(Sorry, busy few days)

Cromwell:

Therron says nothing, just gives Cromwell a hearty pat on the back, and turns to go. As he does, however, Cromwell catches a trail of shining wetness on his face, before the old orc limps off. 

Azesia:

The creatures chitter louder and louder as Azesia draws closer to the cord, and grow silent the second she does. The severed end of the cord, not connected to the creature, falls limp on the ground. There is a sliding sound, and it is gone. The dense, furry lump lies there, unmoving. A few rats come forward, and nudge it toward Azesia. It still breaths, but much slower now, like a hibernating animal.

Quote from TheHumbug >>

The creatures chitter louder and louder as Azesia draws closer to the cord, and grow silent the second she does. The severed end of the cord, not connected to the creature, falls limp on the ground. There is a sliding sound, and it is gone. The dense, furry lump lies there, unmoving. A few rats come forward, and nudge it toward Azesia. It still breaths, but much slower now, like a hibernating animal.

Azesia reaches out to touch the furry creature as it's pushed towards her. The dagger still gleams in her grasp and she lowers it slightly before patting the top of the mound lightly. She attempts to rouse the creature for a few moments, stopping briefly to give a questioning gesture to the larger beast behind her.

The beast nudges Azesia’s pack, and chitters softly, while the others push the furry lump towards her.

There's a slight hesitation as Azesia attempts to rouse the creature once more before shaking her head with a sigh.

"I'm not sure what exactly you want me to do here." She moves to try and pick the furry lump up, motioning for the tinier beasts to stand clear.

It does not move, and the others back up, while chittering happily.

Azesia puts in a little more force to try and pick up the creature. Should this fail, she will motioning questioningly to the larger rat again.

(Oh, sorry, Azesia fully picks it up, I meant that the creature doesn't stir. It's weirdly dense, but still not very heavy. It's no tungsten cube, which causes mere mortals to buckle under the sheer intensity of its density.)

Cromwell feels his lip quiver, but tightens his jaw. He takes a moment to collect himself, grabs the suitcase, and heads home to change. The ceremony would start soon and while he wasn't the most punctual orc around, he'd hate to be late on this occasion.

(Going to move on to the ceremony once Azesia’s thing is resolved.)

Holding the creature in her arms is an odd sensation, the fur of the beast brushing against her face as she stands from the cavern floor. There's a pause of silence as Azesia debates on whether or not turning down this gift would seem rude to her furry companions.

"A suppose you all expect me to bring this thing along on my journey?" She manages to huff out, shifting the creature around in her arms as she does.

The creatures chitter happily when Azesia picks it up, and move to the exit of this forever decomposing spine-chamber, while the large one stays back, slowly wandering into the river of spinal fluid.

The Tiefling listens as the chitter of smaller rats moves away from the general cavern space and out towards the direction of the big city. She keeps the furry creature in her arms as she bids her larger friend goodbye, knowing full well that the other creatures of the spinal space would do just fine on their own. 

As soon as Azesia exits the sewer-like chambers, her connection to her swarm strengthens and provides some insight as to where she should be going. There was a ceremony to attend and she wasn't one to be late. Hopefully no one would mind the furry creature that still rested in her arms.

(Is Azesia keeping the thing in her arms the entire time, or placing it in a bag or something?)

(She will throw it over her shoulder like a rug, no bag.)

(It's not that large, it's only the size of a particularly large, particularly round rabbit.)

(Alright, sorry for the delays everyone, I just wanted to resolve everyone's little substory/little plot hook before we kicked things off for real.)

Each of you returns to your navy-sponsored lodgings, and fifteen minutes before the ceremony, a uniformed attendant picks each of you up individually. They lead you down, where a personal Street-Stalker waits for each of you, legs folded. Bizarre beasts, although a highly efficient mode of transport across the corpse-cities of Heaven. Some say that Street-Stalkers are a new creature, created wholesale out of dreams. Others say that they were parasites under the gods' skin, transformed by oneiric artifice. Just another example of the supposedly infallible gods' imperfection. Others yet say that they've always been this way, and that others used them long before we did. Each of you are led up the metal rings imbedded in the creature's chitin, and into its hollow shell, where a padded compartment lies. The attendant takes your luggage, then steps into the driver's seat and cracks the whip. Six stiltlike limbs unfold, and the Street-Stalker begins striding towards Sbloodgate Port.

A few short minutes later, the convoy of Street-Stalkers descend to the street, and your attendants unload your luggage. Yet more uniformed people take it, and assumedly haul it off to be loaded onto the vessel. The building that stands before you is right next to the port, which clings to the exposed bone of the god's severed arm like lichen on a rock, various piers extending out into the emptiness of Heaven. It is a tall, grim-looking edifice, adorned with the colors of New Cascadia's Navy. You don't stand near its front, but by a back entrance, which now bursts open to reveal a smiling figure that you recognize as Aron Targe, Prime Minister of New Shafier and His Recrudescent Majesty's right hand. His grin is lovely. So lovely, and so wide. And his buttons are very shiny.

"At last, our intrepid explorers! Please, come in, and do shake my hand." He extends a long-fingered hand to shake, and of course each of you takes it. What else could you do? Surely you wouldn't refuse such a generous offer, from such a powerful man. No, certainly not. He leads you to your appointed spot, and you follow. What else is there to do? "When the horns blow, you'll walk down the street, to the boat lying at port. There, the ceremony may commence, and you'll be off? Understand?" Of course you understand. You don't even have to say it. He knows. With another lovely, lovely smile, Aron Targe bids you adieu, and goes to take his spot on the back of a smaller, flat-topped Street-Stalker, with a microphone imbedded in its carapace. He removes a rag from his breast pocket, and polishes his shiny, shiny buttons. Now, wasn't that just lovely?

Thus positioned, there are but a few more minutes to tick away before you are presented to the world. A few minutes to converse as people, before you become the loyal servants of New Cascadia. Not to say that loyal servants of New Cascadia aren't people, of course. That would be silly.

Cas’s heart skips a rapid rat-a-tat-tat in her chest as Aron Targe offers his hand.

It’s a bad idea, she knows that, but as she takes it she stretches her leading straight and bows slightly, just enough to sketch the manners and style of Old Cascadia. 

In her Engineer’s formal dress, it feels only a slight protest, but it is enough. He does not give even a raised eyebrow in response. Then he is gone, and there are only moments left before the attention and eyes of more than just the one world are upon them. 

Already, Cas can hear the sussurations of a thousand thousand expectant minds awaiting the crew’s reveal and her stomach turns butterflies. 

She turns to the others. A face or two she has seen before but she does not know any of their names. As much as the rest of New Cascadia she awaits their announcement. She takes in all their faces, carefully looking from under where her hair hangs down, from the corner of their eyes. They all look so much more … more.

Is she the only one afraid of what comes next? 

Her voice catches as she goes to speak, and for a moment she decides she will stay quiet. But only a moment. She is not a true New Cascadian coward after all. 

“Here we are,” she says. 

To say Azesia disliked the Street-Stalkers would perhaps be an understatement, the odd shell creatures hovered a bit too high off the ground for her taste and were quite uncomfortable for her wings. The double-take at the furry beast in her arms by the uniformed attendant was duly noted by one of the hidden rats in the air and she later opted to place the slumbering creature into her open satchel to hopefully appear a little less crazy.

The Tiefling had not bothered to smile at Aron Targe, just barely shaking his hand and pretending that she could not pinpoint his position due to her covered eyes. She could hear the shuffling of the other so-called heroes of, each stepping up to greet New Cascadia's Prime Minister. 

A voice pipes up not long after Targe's departure, feminine in nature and somewhat familiar from the days of training. Azesia had never seen any of the others before, but from what she remembers their voices are likely quite distinct from one another. Probably something she should really hone in on, they'll all be living in the same quarters for stars know how long very soon anyway. 

"Indeed." Azesia straightens, her webbed-wings stretching out slightly behind her. "Quite a momentous achievement I suppose."

The stalkers were fun little creatures, Cromwell thought. Fun and delightfully filled with umami when cooked properly. Sure, extracting meat from their crustacean-like carcasses was a bit of a fuss, but it was worth it. 

Speeches from Aron were one of the most bountiful resources in New Cascadia. The man talked a lot, and more often than not, he had next to nothing to say. Very well put together though, very shiny buttons and clean suits. Shinier than what Cromwell was wearing, but he liked the colour and the texture of his more. The orc shook his hand, careful not to squeeze too hard, before turning back to the crew-to-be of their ship-to-fly. 

"Here we are!" he confirms, as if that was still something up in the air, "I am Cromwell Port. My pleasure to meet you. I made us some snacks, it's nice to have something to eat before attending a ceremony that can be as nerve racking as this," he hands out a few pieces of jerky to each person present. They looked odd at best, the lot of them, Cromwell included, but his grandfather taught him very early on to never judge people by their clothing or appearance. He somewhat disputed his first claim, style was good indication of a person's character, but largely his grandpa was always right. 

Nova forces any semblance of disgust from her expression as she takes Aron Targe’s hand, meeting his eyes coldly. She does not fidget, nor look away, only staring unblinkingly into his strange, golden irises. How stupid he looked, with his lovely grin and his shiny buttons, beaming so happily as he sent four of his citizens to their doom. A joke, really. A lovely, shiny joke. And yet it was she and her three companions who were truly the punchline. 

Despite all her disdain towards the Prime Minister, Nova could not help her heart from sinking slightly at his final words, reality setting in once more. The Teiflings thoughts begin to wander as she ponders all the possibilities her future could hold- But no. Now is not the time to think of such things, that can wait for the ship. For now, she must focus on making it through the upcoming ceremony. 

Nova’s gaze shifts towards her companions, taking in their various appearances. An Aasimar, an Orc, and another Teifling, all dressed in a variety of clothing. A motley crew, that’s for certain. Still, they all seem nice enough, and Nova has no qualms about sharing her doomed adventure with them. Perhaps they would even become friends in the time they would be forced to spend together. Or perhaps not. Only time would tell. 
A small smile graces her lips at the conversation that hesitantly springs up. It seems at least a couple of her companions share her lack of enthusiasm toward the expedition, an opinion she could definitely appreciate. 

“I am Nova.” She introduces herself, offering a small nod towards those who can see it. She opts to remain silent after that - she has never been a woman of many words. Yet, when the Orc who had introduced himself as Cromwell offers her some kind of meat, she tentatively accepts, tucking the mystery jerky into a small pocket to save for later.