be part of a group, a family. To be working together to survive, to reach shared goals, to have each other’s backs when the chips are down. To belong.” He toyed with his violant ring, spinning on his finger.
“And i don’t want it to end.”
He looked away as he spoke. “The others, when the voyage is over--when hopefully we’ve accomplished what we’ve set ourselves to do, contributed our part of the grand adventure--they’ll go home. Back to their clans, their friends or families, whoever waits for them...the ones I hear them talk about. Me? Heh, I’ll go wherever I please...but to no one, to nowhere in particular.” He looked back up.
“I don’t want them to leave. Where I'd please to be, would be with them. And that’s the secret.”
((@
Xairathan))
Diode stared at the engine churning in front of her. It was in terrible shape. Cracks, leaks, dents, everywhere. It barely looked like it could power a toy cart, nevermind a ship.
She panicked, short of breath and hands trembling. She couldn't do it. She was scared and overwhelmed and thoroughly useless. She was a shame to her crew and her clan and they will all perish at the bottom of the ocean and get eaten by a strangely alluring crab.
"Hmm, I don't know. I think it could work." A stern voice came from over her shoulder. Diode looked over and saw... Her clan leader? It was her all right. Who else could it be but Kreea... The gray Mirror was wearing her overcoat, magnifying googles and detached scowl. She stood there, looking at the engine, rubbing her chin in thought, unmoved from the clanging of misaligned gears and whistling steam. "You've dealt with worse."
"You're insane." Diode scoffed at her clan leader. "This engine is beyond repair! Just as sure as we... We'll never get your stupid giant robot operational!" Diode's eyes widened at her own words. Where did that come from?
"Perhaps." Replied Kreea in her usual detached monotone. "But the Tempest Spire wasn't built because the Stormcatcher gave up on it. Everything starts somewhere."
Diode tried to calm down her breathing. Focus. Start somewhere. The crack on the tank? No, that was Lucien's job... A bent pipe? No, she wasn't strong enough. Disconnected tubing? She used her wrench to pull it closer, lined up the bolt, and turned the wrench. The heat scalded her hands, but her gloves offered some protection. Seems they were useful after all.
"That could work." Came the usual highest praise from her clan leader. Diode steadied her hands and got to rebuilding the engine. Piece by piece by piece. All under "Kreea's" watchful, near-sighted eyes.
((@
Xairathan))
Diode stared at the engine churning in front of her. It was in terrible shape. Cracks, leaks, dents, everywhere. It barely looked like it could power a toy cart, nevermind a ship.
She panicked, short of breath and hands trembling. She couldn't do it. She was scared and overwhelmed and thoroughly useless. She was a shame to her crew and her clan and they will all perish at the bottom of the ocean and get eaten by a strangely alluring crab.
"Hmm, I don't know. I think it could work." A stern voice came from over her shoulder. Diode looked over and saw... Her clan leader? It was her all right. Who else could it be but Kreea... The gray Mirror was wearing her overcoat, magnifying googles and detached scowl. She stood there, looking at the engine, rubbing her chin in thought, unmoved from the clanging of misaligned gears and whistling steam. "You've dealt with worse."
"You're insane." Diode scoffed at her clan leader. "This engine is beyond repair! Just as sure as we... We'll never get your stupid giant robot operational!" Diode's eyes widened at her own words. Where did that come from?
"Perhaps." Replied Kreea in her usual detached monotone. "But the Tempest Spire wasn't built because the Stormcatcher gave up on it. Everything starts somewhere."
Diode tried to calm down her breathing. Focus. Start somewhere. The crack on the tank? No, that was Lucien's job... A bent pipe? No, she wasn't strong enough. Disconnected tubing? She used her wrench to pull it closer, lined up the bolt, and turned the wrench. The heat scalded her hands, but her gloves offered some protection. Seems they were useful after all.
"That could work." Came the usual highest praise from her clan leader. Diode steadied her hands and got to rebuilding the engine. Piece by piece by piece. All under "Kreea's" watchful, near-sighted eyes.
((Ciaram's secrets, not too much RP detail because it's late and I need to sleep, but dialogue, Cia loves talking!))
"Secrets, eh? I heard about you guys from m'Lady! She didn't mind dealing with you guys, so I don't mind either! Secrets, secrets, which secrets are the best ones... OH! Okay, first secret! Did you know that Grues like stuff? Just, stuff, in general, nothing specific, just stuff. Stealing it, collecting it, sitting on it, LORDING over it like they are the Kings of Pile Town. We've got a sneaky little bugger running around the Crew, and I've been trying my best to learn how to be a good Grue-Pappy, but his sticky little claws are gonna get him in real big trouble one day, mark my words!" He sighs the sigh of weary, but happy, fatherhood.
"Secret number two! It's a good one! Back home, at the Haven Cluster, we've got a guest that no one really knows about. I'm pretty certain no one knows about him, I think it's a him, because no one talks about him and I listen really well, so I would hear about it if they did. He hangs out in the lower ends of the Pillars, I think he must have built a small nest down there somewhere or found a good crack to hide in, but I only see him flitting about late at night, hiding really good. There is something special about him, something dark, but not bad, persay. Just... Different. He kinda feels like a couple of the Dragons on our Crew who've lost their connections to their Deities. Flightless, you could say. Non-affiliated. And he's got a few little things down there too, that he's been collecting slowly. They look way too small to be hatchlings, but they definitely aren't just lizard shaped, let me tell you!" He laughs and winks.
"And my last secret... Consider it a warning, maybe?... I once fought a very bad thing. Something that I, without realizing it at the time, helped to create. At first, after that last battle, I thought it was done. That I had beaten it. But... I've just had a feeling, a steadily growing feeling, that some part of it survived. Maybe I missed a piece, or one of the mice got away... I've never told anyone back home this, I'm not sure that they would believe me, but I think, somehow, that the Demon Crystal is still out there, somewhere. And if it is, that means bad news for everybody."
((Ciaram's secrets, not too much RP detail because it's late and I need to sleep, but dialogue, Cia loves talking!))
"Secrets, eh? I heard about you guys from m'Lady! She didn't mind dealing with you guys, so I don't mind either! Secrets, secrets, which secrets are the best ones... OH! Okay, first secret! Did you know that Grues like stuff? Just, stuff, in general, nothing specific, just stuff. Stealing it, collecting it, sitting on it, LORDING over it like they are the Kings of Pile Town. We've got a sneaky little bugger running around the Crew, and I've been trying my best to learn how to be a good Grue-Pappy, but his sticky little claws are gonna get him in real big trouble one day, mark my words!" He sighs the sigh of weary, but happy, fatherhood.
"Secret number two! It's a good one! Back home, at the Haven Cluster, we've got a guest that no one really knows about. I'm pretty certain no one knows about him, I think it's a him, because no one talks about him and I listen really well, so I would hear about it if they did. He hangs out in the lower ends of the Pillars, I think he must have built a small nest down there somewhere or found a good crack to hide in, but I only see him flitting about late at night, hiding really good. There is something special about him, something dark, but not bad, persay. Just... Different. He kinda feels like a couple of the Dragons on our Crew who've lost their connections to their Deities. Flightless, you could say. Non-affiliated. And he's got a few little things down there too, that he's been collecting slowly. They look way too small to be hatchlings, but they definitely aren't just lizard shaped, let me tell you!" He laughs and winks.
"And my last secret... Consider it a warning, maybe?... I once fought a very bad thing. Something that I, without realizing it at the time, helped to create. At first, after that last battle, I thought it was done. That I had beaten it. But... I've just had a feeling, a steadily growing feeling, that some part of it survived. Maybe I missed a piece, or one of the mice got away... I've never told anyone back home this, I'm not sure that they would believe me, but I think, somehow, that the Demon Crystal is still out there, somewhere. And if it is, that means bad news for everybody."
@
Xairathan (#1):
Erin stared at the slowly sputtering, creaking mass, horrified. The ship's engine stared back implacably. She had no idea what to do - surely this was a Lightning dragon's job? Belatedly, Erin wished she'd paid more attention to the mechanical demonstrations at the Thundercrack Carnivale.
Is that a piston? A... valve? Gah!
She shook her head, noticing the uncomfortable amount of heat radiating from the furnace.
Maybe I could help to cool things off a bit... She was just preparing to use Congeal on the metal bits surrounding the furnace when a claw knocked her spell off-balance. "NO! That'll make the pipes explode!" a crewmate yelled. Erin's eyes widened and she backed off sheepishly, making way for a quick little skydancer with circuit-like patterns covering her shining feathers.
Shows what I know.
Erin took up a position just outside the engine room, overseeing a rotating and ragged crew of dragons who had overheated. She used her inborn ice magic to make her surroundings cool and refreshing, a resting spot for a few minutes, and made sure that none of them passed out, even offering some Green Plantain from her food stash. The ice mage also blew a gentle cold breath into the engine room, her large lungs making it a full-on breeze for Fae and other small breeds.
Hopefully this will help.
@
Xairathan (#1):
Erin stared at the slowly sputtering, creaking mass, horrified. The ship's engine stared back implacably. She had no idea what to do - surely this was a Lightning dragon's job? Belatedly, Erin wished she'd paid more attention to the mechanical demonstrations at the Thundercrack Carnivale.
Is that a piston? A... valve? Gah!
She shook her head, noticing the uncomfortable amount of heat radiating from the furnace.
Maybe I could help to cool things off a bit... She was just preparing to use Congeal on the metal bits surrounding the furnace when a claw knocked her spell off-balance. "NO! That'll make the pipes explode!" a crewmate yelled. Erin's eyes widened and she backed off sheepishly, making way for a quick little skydancer with circuit-like patterns covering her shining feathers.
Shows what I know.
Erin took up a position just outside the engine room, overseeing a rotating and ragged crew of dragons who had overheated. She used her inborn ice magic to make her surroundings cool and refreshing, a resting spot for a few minutes, and made sure that none of them passed out, even offering some Green Plantain from her food stash. The ice mage also blew a gentle cold breath into the engine room, her large lungs making it a full-on breeze for Fae and other small breeds.
Hopefully this will help.
Option 2 - Repair
Lucien knows engines. Hell, he built the last one out of scrap metal and junked wires- and that was an electrical one. This one is a coal engine. Lucien is intimately familiar with the heat and smoke of coal and ash. It reminds him of the ashfall wastes, of youth in the blacksands annex, of long days in the smoke-like-fog, clinging to the ground.
It only takes a cursory look-over of the machine to pin-point its most obvious issues- heat and stress cracks in the sides, soldering coming apart, metal worn and warped from heat, clogged ports, faulty ventilation. After a short squabble with the engineering head over qualifications, Lucien finally slips into the room with forge tools in hand. An artisanal application of heat and pressure to reform the structures; a superheating of scrap metal to shore up and reinforce the soldering; a quick cleaning of the vents and a fast scorching to make the smoke go smoothly through the pipes.
In the end, the engine seems functional- maybe even presentable- if not high-end. (Since when has coal ever been high end, though). Lucien, proud of his work and pleasantly warm with the heavy weight of the burning coal, settles in and and appreciates the hot glow.
Option 2 - Repair
Lucien knows engines. Hell, he built the last one out of scrap metal and junked wires- and that was an electrical one. This one is a coal engine. Lucien is intimately familiar with the heat and smoke of coal and ash. It reminds him of the ashfall wastes, of youth in the blacksands annex, of long days in the smoke-like-fog, clinging to the ground.
It only takes a cursory look-over of the machine to pin-point its most obvious issues- heat and stress cracks in the sides, soldering coming apart, metal worn and warped from heat, clogged ports, faulty ventilation. After a short squabble with the engineering head over qualifications, Lucien finally slips into the room with forge tools in hand. An artisanal application of heat and pressure to reform the structures; a superheating of scrap metal to shore up and reinforce the soldering; a quick cleaning of the vents and a fast scorching to make the smoke go smoothly through the pipes.
In the end, the engine seems functional- maybe even presentable- if not high-end. (Since when has coal ever been high end, though). Lucien, proud of his work and pleasantly warm with the heavy weight of the burning coal, settles in and and appreciates the hot glow.
@
Xairathan
Anglesey stared intently at his claws. He had the feeling he'd done something like this, once.
Looking up a little, he winced. His throat was sore.
How much talking had he
done? And at what volume?
...Never mind.
The Nocturne shifted uncomfortably. His pocket felt heavy. His tail lantern sloshed.
Where had he gotten these things?
Never! mind!
He would have to get this over with, eventually.
Anglesey glanced into the Shadoweater's dark, dark eyes. The eyes looked expectant.
"...Every night I dream, without fail. The dream is always the same.
It is of a cave.
The cave, if you prefer. I am not in the cave. It is dark. Nothing ever happens."
"Every night. For 500 years, and counting."
"I dread sleep."
"That is one secret. But... the last night, something changed. Nothing
ever changes. The wall was broken, and there was yellow writing on the floor of the cave."
"That is my second secret, but not all of it. There was a drawing of the cannon I built.
Whoever wrote it was not impressed. I suspect
I wrote it."
"...I
remember writing it. Not clearly and like... it happened long ago. But I do, I do remember. I lied about that."
Anglesey rushed on, wary of letting the Shadoweater speak. Wary of what...it...? would tell him.
"Being alone for that long it...it does things. I..."
Fiercely, he jabbed a claw into his eye. His eye socket.
"Look! I did this! And I don't even remember doing it! I don't... I don't remember my name.
I don't. remember my name. I don't remember who I was. I feel like I've lost..."
He gestured, outwards.
"Me. Except I don't know who that was."
"And, judging from what I've heard, I'm not even sure if I want to know."
@
Xairathan
Anglesey stared intently at his claws. He had the feeling he'd done something like this, once.
Looking up a little, he winced. His throat was sore.
How much talking had he
done? And at what volume?
...Never mind.
The Nocturne shifted uncomfortably. His pocket felt heavy. His tail lantern sloshed.
Where had he gotten these things?
Never! mind!
He would have to get this over with, eventually.
Anglesey glanced into the Shadoweater's dark, dark eyes. The eyes looked expectant.
"...Every night I dream, without fail. The dream is always the same.
It is of a cave.
The cave, if you prefer. I am not in the cave. It is dark. Nothing ever happens."
"Every night. For 500 years, and counting."
"I dread sleep."
"That is one secret. But... the last night, something changed. Nothing
ever changes. The wall was broken, and there was yellow writing on the floor of the cave."
"That is my second secret, but not all of it. There was a drawing of the cannon I built.
Whoever wrote it was not impressed. I suspect
I wrote it."
"...I
remember writing it. Not clearly and like... it happened long ago. But I do, I do remember. I lied about that."
Anglesey rushed on, wary of letting the Shadoweater speak. Wary of what...it...? would tell him.
"Being alone for that long it...it does things. I..."
Fiercely, he jabbed a claw into his eye. His eye socket.
"Look! I did this! And I don't even remember doing it! I don't... I don't remember my name.
I don't. remember my name. I don't remember who I was. I feel like I've lost..."
He gestured, outwards.
"Me. Except I don't know who that was."
"And, judging from what I've heard, I'm not even sure if I want to know."
