- - < November 11, Year Eleven > - -

In New Shafier, the festivities run rampant. It's unclear whether the people are happy about the expedition, or the day off from grueling work at the dream-mines, cracking open geodes buried deep in the flesh of the dead god upon which the city is built, prying out the dreams trapped within. Or the free beer. Regardless of the reasons, the people are certainly happy. Well-rehearsed praise to His Recrudescent Majesty is recited, though the Emperor of New Shafier has not yet been seen in public. He remains within his castle, quite literally located within the no-longer-beating heart of the city. The vessel which is meant to take the explorers out into the skies has not been unveiled either, and instead remains locked away at the Sbloodgate Pier, upon one of the ragged stumps of the god's eleven (mostly severed) limbs. 

It's 11:00 AM, and one hour before the ship and its crew are to be revealed. Each of you have received instruction in its operation since the first days after your acceptance, but have not actually seen the interior of the vessel, as it was not yet finished. It is now complete, and today you trade the H-boats you have trained with for the new exploratory vessel. But not for another hour. For now, you have just a few precious minutes left to visit with those closest to you, before you potentially never see them again.

What has everyone been doing, on this last day? Where have you gone, who have you said goodbye to? Where might you be now? Feel free to make up any story elements, place names, or NPCs you would like, as long as you'd logically find them on the bloody, never-decomposing corpse of a god floating in the Heavens.

There is a trilling from the small clockwork desk clock on Cassidy's desk, cutting through the fog of her thoughts. 11:00 am, already? She closes her eyes and concentrates, and when she opens them the world is as it should be. Or closer to it, anyway. Cassidy remains inside the corpse of a god, awaiting her first sighting of the ship and the crew that she has given up everything (what little it was compared to those others she had competed with throughout her selection) to join. Butterflies tumble, somewhere behind her stomach. 

The small apartment provided to her by the crown is filled with riches, furnished with tables, chairs, chests, and wardrobes -- each of them worth more than even her greatest tinkery, and her ring shudders cold on her finger at the thought, jealous, where it lies buttressed between the two crafted magical rings earned throughout her training, provided by HRM's Heavenly Navy. Despite the obvious wealth, the room is drab, Cassidy thinks, compared to what she might see anywhere in this city, with her eyes wide open. Still, Cassidy can't brush her hair, or use a mirror when her gaze fixes on the stars beneath the flesh. Today of all days it is important that she looks her best. 

The white petticoat and jodhpurs of her Engineer uniform lie still on the bed behind her. Once her hair is brushed she will wear that uniform, the black riding boots, the white hat, all forged from sections of the eyelid of a god. She pulls the coppery, bushy mess that tangles her comb into a ponytail and gets dressed. 

"You have no-one, you are no-one. You aren't as good as the last three to leave. You don't deserve this. It shouldn't be you." 

Unbidden the words that Anastasia whispered into Cas's ear as she hugged her yesterday, in front of the assembled spectators to the announcement of her selection by His Recrudescent Majesty, emerge from the depths of her mind.  

"I know," says Cassidy, to the woman that looks at her in the mirror. One of the lightning-shaped scars striking down from beneath her left eye turns slightly, as she watches it. "I know." 

(One minor name-change, but I love the creativity! Clothes would 100% be weaved from god hair, though lashes themselves are often the sizes of trees. Anyways, since H-boat just stands for Heaven Boat, the same way U-boat is Unterzeeboot, the H-agency would probably work better as just "the Navy." That's not to disincourage inventing institutions and names and whatnot, I just might retroactively change the name if it's a more important thing)

 Cassidy:

An echoing tick of clockwork rings in Azesia's mind even as she ventures away from the sprawling festivities that seem to have taken over the city in the coming wake of the expedition. The heightened sense of hearing has always proved helpful to Azesia since she lost her sight, however, the lasting imprint of a countdown is quite an annoying thing to have to focus on when out and about on the streets. Thankfully, that countdown is soon to come to an end. Given that all goes to plan within the next hour.

Never one to stay with the masses, Azesia has opted to retreat back into the relatively abandoned reaches of the shining city for her final hour. The cold and curved caverns of a half-crushed spine, still oozing with tainted fluid, isn't the sort of luxury that His Recrudescent Majesty would deem livable. But Azesia has made do for so long that the idea of living elsewhere -- especially a dusty wealth-filled dwelling -- had been absolutely laughable to her when proposed. It would have been quite stupid to grow accustomed to an abode full of riches only to depart beyond the Heavens in what Azesia considered to be a flying coffin. 

The sound of skittering paws briefly distracts Azesia from the ever-present ticking sound in her head, a tell-tale sign of tiny creatures darting about the damp tunnels carved from bone marrow. Small but familiar claws find purchase on her shoulders and in her hair as a few of her companions -- the winged ones -- land from their typical observatory viewpoint. A couple of the non-winged ones squeak about around Azesia's feet, clambering up and down her legs as she comes to a stop within the cavity. Her hand reaches up to give one of the creatures on her shoulder a gentle pat before lowering back down and scattering a handful of scraps to the creatures below, listening carefully for the presence of any of the larger creatures that also call this space home. A wet nose eventually pokes against the edge of Azesia's folded wings and her hand reaches out to brush against the rough protruding spines of one of the larger, more mutated, rodents that had become accustomed to her company. 

"Hello there. I'm afraid the Navy has barred me from bringing along anyone your size. Probably for the best. Wouldn't want to scare off the rest of the crew now, would we?"

Keratinous tendrils wrap around Azesia's hand, as the man-sized carrion eater returns her affection. It lets out a low chirring sound, a sound eerily similar to a human chuckle. Over time, Azesia has come to interpret this particular creature's language of groans and chitters, and understands that this noise fills a similar role as a dog's whimper. It lazily presses its bulk into her, the spines flattening against its body to avoid poking her. The wet noise of stretching flesh and a series of splashes in the river of spinal fluid tells her that a few more of her murine friends have come to visit her.

The large one nudges her forward, letting out a gurgle like a newborn babe. As the newcomers approach, there is the scraping sound of something being dragged across the ground. Listening to the sounds of claws against bone tells her that there are perhaps a dozen mid-sized rats dragging a larger object behind them. The large one once again pushes her forward. A gift? 

Cromwell's last few days were off duty, which meant he spent them all cooking. Food is how he communicates with most people, the dearest get the best. For his grandfather, Cromwell made his favorite carrot cake. A dreamy glaze covered the top, one could almost see the reflection of their future in it. Or maybe the carrots were grown in a very peculiar part of the god-city. 

For his mother, Cromwell made a lovely owlbear steak and a roast, she could enjoy that meal for about a week. 

The main concern for him, however, was making a decent stash for the journey. Something he and the crew could enjoy. His masterpiece snack. The Special Jerky. 

It was a quite simple recipe, the ingredients made it. There was a spot in the city where one could get the best cut of the meat, the special meat. Cromwell didn't frequent it, but each visit put a hefty strain on his back from the amount of product he hauled home in the sack slung over his mighty shoulder. Then, he paid his dealer over at the mines for some fresh dreams, which he then handed over to his dear friend Murcatto, an alchemist living down the street. She really was a wizard when it came to alchemy, the most skilled mixologist he knew. She condensed dreams into a powder for Cromwell, which he then mixed with a few other rare spices. Mainly storm giant salt, a little of Rat King's Secret, some eccu, and obviously saffron. The meats were then treated with this rub and dried off into perfect, crispy, chewy strips. An explosion of mellow flavor that is unique to every set of taste buds thanks to the dreams, but with some shared notes of aftertaste with the spice blend. 

Cromwell packed as much of the jerky as he could into his bag, handing over the rest to Murcatto. He left his cat, Tipsy, with her as well. 

A kaleidoscope of colours ripple through Nova’s vision as she stalks through the crowded streets, slipping through the hoard of people with an expertise that could only come from years of practice. Despite the city’s unusually festive mood, the Teifling’s expression was sombre, a deep sadness glistening in their steely white irises. Although they were known for their calm, collected demeanour, this show of emotion could hardly be unexpected. She had, after all, spent the last hour saying goodbyes to her loved-ones - people she would likely never see again once she boarded that accursed ship.

 It had been bad enough saying goodbye to Phyrra, her mentor, the woman she considered her mother. Oh, Phyrra, who had been so angry when she learned of Nova’s decision to volunteer for this voyage, had screamed at her, calling her a stupid, reckless girl. Whose anger turned to devastation when, despite all odds, Nova was actually selected by the Emperor. Who, just minutes before, held Nova tightly in her arms and wept - the only time Nova had ever actually seen her cry. But it was only when she was forced to say farewell to Cassopeia, the little girl Nova had picked up off the streets and now considered her dear younger sister, that the stoic Tiefling really broke down, glistening tears beginning rolling down charcoal-black cheeks. Despite her dreams to be more than just a rogue street-rat, she did not truly want to go on this voyage, did not want to leave her family behind for what everyone knew was a suicide mission. Cassiopeia, however, did not cry. She only hugged Nova fiercely, and whispered the words that still played in her head, over and over again. “...Promise me you’ll come back.” 

And Nova, despite all her better judgement, had promised. 

Now, as she heads towards what will likely be her doom, she does not feel fear nor anxiety at what lies ahead. Instead an icy determination floods her git, mixing with the lingering sadness to becomes something much more powerful. Hands curling into fists, Nova knows she will do anything in her power to honour her promise, and return to Cassopeia alive. 

Murcatto grins widely with her too-white teeth as she bids goodbye to Cromwell. She would have hugged him, but her hands were rather full of cat. Temperamental cat, too, as Cromwell catches the tubby beast swiping at her face as he leaves. His furry and fleshy burdens thus relieved, and their pocket bulging with two pouches as a parting gift from Murcatto, Cromwell is free to finish his packing at his Navy-appointed apartment. One of the pouches is full of the typical product, the dreams condensed into a sand-like powder. The other, according to Murcatto, contains "Bits and bobs, thises and thatses. Impure clippings from dreams left from the refining process." She didn't have any use for them, but thought Cromwell might. After all, sausage is often made of all those bits that are unfit for ordinary consumption, and no one prepares sausage like Cromwell.

As Cromwell leaves, however, they hear  a gravelly voice calling for him. Not an unkind one, but certainly one that has seen more than its share of cigars and whiskey. Cromwell turns and sees the sight they expect. His grandfather, approaching him with a package under his arm. Orcs don't show age as much as other species, and their grandfathers' white hair is merely a stylistic choice, just like his grandchild's. The real sign of an orc's age is their size, and Therron Port was truly massive. He walked with a cane, on account of his old bones not quite being able to cope with his massive size, but that did not detract from his impressiveness. If anything, it added an air of regality. 

"Lahi'kheght`ough! Kaur'thi Cromwell, khouul! Bhoughye'tho`ough, gheshu auur'Anth'New Shafier!"

Orcish translation:

(Don't feel the need to respond in orcish, I just like to type out languages using my weird semi-conlangs.)

(It's fun, every ' is meant to signify "of," and it's done by making the next word really breathy, while every ` means "to" or "for," and is done by saying the word on an inhale, sort of reverberating in one's throat. It's best done when one is sticking their fingers in their mouth to simulate tusks and figuring out how sounds would sound. Sorry, random special interest rant over.)

That was the recipe of any sausage worth its sausageness really. Bits and bobs, thises and thatses. You mix a bunch of stuff and hope for the best. In times of dead gods, hope becomes the next best thing to turn to when you're cooking. Tipsy managed to leave an angry scratch on Cromwell's cheek just as he gave her a parting kiss on her furry head. 

"Grandpa!" Cromwell exclaimed in Orcish. He was a big orc in his own right, fueled by his own cooking and years of service, and yet his Therron towered over him. He was the oldest orc Cromwell had seen. 

"Did you try the cake?" he asks excitedly, giving his grandfather a tight hug, his arms not even barely wrapping around Therron's circumference. "And what is that? You shouldn't have!"

(3aeros you're lovely but you must promise me to say "rogue" instead of "rouge" or I cannot promise that you won't be eaten by an angel. I can't promise regardless, of course, but that doesn't necessarily make my previous statement untrue.)

Before Nova is finished packing, a light breeze blows through her room. She turns to see an open window, with Phyrra perched on the windowsill. She shows no sign of the grief that had racked her just a little while earlier. Instead, her face is set in that way it always was. Showing no feeling, no care, despite what may have been beneath. She clambers in, looking around the place. "A bit rich for my tastes," she says, nudging a brass clock on the wall, sending it rocking back and forth.

"I didn't come to see your place, though. I have... a request. If you'll hear me out. I apologize for earlier. That was unlike me. You'd do best to forget it."

Phyrra:

(Oops! Words trip me up sometimes, my bad. Promise I’m talking about a dagger-weilding scoundrel and not a cosmetic product.)

A small smile tugs at Nova’s mouth as she turns around to see her old mentor sitting on the windowsill. Ironically, the woman’s sceptical words comfort Nova, the expressionless mask she always wore providing a bit of stability in a world that had been turned upside down. Like a mirror, Nova’s own face relaxes into the same mask, any hint of emotion wiped away and replaced by simple neutrality, just as Phyrra had taught her. 

At Phyrra’s words Nova waves her hand in the air, silently waving away her mentor’s apology. The two often communicated in hand gestures like this. Neither liked to waste words, and effective nonverbal communication was a key skill necessary for situations in which silence stealth was required - which, when it came to Phyrra and Nova, was often. The teifling instead chooses to focus on the former half of Phyrra’s sentence, her words catching their attention. 

“A request? Of course. What do you require?”

Quote from TheHumbug >>

The large one nudges her forward, letting out a gurgle like a newborn babe. As the newcomers approach, there is the scraping sound of something being dragged across the ground. Listening to the sounds of claws against bone tells her that there are perhaps a dozen mid-sized rats dragging a larger object behind them. The large one once again pushes her forward. A gift? 

There's a slight quirk of the lips as Azesia takes note of the approach of her strange companions, fingers gently curling around the ridges of a flattened spine. 

"Seems you've called for some more friends to join us." Pointed ears perk slightly in interest as the rather jarring sounds draw closer to where Azesia stands. "You know I enjoy a gift as much as the next gal, but this had better not be another half-eaten body my friend. That scent carries and we cannot afford to be tracked." A light air of amusement flits from her tone as she allows herself to be pushed closer to the supposed gift.

A faint squelch fills in the cavern when Azesia crouches down, a hand slightly outstreched in the direction of her carnivorous little friends. Mangled fur skims against her own rough skin as the dragging sound comes to a stop. Azzy lowers her hand to where she would assume the, hopefully thoughtful, present was.

"Seriously though buddy, please let this not be a man's carcass."

(Sorry for the delay, translation took me a while, especially since I accidentally reset all my work once. I've gotta add a dozen new words to the language every time I wanna say something :P)

Cromwell: 

"Orr, tho hogh!" "Yes, I did!" Grandpa Therron grins wide and pats his belly. "Niarrh'itiki ghe'k!" "It didn't last long!" He then presses the package into Cromwell's arms. It is a flat, black, square box, utterly unadorned. "Hoahh," "Go on," says Therron. "Pehle k." "Open it."

Removing the box's top reveals an immaculately pressed suit, a dark maroon with gold accents. Cromwell has seen this suit on his grandfather many times, though as he grew larger it became significantly less convienient to wear. Now, it seems, he's passing it on. "Tho eii'ehhaurrh mell'eiish tha`eki'eugh. Ghe k vafharr'guarrarr'tho. Vafharr`nuii'gugheshu. K tho'eii. K kha`guarrarr'ough, o... hnn, k`ough'eish. Ehhaurrh'tho ekhonri'arar vafharr'mell`karkhon'mell. Erakharkur, k'vafh`ennenden. K'vafh`iski. Kha ahoull'tho." "I thought that it was time I gave this to you. It was my father's suit. His first ever suit. It was mine. It would have been your fathers, but... well, now it is yours. I thought that a prestigious captain like yourself should have an equally prestigious suit. Please, wear it to the ceremony. Wear it to the stars. I would be honored."

Oh, and because I forgot, an image of Therron:

Nova:

Phyrra leans back against the windowsill again. "Just your eyes. I've never told you this, but I've had... visions. Of my own mentor. Before she went silent. Before, assumedly, she went mad. They've been happening more and more often these days. She's... hurting. And when she hurts, it hurts me." The old aasimar absentmindedly flicks at the clock again, the topic obviously making her uncomfortable. "If you... when you're out there, I just want you to keep an eye out for her, for my... angel. If you find her... I'd like you to do something about it. I don't care what."

Phyrra stands awkwardly for a few more seconds, before giving a curt nod and beginning her exit through the windowsill. She has said what she has come to say. Just before she totally disappears, she turns back. "I can't tell you how to find her. But I can give you a... description, of sorts. I know she has hands. Not hands in the right way, though. Just... hands. Wrong hands. And she cries when she smiles. That's all." WIth that, Phyrra is gone, leaving more questions than answers.

Azesia:

Azesia lowers her hand, and it lands upon something soft and furry. For a moment, Azesia assumes that she's missed, but the other rats move away, and this thing stays still. It does not move, but it pulses rhythmically. It's alive, and breathing. Running a hand along it, Azesia judges it to be the same size as some of her larger rats, though certainly not as large as the giant one behind her. It does, however, feel much denser. Its dimensions are not entirely rat-like either. Even curled up as it is, Azesia understands that it is far too rounded. A warm cord emerges from it, stretching back to where it came from, and Azesia cannot tell where it ends. 

Despite being rather familiar with all the general creatures that roam the spinal caverns, the odd rounded shape of the breathing mass before her doesn't particularly strike a match of recognition. Azesia passes her hand down the length of the creature once more, tilting her head curiously at its form.

"It seems you've brought me... a new friend?" There's a lilt of confusion in her voice as she turns her head back towards the now towering rat behind her. "Quite a large one as well." She hums, carefully tracing the protruding cord. An umbilical cord perhaps? A creature fresh from the womb certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing her fresh-eating friends had brought to her.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you want me to do with your gift."

A small winged rodent flits up to Alesia’s side, and begins pulling at her belt. It manages to halfway extract a dagger before letting it fall back. A second rat wraps a squamous tail around Azesia’s hand, guiding it to the furry lump, and to the cord. When her hand touches it, several rats chitter excitedly.

(I love that you have a whole linguistic system for this, very immersing)

Cromwell marvels at the immaculate set of clothing before him. He had seen his grandfather wear it on a few occasions, perhaps the most important one in his life. 

"The honour would be mine, grandpa. I will wear it proudly and keep it safe. I'll see you when I'm back from the Heavens. Take care, grandpa," Cromwell gave his grandfather one more tight hug. The elderly orc would likely be gone by the time Cromwell returned, if he did at all. That statement was full of uncertainty. Lies, even. But that was what his grandfather taught him, it was in his blood. You spit in the face of death and rage against its inevitability. 

Quote from TheHumbug >>

A small winged rodent flits up to Alesia’s side, and begins pulling at her belt. It manages to halfway extract a dagger before letting it fall back. A second rat wraps a squamous tail around Azesia’s hand, guiding it to the furry lump, and to the cord. When her hand touches it, several rats chitter excitedly.

"Ah, I see." Azesia frees a dagger from her belt in one swift motion, the small blade reflecting the hints of light that flittered through the cavern. Her hand gently tugs a section of the cord free from the rest of the furry mass, holding just above where her other hand grasps the dagger.

"I assume cutting this will wake this lovely creature?" She throws out a question to no one in particular, listening to the excited squeaks beside her. There's a soft hum of consideration before Azesia shrugs to herself. The dagger slices through the cord with practiced ease and Azesia drops the severed remains back onto the cavern floor. Carefully awaiting any movement from this large creature.