After a short period, the door before you opens, and you are greeted by the cheers of hundreds, nay, thousands of New Shafierans. They way is cleared by navy guards and barriers, preventing the crowds from interrupting you as you make your way to the dock, but still they almost seem to crush you all with the sheer weight of their presence. The same rehearsed patriotism is written across each face, as they cheer for the brave explorers who will break the barriers of Heaven. Aron Targe finishes polishing his lovely, shiny buttons, and his Street-Stalker platform rises above the crowd, paving the way for you lot. He taps the microphone, and the cheers grow louder, more genuine. Everyone loves Aron Targe. You love Aron Targe, too. How could you not? Everyone loves Aron Targe, after all. Aron Targe, and his lovely, shiny buttons. The light of the stars glinting off of those lovely, shiny buttons only makes them so much lovelier, and so much shinier. And he hasn't even spoken yet. 

He opens his mouth, and the words pour out, sweet and shiny like honey. He smiles with this perfect, white teeth at a passing Sending-Shrike, broadcasting his message to all of New Cascadia. "My people," he begins, and the words have hardly left his mouth before another cheer rings out. "For countless aeons, we lived under the thumbs of the gods. Twisted, narcissistic beings, we were nothing more to them than ants to feed them worship and adoration, but that day has passed. The tyranny of the gods has ended, and today we build our cities on their disgraced corpses. However, until today, there has been one last scrap of oppression weighing down on us. The chains they used to bind us within Heaven, to prevent us from touching the stars. But today, we break those chains! Since our first expeditions to the outskirts of Heaven, we have faced a mighty foe, which patrols the broken Sigil Cloud: the Sigil Scribes. After all, how can one kill a word, even as it kills you? Today, the answer shall be provided to you, by His Recrudescent Majesty himself!"

A hush falls over the crowd, until a second, larger, far more ostentatious Street-Stalker rises to the sky, near a large, canvas-covered ship in Sbloodgate Pier. Upon the Street-Stalker stands none other than His Recrudescent Majesty, flanked by two silent Servitors, the emperor's personal guard. Little is known of them. They are men, supposedly. Depends on your definition. He stands, a radiant light emerging from his robed body, shining off his mirrored mask. His Recrudescent Majesty's face has not been seen since he took the throne, and paintings of his face before the empire's rise are considered "Objects of Public Indecency" and swiftly confiscated.

His Recrudescent Majesty raises an arm. The crowd holds its breath.

His Recrudescent Majesty lowers an arm. The crowd has its breath taken away, as the canvas is pulled away from the ship, revealing the H-boat that you will soon be departing in. It is highly irregular, possessing a sleek design which is much unlike a typical bulky H-boat. Additionally, it has an unusual pointed device at the tip, with an end that looks suspiciously like a pen nib.

His duty finished, His Recrudescent Majesty lowers down, and disappears behind a wall of Servitors. Without missing a beat, Aron Targe begins again. "What stands before you is the greatest achievement of mortality! An exploratory Heavenborne vessel of the 'Censor' class, the first of its kind. It is capable of doing what was before only an imagined fantasy. It can kill words! Through this device, we can destroy the Sigil Scribes that stand in our way, and finally bypass the Sigil Cloud!"

The crowd erupts in cheers as Aron Targe's speech concludes, and you all reach the 'Censor.' His Street-Stalker lowers him down to ground level beside you all, right next to the door to the vessel, which swings open on its own accord. "There is but one more task, before our brave explorers depart. An honor, granted to the captain of the vessel, Captain... Port, was it? Yes. Captain Port. The honor, of course, being the naming of the vessel. Go ahead, Captain." He waves Cromwell over to the Street-Stalker, and angles the microphone towards him. Cromwell, of course, joins him on the platform. What an opportunity! No one in their right mind would ever pass it up, certainly not. Not when Mr. Aron Targe and those lovely, shiny buttons of his were watching. No, certainly not. 

Just what name will Cromwell select? He must, of course, be sure to name it something the empire would approve of. Aron Targe is watching, after all. Aron Targe and his lovely, shiny buttons.

Even Cromwell was overwhelmed by this level of fanfare. For one, he was glad that he wore the suit to the occasion. It meant that this tradition would be carried on and on, from occasion to occasion. This suit would be as much of a part of this history as every person present, and it would continue to do so if Cromwell survived. 

The moment of deafening silence was not lost him, there was a heartbeat, probably several heartbeats actually, where nobody spoke. His Majesty didn't allow Cromwell to speak either, but individual with the shiniest buttons in all known and unknown universe did, and that was the best next thing. 

The name popped up almost immediately, the shape of the Censor class vessel practically whispering the right word into Cromwell's ear. Of course that would be the best name for the ship, no doubt about it. Cromwell came up with it, and he had the best names in all of the culinary world. The Special Jerky and the Mirrorcake were unliving (sometimes quite annoyingly alive though) testaments to that. 

Cromwell moved awkwardly towards the Street-Stalker, adjusting his suit and offering every New Cascadian, and the single Old Cascadian, present a fangfull smile. He speaks concisely, loudly unsure of how this magic operates, without introductions or conclusions, or even body paragraphs, but certainly with immense pride and command. There could not be a better name than this one.

"The Quill."

Aron Targe grins, and his mouth has just as many teeth as it ought to. In fact, it makes you rather ashamed of your own sparse smile. Of course, you could never hope to have as good a smile as lovely, shiny Aron Targe. "The Quill! Of course! We shall scrawl our emancipation across the Heavens, as the restrictions of the gods are blotted out! An excellent name, indeed!" He turns away from the microphone back to Cromwell, still smiling. "Get off." Cromwell does. Of course he does. How could he not, when he asked so nicely? 

Aron Targe's Street-Stalker rises up again, and he gestures to the Quill. "At last, it is time to say goodbye! Goodbye to these brave explorers, and hello to a new chapter in New Cascadian history! Brave citizens, New Cascadia thanks you!" The cheer rises once again, and it seems that this is your cue to enter the Quill and set off. And cues are better off taken, are they not? Especially while Aron Targe is watching. Aron Targe and his lovely, shiny buttons.

As the crowd cheers, and Aron Targe is near, Cas takes the opportunity to look at him, to really look. 

She knows that her strange ability to see beneath the physical as often as she wants was one of several reasons she became Engineer, and that using her ring’s boon as they enter the ship for the first time will require it, so that she can inspect its readiness for the travails of heaven. If she casts it now while Aron Targe and his rich number of teeth and shiny buttons is near, it is perfectly explainable, and reasonable, and her palms are not tingling from nerves. 

(Cas casts her at will Detect Magic)

As the crowd cheers, and Aron Targe is near, Cas takes the opportunity to look at him, to really look. 

She knows that her strange ability to see beneath the physical as often as she wants was one of several reasons she became Engineer, and that using her ring’s boon as they enter the ship for the first time will require it, so that she can inspect its readiness for the travails of heaven. If she casts it now while Aron Targe and his rich number of teeth and shiny buttons is near, it is perfectly explainable, and reasonable, and her palms are not tingling from nerves. 

(Cas casts her at will Detect Magic)

(I would like Cas to roll an intelligence saving throw)

(Saving throw [on campaign log] 7 )

(Are the rest of you boarding and setting off, as absolutely nothing wrong is happening with Cas?)

Though Azesia could in fact perceive the boat as a result of her swarm, the precise detailing of the glorious ship was lost to her. 'The Quill' was quite a lovely name though, she had to admit to herself, and it did provide a little insight as to the supposed shape of the vessel. 

Aron Targe's voice rang out a little ways above, charismatic but oh so annoying. Azesia quietly wondered if his grating personality was just a result of her own inability to stand common folk or if everyone thought so and just never brought it up in fear of his power. Perhaps being nearly blind was a good thing after all, Azesia thinks that she'd have a real hard time not glaring at the man. She could practically imagine his greasy smile. How disgusting.

She straightened a little more as the first footsteps entering the ship could be heard. The time had come for the crew to depart. The Tiefling quietly breezed past the others who were still standing around, set toward the large vessel. Just for good measure though, she has a couple of rats turn their heads from their hiding places. A multitude of eyes peer back at Aron Targe and his Street-Stalker. If he was unphased perhaps at least his mount would give a little jolt. 

Neither Targe (lovely, shiny Targe) nor his Street-Stalker react to Azesia's rats. For a moment there is confusion, and then her rats relay back to her that the Street-Stalker is, indeed, entirely blind. This microphone-bearing breed has no eyes, and seems to be directed either by Targe himself or by some other, unseen method. 

Cas enters the Quill, completely of her own free will, and Azesia soon follows as she disgustedly trots away from Targe. The others, assumedly, soon follow. While the Quill's exterior is unusual, you all find that its interior design is more or less entirely normal. You enter at the middle of the vessel, and are immediately greeted by a ladder leading above, into the gunner's helm. A few reddish tendrils hang down from above, grasping feebly as they detect four large, beating hearts entering the vessel, as well as dozens of the smaller, quicker hearts scattered upon Azesia's person. In the rear, the crew quarters sit, two levels of relatively spacious rooms that are, thankfully, bereft of the leathery, pulsating veins and arteries which run along the floor in many places. In the rear and below the crew quarters you know that the hold sits, already stocked with all the items you'll need for this voyage. (It would be wise to take inventory anyways, to see what additional items may have been stocked.)

Near the front, there is the beating heart of the ship: the engine room. In the center of the engine room, there is the literal beating heart of the ship, which pumps life to all the systems that keep it running. The veins and arteries are thickest and most abudant here, running all along the floor. You know from experience that they are strong enough to be stepped on without causing any damage to the ship, though a cutting weapon wouldn't have too much trouble severing them. There are several smaller helm interfaces in the engine room, so that the engineer may reroute power and channel magical energy through different systems. Above, accessed via another ladder, the captain's helm sits. It is relatively small, but gives full haptic connection to the entire ship, and also serves as a relay for communication between systems. Below, you know the ship's other organs writhe and pulsate. Finally, at the very front of the ship, there is the pilot's helm. The largest of all, the mass of pulsating tissue provides full-body connection so that the pilot may truly become one with the ship.

As stated, this is all perfectly normal.

(Ship stats coming soon, I've got to finalize them, as well as the contents of the ship's hold)

Cassidy says little as she enters the Engine room, steeping heedlessly on arteries and veins in her soft soled and high riding Engineer’s boots. Her mouth moves soundlessly, repeating one word over and over. She traces her fingers over the warm and soft exteriors of the system helms. 

Switches, breakers, valves. These are the way to control the flow of vital energy to the viscera and adventitia through the ship’s vasculature, but now it all feels wrong. Her eyes trace the magical patterns she can see. It is all wrong. 

“We need buttons.”

In the drama of the heavens and pitch of sigil combat, she cannot rely on gravity or breakers or switches or proper orientation. Buttons, it occurs to her — again and again and again — will solve this. There is little she can do right now to alter the working systems before take off, but there is time to divorce the large and inadequately shiny buttons from her Engineer’s coat and affix them to the helms in lieu of eyes. Her coat now hangs open, but her mind does not turn to the captain or Navy conduct. It turns to the newly affixed buttons. She feels soothed. 

Cromwell waves to the crowd and walks into the ship, smoothing out his already smooth suit. 

With the first step into the ship proper, he feels the first tug of his most powerful drive. Hunger. The interior looks... tasty. It is alive and well, and Cromwell, of course, is the Captain first and the Cook second. No Captain worth his sält would eat his own ship. Right? 

He briefly shakes his head and grins at Cass' words, "Buttons? You're the engineer, but how would buttons make a living ship work better?" 

Years of service in the guard taught Cromwell that rejection is never the best approach to anything, and elaboration is often the next best thing. 

(bump)

Cas glances at her new Captain, Cromwell. With her eyes aflame beneath her flesh, she looks to see what spiritual effervescence underlies his form. In the ship, however, the surroundings outshine near any butto— person.

Cassidy finishes her work with the helms and notes that the Captain is still there, patiently looking at her, with the other two nowhere to be seen. 

“How would buttons makes a living ship work better?” She scoffs. “Well, they—“ She stops. “Buttons would—“

Cassidy pauses, looking at the vessels tracing back to the beating heart of the ship — she finds her bearings. “You see the heart? The sulcus here, and the sinus there? They— The heart’s ventricles are able to allow injection of magical energy through small leaflets immediately above the arterial valves. Buttons—“ 

Its so clear. Buttons would help. But, she can’t get the words out. Not in a way the Captain — a not-engineer — could understand. 

Her head hurts, and Cassidy rubs her furrowed brow absent mindedly. 

“Damn it, Captain. I’m a H-Ship Engineer, not a metaphysical theorist. Just let me work.”

As the button discussion is going on, what are the other crew members doing before they set off for the Sigil cloud?

After a brief walk-through of the ship's general layout, Azesia retraces her steps back to the vessel's entrance. A few of the smaller rats on her person scatter from her as she goes, darting into the shadowy corners to grant the Tiefling a better range of perception cover. 

Azesia comes to a stop just below the gunner's helm, a hand reaching up to feel the dangling tendrils that immediately respond by wounding around the base of her hand. There's a faint smile that graces her face as her voice rings out lightly in the enclosed space.

"Pip?" There's a faint squeak that comes from her hair as a small rat clambers onto her shoulder. Unlike some of the others in her swarm, Pip's only sign of magic alteration is a pair of webbed wings that fold over his fuzzy rat self. Though Azesia would never verbally claim favoritism amongst the creatures in her swarm, Pip had been the first to scamper alongside her all those years ago and definitely received a level of affection that wasn't quite as prominent when addressing other smaller members of the swarm.

"How's it look up there?" She gesture's upward toward the helm, fingers still lightly tangled in the tendrils.

Pip does not venture too far, lest the questing tendrils grow overconfident and decide that a bit of extra sustenance would do them good. Still, he relays enough information to inform Azesia that it is more or less a direct copy of a typical gunner’s helm. While the pilot’s helm is full body and the captain’s mostly only the face and head, the gunner’s helm focuses mainly on the arms, though there is an impression for Azesia to place her face. When sitting in it, the tendrils will attach to her, pull her in, until she is one with the ship and can control the guns as if they were her own limbs. It is not a particularly comfortable process, especially because everything tastes like vinegar for the next few hours after disconnecting, but it’s certainly effective.

Azesia nods at the information relayed back to her, using a finger to pet Pip on the head after he returns. There's a murmur of thanks before she decides to make her way back to the front of the ship. As she pads along the fleshy vessel, her hand runs along the walls, feeling out the nooks and crannies to get a better idea of the ship's layout.

Upon reentering the engine room, she pauses momentarily to catch the tail-end of a conversation. She steps closer to the duo that had been talking, giving a general nod in their direction. "Everything good here? Everyone has already had a look at their stations I assume?" A few of her swarm note that the final member of their crew doesn't seem to be in the room with them.