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Always time for travels
Raafi falls into the Sunless Skies
Permalink Mark Unread

In the bustling Port Prosper, an unsecured set of barrels belonging to an hour-hawker at his stall sits, waiting for a deal to be reached and to be shipped off further. Otherworldly artefacts are on display in an airy foyer above, curving blue and silver things of mysterious purpose and provenance. There is a drunken stumble, a crash of breaking glass, a fire caused by the hawker startling and tipping over a lantern. The artefacts fall into the open barrels and react badly to the sizzling Hours nearest the fire. One unravels - the fire accelerates by minutes in seconds - and the whole mess amalgamates into a riot of color and light.

A great many people judge it a good idea to be somewhere else. When the dust settles, the spare time is gone and several things not of this world are now present - A piece of someone's house, a chunk of rusting metal billboard, a rapidly spreading bit of ocean-water, a patch of scraggly - now soaked - soil with a man lying upon it.

Permalink Mark Unread

The man is asleep when he arrives, but doesn't stay that way - or present - for long at all; he's already intoning the words of a teleport spell as he opens his eyes, and disappears from the scene of the disaster to a spot some five hundred feet to the north, where he hops to his feet and looks around.

Permalink Mark Unread

He is in a crowded workshop, red brick walls and thin windows revealing rows of women working sewing machines, great piles of fabric and garments on tables here and there. The nearest one screams in surprise and stammers something accusatory in a language he doesn't know. A few others hear over the drone of the machines and stare at him quizzically.

Permalink Mark Unread

"Sorry!"

He digs through his belt pouches for a translation necklace, glancing up every second or two. "Sorry," he repeats, when he's got it on, "there was - a thunderbolt? or something? What are those?" He nods at the sewing machines.

Permalink Mark Unread

"-The sewing machines? Why are you in here! You scared me - what even is - how are you - what are you wearing -" She spots someone behind him and relaxes. "Lisa! I don't know who this man is!"

Lisa is a bespectacled woman walking down the row of machines towards him, bearing a suspicious look in her eye and one raised eyebrow.

Permalink Mark Unread

...sewing machines??

No, focus. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm not sure what happened - I was asleep, and something startled me, and I teleported away without looking where I was going. I have no idea where I am now, though, I wasn't near anyplace like this when I went to bed."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Teleported. Is that something they can do now...?"

"I'll handle this, Miss Kerrington. Why don't you take a break and get a drink of water?"

"My quota for the bonus-"

"Equipment failure doesn't count, this doesn't either. Go on."

"Thank you, ma'am." Miss Kerrington scurries off, happy to leave Raafi to Lisa instead.

"Why don't we head to my office? Or out front, as you prefer." Suggests Lisa.

Permalink Mark Unread

"Thank you, ma'am. Your office will be fine."

Permalink Mark Unread

Her office is on the back wall, behind a door bearing a plaque saying 'Elisabeth Cooper - Manager'. It has two bookshelves infested with slightly messy files and loose sheathes of paper, a cheap desk with two chairs, a typewriter, an electric desk lamp, and photos on the walls. (A sewing machine sitting gleaming and shiny, a collection of women in work clothes smiling at the camera, what looks like her family - husband and two sons.)

"Have a seat, Mysterious Stranger." She gestures to the chair before the desk. "Regrettably I am unable to offer you tea. I imagine we are both rather confused at the moment, but the middle of a workshop is no place for conversation."

Permalink Mark Unread

Raafi's still wet from the seawater; he casts something to dry that up before sitting. "It's no trouble, thank you. The name is Raafi; I'm a cleric of Fharlanghn, on the offchance that he's familiar, but I don't expect him to be - I seem to be very far from home."

Permalink Mark Unread

She's visibly startled by the spell, frowning at his now-dry clothes. "A... Cleric, you say? Is that by chance anything like a priest? I'm not exactly familiar."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Related but distinct, in my language - a cleric is someone who gets magic from a god, and a priest is someone involved in running a church, and Fharlanghn doesn't have churches, he's the god of travel. Do you have divine magic here?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Well, there are miracles. Or so they say. And it's not entirely clear how the stars fit into this - I'm not a priest - but nothing... Ordinary people can wield, no... 'Magic' is widely maligned as charlatanism and fakery, in fact." (Pointed frown.) "You got into the shop somehow, of course."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I'm not sure why you'd expect the stars to have anything to do with it at all. But, no, no fakery - I can cast the cleaning spell again, if you'd like a demonstration, or if you know someone with an injury that needs to be healed, I can do that. Or just go, if you'd rather, but I could use some advice on how to get started here, if this is a different plane or something."

Permalink Mark Unread

"The stars are Powers. They are Judgements, mysterious, certainly, and powerful, and nothing to be taken lightly. But I'm not anybody particularly important. No need to prove yourself to me unless you have particular business with Galewrights Fine Garments Incorporated. I suppose I wouldn't mind giving you some advice but I'm not sure where I would start. -Can that cleaning spell clean a lot of fabric?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"A good amount but maybe not enough for the scale you're working on - each casting covers fifteen cubic feet, about this much," he gestures the outline of a two and a half foot wide cube on her desk, "and I can do it a few times a day if I'm prepared to. I'd be willing to do that in exchange for a place to sleep for the next few days, while I'm learning about the area."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Perhaps not a good use of your... Magic, then. I'm sure you could sell miraculous healing for quite a price, if you knew the right people. But you don't, do you? Hmm. I don't have places to sleep going to spare but I could pay you for restoring some stained and otherwise ruined things, and you could find an inn."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I don't," he nods. "Maybe in a few days. For now I can clean your things, and I have a few bolts of fabric in storage that you might be interested in, too."

Permalink Mark Unread

"If it's fine stuff you're better off selling it to a tailor. What we do is cheap clothes, in bulk. I think I can give you... Hmm, twelve Sovereigns for cleaning a cube about that size of stained clothes. A cheap bed in an inn is two Sovereigns, half-decent meals are another. My girls get paid three and a half Sovereigns a day."

Permalink Mark Unread

"That sounds fair, thank you, and I'll save the cloth, there's not that much of it. Is there anything else I'll need to know immediately? Local dangers, laws less obvious than not stealing things or attacking people, customs people will expect me to know?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"-Hmm. I don't really understand where you came from, and I'm not at all sure I'm being thorough enough... If I imagine you're a small child... Don't trust devils, you'll know them by the smell of brimstone upon their tongues. You won't meet many here, though. Be careful near the edge if you go down the docks or bridges. If you fall off you'll freeze to death before a locomotive can come get you. Starshine and Red Honey are both illegal, and dangerous. Say please and thank you. Don't shout indoors. Never ask a woman her age or weight. Wear a full outfit all the time and if you see a woman in undress avert your eyes. There's a bit of trouble brewing between the poor and wealthier parts of the city, the east and west ends respectively. Don't mess with clocks, the Ministries are very particular about those. Oh, books without a Ministry stamp are contraband. Either they avoided taxes or they're supposed to be censored. Don't mess with ammunition or Hours or strange artefacts. If you see a rat wearing clothes or carrying tools, don't kill it. Rattus faber are sanctioned these days, and have it hard enough already... I can't think of anything else off the top of my head."

Permalink Mark Unread

He gawps a little at the mention of devils, but has composed himself again by the time she stops talking. "All useful, thank you. What's a locomotive, and how would I recognize - Starshine, you said, right? I assume Red Honey looks like what it sounds like."

Permalink Mark Unread

"A locomotive is an enclosed vehicle, powered by steam-engine, that propels itself through the sky, settlement to settlement and island to island. I'm told nobody can figure out how flying and falling works, exactly, but they do fly. Sometimes they pull long trains of cars behind them, in Albion at least. I haven't seen that much around here. Red honey looks like honey as red as blood, yes. Starshine is... Well. Water infused with the light of Eleutherian stars. I've heard it smells like chamomile and sleep, and hits you like the strongest wave of nostalgia you've ever felt."

She stands up. "I'll go get the things I want you to clean together. Should only be a minute or two."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Thank you," he nods.

He holds the door for her when she gets back; casting only takes a few seconds, and leaves the whole pile pristine.

Permalink Mark Unread

She inspects several garments, then opens a safe and counts out twelve small golden coins, bearing a raised and ridged edge, a portrait in profile on one face, and an intricate almost-floral pattern on the other.

"Here you are. Twelve Sovereigns. Good fortune to you, but personally I wish for an uneventful and quiet life."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Thank you, I hope you do."

Once he's out of the workshop, he wanders south, keeping an eye out for an inn or anything else of interest but mostly curious whether whatever caused his arrival had any other effects.

Permalink Mark Unread

This particular street seems to mostly be workshops, with housing above them. There's a courier office, a mechanic, and a bar as well. Men and women with rough clothes and manners bustle about. There's an ongoing argument over a delivery, a troop of rats busily working on a rattling and rather gnomish-looking complexus of metal suspended on a pole with wires trailing into all the nearby buildings, a food cart hawking Sweetvine Pods for a shilling each.

After a walk south-southeast, the street is crossed by several others and becomes nicer-looking, shops and restaurants and houses and- Oh dear. Smoke! Smoke and a great deal of fuss crowding the approximate location where he would have landed. Firefighters with tall hats are using a large pump painted bright red to spray water into the embers that remain in a half-ruined house. Men in uniforms are trying to keep the gawking crowd - fine suits and top hats and hoop skirts alike to the plainer clothes of working folk - away from the smoldering house-fire, which seems to have destroyed the entire front wall of the building. Cart-owners are arguing over the reduced number of spots on the street, or packing up entirely. Pickpockets weave through the crowd, sensing chaos as a good opportunity.

Permalink Mark Unread

Not great, but not a situation that seems like it'd be improved by his interference.

He wades into the crowd anyway, hoping to get a look at the fire and its surroundings; there might be some clue as to how he got here or how he could get back.

Permalink Mark Unread

The ground, in a rough circle, has been replaced by: A pool of muddy seawater, a small chunk of wherever he was sleeping, a piece of a giant metal sign that says "BUY-" in a language that's not the local one, and a corner of someone's log cabin, complete with a bit of table.

The wild rumors already flying through the crowd are that it's an anarchist attack, it's just an accident with Hours, it pulled things in from the past and future, the Devils did it for some reason, the Tacketies did it - but why would they attack some random house and not the Windward Company's factory then? - it was just a gas explosion and the weird things at the site of it are a hoax-

Permalink Mark Unread

Huh.

He rubbernecks a little (yep, that's the grass he was sleeping on) and moves on, heading east now. He wants another hour's sleep before he does devotions.

Permalink Mark Unread

Heading east takes him past many more brick and wooden buildings, somewhat run down and getting shorter away from the city center. There aren't any parks but some people have little gardens on their awnings and the like. He can identify several places declaring rooms for rent soon enough, from brothels to apartment buildings to more ordinary-seeming inns.

Permalink Mark Unread

He takes the first inn he comes to that doesn't seem too run down, which is most likely the first one, he isn't that picky. If the rooms are two Sovereigns, he'll ask for a room for two nights; if they're more than that but not outrageous, he'll ask for a room for one.

Permalink Mark Unread

The first one looks reasonable. Rooms here are one Sovereign sixteen shillings a night! There are twenty shillings in a Sovereign. Bath and breakfast not included, two shillings extra each. Can he sign his name to the guestbook which says he agrees to pay for repairs if he wrecks the room, please.

Permalink Mark Unread

He can do that! He'll pay for a bath but he can take care of his own meals.

(He takes the chance to peek at the guestbook; what are names like here?)

Permalink Mark Unread

Verona Clarke. Jack Hislop. Iva Farrell. Mathilda Morvell. Rilla Bilton. Charlotte Langhorne. Lowell Walker. Travis Davis. Rogers Kerran. Frederick Hale. Arthur Harrington. Myrta Arthur. Henderson Baldry.

He gets a key that will unlock the bath-rooms on the first floor in addition to his room key. They ask him not to take excessively long baths, and to keep it to one or two a day, please.

Permalink Mark Unread

Certainly. And now: sleep.

He wakes up an hour and a half later, spends an hour in prayer, and heads out to look around some more - this time he'll head west, in search of potential spellcasting clients.

Permalink Mark Unread

The city gets denser as he goes west, until it comes to a great open canyon spanned by three bridges. It doesn't seem to have a bottom - all that is visible is clouds. It's maybe six or seven hundred feet across, and some locomotives are making their way up and down the gap, trailing vapor. The buildings are visibly nicer on the west side of the bridge. A tall but incomplete clock-tower and a vast blocky factory both sit on the west side, icons of the skyline. Is he looking for anything in particular in terms of potential clients?

Permalink Mark Unread

It's hard to go wrong with healing, and that's his main plan - hopefully he'll come across some sort of relevant shop, or a hospital - but he has a variety of spells prepared: more of Cleaning and Mending and one of the greater Make Whole, buffs for skill and strength, a couple of castings of Wind Walk, and a couple of divinations of the sort that predict the future - not that he expects to be able to sell those, with magic not known to exist, but he might find an opportunity to demonstrate them now and sell some later.

Permalink Mark Unread

There are small clinics and larger hospitals around if he looks hard enough! There's also workmen in harnesses doing things over the side of the canyon, a few of what look like churches, what are blatantly and obviously rich peoples' mansions, and a variety of expensive-looking complicated machinery here and there, some of which is apparently broken.

Permalink Mark Unread

He comes to some broken machinery before he manages to find a clinic; is it obvious who's responsible for it?

Permalink Mark Unread

This particular broken thing is apparently responsible for keeping the inside of the theater appropriately cool and dry, since many people are complaining about it to a well-dressed manager and no less than five mechanics are poring over the wagon-sized machine. One of the mechanics seems to be in charge of the repair effort, even as the manager assures people they're working on it as quickly as possible and of course they'll get refunds for their shows if they can't fix it soon.

Permalink Mark Unread

He approaches the manager. "Can I speak to you for a moment? I have an offer that - well, it's going to sound outlandish, but I think it'll be worth your while to hear me out."

Permalink Mark Unread

The well-dressed manager steps a bit away from the annoyed crowd, looking frustrated. "Outlandish is my theater's business, sir. So long as it's not too outlandish. But I'm a bit busy, so make it quick. Are you perhaps an actor looking for work?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"No," he chuckles. "I was pulled here from another plane - another world, I think - yesterday, and I'm trying to find my feet here, I didn't exactly have time to stock up on the local currency. But I have magic, from my world, and I think I can repair your cooling machine with it."

Permalink Mark Unread

The manager's eyes narrow. He makes a 'hmm' sort of noise.

He turns to the grease-coated workers. "...Willis! Any luck?"

"It's bloo- blasted, sir." The head mechanic says, wiping her brow. "We just found a crack running all down the compressor. Something managed to sprout in it, so we dug it out."

"And that's bad? You can't mend it?"

"No chance. It's the biggest, most important part. We need a replacement. All-day job. I'll send a runner to the dockyard..."

"Hold off just a minute." He looks thoughtful and turns back to Raafi. "What would trying to fix it look like, exactly? Have you any proof you're not wasting my time?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"I can chant at it for a second and it'll seal right up, good as new. You can watch, if you want."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Hmph. What is the source of this 'magic' exactly? It's not like the infernal sigils, is it? That's the only 'magic' I know of. Nothing that will drive anyone mad, set their hair on fire, sear their eyes, that sort of thing?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Nothing like that at all; just the mending, nothing else. My world has gods; I get my magic from the god of travel, and he doesn't have much to do with cooling machines but he wouldn't want me stranded somewhere with no way to support myself. I'll probably sign on with a locomotive or something once I know more about them."

Permalink Mark Unread

"There is only one true God, and we must have faith in Him even now." He sounds a bit tired and weak as he says this. "...Very well. But rather than watching I'll be forbidding anyone to watch, just in case. If you succeed..."

He frowns and does a quick mental calculation. Dozens of theater-goers times two or three showings, multiply by the ticket price is... A lot of money. "-If you succeed, I'll have the mechanics stress-test it, then pay you two hundred Sovereigns if the cooling is working before the first matinee and one hundred otherwise. What is your name, sir? I am Archibald Blake."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Raafi, and that sounds fine to me. I'll let you clear everyone out, then."

Permalink Mark Unread

He does so. The mechanics mutter as they're shooed away, giving Raafi dubious looks. They identify the compressor in the bundle of steel - not that they needed to, there's only one object in there with a huge crack running through it.

Permalink Mark Unread

And as soon as they're gone, he chants at the machine, and the crack seals up, and any other nearby damage and wear is reversed. He's at the door to the theater maybe two minutes after everyone's gone in, not much longer than it takes to walk there from the machine: "Archibald? I'm done."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Well, let's see it then," Archibald commands.

The mechanics stroll back out, and mutter a lot more now that they see a pristine condenser in place, and many of the surroundings fixed up besides.

"It should be a simple matter of recharging now, sir. We'll double-check everything and get to it."

(One of the mechanics pointedly mutters in Raafi's hearing but just out of the manager's, "There goes our emergency callout rates...")

Permalink Mark Unread

"Don't worry, I won't be here long," he whispers back.

"How long do you expect that to take?" he asks, at a more normal volume.

Permalink Mark Unread

"Twenty minutes if nothing else is wrong. Matinee's at eleven." He points to the theater's gilded clock - it reads 10:14.

The mechanics get to work.

Permalink Mark Unread

Raafi stays nearby, though not in the immediate vicinity; he wanders off a bit to look at the nearby architecture. He's back in twenty minutes.

Permalink Mark Unread

He gets quite a few odd looks, out of local fashion as he is, but nobody says anything. Local architecture is pretty enough, with notable elements being straight lines and tall windows, white stone, red bricks, dark wood, and stained glass. They use some kind of wood that shines like metal in the more expensive structures - it's quite pretty and seems sturdy, too.

The air conditioner is chugging along when he returns, with the lead mechanic closely watching a control panel full of dials and gauges and shouting out adjustments.

The manager comes back out with a heavy lacquered wooden box. "Never seen the like. Unnerving, really. But cool air is blowing and a deal is a deal, fast work is valuable work. Here you are, sir."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Thank you! Would you happen to know anyone else who could use my help? I also do healing."

Permalink Mark Unread

"...I could give you a letter of recommendation to St. Cavendish's Hospital if you demonstrate? One of my ticket boys has a sprained wrist from some foolery. I'm not sure how much circumstance a theater manager's letterhead would grant you, mind."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Directions will be fine, I can show them what I can do once I get there. I can take care of his wrist before I go anyway, of course."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I'll convey the offer, I suppose. Miracles on tap... I wonder if there's a story in that?"

He opens the box after glancing around, revealing rows and rows of coins. He picks out four especially large palm-sized ones with something deep, red, and translucent somehow embedded in the centers, and hands them over. The number '50' is apparent on their elaborate designs, which seem to depict a palace rising above clouds. He goes back inside to put the box securely away - when he emerges, it's with a neatly written sheet of directions.

"The lad was sent home by one of my supervisors already. I'm sure he'll be fine. And this is the way to the hospital."

Permalink Mark Unread

Raafi nods, "thank you again," and heads off, following the directions.

Permalink Mark Unread

The hospital is back on the east side of the cliff, and a bit north. It takes up half of a city block, an architecturally distinct structure with white and blue arches. A statue of (presumably) St. Cavendish holding a curious staff with snakes twisted around it is out front. Faded peeling posters promising a better life in the Reach are crowded out by banners bearing Her Eternal Majesty's face and declaring her protection of all her subjects.

Permalink Mark Unread

Raafi looks around a bit, checking out the posters and examining the statue to see if there's anything interesting about it - a plaque, maybe? - and then heads inside.

Permalink Mark Unread

The plaque describes St. Cavendish discovering a cure for Shroomlung.

Inside the hospital is a wide waiting room, as white as the harried staff can keep it, with rows of seats about a quarter full (one or two of whom are visibly hurt) and two reception desks with tired-looking nurses.

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He approaches the reception desk. "Excuse me, is there an administrator I can speak to?"

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"Regarding what?" Is the blunt response.

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"I suppose I should start with whoever handles hiring."

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The nurse lets out a small sigh. "...I'd advise against this line of work. It's exhausting and often thankless. Left hall, third door on the left, ask for Mr. Roseberry."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you." And he goes to look for Mr. Roseberry.

Permalink Mark Unread

This seems to be an administrative wing. He can overhear a snatch of shouting through a closed door on the way.

 

"-a charitable service, yes, but my own company has employees and bills to pay as well. We cannot keep providing supplies to-"

 

Mr. Roseberry is a twitchy, thin, bespectacled man, who keeps reaching for his left pocket idly before realizing that whatever he was looking for isn't there. "Yes, hello? I don't recognize you, sir."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Yes, sir, we haven't met; my name is Raafi. I have - something of an unbelievable claim to make, but I think it'll be to your benefit to hear me out; I'm from a different world, one with magic, including healing magic."

Permalink Mark Unread

"...Well," he says slowly, "You are correct that it is somewhat unbelievable. I suppose a place yet more distant than the one we came from may exist, and some of the tales of 'miraculous healing' have had merit. I had a spate of curiosity once and traveled to do research. The Elder Continent's light was real, and its healing effects weaker than legend says, but measurable. So, do elaborate, please."

Permalink Mark Unread

"That sounds much weaker than mine, even a small healing spell of my sort has obvious results. The basic kind, that is, which handles injuries; that's the easiest kind for me to demonstrate, if you'd like to see it. I have to prepare any other kinds of healing spell ahead of time, in the morning, and I have a variety - today I have two castings of a spell that can remove chronic pain, two that can cure contagious diseases, and one that can reverse the effects of conditions that permanently weaken or enfeeble someone - each of those affects one person per spell - and two castings of a spell that allows me to double the recovery speed of fifteen people for a day, if they can be gotten together for me to touch within a few seconds of casting it. I also have three castings of a spell that can briefly improve a healers' skills and two of one that can clean objects in an area."

Permalink Mark Unread

"We have no shortage of people who could use these things, if they are real. Injuries, pain, diseases we have in abundance. Enfeeblement we might not have a case of at the moment. Ah, regrettably, it would be something of a charity task - our ability to pay is. Limited. We do the best we can. I wear four different hats each day, it feels like."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Ah. Unfortunately I don't think I can make a habit of casting for you without pay; I was brought here unexpectedly and don't have a steady income myself yet. I might as well cast the healing I've got, though, it doesn't do me any good to hold onto those spells when I'll be getting replacements in the morning anyway."

Permalink Mark Unread

"An opportunity cost, if you don't use it. I see. Well-" He frowns. "I would want to see your efforts first and confirm it with the Director, but the name of St. Cavendish commands some amount of respect. It could be that we could connect you with wealthier patrons in exchange for a finder's fee. That may even do more good for the impoverished over time than your direct service. It would be difficult to set up in a tearing hurry, however. Likely not today."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I'd definitely be amenable to something like that, and I am set for money for the next little while, I'm not in a rush. I'm also not sure how long I'll be in the area, I'm just here because I appeared here, but I imagine it won't take all that long for me to heal all the wealthy who need it right now, in any case." He shrugs. "Anyway, I can show you what I can do now, if you'd like."

Permalink Mark Unread

Mr. Roseberry tests him on a staffer with a sprained ankle who consents to the experiment, and then talks to some people, and then conveys him around to the worst cases. Those who wished to accept the mysterious help, at least. Doctors carefully inspect before-and-after results. The nurses and doctors look a bit less tired, and nod approvingly.

One of the discharged patients asks him, "So, God gave you healing powers?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"It's a bit of a long story."

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"Well, forget I asked! I'd like to know where this all came from, glad as I am for it, is all."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I don't mind telling it, I'm just not sure what your religion is like, here, yet. I'm from a different world, you see."

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The man shrugs. "It's all variations on the same thing, mostly. But the priests have been struggling to explain themselves for decades now. The Fall. Sin. The New Sequence. Some contort their thinking into ever more complicated shapes to make the same teachings still make sense. Some break off into lots of tiny sects ready to shout at each other over whether John the Baptist preferred wine or water, or something like that. I don't believe much of it anymore, meself."

Permalink Mark Unread

"I suppose that'd happen, without magic. When we need to know what our gods think we should be doing, we can ask them." (His hand goes to the wooden pendant around his neck, which he's also been touching each time he casts a spell.)

Permalink Mark Unread

He startles. "Plural? There's only supposed to be one. Suppose some of His servants could be powerful enough to look like gods themselves. What you can do is damned convincing. And like I said, I hardly believe anymore."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Maybe there is only one here - I've only been here a day, I wouldn't know. We have probably a hundred or so, maybe closer to two, but only about a dozen of them are commonly known. I get my magic from one of the well-known ones, the god of travel." The delight shows through his professional facade for a moment: "He doesn't usually send people to new worlds like this."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Huh, I suppose if your vocation is travelling getting lost is almost a blessing, eh? I'll invite you to tea as thanks for fixing up me leg, at any rate."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Oh, that sounds good. I mean, you certainly don't have to, but I'd be interested in hearing more about this world."

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"Least I can do. My home is on the humble side, mind. What's another world like, I wonder?" He starts walking off towards the east.

Permalink Mark Unread

"Well, I haven't seen enough of this one to compare, exactly, but -" Elves and their tree cities; dwarves and their underground metropolises; halflings and their caravans; gnomes and their directly-democratic half-anarchic towns; catfolk, dragons, wizards, druids, elementals - he can go on for a while.

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The patient - Stephen Claredore - chimes in when something sounds familiar to things he's heard rumors of. Elves inspire him to speak of the titanic Bronzewood trees and uncertain dangers of Traitor's Wood, the researchers probing ecosystems in the Leadbeater and Stainrod Nature Reserve. The Regent's Tears are a set of celestial waterfalls that are supposed to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Dragons sound fantastically dangerous, worse even than the giant sky-bat Curators. Titania is an artist-colony that is said to be half-anarchic by some. Sky-sailors have a culture of their own and sometimes furtively worship gods of the Sky - the Waste-Waif, the Burrower, the Storm that Speaks. Druids sound like they would be really useful in the Reach - the flora is erratic. The other kinds of people who are so close to humans throws him off. The closest people to humans he knows is Devils.

The city grows quickly less dense as they head east. It's moderately-sized at best, as cities go. Soon the buildings are one or two stories high, with gardens and vigorous plantlife intruding around them. They come to a little building subdivided into three littler houses, and Stephen invites him in. It seems pretty run-down, but reasonably cared for. He starts steeping tea, heating the water on a gas stove.

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So many new things to explore, here.

He's curious about devils, when they come up - his translation magic is using the same word for them that he'd use for a group of species in his world, but the creatures he'd use it for are much too dangerous to let walk around where anyone could meet them, any more than you'd let an evil dragon wander through your city.

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"Some say the devils are evil, but I heard they're just interested in souls - they don't care to hurt you or help you, they just want your soul. And they don't care for Rattus Faber because they don't have any. There's even Carillon - you can go there to have the flaws in yours worked out, they're very good at it since they can smell 'em or something. Priests insist that you need to keep yours if you want to get into Heaven, but they don't seem to do much otherwise. I knew a lad who sold his, or said he did anyway, and he didn't seem any different after." He frowns and whispers furtively. "I heard a rumor you can burn souls."

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"-huh. That's mostly reasonably close to how things work at home, except that losing your soul kills you; I don't see how that wouldn't be common knowledge if selling them is more than unheard of. And our devils are well known to be evil, but we have magic for that."

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"You can buy souls in jars. They hover and glow. They don't talk or anything. Maybe they're not the same thing? Hold on, you can tell if people are evil?"

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"Not right now, I don't have the spell prepared for it. But if I want to, yes."

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"So there's magic that just decides if people are evil or not? On whose accounting? The Khan's marauders are great heroes when they're at home, I'm sure."

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"It's based on your intentions, whether you think that in general people should be helped, as a principle, or harmed, or neither in particular. Someone who thinks they're making the world a better place, where people will have better lives, will show up as good even if they're wrong about what they're actually accomplishing - though you'll generally have a much better time of trying to talk someone like that around than someone who says they're trying to make the world a better place but knows in their heart that they're not and doesn't care, or thinks it's right to make it worse."

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He judges the tea done and serves it into white porcelain cups with flower patterns and the Empress's face. It's not particularly good tea- not particularly bad, either, though. Aromatic.

"So it's some other thing, some specific rule, that gets called good. I don't think you can really just - capture good and evil like that. I mean, that sounds like a good attempt to do it but..." He shrugs. "Doesn't sound right."

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"Fair enough. A lot of people want it to be as simple as whether they can trust someone or not, but you're right, I don't see how any magic could answer that. Even truth magic doesn't."

He sips the tea. "Very nice. Reminds me of some halfling teas. And - who is this?" He points at the Empress's face on the cup. "She was on posters outside the hospital, too."

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"Oh! That's Her Eternal Majesty, the Empress upon the Throne of Hours. Rightful ruler of Albion and the Reach. Queen in three different worlds, now."

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"-huh! And what's her story?"

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"She was Queen of England on old Earth's surface! She sold the city of London to the Echo Bazaar, sinking it into the Undersea, but was betrayed. It never paid what it promised. After many years of struggle, she opened the Avid Horizon and colonized the sky, defeating the hidebound King of Hours and rebuilding London out in Albion, where all her subjects can thrive. And now she weaves time from the Throne of Hours, for the benefit of all."

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"Weaves time? That's a new one."

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"Oh, yes. Hours are mined by the barrel in the corners of the Reach, and a lot of the work in the city is to support the hour-refining factories. I don't understand the details, but they're concentrated time - the transit relays use them to turn a weeks-long journey through frozen wastes into a couple of hours, something that all engines can tolerate. There are hour-looms that can suspend something in time, or accelerate it. And every spare hour is fed to the Throne of Hours to keep time consistent throughout the empire, since it tends to wobble."

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"Huh! We don't have anything like that. Sounds convenient. Except for the wobbliness, I guess."

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"I think that one's more of an environmental hazard. Plenty of those to go around. No Hours wherever you're from?"

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"Mmn-mmh. Time can flow differently on different planes, that's the closest I've heard - a powerful enough wizard might be able to manipulate time, but I've never heard of it happening, and definitely not mining it."

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"From my schoolyard histories it sounds like things were very orderly on old Earth, it's only the Undersea and the sky that have more dangers, more opportunities. Looser laws of nature. I was a babe in the Undersea, never been to old Earth at all, mind."

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"I wonder how much your planar cosmology has in common with ours - that sounds like your country started out on your material plane, and went to something like the elemental plane of earth and then something like the elemental plane of air, if they were more habitable than ours. I'd expect the natural laws to be a little strange on other planes."

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"I wouldn't know at all, I'm afraid."

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"Maybe I'll find a scholar to ask about it, somewhere. It sounds like it'd be interesting to get to your other elemental planes, if you have them and they're safer than ours - ours aren't safe at all, our plane of air is the safest one and doesn't have land or gravity, for the most part, and some of the air isn't breathable. Not to mention the windstorms, or the elementals that live there."

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"That sounds like all the stories of travelling the skies I've ever heard. Winds, monsters, loneliness."

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"I wouldn't expect to find a human city anywhere in the plane of air, but maybe they're more similar than I thought, otherwise. Do you get monsters here, at all?"

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"Not within the city, mostly, hunters and the like prune them out pretty eagerly. Betentacled or beaked or knife-handed wriggling things - all dangerous, but when you shoot something it tends to die. There's sky-beasts, though. Cantankeri, Curators, Scrive-Spinsters. And rogue engines. Sky-mad explorers, pirates and marauders. The bloody Tacketies and Stovepipes shooting at each other."

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"I'll definitely have to find someone to ask about all of that. What's the story with the Tacketies and Stovepipes?"

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"It's-" He looks around furtively on instinct. "Now, maybe I didn't tell you this, but the Reach is perhaps a bit more independent than the papers would have you believe. The Tacketies want to secede. Or at least come to an understanding with Her Majesty's Government. The Stovepipes are Windward Company engines looking to preserve their investments and power. Scrappy independent prospectors formed into a loose union, fighting off 'tyranny'... It's the stuff of plays, but it's all going to end so badly, I think."

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"It usually does, yes. Sometimes it's worth it anyway, I suppose."

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"From what I've heard it only ever seems to end in suffering. I was going to move to Port Avon. Or maybe Titania. Or Lustrum. Somehow I'm still here, though. Not enough engines risking the trip for it to be cheap."

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"Hm." His expression darkens. "Sounds like something my god would want me to look into, if I can."

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"I wish you luck. I'd better get some rest while I can. It was interesting, hearing all about your - world. Even if I'm still not entirely sure I believe it." He sips the last of his tea.

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"Thank you for having me," he nods, and makes his goodbyes.

He was planning on spending the afternoon looking for more work, but instead he spends it scouting, getting a feel for the general layout of the city and in particular where the seedier areas are - where he'd expect to find rebels - and where in those areas he'd have the best chances of encountering them.

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Sooty, worn-down workers make their way to and from the factories. East-Enders lurk in alleys and side-streets, glaring resentfully at the more prosperous West-Enders. The West-Enders engage in pointed gossip about each other's manners and clothing. Constables with billy clubs throng around the nicer streets and the factories, but are less common elsewhere. There doesn't seem to be much actual poverty, most everyone has food and a roof over their heads, but certainly a sizable poor class. There's a newspaper with copies everywhere describing the Windward Company's recent triumphs. Furtive pamphlets that display the Tacketies' side of things are much harder to find.

Down by the dockyard, a rusty set of engine-sheds with some rough-looking types surreptitiously hanging around it presumably hides some sort of villany. The southern and easternmost bits of the city seem almost abandoned by the authorities. And there seems to be a way down carved into the cliff, there, in the perfect spot to be hidden by a rusting hulk unless you know about it or see it from exactly the right angle.

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That path down the cliff face is promising, but he's not prepared to take advantage of it quite yet. First - the next day, in the morning after he's checked with the hospital - he needs to see a clothier. Or two, really, he's going to need to be able to fit in on both sides of the city.

The nicer outfits won't be ready for a few days; he packs his workman's clothes away and spends the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon looking for more odd jobs and seeing any healing clients who don't need spells he doesn't have prepared. He breaks early, takes a nap and has dinner, then changes clothes and goes to stake out the spot he found.

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The hospital can connect him with a few incredulous wealthy patrons. They all seem suspicious about possible side-effects for some reason - the doctors' good word mollifies the clients, mostly. There are odd jobs around - mostly more machinery repairs, though none as urgent as the air-cooler. There are preparations for some sort of festival underway - the feast of the Red Saint is in two days, apparently.

The spot he found seems terribly uninteresting... For a while. Under cover of dimming twilight (though the distant stars themselves seem to be dimming, rather tham any of them setting), a girl who can't be more than eight or nine years old clambers up the hidden path, scouts around a bit, then quite purposefully climbs the rusting hulk that is this place's local landmark and lights a lantern with a green stained glass filter.

A minute later, there is the low sound of chugging machinery. A ragged-looking locomotive matching the descriptions of Tackety engines in the newspapers sails out of the clouds and mist, heading for a spot below the cliffs. It vanishes, and the machinery noise soon stops. A few minutes after that, a group in workers' clothes emerges from the hidden path carrying a large box each, then gather up against the rusting hulk and have a discussion. The woman with the floppy black hat seems to be in charge.

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He hangs back; he can't hear what they're saying, but he can still get a sense of their mood and what they're doing from his hiding place.

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They seem enthusiastic, confident. Triumphant, even. The kid is keeping a lookout towards the north-west. One of the boxes is cracked open, and the floppy-hat woman carefully checks the contents - something gleaming and metal - before sealing it again.

They pick up the boxes and start to walk north as a group, not towards the heart of the city but along its outskirts.

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He trails them, staying at a distance; the Longstrider spell he cast this morning will wear off in a few hours, but for now it means he can easily circle around to travel beside them, rather than behind them where they'll be watching, without much risk of not being able to catch up if they change direction unexpectedly.

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They turn west slightly eventually, and make their way to one of the many workshops, knocking on a side-door. There are other people around in this slightly denser part of the city, but all east-enders who don't seem to find anything suspicious about the group. They show the contents of one of the boxes to someone speaking out of a barely cracked-open door.

...They appear to be having an argument with whoever is inside, and start to get unhappy about it. Raafi could, perhaps, lurk just around the alley's corner and have a listen.

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Yep, that seems like a good plan.

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      A greasy-sounding voice is coming from someone inside the building. "You'll get your payment when I get it. So you can just leave the boxes now-"

"That wasn't the deal. Half up front, half on completion, to a specified schedule. With penalties for failure."

      "You know how time is around here-"

"Bullshit. Don't make me come in there, Freddie. Port Prosper is the second-biggest clearing house in the Reach, you've had plenty of time. Where's our Bronzewood?"

      "I have six consignments, and the blueprints you asked for. And those were fucking expensive, it took bribes! It's all I could get away with acquiring without attracting suspicion."

"More like all that you could get at a bargain from your 'friends', fence. You expect us to pay for an incomplete job?"

      "I can get it done, I just need more time."

"Hours are expensive. We'd know. Hand over what you have now, and we'll come back tomorrow. This doesn't have to get messy. But if it does, you know we have everything we need to make a very big mess."

      "Fine! I'll give you the blueprints, but I'm not handing over the Bronzewood without the rest of the shells. I can get the rest tomorrow. We can make the exchange under cover of the feast of the Red Saint."

"The what?"

      "Big street party. In two days."

"...Ugh. Fine. Go get the blueprints, then."

The door shuts. The leader taps her foot impatiently.

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This isn't the worst setup for revealing himself, but - no, she's distracted, and he's going to need her attention for at least a few minutes while he explains himself. He waits.

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A sheaf of papers are held out the door. The woman examines them briefly, folds them away and makes a blustery half-threat, and then - deflates with a tired sigh before directing her crew to head back to the hidden cranny.

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He follows until they're back out away from the crowds, and then runs ahead a bit to set himself up on the path they're traveling, leaning casually against a wall to wait for them to come to him.

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They pause and look suspiciously at him when they spot him. They scan the surroundings, looking for anyone else, at a word from the boss, whose hand goes to her hip.

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He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, looking calm and unworried. (They're not close enough to speak to, and he doesn't want to draw attention by shouting.)

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The group calms down after a bit and approaches to about thirty feet.

"I don't credit coincidences. What brings you out here among the overgrowth? Right in our path."

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"I wanted to talk to you, see if I want to offer my help with your project. I'm in a bit of a unique situation, with some unique help to offer, if things work out that way."

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Squint. "-Huh. Well, you don't look like one of the Stovepipes' agents, and you're alone, so sure, let's talk. Perhaps not out in the open. I'm Captain Willia Morel of the Tacketies, I'll shake your hand in a bit. This way."

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"Raafi, cleric of Fharlanghn," he introduces himself, and falls in with the group.

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She leads them into what seems to have once been a park, obscured from the nearest houses. They stack the crates up, and Willia holds her hand out for the shaking.

"Well met, Raafi. What's a cleric and what can they do for the cause of freedom?"

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"A cleric is a bit like a priest, but I suspect that priests are different too, in the world I come from. I know gods are; ours give magic to their clerics, for one thing. Mine is the god of travel; I'd like to see your conflict resolved so that the trains can go back to running as often as they'd like to. And preferably resolved in a way that leaves everyone better off in general, which is why I'm starting here."

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"...World you came from. Do you know the history yet?"

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"Very little of it; I've been busy."

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"Settling the Reach was bloody work, and bloody expensive in lives and machinery and everything else. The establishment decided they'd let people risk their own fortunes and lives instead of pouring their own resources into it. The promise was, settle the reach and you'll own your own patch of land. Hard work and risk, but you could make your fortune, get away from the slums and the workworlds. Tell me if I'm starting too early or too late."

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"Sounds about right; go ahead."

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"About a decade and a half ago, things were really starting to boom. The Hours industry was making everybody rich, and there were other valuable goods coming out of the Reach as well. New Winchester was a pretty big city at this point, mostly owned by big companies that moved in from London once it wasn't a total death-trap. But the Windward Company started tightening things against all the independents, who'd earned their places out here. Anti-strike tactics. New taxes. Choking regulations. 'Security' seizures. It was intolerable, they were never going to compromise unless someone forced them to. Nobody ever compromises unless you can hurt them."

"Things came to a head when Windward Company representatives shot into a crowd protesting outside the Wolversley Engine Yards, and the first Winchester War began. We Tacketies banded together to keep Stovepipe engines out of our spaces, we took back what was unfairly taken from the first settlers of the Reach. We blockaded New Winchester and let them run out of supplies, until they'd come to the negotiating table. London sent reinforcements... But we won, in the end. The establishment had to compromise, or they'd lose everything instead of some of their things. The Tacketies are official now, we represent the small homesteaders and independents of the Reach."

"...And after six, seven years, I think London started feeling revanchist. Lots of newspapers about 'restoring proper dominion'. The Windward Company started getting back to its old tricks. More heavy engines in the skies, patrolling the lanes. Restrictions on weapons, taxes on the Hour-trade. They tried to build the Isambard Line, and it was an unmitigated disaster, and they blamed the Tacketies for what was always a horrible idea. So we started fighting again, because if we don't we will become just another downtrodden cog in Albion's machine. No Stovepipe will accept that they lied to us and stole from us. We're all selfish dangerous rebels using propaganda to mislead the public and break away from the Traitor Empress's benevolent rule."

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He nods along. "Sounds familiar. You have plans, I assume? For what you want to do, and what happens afterward if you win?"

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"I do the jobs my superiors ask me to and don't know the big picture. I know it sounds hypocritical, given that the Stovepipes are doing that too, but it's safer. And I trust the people who are in charge. But, the general idea is stronger independence this time. No more compromises that they can gradually walk back. We want New Winchester, if possible we want Port Prosper and the Transit Relay. We're... Trying to keep things to just the Stovepipes. Just skirmishing."

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He nods. "No, that makes sense. I'll want to talk to them, then, before I sign on. It's no good to me if you think the best way to keep your own freedom is to stop anyone else from coming or going."

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"God of travel, was it? How's that supposed to work - is he an aspect of the Almighty, or something more heathenish?"

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"I'm not sure how you're expecting it to work or not work - I don't think the gods of my world have anything to do with yours here, but I haven't found time to visit a church here yet, and I'm not entirely sure it's a good idea to, I haven't exactly been made to feel welcome. The gods of my world - they all acknowledge each other, even the ones that don't get along, it's strange to me that your god is claiming to be the only one. Each one in my world has a portfolio, a set of things they're interested in and responsible for supporting; Fharlanghn's is travel, primarily, and freedom, especially physical freedom, and trade and cultural exchange. Other gods are responsible for other things - our most popular god is Pelor, the sun god, whose portfolio is healing, community, and strength of character, as another example."

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"Yeah, probably best not to. One god, one creator, one power almighty? Who gives the Empress the divine right to rule? Just another lie to control everyone. Your god sounds much less like a lie."

(Her subordinates shift uncomfortably and frown at this, but don't speak up.)

"If you're not going to help me today we'd best go our separate ways. And if you want to talk to the leaders of the Tackety cause, go to Victory Hall in New Winchester."

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"I might help you, depending on what you're doing. I expect your leaders will be more willing to listen if they've heard about my magic from someone they trust."

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"...We're trying to get more good solid Bronzewood, to build more engines, to keep ours in good repair, and to maybe recover wrecks. By all means, demonstrate some magic, whether it helps us or not, and I'll report it when we're done here."

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"-all right. If you just want an example -" he chants and gextures, and a thick fog rises around them, concealing everything more than five or six feet away. "It's not my most powerful spell, but handy enough."

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She swears and reaches for her hip again, but calms down before completing the gesture. "-Yeah. That's some kind of unusual ability, at least."

"Be handy on an engine," one of the others comments. "Turn off the lights, spout some fog, wait for whatever's after you to pass by."

"A sudden fog might be notable depending on where you are, but maybe. Anything else you want to show us? Rumors we'll hear if we hang around?"

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"I've been doing a lot of healing and mending things, mostly. I can make people more skilled at things, briefly, or stronger. In a pinch I can fly, or let someone else fly; I can't do that as many times a day, though."

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"That one sounds amazing... Flying around out there without a locomotive under you would be a thrill."

"And fantastically dangerous. Well, do you suppose you have any further business with us at this time, cleric of Fha- Damn, I can't remember the name."

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"Fharlanghn," he grins. "And I don't think so. I'll be by Victory Hall in the next few days."

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"Take your time. We're headed to Lustrum once we get our cargo, and our ways of moving news around aren't always the fastest. Good day, sir."

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"And to you."

He takes the time to hunt down a map, in between jobs the next day; where is New Winchester, anyway?

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New Winchester seems to be in the very center of the Reach. According to the timetables presented by a Bored Ticketmaster, it takes three to five days to reach from Port Prosper, and at least a week to get to Lustrum from here.

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And what are prices like on tickets? Preferably to leave in two days, after the festival, though if staying another couple of days gets him a cheaper one he might do that instead.

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There are tickets from Port Prosper back to various destinations in Albion for sale, every two days, but apparently none for the Reach. The Bored Ticketmaster explains that the Columbia Line has suspended all operations in the Reach except for Port Prosper. Going to New Winchester will require either favors from the Windward Company (or Ministry-Stamped Permits) to hop on board one of London's engines, or finding an independent captain willing to take him.

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Uh-huh.

And how does finding an independent captain go? (Also, can he find a map for sale? He's probably going to want one sooner or later.)

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He can buy a chart of the Reach for 40 Sovereigns! It's not minutely detailed, and chunks of it are noted as possibly inaccurate.

The trainyard is reasonably busy with a dozen and a half independent engines of a few different makes. (The blue-painted behemoths that are London's military vessels have their own separate dock.) The engines are taking on food and coal, or disgorging cargo. A few are undergoing repairs. It's easy enough to identify captains by their demeanor, or ask a crewman who is in charge. Several of the captains are at one of the nearby bars instead of with their engines.

This captain refuses to take passengers ever since one tried to murder him. That captain is heading to Albion. This one is going to the Nature Reserve. And so on. But there are three who seem to have New Winchester as a destination in mind, and are willing to consider passengers. A loud-voiced captain is heading there anyway, and proclaims that anything that tries to stop his locomotive is going to regret it. He's in for repairs after a decisive collision with a Scrive-Spinster, to hear him tell the tale. A twitchy trader offers to take him anywhere in the Reach for the correct price. A portly captain is heading to Port Avon to see a friend, and New Winchester is only a day or so out of the way and something to defray the costs of the journey would be welcome.

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40 Sovereigns isn't too bad, for the map, as long as the inaccurate parts are labeled - it'll take a noticeable piece of his funds, but he's been earning well enough. He leaves it for now, though.

He likes the first captain, the one with the damaged engine; if he expects his locomotive to be back in working order within a day or two after the festival, he'll sign on with him. Otherwise he'll go with the third one; the trader's twitchiness makes him worry about what will happen if he wants to use magic on the trip.

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"Oh, she can still fly! It's just a matter of replacing the worst bits of plating and inspecting for any hidden damages. I'm heading to New Winchester to get a more thorough repair and invest in bigger guns, for the future. I was thinking of heading out after the festival too, so that sounds fortuitous. Say, do you like hunting?"

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"That does sound good. I might be interested in a hunt sometime, why do you ask?"

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"There's some very good hunting at the Leadbeater and Stainrod Nature Reserve. The kind of hunting that involves your own two feet and a gun you can carry, not locomotive cannonry - as nice as it is to command such power, it's so detached. And none of it's very smart in the Reserve, which is an unfortunate bloody concern with the things in the sky. The blokes who'd hunt Curators or Cantankeri are the same kind who'd kick beggars. One thing to shoot at them to get them off your tail, another entirely to go for the kill. Unless they won't leave you alone until crippled or dead. It'd be a detour to go to the Reserve, though."

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"That does sound like fun - I'm in a bit of a hurry but not much of one, this trip, we could take a day or two for it. I'll need someone to show me how to use your weaponry, though, I'm from far enough away that we use different kinds there."

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"By God, I'd be delighted to teach you to shoot! Perhaps in exchange for some stories. Everyone should know how to shoot." He looks at his mug. "Practical exercises tomorrow, perhaps. I'm a bit too sloshed for deadly weapons to be a good idea right now. Where are you from what doesn't have guns?"

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His grin broadens. "A different world, actually. I got pulled here in some sort of explosion, artefacts or Hours or both, nobody was sure. I'm not complaining, though, I've always been an explorer."

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"That's part of the allure of the Reach, and of Eleutheria. Exploring. Oh, I heard about that. A scientist of some sort had a tearing argument with the city maintenance committee, trying to keep them from cleaning it up. She failed, but got to buy some of the detritus. Apparently one of the things that got pulled here has fantastical material properties. I suppose it just shows how we're not the first ones to live here, and there's a lot we don't understand yet."

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"Maybe I'll see if I can find her when I get back. I'm sure she'd be fascinated at some of the stuff I can do."

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"Oh? Well, probably true no matter what you can do. Lots of things fascinate scientists."

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"That too. I have magic, though. The real stuff."

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"Do you mean the, what was it, language of the stars? Nasty dangerous thing to know, from what I heard. Perhaps don't tell me if you do."

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"No, that's news to me - there's chanting, for my spells, but it's not a language."

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"I knew an engineer who'd say 'the real magic is turning steel and explosives to our own ends'. But I'm rambling. Consider me interested, anyway."

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"Well, you know how I said I'm an explorer? We have a god of travel, where I come from, and if he likes you enough, you can get magic that way."

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"Like the knights of old fairy tales, holy power through faith and the chivalric code? What a compelling idea."

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"Mmhmm. Lots of fun, too. And handy, if we're attacked or anything."

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"You must have some amazing stories. Should save them for when I'm sober enough to appreciate. And maybe a bigger audience... Want to come learn how to use a gun, oh, tomorrow after lunch?"

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"Sure, where should I meet you?"

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"By my engine - she's the one with a big steel plate across the boiler, third from the end of the first spar. I'm thinking... A quick turn out of the city, just twenty minutes. Find the nearest barren rock to shoot up, and make sure everything is smooth on the Undaunted before the longer journey. I'm not sure anyone would appreciate gunfire in the middle of the port."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Sounds good, I'll be there. And I should probably get back to work, now."

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"Good day to you, then!"

 

On his way back to the hospital, a bright-eyed woman carrying a notebook approaches him. "Hello! I'm a reporter with the New Winchester Gazette, could I have a few minutes of your time?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Sure, what can I do for you?"

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"I want to ask you a few questions for a news article I'm writing. Perhaps I could invite you up to my office for tea? Radella Clatherty is the name."

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"I'm expected across town, but... I suppose they won't mind a little delay. I'm Raafi, if the rumors have left that out."

Permalink Mark Unread

She invites him to a spartan office for tea. She has a typewriter, and transcribes all her questions and his answers as they're spoken - she's very efficient and tries to keep things pleasant and steer away from any topics that annoy him. Can he tell her about Fharlanghn (she got the pronunciation right)? About the various other things in his world? What's the most advanced science in his world? What things does he like and dislike about Port Prosper? Has anything shocked or appalled or scandalized him? What does he have to say about this statement from a mechanics' union saying items repaired by him are not to be trusted? About this statement from a doctor praising him for all the good he's doing? Is he looking forward to the feast of the Red Saint?

His healing powers are well-verified by her interviews with patients and nurses. What does he have to say about the following rumors? He's been sent from another world (which may or may not be an extremely distant part of the High Wilderness) by a god (which may or may not be a star), he's making a political statement against the Windward Company by working with St. Cavendish, he's making a religious statement criticizing the New Sequence by working with St. Cavendish, he can turn into a cloud, he's a sympathizer to the Liberation of Night (anarchists), he's something inhuman taking a human form...

Permalink Mark Unread

He's curious about the typewriter, and declares it clever when she demonstrates it and asks where he'd get one.

Fharlanghn is the god of travel, freedom, trade, and cultural exchange of his world, which has lots; he's an intermediate god, so not one of the major powers, but a household name in most of the world. He teaches that it's important to expand one's horizons, to learn about the world and find one's place in it; even if it turns out that you belong back at home, going and seeing what the rest of the world is like will still teach you valuable things that you wouldn't otherwise learn.

The other obvious difference between this world and his, besides gods and the lack of magic here, is the lack of different species; if he spent a day walking around a city this size in his world, he'd expect to see at least a dozen kinds of people, but he hasn't met anyone here who wasn't human.

He's not a scholar, so he doesn't know much about cutting-edge science in his world; it is substantially more technologically advanced here, though. He doesn't have any complaints about Port Prosper - rarely dislikes places at all, he'll say, if she pushes - and the views are gorgeous and the people friendly and interesting; he hasn't seen anything too shocking so far, though everyone being human is definitely weird for him. He's looking forward to the feast; he loves a good festival, especially in a new place, there's always so much to see and do and learn.

His repair spells are well known to be reliable, at home, though of course they only have his word for it and a few days of evidence, here, and he wouldn't blame anyone for wanting to wait and see. That said, if anyone has something for him to do that the mechanics can't handle, it'd be wise to let him know soon even if they do want to wait before having him do it; clerics of Fharlanghn never stay in one place for long, and he might not be back soon if he doesn't have a reason to be.

He demures, about the praise - of course he's doing healing, it's some of the easiest magic for him, and the highest impact for everyone else.

He is from another world or at least another plane; he can confirm that with magic, he has a few spells that work at any distance within the same plane that don't work between here and the places and people he's familiar with. He's not sure whether his god was involved in him coming here; Fharlanghn usually asks rather than just doing things to people, but might not have had time to if the accident was necessary to allow it and it caught him by surprise. Raafi doesn't think Fharlanghn is the same sort of being as the stars, but he admittedly doesn't know much about the stars or why they think they're people, here - they do have a god of the sun, at home, Pelor, who says that stars are distant suns, but other gods don't have any particular connection to the sun and anyway there's a difference between being the god of something and being that thing, probably.

He's really not trying to make a political statement at all, working with St. Cavendish; they were the first hospital he came to and they've been keeping him busy enough that he hasn't felt the need to go find another one to work with in addition. He'd prefer people go through the hospital to arrange healing, it's more convenient for everyone that way, but he has no particular objection to someone contacting him independently if they feel they need to.

One of his more powerful spells does let him turn into cloudstuff and travel on the wind; he hasn't used it here and doesn't use it often in general, though, mundane ways of traveling let him see more of the world. He's never heard of the Liberation of Night. He is human, though of course if he were a transformed dragon or something he wouldn't admit to that.

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She got her typewriter in New Winchester, but here's a store in Port Propser that sells them. She mostly avoids the topic of religion after the first couple of questions - she's not confident in addressing the topic in any kind of detail without alienating either him or her readers. Ooh, she's heard of dragons from one of her sources. She has a photograph of a Curator swooping over one of London's dreadnaughts - a sentient bat with a wingspan larger than a house, intelligent and treasure-hoarding. They can make themselves human-sized, but they're still obviously Curators. Do they seem similar to dragons?

Permalink Mark Unread

Not very similar visually, but it sounds like they fill a similar niche, as big smart treasure-hoaders; he can sketch her a picture of a dragon, if she'd like. He really ought to get back to work afterward, though - he can come back and talk to her when he's done his rounds, if she has more questions.

Permalink Mark Unread

"I've taken so much of your time already, there's really no need for a sketch. I might like a quick photograph of you later, in the studio downstairs, if you're willing?"

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"Sure - there's no side effects of that or anything, right?"

(Not ideal, if he's going to be getting into the rebellion business, but it's too late to back out without seeming suspicious, probably. And she had enough of a description to find him even without it, so the damage is probably mostly done. He'll just have to be careful.)

Permalink Mark Unread

"No, no, it's like drawing but with chemistry." She pauses thoughtfully. "Though... I would be cautious if I heard a rumor of a camera that did have side-effects. Does half past four work, you think?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"I should be able to work that in, sure. See you then."

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Later that afternoon, there's a sudden commotion. A chorus of bells goes off, as smoke rises up from one of the factories just on the west side of the port. A bucket brigade of constables and passers-by forms. Raafi happens to be far enough away and indoors at the time, so that he only notices the fire after ten minutes, by the thick black column of smoke it sheds, drawn into the canyon splitting the city by the winds.

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...that can't be good. He teleports to the port and zips toward the fire.

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It has grown to consume nearly the whole building, and is only barely being kept from the neighboring ones by gushing water hoses. Smoke billows out of the windows, chased by tongues of flame. Embers smolder on the bales of rough cotton in the loading bay, where the bucket brigade is still working. One brick wall has collapsed, and the constables grow more confused and dis-coordinated with the smoke and crackling noise covering everything.

Many of the ash-covered wounded are being loaded into carriages, some on stretchers and some under their own power, and rushed over the bridge towards St. Cavendish (which is the largest hospital in the city, and also the closest).

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He spends a few seconds chanting, and five watery forms appear, each easily three times the height of a human; they spend another few seconds listening to him - if that's a language, it's not remotely one meant for humans to understand or speak - and then approach the burning building and begin putting out the fire.

That done, he dashes again - moving at twice the speed a human usually can - to a group of wounded, arranges five of them to be touching each other, and teleports all five and himself to St. Cavendish's lobby.

Permalink Mark Unread

(The water elementals cause a small panic, but on net they're helpful.)

In the hospital, the front-desk nurse has been coordinating incoming doctors. She swears in surprise, then points everyone another nurse, who takes them away to a ward. The patients are in slow motion. The nurses and doctors, wearing curious backpack-clocks, are moving normally. The second nurse urges the five patients in, but holds Raafi back and waves over the man from the hiring office he first talked to.

"Raafi! The whole ward is being slowed - Helps with triage. It's only thanks to you we can afford the Hours to do this. You'll need a carriage-clock to go in. What have you got left for today?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Eight mass cures and twenty-one singles - sort them by severity if you can, but anyone who gets any magical healing won't die unless they're further injured afterward. I can take fifteen people per mass cure, within thirty feet of each other."

Permalink Mark Unread

"That should be enough to cover the worst cases. But the Fulbright factory has hundreds of employees and we don't have a full accounting yet. Still much better than not. Let's get your carriage-clock sorted and I'll pass that on."

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He nods. "That's not counting potions, if there's more - I'll need ten minutes in a private room to get those out. They're irreplaceable, but," he shrugs. "Get me the clock thing."

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He gestures towards a side-hall. "Irreplaceable, hmm. You get the magic back every day, right, what if we gave you an extra day? Hours can accelerate as well as slow."

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He goes where he's directed. "I - probably? I can't guarantee it but if I'm living the day through, there is some flexibility. I could check but it'd cost a spell."

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He unhooks a backpack from the wall and winds something on it around. "Here. Just put it on your back. When it starts ticking faster, you need a new one. An extra day - If it works, it would almost certainly save lives, the wounded aren't slowing down. You say 'probably'. That sounds like more than fifty percent? As a doctor- Seems like just another form of triage, risk one possible death to check for a chance of preventing many more. If it was me, I'd ask the director, but if I couldn't reach him I would do it. What do you think?"

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He puts the pack on. "More than fifty percent," he nods. "As a new experience, if I approach it right - seventy, eighty percent - not actually worth the spell to check, I don't think, just do it."

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"Right, I'll go - organize that. It'll be fairly expensive but we're hurting less for money thanks to you. Good luck, and thank you." He bustles off.

One of the doctors he's worked with regularly guides him into the slowed-down ward - sound is oddly muffled in here. The patients still move in extreme slow-motion, most of them have their eyes covered so they won't be alarmed at the flickering figures hovering over them. They group up the worst cases for him like well-oiled clockwork.

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He's right behind them with the spells, from big ones that leave their recipients whole down to tiny sparks of blue that barely seem to do anything but leave patients breathing a little easier. He's done well before the pack starts to run down, and goes to look for the other doctor.

Permalink Mark Unread

The doctor is fussing over the appropriated hour-loom with a harried-looking west-end engineer. It's a complicated, spindly, and mostly exposed thing, like a grandfather clock, an orrery, a typewriter, and a sewing machine all had a baby. A small box of cracked pink and purple Hour-geodes, sighing a low tone, sits nearby.

"That should do it," the engineer says with finality.

"-Ah. Good timing, Raafi. Auspicious, that. Hopefully this works. This one is secondhand."

"It'll work," the engineer confidently states, setting hour-geodes into the orrery-like spots. "One day, twenty four hours, will occur inside that suite when I pull this lever, in about ten minutes out here. Best not to open the door or look out the windows too much, though."

"There's a restroom and a sink. I'm told they'll probably work but it's also best not to wonder how, exactly."

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He nods. "I don't need the full twenty-four; sixteen will do it. If that's easy enough to change."

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"-Give me a minute." Some sketched math, three adjusted levers, and a removed orrery-arm later, he nods again. "There we are. It might run a bit longer than sixteen, I erred on the side of that."

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"All right. See you in a few minutes."

Sixteen hours. He can sleep for half of them. The other eight - he knew he'd feel trapped but he was expecting less of that; not being able to look out the window is a surprise. He'll manage, though - it's an experience, and there's value in that, even if it's not the experience he was expecting.

He reads, and paces, and takes notes, and paces, and fiddles with a puzzle box, and paces. Looks out the window anyway, occasionally; he's trying not to do it much, but a glance every few hours is probably safe enough, without a sterner warning. Wishes he was surer about whether it'd be safe to open his portable hole, here; the temptation itches at him a bit in a way that it wouldn't if he were sure. Eats the sandwiches they set out for him, when it feels like dinnertime. Paces some more. Writes. Prays. Sleeps, eventually.

It's not morning when he wakes up any more than it was morning when he went to sleep, but it feels like it, and that's good enough, most of the time. He prays, thinking back on the hours spent in this room: there is value there - it's unusual for him to have even a single hour by himself, without outside distractions, and he appreciates the experience, the reminder of what it's like; he doesn't like it much, but that's always been secondary. This is part of his journey, too, and he offers it up to Fharlanghn like anything else.

His spells come in, the same set from yesterday, just in case he happens to not use them all and can distribute some to the clients waiting for him elsewhere in the city. Unlikely, but he might as well try for it.

He's brought a chair over to sit by the door, waiting, when the hour-loom completes its work.

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Whenever he looks out the window, things appear to be moving at normal-speed. But even if he takes an hour between glances, people are in the same spots between looks.

They open the door again ten minutes later. "Fire's out. We should have a final tally of the injured soon but it's looking like about two hundred fifty total. Were the water-people your doing?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Mmhmm. And my devotions went fine, I have more spells."

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"Excellent! You've saved many, many lives today. And... Yesterday?"

The slowed-down ward is a bit less chaotic now. They only ask for the minor healing spells on a few patients they judge at risk of death, planning on waiting until it's clear the last of the injured are accounted for before asking him for more.

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He does that, and while they're waiting for the final accounting he finds a corner and gets out his portable hole to retrieve a different walking stick from. "It's magic," he explains to the aide they have trailing him. "The other one is too, but this one lets me store healing spells in it, I can get three more people today and replace the spells later."

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They're a bit wary of a strange and supposedly magical staff, but he's been trustworthy and helpful so far. In another hour or two, the last of the wounded are accounted for and the looms spinning a weave of slowed time over the ward have run dry. But many of them are already recovered, and the dead are limited to those consumed in the fire itself.

One of the junior nurses passes him a small packet of papers. "Here, as thanks. Ministry-Stamped Permits. They're all for hospital-related things, but the forms and permits are vague and wide-reaching enough that they're honestly almost interchangeable - a vagary of the bureaucratic machine. Could help you deal with officials."

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"Sounds like they'll come in handy, thank you."

He sends runners to let the rest of the day's healing clients know that he'll reschedule them for tomorrow due to the fire, and heads back over to talk to the reporter again.

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She's there, a bit ash-covered and trying not to grin. It's a tragedy, not a bloody great story, that's what everyone wants to hear. (But it's a bloody great story.)

"Raafi! I'd understand if you had to reschedule. I swear, that sort of thing doesn't happen very often."

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"I'd hope not! I'm fine to talk, though - I was just at the hospital; they're still working on a few of the worst affected, but everyone who made it out of the building will survive."

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"That's excellent news! Come in, I can at least offer you some tea. I heard a rumor that you're responsible for smothering the fire more quickly, by creating some kind of construct-"

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"Water elementals, actually, they're living creatures."

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"Your abilities seem stronger all the time! Creating allies is news to me. Only very powerful beings can do that sort of thing here. Unless I'm misunderstanding?" She heads into the photography studio.

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"A bit, yes. I didn't create them, I summoned them, and my magic is only strong enough to keep them here for a few minutes. They'll be back in the elemental plane of water going about their business by now."

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The reporter chatters a bit more (she'd like a couple more anecdotes about other places he's been) through the photography session - just a few simple and quick portrait shots - and then says he can expect her article in the New Winchester Gazette in the next few weeks and thanks him so much for his time.

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She can have anecdotes, about the lakedwelling gnomes of Tukuramba (lakedwelling here meaning in the lake, not just on its banks) who taught him to speak the language of water elementals, and about the last time he was called on to help with a fire, when a wildfire on the plains of Kuivis drove a catfolk tribe into the territory of a hostile raptoran flock and he had to negotiate safe passage and keep the catfolk from further upsetting the flock during their stay in addition to tending the wounded and helping manage the fire. (Luckily the raptorans were willing to handle the bulk of the firefighting.)

That done, he wants to go flying; maybe he'll head back to the port and see if his conductor friend wants to come too.

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His captainly friend is very skeptical. "No offense, sir, I'm sure it's quite safe, but I'd rather have steel beneath my feet and glass between me and the sky. I'd advise you to do the same if you wish to travel. Starlight can affect your mind and body."

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"Huh, really? What does it do?"

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"You might find yourself staring in awe and wanting to become fire, or convinced you're a king, or hallucinating things, or feeling like you're an imposter in your own mind, or forgetting things, or raving about something that only makes sense when you're insane. With enough exposure it can change your body - skin like ash, or flesh like glass."

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"Huh. Sounds like I should see if that's something my magic can do anything about. I'd hate to be groundbound forever."

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"The stars are Judgements, you know. Gods, basically. So their light can be unpleasant, even at great distance."

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"That's not how I'm used to gods working at all. Well, I'll look into it, I suppose."

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"I wish you luck in that. If you want to learn more, perhaps look for some academics."

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He nods. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then."

It's probably too late to actually find a scholar to talk to, but he can look around, at least.

Permalink Mark Unread

Port Prosper has some schools, but they seem like low-level general education. There's a library, which is closed by now. There's a small subculture in several studios and cafes on the south-west tip of the city called "Bohemians" for some reason, all poets and artists and singers - but that's not quite scholarly either.

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It's not quite scholarly, but bards do often know things, and even common knowledge is new to him. He picks a likely-looking cafe, buys them a round of drinks, and asks them to sing about the stars.

Permalink Mark Unread

Here's a festival song about Her Eternal Majesty's triumphing over the King of Hours, the former Judgement of Albion who turned them away in their hour of need and pretty much just held everything in stasis anyway, not allowing his subjects to grow or thrive properly. Here's a ditty naming constellations and warning to stay inside when a particular nebula is bright. Here's a song about how the words of a star are made of fire and light and law, and about how their souls are vaster, vaster.

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He really is going to have to look into this star language thing, isn't he. Later, though, once he knows more about the place.

For now - it doesn't even quite feel like lunchtime, but he'll fix the time offset faster if he tries to get back on schedule; he orders a light dinner and hangs around to see what else they feel like singing about.

Permalink Mark Unread

Several songs about the beauty of the Reach, a bawdy ballad about a 'Scandalous Adventuress' who became a pirate queen by implied seduction and discovered a cabal of devil bees (possibly fictional??), several long story-format poems ranging from deliberately-shocking horror at evil deeds to pastel fairy tales of knights and valor, a furious and angry discussion about the differences between neoclassical and neoevangelical art that just barely doesn't come to blows, a mournful song about missing the Neath and the Zee, several very enthusiastic and loud patriotic songs praising London that went on exactly as long as a certain grey-suited man was in the cafe, a Robin Hood story in song form.

Permalink Mark Unread

Yep, these sure are some bards.

He stays up only a little later than he usually would, and then goes back to his hotel room to try to nap. In the morning, he does his devotions again - doesn't get any spells, but that's not really unexpected, and he's still got yesterday's. He checks in with the hospital, as he's been doing in the morning, and gets through as much of yesterday's healing list as he can before he gets too groggy to continue; sleeps, prays, grabs something to eat, and decides to take a quick trip to the library before heading over to the port.

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The library would like him to buy a membership, even to browse, and very sternly warns him about taking good care of the books. (It's not that expensive, 5 Sovereigns.)

It's a relatively modest library, one story. Every book has a bright red Ministry of Public Decency stamp on its cover. A mix of fiction, magazines and newspapers and manuals, and nonfiction hardbacks leaning towards the practical sciences. Books regarding the stars, the stars' language, and the nature of the heavens are conspicuously absent or not very helpful. (Though one does call the stars' language the Correspondence, even if it doesn't say much else.) There is a conspicuous lack of anything interesting at all the histories from 1867 to 1871. Books in other languages are also not a thing in this library.

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Of course they want him to pay to see the books, how else would a library support itself? He's used to having the option to buy a day pass, but at that price he's certainly not going to complain, it's a steal compared to what he's used to.

He doesn't want to take too long, so he mostly skims the section on stars, thumbing through the few books on offer to see if any of them are worth reading later, and doesn't look closely enough at the other sections to notice anything missing. He does have a quick look at the religion section, though.

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There are bibles (revised 1904 - newest and most improved edition!), and a few books on other, foreign religions mostly from kind of disdainful anthropological perspectives, and moralizing treatises on ethics and philosophy, and books on how one ought to behave, and a lot of academic handwaving trying to explain away the strange things found in the High Wilderness as All Part Of God's Plan After All. The stars are not gods, but another one of His creations, as evidenced by the fact that they can die at all. Traitor's Wood is obviously home to the grave of a saint.

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Do they rent out books, here? He'd like to rent a couple of them - one of the advice ones, and also one of the ones on a foreign religion.

And then, either way, he'll head out to learn to shoot.

Permalink Mark Unread

They'll rent out books, sure. If you're new in town you need to leave a deposit, though.

The loud-voiced hunting captain, Mr. Abernathy, is waiting by the engine-yards - completely sober, today. His vessel is a house-sized thing of steel and wood and glass, with over a dozen cheerful-enough crew working on the interior. There's individual cabins (if small ones for people other than the captain), an engine room, a hold, crawl spaces with more equipment, a galley, and the bridge.

He invites Raafi onto the bridge to observe departure procedures - accounting for fuel and food stores, warming up the boiler and watching the pressure and temperature gauges climb, checking over the outside and inside for anything amiss, testing all the lights and vents and controls, getting clearance from the station's signaller, and then the command to come up to steam and a low vibration and an increasing whine as the locomotive-ship begins pushing forward under its own power.

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It's incredible, and Raafi is delighted to get to watch.

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They're up to speed in a few minutes. He aims the engine up, a bit, ascending above the city and turning west to look for a place to shoot at, but complains about how flying works strangely. Vehicles and islands have gravity, and one consistent with each other (mostly), and vehicles can fly around instead of falling but it becomes harder to go up after a while. In places, there's something 'below' the part of the sky you can fly through, and in other places there's not, and space and distance are not always entirely consistent. As far as he knows, the scholars are no closer to an actual theory now than a decade ago. Is there anything like that where he's from?

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In some places! None he knows of anywhere this large, or with effects so extensive, but you'll get the occasional hill or stand of trees where space or gravity don't work the way you'd expect. And of course the other planes are their own story; he'd be surprised to find a place like this in the elemental plane of air because it's so normal, not because it's so strange.

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How do they get to other planes anyway? There's this place called the Avid Horizon, that's where they crossed from the Neath to Albion, and apparently it could only happen there and with some really esoteric methods.

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A few ways - there's a spell he can get for it, though that needs a tuning fork attuned to the plane he wants to go to - that's why he can't get back, he doesn't have the right kind of fork - but also there are naturally-occurring and wizard-made portals, and the occasional creature that can send you across.

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Well, he would know better than Captain Abernathy does.

"You know, I think that outcropping over there could do with some remodeling, what would you say to a demonstration of our main gun?"

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"Absolutely."

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Preparing the gun for firing is a disciplined production, a bit like the use of a siege weapon. He points out where the gun sits to the left of the bridge - there's a cupola that two can fit in if they squeeze. He speaks through an electrical intercom, with a voice-tube as a backup. Inspect gun, unlock safety, load shell, load charge, close breach and-

"Gunner, fire when ready."

"Aye, firing when ready."

BANG. The whole locomotive shudders and is noticeably pushed backwards a bit, as a large metal object trailing smoke and glowing with sparks lashes out in a perfectly straight line. It hits the outcropping and explodes, kicking dust everywhere, and a moment later a distant krak echoes into the engine, distorted by the thick glass bridge-windows.

"Direct hit. Cease fire."

"Aye, ceasing fire!"

"Safe the gun."

"Aye... Gun safed."

"Good shot, Michaels. Thank you."

The dust on the outcrop is clearing, revealing that a sizable chunk of rock is no longer there. Captain Abernathy smiles at Raafi.

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Raafi's beaming delightedly. "That was incredible! How does it work, what was that noise?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Good steel and explosives. Essentially, cannons and guns are long tubes - a projectile is loaded in, in front of a quantity of explosives. When the explosives are ignited, the heat and pressure in the tube forces the projectile forward. There's a lot more sophistication to it than just that, of course. For most larger guns, like my C-and-H industries 'Vala' here, the projectile is called a 'shell' and is filled with more explosives. That's not practical for handheld guns, though."

Permalink Mark Unread

He's thoughtful for a few seconds, imagining how that all works. "Huh. Clever. I imagine you need some very careful explosions."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Quite. Every cartridge or charge has a measured amount of propellant in a carefully designed arrangement - manufacturing your own ammunition is a risky prospect, if you don't want to leave it to the professionals. Modern science can measure out the exact temperature and pressure potential of the gaseous chemical products, and there are modern explosives that are more stable and safer than the old standby of black powder, that come in a solid or putty form. Modern fuses and well-designed weapons' firing actions are safe and reliable."

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"I won't worry, then."

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They proceed to land the locomotive near the bit of rock they just blew up. Captain Abernathy has several crewmembers set up wooden targets and asks the cook to start on a late lunch, as he starts showing off his collection of guns to Raafi. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, all in immaculate shape and most of them with a history or a clever design decision he can explain, like the rotating lever-action on this repeater rifle...

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Raafi makes an attentive student, and quickly grasps enough of the basics to comment sensibly on the various interesting gun features.

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They can spend time shooting! After everyone has ear protection and going over the rules of gun safety, that is. Captain Abernathy is paying for all the ammo, and the crew take turns too. Though they seem uncertain what to think of Raafi.

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He's a surprisingly good shot, once he's had a turn or two to get used to things. ("It's not so different from a crossbow, aside from the recoil," he explains, when he sees them looking.)

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"Imagine it's lighter than a medieval weapon. And less drop." A soot-stained stoker says in reply.

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"Oh, definitely a much better weapon all around, I just meant that the practice at aiming carries over."

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"Not sure what to make of your stories, you know? Sounds more like the Surface in some ways, like maybe a safer place to live, but you don't have as many inventions."

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"I really am pretty sure that this is a different world altogether than the one I'm from. The technology isn't the only difference - you're missing entire species of people that I'd expect to still be around, if this was my world's future. Not to mention the magic, and the gods."

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"Three's a weird number of world for there to be," the gunner comments. "Surface, Neath, the High Wilderness. Why not more?"

"Isn't the Surface and the Neath just a big sphere of rock that's really close to a Judgement, and under it? So there's... More consistent laws on the Surface, because the sun wants it that way, but not in the Neath because the light didn't reach there?"

"Where the hell did you hear that?"

The young woman shrugs, embarrassed. "Childhood friend o' mine was basically a genius, read a lot, and he said something like that."

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"Our material plane is like that - the planet's a sphere, and the sun is a star that's closer than the rest. It's not a Judgement - we have a god of the sun, but they don't seem to be the same thing, really. And then we have other planes, where the physics are a little different, but magic still works the same way there, more or less. I think this is farther away than that."

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"You would know more than us I suppose. Physics is... Mutable. The sky is vast and there's lots of crazy stuff out there. Sometimes it feels like all we see is the inside of the engine, though."

"Don't be like that - Abernathy's a good one, as captains go."

"No, no, not complaining - well I am, but it's just griping, you know?"

"Yeah." The gunner shrugs. "Is travelling very dangerous where you're from? I kind of give myself - one in a hundred odds every time we fly. Not sure if that's accurate."

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"Not like here, no. It's not perfectly safe, we've got bandits and wolves and orcs to worry about, but you're not risking your sanity just leaving the city walls behind - I almost decided to fly to New Winchester, before I knew; that would have been perfectly safe at home."

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"The light is only one of the dangers. Maybe you could manage it if you wore a heavy cloak and dark goggles, I wouldn't know. You'd need a heavy cloak anyway, it's cold. But there's also- Trauma from horrible things that aren't light. Being rammed to death by a Cantankeri, or torn apart by Scrive-Spinster barbs..."

"We've never been attacked by a Curator and I hope it stays that way."

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"I can also teleport, if it looks like I'm about to get into a fight. And it wouldn't surprise me if I turned out to be able to take on a Curator, if I was prepared to. Most people at home never have to worry about a fight like that, though."

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"Hmm. Beware of fungus," she warns, and then it's her turn on the targets again.

"Most people here, too, but flying is about the most dangerous career."

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"Even most travelers don't. What kind of fungus did she mean, do you know?"

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"Most of it? You hear stories of fungus colonizing people."

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-ew.

"Well, Remove Disease should take care of that."

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"And some of it's smart."

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"I'd still expect Remove Disease to cover it, but that's good to know."

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"Plenty of horrible things to go around."

 

Eventually there is a hot picnic lunch composed of crackers, day old bread, hot sausage with gravy and eggs and a thick bean and cheese stew flavored with lots of salt and pepper. The crew praise the food, much better than usual engine fare. There is water and tea and beer.

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Very tasty; his compliments to the chef. And then it's time to head back, presumably.

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Yep, time to head back. The captain carefully accounts for all the guns and ammunition first.

He'll keep his guns for himself, of course, but mentions that Raafi can ask him questions about guns he's looking to purchase and he'll opinionate on whether it's a rip-off.

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That's much appreciated. Does he have any recommendations for merchants?

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"Well it really depends what you're looking for, there's a couple different places I would recommend for differeny things. A showpiece, a practical weapon, something cheap or something powerful or something reliable - a pistol or a rifle or a shotgun..."

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"Something reliable that won't alarm people for me to have - a pistol, preferably, I think; I liked that shotgun I kept using, but it's a little conspicuous."

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"Carrying around a long gun tends to put people on guard. Plus, they're heavy and they get in the way. Pistols are good for being armed at all times, and common enough that somewhat it's less of a statement of 'I am prepared to kill something very dead'."

He recommends a gunsmith in the west end for their quality pistols, but they might have shotguns and rifles too.

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"That's the idea; I don't want anyone to think I'm going to start anything, I just don't want to be without the ability to defend myself. I'll check them out, thanks."

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That particular gunsmith is still open. The shop is very neat and clean and smells of metal and oil, rather than the acrid stink of gunpowder. There are glass display cases.

A woman in an outfit that simultaneously resembles the fancy west-ender dresses and sailors' uniforms stands behind the counter. "Hello, can I help you?"

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"I'm interested in buying a pistol - something reliable and not too hard to maintain."

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"I see. We can certainly help with that. Have you shot much before? What sort of budget are you considering?"

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"Very little; it's kind of a long story. And I don't have a specific budget in mind, but I'm looking for something practical, not a showpiece."

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She shows him several guns. This revolver is mechanically simple and easy to clean or repair, with plenty of spare parts to be had. This modern semi-auto is regarded as one of the best sidearms ever made, though it does take a bit more cleaning than the revolver. This slightly older one has a reputation for power and for firing reliably, every time the trigger is pulled, in the worst conditions, even underwater - but it needs to be re-cocked for every shot.

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He's obviously tempted by the semi-auto, though slightly torn between that and the older gun. How do the asking prices compare to his finances?

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Pistols are not that expensive given how much he's been earning. Ammo and accessories bring the cost up a little more. He could buy all three and some ammo for about half of what he has so far. The modern semi-auto is the most expensive one.

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He's not really interested in the revolver - its only advantage is being easier to clean and he has a spell for that - but he notes down the models and prices of the other two. "I want a second opinion but I expect I'll be back."

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"Very well. I'll hold these two for now and hope for your return. Do note that we close at five, sir. We'll be open again on Monday, after the festival." She indicates a clock - it's about three in the afternoon already.

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Nod. "If I'm not back by the end of the day Monday you can put them back up for sale, I might still be interested but I'll be out of town."

And what's Captain Abernathy up to, is he findable?

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He's available half an hour after being asked for (he needed something to do with the port authorities).

"Ah, did you go shopping already?"

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"Mmhmm. I might get both of these -" he shows him the notes.

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"Hmph. I never did like that old beast of a gun. Reliable, sure, but the rate of fire is really quite dreadful. What if you miss your first shot and don't get a second? I've had the privilege of shooting the other one, it's very serviceable even if I like more heft."

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"Hm - I do have magic that helps with accuracy but I'd rather not rely on it. The other one she had was-" he more or less remembers the name, close enough to be recognizable at least.

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"I confess an unusual fondness for revolvers, there's something stylish about them. But if you don't care about style I could understand passing it by. The prices seem slightly high but I've never had cause to question that gunsmith's quality and you get what you pay for. Incidentally, if you smell gunpowder in a gun shop, leave immediately. It means they're terrible at hygiene and safety and general diligence."

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"That's good to know. I do care a little about style, she just made it sound like the only advantage it had was ease of cleaning, and I will be using magic for that. But it sounds like this one will be fine by itself, if the only downside to it is that it's a bit weaker."

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"You could get a motif or engraving if you'd like, for style. Or have the exterior blued or blackened or bronzed, or a walnut grip, or any number of other things. And yes, it's a very fine weapon if you don't mind a slightly small bullet. It won't go through cover or armor as well, but if you're fighting something with armor you need a cannon and if you're fighting someone in cover you need a rifle. Of course, everyone including myself can argue endlessly for their favorite calibers."

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"I'll have to think about how I want to pretty it up. And it sounds like I'm decided, then, thanks for the advice."

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"Glad to be of service, such as it is."

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He'll hang around for a while longer to chat, and then go pick up his gun and get some more work in before evening, when he retires to his hotel room to read his library books and hopefully get a little bit of sleep.

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The gunsmith includes a cleaning kit, common spare parts, manuals, and a lesson on maintenance. And ammo, of course.

The advice book emphasizes faith and the common virtues of humility, diligence, kindness, and peace. It advises readers to avoid sloth, excesses of passion or debauchery, and the dangers of envy, jealousy, and greed. It describes Hell much like Raafi knows it, a realm of eternal torture, but it believes Hell is ruled by a demon named Lucifer who rebelled against God. Heaven is a paradise where the good go to eternal joy. The neutral afterlife is Purgatory, and after some indeterminate time there, neutral souls may ascend to Heaven. They don't have a law/chaos spiritual divide - just a good/evil one. It has a quote from a bible passage for many occasions, most of them urging one to be (though they do not put it in these terms) Lawful and compliant and Good, in that order, or warning for punishments against those who do not have faith. It issues stern warnings against paganism and heretics and maintains that the "gods" of the sky, the Judgements, are in fact either mistaken servants of Heaven or overblown evil beings trying to lead the faithful astray.

The religions book is "A Historical Survey of Various Beliefs" and talks about the history and development of various world religions from Old Earth in a dry and somewhat condescending tone. The various sects of Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Judaism, Shamanistic beliefs of the American and African "savages", Buddhism and Taoism and Zororastrianism, the paganist and folkloric beliefs of the Welsh, of Zee-farers, of those of the Elder Continent, and more recently of sky-sailors (the Burrower Below is said to transgress and transcend barriers, the Waste-Waif is the avatar of the forgotten, the abandoned, those left to die, the Storm that Speaks collects souls and stories and sometimes gives back secrets and power) and in Eleutheria (very little can be safely written of the unhappy undying things there, apparently). It's not particularly biased against anything because it's biased against everything except the New Sequence, but you get the sense that the historian was almost sarcastic in his praise of the 'most recent invention in our understanding of the cosmos'.

Apparently they have the concept of dragons here, if not the actual creatures. The Feast of the Red Saint doesn't really start until around noon, thankfully for Raafi's sleep schedule. When it does kick off, the theme seems to be dragon-slaying, with bright red artsy banners and floats and six people in a long paper dragon being chased by costumed 'knights' (or vice versa). Music fills the air and food stalls throng the streets, all of it going cheap and much of it chestnut-based. The Red Saint was apparently partnered with a dragon, going by the satirical plays on a few different street corners.

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The books are useful, but the feast is much more interesting. He drifts from one attraction to another, enjoying the food and performances.

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Marching bands. Two major variations on the play - one where the Red Saint is a comically bumbling buffoon, and where he's a hero flawed by being too Lawful. 'Dragon' chases. Roast chestnuts. Cheap beer. Expensive tea. Fireworks launched into the canyon, and a locomotive decorated in bright red with huge plywood-and-paper "wings" steaming up and down the way. Kids with wooden swords chasing each other.

The tension between rich and poor hasn't really gone away, though few people seem inclined to do anything about it today. Though there is a small crop of pickpockets and opportunists.

Elsewhere in the city, away from the loud and busy streets and prying eyes, cannon ammunition is being exchanged for good-quality Bronzewood.

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Hopefully both the shells and the wood will be put to reasonable use; Raafi can't exactly declare that he wants to ally with someone and then immediately go around undermining their business without even having reason to believe they're in the wrong, plenty of illegal things can be fine in a place so sketchily lawful as to censor the books. He tries not to worry about it too much; that's not hard, this is quite a good festival.

Evening finds him in a bar, slightly drunk, sharing stories of dragons he's known and heard about.

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The dragon stories are fun. They talk of their own troubles - of factory-related injuries and long hours in poor conditions. That sewing workshop he landed in the first day here seems to be very much on the good side for factory work. In hushed tones, of crime that goes unnoticed beneath the overseers' gazes, and the unwritten rules and promises of the criminal underworld. Of relationship issues and old friends. Of how silly and frivolous the Bohemians seem. Of old horror-stories of the terrible fates that can befall a person. Eye-stealing Sorrow-Spiders, face-stealing Snuffers, soul-stealing Devils, brain-stealing hats. (The former and the latter probably didn't make it out of the Neath...) Tea called Midnight's Indulgence that makes you obsessed with getting more tea, not in an addiction sort of way but an outright derangement. One man tells a horror-story his first ex entered the realm of dreams via a mirror and turned into something... Else. He broke the mirror when she tried to come back out. People shudder and mutter 'Parabola...'.

And soon enough the bars close and the festival comes to a close. Urchin gangs are picking off unattended leftovers and the occasional dropped small valuable and the city is going to sleep.

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The city may be going to sleep, but Raafi's still on his own schedule. He shouldn't stay up long, but - maybe he'll go check on that fence, make sure there isn't anything obviously alarming going on with those shells.

This still seems like a reasonable idea after he clears his head with Lesser Restoration, so he heads over.

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The factory hall the fence was operating out of is dark and quiet on the outside. It has a pickable lock, if he has lockpicking skills. Alternately, the huge panel-style windows near the hall's roof aren't latched, as nobody could possibly get up there and down again inside without a ladder, after all.

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He knows anything about picking locks but not enough that he wants to try it in the middle of the street while he's still uncoordinated from the beer; he'll fly up and have a look.

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The interior of the place has a few large machines and tables and a lot of open space. There's four people, including the fence, uncrating ammunition and repackaging it among things like barrels of enormous seeds or fruit of some kind, crates of clothes or matches or tea, casks of oil or grease, all by the light of a single oil lantern burning dimly. Some of the non-cannon ammo has been set aside near over a dozen guns, a few of which look distressingly homemade. They're not talking much - mostly "where does this one go?" and the like.

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That's concerning - not so much the ones being packed up, but the ones set aside; what are they setting up for?

He's probably not going to figure it out from here in the next ten minutes, though, and for all that people here look up less, flying around peeking in windows is still liable to get him in trouble sooner or later. He heads back to the hotel, and in the morning when he stops by the hospital before his healing round, he lets them know that he'll be out of town for a few days and leaves half a dozen healing potions with them with strict instructions that they only be used for imminently life-threatening cases; they're irreplaceable, after all.

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And then, after an early breakfast lunch, he heads over to the port.

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Captain Abernathy's locomotive is more crowded than it was the other day. Various nooks and crannies have crates stuffed into them, and there's another passenger who took the other open cabin.

Abernathy introduces her - "From the Royal Horologists' Office. You know, one of the clockmakers."

"Ah, small correction. We do not make clocks. We correct them. Thank you again for the opportunity, Captain. Our duties have lapsed in many ports recently."

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"Good to meet you. And I'm Raafi, displaced mage from another world. The rumors about my magic are mostly true, at least the ones I've heard."

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Blink. "Another world? That sounds alarming. I had missed that part. And I will admit I am a bit concerned about your, ah, god deciding to attempt have influence over the British Empire's citizens."

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"He's not really the type. Fharlanghn is our god of travel, he teaches that it's good to visit new places and see what they have to teach you, he doesn't have much of a church beyond that."

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"I suppose that's reassuring. Many places, however, you will find you regret visiting. And not simply for the time expended."

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"I've gotten that impression here," he agrees. "It's true at home, too, but less so. I expect a cleric of my tier to be safe most places anyway, though, as long as I don't go charging in thoughtlessly."

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"Perhaps. I advise staying out of Eleutheria and the Blue Kingdom either way. Tier?"

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"Our spellcasting gets more powerful with experience, in a way that makes it easy to sort us into groups with about the same level of power. I'm fifteenth tier, so lots of my spells have effects that last fifteen minutes or fifteen hours or can affect fifteen people or things like that. There are twenty tiers altogether but very few people make it that far, even fifteenth is rare."

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"What a sensible way for things to behave! I approve. The Correspondence is not so neat and tidy. And probably more likely to set your hair on fire."

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"That's the magic language, right? I've been meaning to look into that, I have spells for translating things."

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"I don't know much of the details of it... Mostly just enough to know when I need to run away."

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"Fair enough. I'm sure I'll run into a scholar who knows more sooner or later."

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"It's not very good practice to try to write from memory, but I would be willing to explain what I do know if you tell me more about 'tiers'- It sounds like you know nothing at all about the Correspondence other than that it exists, as it stands."

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He can explain about tiers! The term actually refers to two different things, spell tiers and caster tiers; a spell's tier is how much magical power is in it, more or less, with the effect being determined by the type of magic and how it's shaped, with higher-tier spells with more magic available to them having stronger or more complicated effects. A caster of a particular tier will be able to prepare a certain number of spells of each tier; for example, as a fifteenth-tier cleric he's able to cast one eighth-tier spell and two seventh-tier ones each day, plus increasing numbers of each lower tier of spells. (It's also possible to prepare a lower-tier spell in a higher-tier slot, though the extra magic is lost unless the caster knows specific techniques for making use of it; he knows one for doubling a spell's duration and another for making spells' effects harder to resist, and the ones allowing spells to be cast silently or without gesturing and for making offensive spells hit harder are also popular.)

Caster tiers, in addition to determining the number and strength of spells a particular person can cast on a given day, determine how efficiently that caster's spells use the magic they're made of; the effects of that vary by spell, but in general a higher-tier caster's spells will have stronger effects at a greater distance for a longer time, or be more accurate or less likely to fail, or have its effect more times - for example, he can cast healing spells that affect one person per caster tier of his, all with the same spell, and he can raise the dead with two different spells, one of which can raise people who've been dead one day per caster tier and the other of which is much stronger and can reach people who've been dead a decade per caster tier.

Other things can also affect spell strength or function - the main one is the caster's mental capability, in different senses for different casters, which affects how many low-tier spells they can prepare every day and how hard their spells are to resist; species or bloodline, special training, local conditions, special reagents, and certain magical items can also affect it.

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She raises an eyebrow when he mentions resurrection, but doesn't comment.

"And tiers are always discrete? You don't get spells lasting five minute seventeen seconds? Thresholds on a continuous process, I wonder, or sudden metamorphoses..."

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"Tiers are always discrete, yes. Some spells do have aspects that aren't affected by tier - I don't think any of them have durations that short, off the top of my head, but I have a weather spell that can last anywhere from four hours to two days, and the only control I have over that is that I'm a bit lucky in general."

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"It seems - designed. Can people from this general area of existence pick it up, do you know? I imagine I am rather intelligent."

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"I'd expect so, but I don't know enough about wizardry to teach it at all, and everything else has other prerequisites."

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"Alas. Hm. One thing to know about the Correspondence is that each symbol is a phrase of considerable complexity. Fractal, even - It encodes many deep layers of context and nuance, and translations into English must by necessity lose much of that. One can translate sigils into glib phrases, or entire paragraphs. Say, 'A good deal' versus 'An exchange of knowledge/skills/services made freely and without coercion, in which both parties gain more value than they give away' versus that but also context about what was exchanged and how much the people trust each other and so on. And those that have a natural understanding of the language speak it fluently and can - seemingly invent new sigils on demand, and have them be understood perfectly by those with a similar ability. The meaning is inherent to the Correspondence sigil."

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"Fascinating. I bet between the kinds of translation magic I have I can get somewhere with it. Maybe not to write it, but I have something specifically for reading magic that should work even if it's not a language the way we think of them."

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"I do think it's not a language in the way we think of them." The cadence of her words changes as she switches to a different one. "Language is a mapping of concept to expression and each is limited and specialized in different ways."

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"Mmhmm. Well, it comes down to what my translation magic thinks of it, I won't know that until I try it."

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"I suppose not. Things should follow from logical principles, really, but that's not world I live in..."

She checks an immaculate pocket watch. "...I shall go get settled into my cabin now."

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"See you around, then."

He'll go up to the bridge; that seems like the place with the best view, if he won't be in the way there.

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Captain Abernathy will allow him on the bridge whenever he himself is there, if he stands near the back. He'll have to stay out during the other shifts.

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He can abide by that, sure.

Anything interesting to see?

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If you like wide, sweeping landscapes of rock and cliff and the occasional bit of jungle, with stars visible both below and above, sure. They pass another locomotive going the opposite way a while into the journey. Captain Abernathy says that some time tomorrow morning they'll pass the Memorial to the Unknown Rat.

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It's novel enough terrain that he'll hang around for a few hours to watch it, at least. (It's really too bad that it's not safe for him fly over to have a closer look at any of it.) The memorial sounds interesting - what's it memorializing?

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All the Rattus Faber who died building Britain's new home in the High Wilderness. Abernathy has a rat-engineer, you know, but she likes to keep to herself.

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A good thing to commemorate, certainly. Are they usually reclusive? He hasn't met any yet, though maybe he's just not looking in the right places.

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"We tall folk don't know what it's like to be a rat, but they had a hard time of things for a while, and everything is much bigger than them so Rattus Faber do tend to stay out of the way as much as they can. Geniuses with machines, though."

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"Some of the species I'm used to have trouble like that, trying to use things made for human-size people," he nods. "It's usually not that hard to work around, but they're also closer in size. And don't have the history. I'd be interested in meeting yours, if you get a chance to mention it to her."

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"I'll definitely mention it!"

 

Eventually it is evening. Dinner isn't quite as good as the nice picnic lunch the other day was. The galley has a reasonably-sized window, at least. Off-duty crew play cards and one picks at a guitar amateurishly.

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He'll sit with the card-players, if they seem amenable to the company, and see if he can't pick up the rules of the game. And the makeup of the deck, for that matter - he's used to one with an additional suit, as it turns out.

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Rats, Bats, Cats, and Hats are the suits. Two through ten, Jack Queen King Ace. It's a four-player game that involves drawing and discarding and passing cards left or right by a fairly complicated set of rules, and trying to assemble straights of the same suit. It doesn't involve much bluffing, it depends a lot on tracking what cards the others probably have and probably want. They're betting chores and snacks, as opposed to money.

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Fun to watch, if a little too complicated for him to ask to be dealt in.

Eventually it starts to seem like bedtime - quite a good sign - and he turns in for the evening.

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Perhaps half an hour later, there's a rattling at the heating vent in one corner of the wall, and a squeaky voice says, "Knock, knock!"

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Raafi's dozing, but not solidly asleep. "Mrrgf... yeah?"

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"Oh, you were asleep. Sorry! I'll just go..." Squeaks the top right corner of his cabin wall.

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"Oh! No, it's fine, you can come in."

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"Ah- I'd rather stay up here actually."

Skitter skitter noises from the vent.

"I just heard you wanted to meet me."

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"Of course, wherever you're comfortable. What have you heard about me? I'm not sure how much I should explain."

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"You're Mr. Abernathy's passenger, you're foreign, and you have some sort of weird ability."

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"That's pretty close. I'm from another world, I was pulled here in an accident a week or so ago, and I have magic. Healing, and some other things. I've been selling it, but so far only to the humans, and I don't mean to be doing that, if your species could use it too."

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"Rats don't tend to have human amounts o' money and most of us'd prefer you forget we exist. Out of sight, out of mind. Safe and sound, the cat won't find."

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"Reasonable enough. Is there a way to let them know to come find me in an emergency? I don't always charge; depending on the type of emergency I might not even be allowed to."

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"Well, going 'this means Rattus Faber too!' won't get everyone to trust you but it can't hurt. You can bet we're listening here and there. I don't suppose you can do anything about old age? Or a lost forepaw? The prosthetic takes so much damned maintenance and it isn't sensitive, it's kind of awful."

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"I can do limbs, yeah - tomorrow, I'll need to prepare the spell for it. Old age not so much - a few of my spells help for a few minutes, but you'd really need a magic item."

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"I'd certainly appreciate it. Need anything fixed, maintained, or made? And, figured as much. I'm thirty-three and it's catching up to me. Almost makes me miss the Neath. Almost."

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"I don't need anything. You can pay it forward, if you get the chance - my magic comes from the god of travel, anything that helps out a traveler in need will do. What was the Neath like?"

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"The dangers were different. And there were more of them. It was more chaotic, you couldn't be as sure about whatever weird stuff you find, like mandrakes, or Parabola - dreamland, or Rubbery Men, or... Stuff. I don't think it was much more or less dangerous. But the big thing is it's harder to truly, properly die in the Neath, 'cause of the Mountain of Light. It was faint as far north as London, but it was a thing. If you don't lose your limbs or your head you just... Don't get old. If you drown and someone fishes you out of the river you'll wake up the next day feeling like death, if you bleed out or get half-eaten by something, you spend a stint in the Tomb Colonies and come back when you've got all your limbs and your color back. Now, you could really die down there of some things, especially us rats, being littler, but it was hard."

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"Huh. It's possible to get things like that, at home, but nothing nearly on that scale. Must've had some interesting effects on things."

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"The way I heard it, the Mountain is a bastard child of the higher beings, and would be killed if they knew she still existed. So she has sympathy for fearing death."

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"Higher beings?"

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"You know, humans, devils, pretty low. Rats are the lowest, not havin' souls at all. Scorn-flukes and scrive-spinsters are higher and their souls are shinier and specialer, and right at the top you've got things like Messengers and Judgements, the biggest and most important. To Messengers and Judgements, that is." She peeks her head out of the vent to look at him - she's wearing tiny welding goggles. "Now, it kind of is a chain of gen'ral power level, if not moral importitude."

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He makes an impressively baffled face at 'not having souls at all'. "Well, if there was any remaining doubt that this is a different world, that's killed it. And now I wonder if I have - whatever it is you're calling a soul; it's obviously not the same thing I use the word for."

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"Find a Devil and ask. They're, like, soul-doctors at best. Spirifers at worst."

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"Maybe I will. Soul doctors, how does that work, do you know?"

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"They can see sins and personality traits on souls. Sloth, dullness, greed, viciousness, that sorta thing. Dunno how they fix 'em, exactly."

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"Huh. I'll have to look into that. My magic can do a few things a bit like that, I wonder what they'll make of it."

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"Souls aren't my thing. Gears and grease are. I should get back to work. By the way, if you hear thumping behind the wall in the kitchen latrine, I know about it and it's probably fine. But if you hear grinding tell me. There's a vent just forward of the engine room you can leave notes in and I check."

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"Yes ma'am. Goodnight."

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"Goodnight! I'll keep in mind the paying it forward to travelers thing!"

There are receding scurrying sounds in the ventwork.

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And Raafi goes back to bed, and in the morning he does his devotions and receives his spells.

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The next day is largely uneventful. Bored stokers invite him to see the machinery, after getting Captain Abernathy's approval. He can watch them fuss over steam valves and shovel coal and explain how it all works, and close to lunchtime the rat-engineer (whose name is Tisha but who goes by Tine) peeks in and they entertain themselves with the lurid stories of explosions and mechanical carnage produced by asking her about various failure modes. Tine seems to be having fun with this. She's about a foot tall, wearing a doll's dress with a bunch of toolbelts and leather straps over top and welding goggles. She has an opposable thumb, and the prosthetic paw is a three-fingered skeletal claw.

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It's an interesting way to spend the day.

(He has Regenerate ready whenever she wants it, though he's not going to interrupt their fun to mention it.)

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"How's it work exactly?" She wants to know during a break in the stories.

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"I'll need to chant and gesture for a few seconds - this is a longer one to cast, most of my spells are very fast - and then touch you, or you can touch me, either way, and the stump where the paw's coming in will glow for a second, and then it'll be back, good as new. You'll want to have the prosthetic off, this kind of spell can wreck things that are in its way; other than that it's pretty simple - if you've got any other injuries it'll heal them while it's at it, too."

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She plucks at the straps gently, anxiously. "You don't know how it works, though? I could draw you a picture of reciprocating steam mechanisms and explain how the regenerative condenser saves heat and stuff like that."

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"Not in that kind of detail, no. The spell channels positive energy - all healing spells do - and the structure of it directs that energy toward regrowing anything that's missing, rather than to healing wounds or curing a disease or anything like that, but it takes years of study to understand how the structure actually works, and I'm the wrong kind of spellcaster to have reason to know it. I do know that it works, without any side effects besides the extra healing from the leftover energy, I've been doing this at least a couple times a year for most of a decade now."

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"Well alright then," and she takes off the prosthetic paw.

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He chants, and after several seconds his hand glows blue and he offers it to her.

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She takes it with the other hand. The paw grows back. She fumbles at her goggles, taking them off to reveal glossy black eyes, blocking the sudden light with the original paw for a moment to adjust.

"Wasn't sure if it'd fix the eyes. Oh, this is excellent." She flexes her restored paw and her ears perk up. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go disassemble something. Something nonessential. It'll be fun!"

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"Of course not. Enjoy."

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She scurries off.

 

They pass the Memorial to the Unknown Rat an hour after lunch. The Captain breaks out a telescope and opens it to viewing through the left entryway's porthole. It's an enormous statue depicting a Rattus Faber wearing goggles and holding a simple wrench (of titanic size), carved from a mountain peak, hundreds of feet tall, in fine detail. The surrounding stone has mechanical shapes and reliefs - gears, more wrenches, pistons and the like. The rat somehow manages to look legibly tired-yet-hopeful-and-proud to human sensibilities.

In the scattered greenery clinging to the slope a ways down from the Memorial itself, something looks... Slightly off. A smudge of deeper brown and grey against the mottled green-brown-grey background.

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Raafi spots it, after having a long look at the memorial. "What's that?" He passes the telescope off to Captain Abernathy. "Downslope from that gear cluster, maybe a hundred fifty yards. The sort of darker blotch, almost looks like a smoke cloud."

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Abernathy peers at it. "Strange, at least. Williams, come take a look at this!" He shouts out of the room.

Williams shows up and takes the telescope. "...Looks like steam mixed with smoke, sir."

"Well, that's no good. Any guesses what from?"

"Forest fire near a pond? Fungus smoke? Downed engine?"

"Seems like an unlikely accident. Worth a closer look, anyway. I'm going to the bridge, and I'll be taking that," he snatches up the telescope.

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Raafi follows, casting as he goes. "Spell for better vision," he explains when he's done. "I have another one, if you want it."

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"Don't give it to me, give it to Williams. She's got sharpshooter's eyes."

The young woman blinks her grey eyes. "Not a good shot, sir."

"It's just an expression. I put you on lookout duty for a reason. Here, into the bridge." He hands the telescope to her, then starts ordering a turn.

"Uh. 'M off duty." Williams weakly objects, but she follows into the bridge. "...Spell?"

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He casts again; the effect, when she takes it, is nearly as good as the telescope itself, and works perfectly well with it.

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"-Woah."

She peers through the telescope, tilting on her feet as the engine turns.

"Yeah- That. That seems like two separate streams to me. There's some black smoke and some white smoke, or steam vapor. And I see- Some of the trees have pieces knocked off of them."

"Anything else?"

"Hold on." She peers silently for a long moment. "...Mm, yeah, I think there's an engine hidden in the trees. I can sort of see grey straight lines behind it. Rocks and trees don't grow that straight. And I think a running light. A red light. Diffuse, not streaked like blood."

"Good to know. Good job. Keep looking, let us know what you see." Captain Abernathy tells the engine room to make for 3/4 steam.

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"I'm going to get some things from my cabin, I'll be right back."

When he returns, he's wearing a rust-brown cloak with autumn leaf decorations at the hem and carrying a walking stick that looks like it's made from a fallen branch, with the wood at the top wrapped around a large, rough-cut green gem, and he's wearing a strip of black cloth as a headband. "Do you know, by the way, whether seeing starlight matters for how dangerous it is?"

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"Well, don't watch the stars when you're not behind stained glass. Sky-suits help, hope and purpose helps, being on the ground helps, heavy clothing in general helps, sometimes protective talismans help though the scientists insist it's just because you think they help- It tends to be mostly alright if you keep exposure low and take time to recover, it's long voyages in stressful conditions with constant exposure and - feeding the mental changes that is the concern. There are plenty of warning signs and chances to turn back. I'm not especially concerned for any of us for the duration of a rescue mission, but whoever's down there may be a bit, ah, strained."

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"All right. I'm still going to be especially careful - you don't want someone with magic as powerful as mine going funny - but the cloak should help, and the blindfold might, it's enspelled so that being blind won't debilitate me. And the stick gives knowledge of how to follow tracks, if we need it."

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"Very good. I'm thinking about how to land - the ground doesn't look very even or clear, there, and landing off of tracks is always a hassle- Navigator Rochester, how far do you think it is from the viewing platform?"

The navigator borrows the telescope. "Where's the-" Williams nudges the telescope. "Ah... About a mile, and maybe six hundred feet of slope. Probably better if we can get closer, if they need food, fuel, engineering - moving heavy stuff through a sloped forest with no trail is not easy."

"There's... A flat spot a lot closer to it," Williams tentatively says. "See that big wrench? It's got a big, flat rock in front of it. Could land on that?"

Captain Abernathy grumbles. "Be quite a thing to get that close without scraping rock and stop on a dime."

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"I can teleport a few people down, if we can get close enough - a thousand feet - but I might not be able to get everyone back up that way, if there are survivors. An air elemental might help, if strong favorable winds would let you do more?"

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"Yes, but that would rather be putting my faith in something other than steam and steel... Hmm. Hmm."

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"I think that's all I have that's likely to be useful - I do have a repair spell, if there's something you could try that has a risk of damaging us. And I can fly - trades off against teleporting, if I do it for more than fifteen minutes, but if a guide line would be useful, or something..."

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"There's a question of how far the sky-sailor's duty to rescue vessels in distress extends, when it involves risk to other vessels. In some cases, I think, locomotives have a duty not to get involved - if it's nigh hopeless and trying could lead to two engines in distress. At the very least if I decide we can't risk landing, we would try to drop a packet of food and fuel for them... At any rate, I think we could manage the close landing if the wind elementals are much like the water elementals."

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"They're similar. I was planning on summoning a single larger one, for this, it'll be easier than trying to coordinate several."

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"For how long? Takeoff won't be as risky as setting down, but still."

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"Not very. About a minute and a half."

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"That is just long enough for one landing attempt."

He leans on the Captain's chair.

"I think we can do this with an acceptable level of risk, since I know your ability, Raafi. We will attempt a landing and give aid."

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"I appreciate it. Let me know when you're ready for the elemental, and if you're going to want it doing something more specific than helping us settle down - I'll need maybe ten seconds' warning."

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It takes a few minutes to approach, and then set up for a clean run to the landing spot. The Captain frets about gravity's inconsistency and makes other preparations - the galley is locked down, some engineering things are done in the ductwork above and below the main engine, crew are woken and armed with sky-suits and harnesses.

And then they are really quite perilously close to the mountainside for something as maneuverable as a locomotive, and Captain Abernathy comments as if out for a morning stroll, "Now would be good, Raafi."

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It's a few seconds' chanting to cast the spell, and another few to ask the nearly forty foot tall being made of dense, swirling clouds that appears when he's done to help them land without hitting the rock face. It twists into an even larger cyclone that provides a steadying force and helps ease them down.

Raafi tugs his blindfold into place and re-settles his cloak around his shoulders as soon as they've touched down.

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The rest of the crew has equipped themselves with heavy backpacks full of food and water, medicine, fuel, rope, and common replacement parts, gotten into reasonable hiking clothing, and distributed the contents of the Captain's small armory.

They set off towards the downed engine, loudly shouting about how they're here to help all along the way - to avoid spooking any lookouts, and to keep jungle critters away.

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Raafi takes a spot near the front, where his magic-granted sense of the area has a chance to catch any tracks - human or otherwise - before they're disturbed by the group's passage.

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They crowd towards him a bit, given his cloak's warming effect.

There aren't any significant tracks to be found. They come into clear view of a downed locomotive, a bulky and somewhat rusty thing. The plumes of smoke and vapor are almost entirely out, now, and half a dozen crew mill about, lightly wounded and resting. The rest are out of view or on top of the engine.

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Raafi's magical not-vision doesn't extend that far, and he has to ask the crew to tell him what they're seeing - do they think he should teleport down to confirm that noone is urgently injured, or does it seem like things are past that point?

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No, it seems past that point. Looks like they need repairs, mostly.

When they get a bit closer, they're challenged by men with guns in makeshift blinds.

After a short introduction, "Good to see help out here. Sorry for drawing on you lot. We've been here overnight and something has been trying to get the drop on us. Shoots spines, got Jessamine with one." He indicates one of the walking wounded. "Doesn't seem poisonous, at least."

"I'm glad I left behind a guard crew of my own then!" Abernathy bellows. "Let's get you back in the air smart quick."

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"How many wounded do you have? I've got healing magic."

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"...Nine if you count bumps and bruises. Four, elsewise. You don't look like a doctor." He is squinting suspiciously at Raafi and seems kind of twitchy.

"It's strange, but he's not lying."

"...I'll leave it to the injured to decide."

"Well, let's go meet your engineer and see what you need to get moving."

The guard nods. "Go ahead. I'm keeping watch."

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He considers the man thoughtfully for a moment, but moves on with the rest of the group, still keeping a metaphorical eye out for tracks or other monster-sign.

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Well, there's one of the spines. About as long and thick as an arrow, and given how it's embedded in a wood plank, about as deadly. A few others have been collected up.

...There might be animal sounds below the wind and people talking and working. It's hard to tell. Sounds about like an especially large bear, if that noise really is an animal walking around out of sight.

About half the walking wounded would be happy to be healed if this weird person can do it at a touch.

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He pushes the blindfold back up for a few seconds, first, to scan the area the monster seems to be in.

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-A hint of movement downslope, mostly obscured by thin vegetation. A brush of grey against grey. Three hundred feet away or so - it looks to be about the size of a big bear.

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The rest of the group won't be able to see it from here, but he points out the general area anyway - they'll still see it sooner than he will blindfolded, if it approaches - and then gets to work distributing healing spells.

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Several people would not like to be touched by the blindfolded... Vagabond-but-less-scruffy(?), thanks. Others cheerfully accept healing.

Tine the rat-engineer is having a loud argument with the downed vessel's engineer! The young woman sneers right back, apparently on account of species rather than the quality of Tine's suggestions, but is quickly dressed down by the downed ship's captain, a short woman wearing Bohemian accessories.

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At least nobody seems badly enough off that he feels bad about not pressing the issue.

The healing goes quickly; when he's done, he wanders toward the argument.

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It's getting increasingly less friendly. Tine is... Strident about her opinions on machines and keeps calling the other engineer incompetent. The Bohemian captain is trying to deflect and saying things like 'well, let's move forward instead of looking back!' After a bit, Captain Abernathy tells Tine to focus on fixing it, not assigning blame, and she tones down the accusations.

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He's not really inclined to step into the middle of that, but he can hang around on the outskirts listening - what does Tine seem to think is wrong, or is it too technical for him?

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Tine thinks the chief engineer tried to get more power out of a mediocre boiler and ignored obvious warning signs that this was a terrible idea. And then an important bit exploded.

(The Bohemian Captain looks slightly uncomfortable and tries to non-obviously change the subject to how it can be fixed.)

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"It does seem important to understand that you shouldn't try that again, if she's right. You might not be so lucky about the rescue, next time - we very nearly didn't spot you at all."

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Everyone agrees that they won't try it again and are very grateful to be rescued! As much as being wrecked would have sounded like good story material before, the Captain does not intend to repeat the experience.

Tine recommends a replacement engineer, but in the meantime, they can rig up something that will let them limp to Port Prosper in a couple of hours. She made someone haul her tool-chest down here (she pats the stoker in question's arm affectionately).

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Raafi follows Tine, and explains that the magic blindfold he's wearing lets him see through things a bit, in case that's useful to her repair effort. (He also has a casting of his repair spell today, which he'll mention if there's enough privacy; he'd rather save it in case they take damage themselves, getting back into the air, but it's available if it's needed.)

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There's an empty hall they pass.

"Shouldn't need it. These fools hardly deserve it either. Can you tell me whether the insides of parts are cracked? And lift me up to that pipe?"

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"Sure." He makes a very attentive assistant.

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The important-looking thingy is definitely broken but they rig up a replacement with various parts and tools and a tiny welding torch Tine brought in her toolbox. After the hard part is done she dismisses Raafi, it's just putting everything back together now.

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He'll go back out and make sure the monster isn't causing any trouble, then.

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It's gotten closer and seems agitated, but hasn't attacked. The lookouts are watching that section of forest anxiously. It's roared-or-something at them real loud a couple of times, they report.

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-huh. If he thinks about trying to talk to it, does his translation necklace give him anything?

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No, nothing. It doesn't understand any languages.

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Good to know.

He considers, and takes another quick peek at the creature.

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Bear-sized porcupine thing with exaggerated fangs, red eyes, and six legs! It notices him looking and growls.

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Weird, but there's nothing to do about it but wait for the train to be fixed. He settles in with the lookouts.

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The lookouts sullenly mutter among themselves about this being one of their worse postings and how the Captain had better give them the bonus she promised. One of them wants to know where Raafi learned to heal people, and if the blindfold is dangerous.

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He'll explain about being from another world, then, where magic is more common and much safer; he picked up both the vocation that gives him healing magic and his various magic items there.

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People believed in magic for a while, shamans and priests claiming miracles and stuff that mostly wasn't actually true, then they didn't and it was the age of science and reason, and after the Neath and the sky now they mostly do again except humans mostly can't do any of it, which sucks. This guy's grandpa insists that everything has a perfectly logical scientific reason, why this one time-

The monster growls again and stands up. It seems to be gearing up for a charge. Everyone scrambles to raise their guns.

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Raafi follows suit, nudging his blindfold up for a moment once he has his gun in hand but then tugging it back down.

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The beast roars and displays the spines on its back somehow, extending them outward. Then, it leads with a barrage of spines shot out from its back, not really aimed except at the general area. It charges at high speed, feet shaking the ground. A ragged volley thunders out to meet it.

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Raafi sidesteps a spine and shoots; there's a brief aurora-like shimmer in the air around him, and he hits the creature right between the eyes.

 

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A couple of other shots hit.

It's now blind and roaring in pain and rage instead of challenge. It swipes with claws at the nearest person, and a spiky tail is also swinging wildly.

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Raafi doesn't have much in the way of good magic left for this situation, but he can at least get a mass healing spell off for the guy who got hit by its claws and anyone who's taken any spines.

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Everyone backs away quickly, leaving it unable to sink its claws into anything but the first unfortunate man. More and more gunfire rings out. Even when it turns to flee it doesn't get far before collapsing instead.

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He teleports to the creature's victim as soon as it's safe to do so, and hits him with a healing spell immediately - if he's alive it'll keep him that way, at least.

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He's still alive. It was a nasty gouge across his chest and left arm that sent him flying a short distance. Significantly less nasty after the two heals.

People are swearing and hooting in relief and calling out asking if everyone is alright. The downed man groans in pain.

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More healing? More healing.

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He seems alright now, though kind of in shock and wearing a lot of blood. "Aghhhh. Thank you, sir. The hell was that thing?"

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"No idea. Dead now, whatever it was." He offers him a hand up. "Cleaning spell?"

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He takes the hand and sits up, then grabs at his chest through the shredded shirt and coat. "Storm, that's unreal. Made whole. -Uh, sure, cleaning."

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And shortly he's not wearing anymore blood.

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"Fuck. That hurt a lot, you know. I should give up sailing." He stands the rest of the way up, retrieves his gun. "There isn't another one, is there?"

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"I didn't see another. Worth checking, though." He has a look. "It'd be reasonable to go back in, after all of that, by the way. I'll speak for you if need be, about it."

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"I don't think they'd mind."

"Hell no, Sig." Another lookout says. "You got slashed in the line of duty, that's a day off at least."

"Yeah." Sig goes inside. The others go to poke at the dead beast.

No other porcupine bears or any other threats are in evidence.

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He'll go see what they're going to do with the body, then.

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They're arguing over whether it's probably edible or not, and if any bits of it are good enough to pry off and sell to collectors or biologists. Maybe the claws, they seem to have venom glands.

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"I can prepare a spell to check if the meat's edible in the morning, I think we should keep it - I can keep it fresh and we can sell it when we get to New Winchester if nothing else, if there's a market for exotics there."

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It won't sell for a particularly high price, they think. 'Exotic' is bad as often as it is good. But waste not, want not. The cook has butchery tools and is happy enough to apply them to the thing that hurt his girlfriend.

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Raafi sticks around to have a look at the pelt and claws - they'd definitely be worth something at home, but probably not so much here? What do the others think about it.

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The claws and skull and all the spines together probably count as an exotic specimen, they could get fifty or a hundred Sovereigns for the lot. The pelt doesn't look particularly high-quality but maybe someone would want it.

The Bohemian Captain is of the opinion that the beast is hers to dispose of and offers to pay Raafi twenty Sovereigns to give up any claim.

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As much fun as it'd be to figure out how their rare-item markets work, he is a bit busy right now; he'll take the twenty Sovereigns.

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He gets paid from her pockets right then and there! She muses aloud that she's going to have one of the claws made into a knife. Poison knives are very aesthetic.

Everything seems more or less handled now. The repair is complete and the boiler fire is rebuilding. People are a lot less hesitant about him now, but keep commenting on how his powers are strange.

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Well, they're not wrong, in local terms. His powers aren't strange at all where he's from; most good-sized towns will have at least one like him, there.

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Huh. Sounds handy to have around. Are there things here has that there doesn't?

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Oh, lots of things, technology mostly - guns and trains and sewing machines and whatever they're using to get their books written the way they are and so on, and also time as something you can buy and carry around and use, his world doesn't have anything like that.

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They will attempt to explain the printing press.

The downed locomotive lets out a whistle and several people cheer! The Bohemian Captain presses a medium-sized pile of coins on Captain Abernathy ("you did the exact opposite of robbing us like I expected, take it, take it!"), who does the polite thing and refuses twice, then gratefully accepts.

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A book press, what a clever idea. And the train is working, even better! Last call if any of the holdouts want to get a healing spell.

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One of the holdouts will accept. The other two will keep their bruises.

Then they hike back to Abernathy's engine with a much lighter load than they came down with. Tine is leading a song about steam and soot and someone is supporting it with a harmonica. The downed engine trims a few trees on its way up, then gets clear of the mountain and turns back towards Port Propsper behind them.

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Always good to see someone back on their way.

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Captain Abernathy is tense as they get back into the air, but it goes smoothly.

"Does that count as a sacrament, I wonder?" He asks, at dinner that night.

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"It does as far as I'm concerned, at least. I don't know much about how you do things here yet though."

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"We don't do the same things we did twenty years ago, mostly. Churches and priests officiate major life events - marriage, births, deaths. There's a weekly sacrament where you eat bread and drink wine that is symbolically the flesh and blood of one part of God, the part that descended from Heaven and sacrificed himself to deliver humanity from Hell. Or it is told. They hold services once a week and dispense moral lessons and the truth, as they see it. So that all may be good in this life and find salvation in the next, is the idea. There are priest schools and they have their own bureaucracy and politics. Less so, these days, the Establishment's rise and the new discoveries and dangers in the Reach have eclipsed and fragmented the churches."

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"That's not so different from where I'm from, most of it - for gods that have churches, anyway. I don't know how you manage with just one, though."

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"There's more on the Surface. And traditions that believe in many gods. But the supposed miracles happened long ago, for the most part. The Judgements seem more real. I'm not sure Yahweh is a real being at all, personally, though don't let any priests hear I said that."

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"I imagine if I end up talking to a priest we're going to be too busy to think of it. You seem to be doing all right, at least, gods or no."

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"Glad to hear you approve. Hopefully it'll be smooth sailing the rest of the way to the Reserve, now."

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"Here's hoping!"

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The Nature Reserve landing area is a collection of slightly exotic-looking wooden huts scattered across a cliffy area, with a small maintenance bay built to a more practical design. There's a small restaurant and bar, a few tourists wandering around, and some scholarly types making observations. 

"We can probably find a good hunting party ashore. Those chaps look promising," he indicates a couple at the restaurant with two rifles of different designs sitting by their table, wearing practical-looking clothing in dull colors. "Maybe even trap something, caged catches sell quite well."

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"I could go along with that," Raafi agrees. "I'm curious how you know what to do for anything you catch, though."

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"For care and feeding, or for containment? A nice solid cage and chain will do for the latter, and most sky-things tend to be pretty resilient. There's bound to be someone with a few clues down at Capability's Inquest, the research base, though. A plain old hunt is fun enough without the added risk of live catch, anyway."

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"Well, we can see what happens. We have a type of spellcaster who specializes in creature care, is why I ask, I was wondering if you had anything comparable, but I can fill in for one in a pinch if we do catch anything."

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"Well, there are zoologists. Quite a lot of stripes of academics."

He debarks and starts ambling over towards the restaurant.

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Raafi follows, looking around curiously as he does.

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The forest off to the side is a riot of color. Not just browns and greens, but all manner of interesting flowers, vines, and fungus in the whole rainbow. The views of cliffs and misty valleys from here are pretty good as well.

"Hello!" Captain Abernathy booms. "I can only presume that the two of you are hunters. As it happens, we arrived just now, and are also hunters - at least for the day."

"Correct," the man replies. "Looking to form a proper party? Afraid we're on a break at the moment, but we were considering doing something later. Mr. and Mrs. Remington at your service. Gunsmiths by trade, as it happens."

"Why don't you sit over there and order some tea, we can chat for a while?" Mrs. Remington adds.

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Tea sounds good. "So what kind of game should we expect to find, this time of year?" he asks, as much of Abernathy as the hunters.

Permalink Mark Unread

"This part of the Reach doesn't really do seasons, I'm afraid. There's been lots of sightings of Heater Lizards lately, though. Very impressive coloration on one of those."

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"Oh, that sounds exciting."

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"A challenging hunt, though. Good climbers and their spit is rather violently exothermic if they get alarmed enough to use it."

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"I have a spell for that, if we want to wait until tomorrow," he tells Abernathy.

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"A spell?"

"He has some rare abilities, it comes in useful," Abernathy comments. "I'm not sure how long I'd like to stay yet, though. A Heater Lizard may be a bit much, really."

"We could probably manage it if the 'spell' is not the usual charlatanism," Mr. Remington opines.

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"It is not. The one I have in mind protects against heat, you can stand comfortably in a bonfire with it if you have something for the smoke."

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"But how does it work?"

"Let's go order tea if we're going to sit here chatting," Abernathy says insistently, then pulls Raafi towards the counter by the shoulder.

"Sorry for that but do you see that bracelet?" Mrs. Remington was wearing one half-hidden by her sleeve. "Holy symbol of Christianity. I don't know if they're the type to get upset about the idea of other gods but some who carry a cross are. If they are, perhaps we'd better find someone else to hunt with, I suppose."

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"Ah. I can explain it without mentioning Fharlanghn, if that'd be enough, but I'm not sure what happens if they make a scene; I would like to know how Christians will react to my magic, and this doesn't seem like the worst time for it, but of course I'll defer to you on the wisdom of that."

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"If they make a scene, well, it's a scene, that's all. I highly doubt they would shoot us about it. The worst that'd happen is we'd be out some hunting partners, most likely."

They get to the counter. He waves jovially at the bartender, then asks for a pot of Oolong tea.

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Raafi will take whatever the bartender recommends. "I think we'll be okay hunting alone if it comes to it."

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They can both have some nice tea. Abernathy pays for both of them and indicates the table they're sitting at. The bartender promises to bring it out momentarily.

"A bigger group is always safer, but that's not as much of a concern with you around."

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"No, I think we'll be all right." Back to the table?

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Back to the table.

"What guns do you carry?" Mr. Remington politely asks, ignoring the dropped matter of spells.

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He has the model of his semi-automatic memorized. "I'm new to guns, though - there's a bit of a story there, actually."

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"Oh, that one's good enough as a mass-produced piece anyway. I know not everyone has a workshop in their cabin. And everybody has to start somewhere. And now you've got me curious for the story."

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"There was an explosion in the marketplace in Port Prosper a few weeks ago, some kind of artifact interacting with a barrel of time, they think. It seems to have pulled things in from a number of other worlds, including me. That's where my magic comes from, too; it's reasonably common, in the world I'm from, but we're a bit behind you technologically."

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"It's a big universe. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see humans from a more distant part of it. And lots of things from the Neath might as well be magic. What do you think of the Reach so far, then?"

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"I like it! I've always been a traveler, and I wasn't running out of things to see, exactly, back home, but there wasn't much left that was quite this new. The technology especially is fascinating. Hopefully I'll be able to set up trade between here and there, eventually, I'd love to see what my people would do with it."

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"Technology is quite a power. It's why the Royal Society is so important, even though they're also isolated because of how dangerous they can be, unstable experiments and the like."

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"Sounds a little like our wizardry. Funded by the crown, though, or is the name for some other reason?"

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"Funded by the crown and at least officially for the Establishment's scientific advancement. Not fully funded anymore, things have decayed a fair bit in the last couple of decades, cuts everywhere, but the name is quite stuck. The Royal Society is the epitome of Academe."

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"Huh. Maybe I'll go check them out when I'm not so busy, see how that works for them. Research wizards usually just fund themselves, where I'm from."

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Abernathy comments, "Aside from engineers, academics don't tend have any particular money-making skills. And even engineers, something they can sell is often weeks of work. You get your magic back every day, right?"

Permalink Mark Unread

"Mmhmm. And wizards do too, or they can make magic items to sell like your engineers."

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"Magic is terribly unspecific," Mrs. Remington complains. "...Though, I suppose 'physics' or 'engineering' is just as unspecific. I retract my complaint."

"Anyway, do you two want to hunt with us, or shall we go ourselves."

Mr. Remington peers at Raafi, then nods firmly. "I think we should plan on a group hunt tomorrow, if you two are willing."

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"Of course. Is there anything else magic would be useful for, here? I don't have much in the way of weapons, magically, but I can heal and protect and temporarily improve people in a variety of ways."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Healing does sound quite handy. Something to help deal with food and fuel concerns, perhaps? And the danger of starlight, of course."

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"I can come prepared to make food," he nods. "Fuel's a bit outside my reach, unfortunately. And starlight - I don't understand it very well, yet, but I'll see if I can come up with something. I can do a general protective boon, at least. How much of a concern is it, here?"

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"Oh, I thought you were asking more generally, not for what to support us with tomorrow. Hunger and cold are the biggest problems facing our poor, you know."

"Starlight is much less severe on solid land," Abernathy says. "Though horrible things happening to you can still exacerbate it. The best cure to starlight is time spent resting and recuperating somewhere safe and comfortable. Protective boons would still be welcome, of course."

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Raafi nods along with the explanation. "It sounds like we want Owl's Wisdom; it improves the senses and gives a sense of security, stability-in-oneself, that's useful for shrugging off upsetting situations. That one doesn't last so long but I can come prepared to cast it when we find something. Are we bringing any of the crew?" he asks Abernathy. "I'll need to know how many castings to prepare."

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"I'll ask for one volunteer, so perhaps one and perhaps none. I don't want to drag them into my hobby on what's supposed to be a shore leave."

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"I can cover us all with one, then, that's easy enough."

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Abernathy muses, "I find myself quite curious what this spell feels like. Many things that supposedly improve intelligence turn out to be placebo effects, as far as I've seen."

"Are you two any good at moving quietly?" Mr. Remington asks. "We're into hunting for the sport, ourselves. The skill of tracking and a perfect shot. Though we try to make sure anything we down doesn't go to waste. A heater lizard, if we find one, can go down to a single shot in an eye or a forelimb joint. That's the ideal from my perspective - one shot one kill, and three of us not even putting our fingers on the trigger."

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"I'm only passable at moving quietly on foot; I might want to fly, instead. I'll have to see how my magic budget works out for that."

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"It's not a particular skill of mine," Abernathy frowns.

"Don't fret too much." Mrs. Remington says. "We're hardly an elite commando team on a dangerous mission, here. We'll go first and that will be fine."

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Raafi nods. "I can also teleport us a moderate distance a handful of times, if that turns out to be useful."

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"Could save a life. Would it be helpful if we get lost? Compasses can be unreliable out here."

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"That takes a more powerful spell, but I never go anywhere without that one if I can help it. Lets me take myself and five passengers to anywhere I've already been."

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"Useful."

 

They chat about hunting and guns for a while. Apparently the Remingtons are from the rich part of London. Eventually they make plans to meet at eight the next morning for the hunt. Abernathy heads back to the engine to check something and the Remingtons go off to their cabin.

Permalink Mark Unread

Raafi takes the time to poke around a bit rather than heading right back; he'll stay in view of the buildings unless something catches his eye, but he's not too worried about getting lost.

Permalink Mark Unread

There's some cabins and general tourist services. There's a small logging encampment, apparently restricting themselves to certain kinds of wood and mostly dead trees. There's a clinic, and several buildings full of academics, and a path down to a watchtower where a bearded man is looking out over the jungle through binoculars.

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Raafi takes note of the clinic, to perhaps offer spells at before bed, and the academic buildings, to look into if he finds himself with a spare hour or two, but ultimately makes his way to the watchtower, where he pauses at the bottom to examine how it's put together before casting a flight spell and making his way up, following the ladder.

Permalink Mark Unread

It's a square tower with sturdy logs and cross-beams, and a platform at the top with furniture and refreshments. The bearded man up there turns to look at him as he comes up.

"Afternoon, sir. What brings you here?"

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"Oh, just curiosity." He rises through the hatch in the floor, not particularly disguising the fact that he's flying. "Are you keeping watch for something, or just enjoying the view?"

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"I'm an ornithologist. There's a particular bird I'm hoping to see, but I haven't found her yet. Likely never will. She's probably a myth." He shrugs.

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"Ah. What kind? I can keep an eye out."

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"The story goes that this bird pecks at the foot of the Mountain of Eternity- The Mother of Mountains, in the Neath. Hardly anyone believes me, but that's alright. The heavens contain many improbable things. It'll be golden, fiery. I'll know it when I see it."

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"You really do never know. I'll keep an eye out." He floats over to the railing to get a better look at the view.

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It's a pretty good view. The tower seems calculatedly placed to have a nice overlook over the local landscape, with jungle falling away on three and a half sides for a long unobstructed view.

Permalink Mark Unread

Very pretty.

 

"I'm surprised to see the tower here, everyone's so nervous about the starlight."

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"Well. You will notice that I'm alone up here. And... I am at home watching nature."

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"Huh, I suppose that could help. -sorry, I know that might sound strange. I'm new here, it's a bit of a story. The view is lovely, anyway."

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"Not so strange. It's hard to be sure how it works. I think part of it is that I wouldn't be much threat if I went mad, and part of it is how they think I am already."

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"Sounds reasonable enough. It does mean that I shouldn't linger, though." He takes another look at the scenery below, then hops the railing to hover just on the other side of it. "What's your name, in case I need to send word of your bird?"

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"They call me the Romantic Ornithologist. A message addressed thus will find me. Safe travels, stranger."

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"You too."

He rotates into a dive, staying close to the tower at first, then as he gets closer to building height he levels off, kiting across the sky.

Permalink Mark Unread

Flight is pretty attention getting! There's pointing and shouting.

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Well if there's going to be a scene anyway, he's not going to bother being quiet: Wheeee!

He does stop short of actual aerobatics, though, and touches down in whatever open area is most convenient when he runs out of speed.

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There's a big clearing in the tourist village, with a couple of campfires and some sort of sport being played and plenty of open space. People walk towards him, waving and talking animatedly to each other! The first to arrive asks, "I say, how'd you learn to do that?"

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"It's magic! From another world, I don't know if anyone here can pick it up."

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"You mean, from the Neath?"

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"Never heard of it."

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"Well. It's another world, sort of."

"How would one go about trying to pick it up? Magic, I mean. Is it dangerous?"

"Pah, he's probably using some cleverly disguised stage trickery. Or a mechanical glider." Someone grumbles.

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"It's not dangerous but does require a certain frame of mind and a fair bit of devotion, at least how I do it, and your god situation seems to be different here, that might matter." He sits crosslegged in midair, still at eye height to the crowd. "Or it might not, I'm not really enough of a scholar to make a guess."

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Mentioning religion is a good way to get some uncomfortable looks. Someone tries, "It's fun, I hope?" Another asks, "Devotion how, exactly?"

("-Seriously how is he doing that, it's got to be real-" "Circus performers can do all sorts of clever things with wires.")

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"It's lots of fun, if you have the mindset for it in the first place. The devotion is to a concept - travel, in my case; lots of things work but it has to be something fairly broad like that - and if you let it be the most important thing in your life and focus on it the right way, plus a few other details, you'll eventually start getting spells to help you. And lots of the concepts do have gods associated with them, at home, but it's not necessary to follow one, it's just useful to have the guidance and community. I am quite fond of Fharlanghn, though."

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"Do you know if it's a thing that happens here at all? You'd think someone would do it accidentally, once in a while, but I've never heard of such a thing and I would consider myself fairly well-read. Perhaps it only works where you're from?"

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"It could be," he nods. "Or it could be that now that I'm here, it'll start, or that it'll only work for new followers of Fharlanghn specifically - having a cleric here," he indicates himself, "might mean he can see it when he otherwise couldn't. I have no idea."

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"...Hrm. What's the right way?"

"What sort of concepts work? Science? Charity? Justice? Craft? Cooking?"

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"I'd expect all of those to work - I wouldn't expect to run into a cleric of cooking but mostly because people who're that passionate about it are so rare; smithing works, though, I have met clerics of that. It has to be something that's already the most important thing to you, that you couldn't imagine living without, and then -" he explains the rest; they'll need holy symbols, and daily devotions, and to spend some time figuring out how they in particular relate to their concepts, which will determine some of the details of the magic they get. It can take up to a year, or in rare cases even longer, though if it takes more than a couple of months they'll want to review what they're doing to make sure all the parts of it feel right to them. They'll start out with fairly weak magic if it works at all, just a few simple spells a day, but they'll get more and stronger spells over time.

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Well, they're mostly a bit skeptical, but some seem intent on trying it. One person is sure that caring for animals is his life's purpose. Another is a painter but 'art' seems a little more ephemeral. The machinist in the group doesn't think this is a real thing.

Does he want to show off more to give them good motivation? Does he want to play tennis or football? Does he want some tea and sausage at this one family's campfire?

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His Fly spell has worn off by then and he's not sure how safe it is with the starlight anyway, but Locate Object is a fun party trick - divinations are pretty great all around; he's using one that lets him magically speak and understand any language he comes across, as another example.

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After a middle-aged woman quizzes him in increasingly uncertain languages, they totally believe him about the language thing! Wow! Cleric magic is real! This is not as earthshattering as one might expect, since they are in the Reach, but still.

The Horologist, Captain Abernathy's very quiet other passenger, almost manages to sneak up on him. "Could I trouble you to repeat the instructions for becoming a cleric? Everything that has a place, in its place. All clocks aligned, clean and tidy and ticking along in unison."

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"Of course." He does. "And devotion to tidiness does work, at least some of the time; we call the broader concept law and its inverse chaos."

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"Enforcing the law of time upon the High Wilderness is the entire purpose of the Royal Horologists," she says, a little bit as if stating something obvious that anyone should know. "Does the holy symbol have to be a single, solid item? A pocketwatch would be entirely appropriate, but it's a bit complex. Perhaps my spare crown wheel."

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"A pocketwatch should be fine; two of our gods at home have a cornucopia and a bundle of flowers as their holy symbols. You'd be able to use a picture of one, too, in a pinch."

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She smiles. "I think it will be a boon to the world, if you can truly introduce a path to power driven off commitment and diligence."

 

Does he want to join this family for lunch? Or play tennis with these folks? Or go to the Bohemian playing violin on a food crate, eyes closed, at one end of the clearing?

Permalink Mark Unread

The bard is tempting but he is a bit hungry, lunch sounds good.

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The food they have is simple and hearty. They have tea. The parents chat amiably with him about how it's their long-awaited holiday- They're from a small town with nothing much to its name except food for sale out in the Reach, but at least it's close to the Titania-New Winchester route so engines stop by sometimes. The jungle is so colorful! It's excellent to see something other than the same rocks and plants every day, even if their kids don't seem to appreciate it quite as much as they'd hoped. They're seeing Titania on the way back, too. It's used up a lot of their savings and it's a bit dangerous but they think it's worth it. It's no good for kids to stay on the same farm all their lives.

(Said kids, three of them, are playing some sort of game that involves marbles and flexible rules at the opposite end of the table.)

Permalink Mark Unread

It's always good to get out, and they're right that it's especially important for children - they might not appreciate it much in the moment but it'll be something to look back on, when they get older and have more interest in seeing the world themselves. How has the journey been, any difficulties?

Permalink Mark Unread

Mostly just the expense. They expected cramped quarters and a somewhat uncomfortable time travelling, and Captain Morgan is a good sort, but everything is turning out pricier than they expected. They also passed a wreck and failed to shield the children from seeing it and had to explain scary things and deal with them being frightened every time something groaned in the locomotive for the rest of the trip here.

Permalink Mark Unread

That does sound like it's going about as well as can be expected, except for the wreck. Have they considered introducing the children to their train's engineer? It's often reassuring to children to know the person responsible for keeping them safe.

Permalink Mark Unread

Perhaps they'll try that.

The kids seem to have missed all the magic he was doing earlier but their parents tell them about it! One says 'but you said magic isn't real'. Her mom replies 'well, we change our mind when we learn new things, that's the point of learning! We saw him flying and then he knew a lot of languages and found things people were hiding without looking.'

The dad whispers to Raafi, "Sorry to put you on the spot, but d'you have any more demonstrations in you? They get real absorbed in their marbles, I suppose they weren't paying attention earlier. That's Meena, Xavier, and Harold, youngest to oldest."

Permalink Mark Unread

He can do another demonstration! Do they want to see him find something with magic, or take turns trying his translation necklace while he speaks exotic languages, or make a (smallish) mess for him to clean up with a cleaning spell?

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Here are some messy napkins and plates, that seems the lowest effort to demo!

Cleaning magic is boring, though, the oldest complains. Cleaning is a chore!

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"Well, yes, the fun part of that one is that you get to make the mess in the first place and don't have to spend time cleaning it up." A few words and a wave of his hand and the dishes and things are clean.

"What type of things would you want to do, if you could do magic?"

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"FLYING! I MISSED IT!" "...Showy stuff like in circuses? Tricks and illusions." "I wanna talk to animals."

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"Flying is pretty great," he grins. "And I know people who can do illusions, and talk to animals, back home - there's a few different kinds of spellcasters, the kind I am can't do those things. You might be able to, though, someday."

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The kids are excited about this prospect, though the oldest looks a bit dubious.

Their father explains the requirements to be a cleric. "It sounds like something that works best when you're older."

"If it's real at all," the oldest mutters.

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"Oh, I don't know, I wasn't that much older than Harold when I found my calling, some do at that age. But it's reasonable to be skeptical, with something this new." He shrugs, lightly. "I bet I'll be able to bring more mages over in another five or ten years, maybe that'll be more convincing."

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The mom pats Harold's arm. "I'm sure it will be. Seeing a strange thing in the sky once is one thing, seeing five of it is entirely another. Nobody thinks scrive-spinsters are a myth and they're at least... A third a strange as you are from a Londoner's perspective, maybe up to as strange, from a Surfacer's perspective."

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"It all depends on what you're used to," he nods. "Manipulating time like you can here seems very strange, to me, we don't have that at home at all. - speaking of time, I bet they're wondering where I've gotten off to, I should probably check in with my train."

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They wish him well. The bard is still playing and collecting donations in a hat. He's not doing well on that front.

Several of Abernathy's crew are drinking and being rowdy around a campfire set out near the railyard but they don't explicitly beckon him over if he'd rather just go back in the engine.

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Hmm, how's the bard. He goes to check him out.

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He nods at Raafi with a slight frown, mostly paying attention to the music. He seems technically skilled, but his choice of songs leaves something to be desired. They're the kind of songs that get played in quiet parlors, not outdoor venues. And that might need more instruments, or at least a singer. (The violin itself, and his outfit, look a bit ragged.)

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Down-on-his-luck court performer, seems like, or whatever the local equivalent is. Raafi listens through two songs, puts a generous handful of sovereigns in the cup (mostly on the assumption that he's a traveling performer, however temporarily), and moves on to the crew's campfire.

Permalink Mark Unread

That gets a bow and a humble thank-you from the performer. If he can be of service in some small way he would be happy to.

The crew are trying to convince their two new friends that the thing with the downed engine and fighting off some kind of porcupine-bear is not made up at all! They're not succeeding so far.

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Raafi settles in and listens a bit before jumping in.

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Well, the reason they don't have any giant quills is because the other captain paid Raafi here to give up any interest in the corpse! He healed people up afterwards and they were all fine. Nobody here would want to fight that thing without him, or much more firepower instead.

"Pfah, healing? That so? Fix my fuckin' 'ead then!" (He has a prominent bruise and bandage on one side of his forehead. From an accident aboard ship, he claims.)

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"Sure, come on over, that'll only take a little magic." He's already casting, producing the now-familiar blue glow.

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He's suddenly frightened, but with Abernathy's crew urging him on and his own buddies telling him not to back down he walks over and receives healing.

"-Damn. I'll buy you a beer? Or a steak."

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"Oh, don't worry about it. The point of magic is to use it, after all."

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"He loses the magic if he doesn't use it. Comes back tomorrow either way."

The injured guy takes his head-wrap off and recovers enough to say, "Happy to be in need of service, then."

"We need more clerics in this world, honestly. I wonder how many priests believe strongly enough to be clerics about it..."

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"That's an interesting question, I don't know enough about your religion here to have a guess. It's not just about the strength of the devotion, it has to be toward the right sort of thing, too. It wouldn't work for me to just be a fan of Fharlanghn if I didn't care the way I do about travel."

Permalink Mark Unread

"Christianity is - originally - about love and kindness. The story goes - Er, there's a lot more than this, but this is the bit I'm remembering - God, Yahweh, sent his son to Earth to spread his message, and after a while Jesus was condemned to death by a cruel governor. He could have escaped by a miracle at any time, but he was willingly hanged upon a cross in order to cleanse humanity of sin and preserve them from Hell, then was raised from the dead three days later. There was something about Judas- Sold his location to some guys who wanted to kill Jesus, but Jesus forgave him anyway, because he didn't want Judas to go to Hell even though he'd betrayed him and gotten him condemned. All of Jesus's teachings were about tolerance, kindness, helping others. 'Course, lots of people use the bible as a blunt weapon against whatever they don't like an' call it moral depravity-"

"What about saints? They get miraculous powers sometimes. Maybe they're what happens instead of clerics, around here?"

"I dunno much about saints to be honest."

Permalink Mark Unread

"That sounds like the right sort of thing - not too far off from a few of the gods we have at home, actually. What do saints get?" he asks the second speaker.

Permalink Mark Unread

"Uh- The Red Saint, Harold of Grimory, was blessed with holy light that kept him from falling in battle no matter how many wounds he took so long as he was defending the faithful- John the Baptist cured lepers with a touch... Jesus could heal limps and blindness too, and save mothers badly off from childbirth... St. Basil of Caesarea ran hospitals and soup kitchens and was blessed with wisdom and insight, they say... I'm not thinking of any others off the top of my head. Sunday School was a while ago."

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"Some of that sounds like the kind of thing we see at home when a god gets personally involved, not just with your average cleric. I wonder if... I heard once that clerical magic works the way it does in my world because the gods made it to, since it's easier to let people choose to take up clerichood than for them to need to intervene every time. I wonder if things in the two worlds are more similar than they look and that just never happened here."

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"If God really exists He's not making it very obvious."

"Faith is half the point you nitwit-"

"Hey now hey," a third man interrupts. "No insults. State your arguments calmly."

"All the stories of miracles are things that happened long, long ago and could be made up."

"Too many people saw it, believed, passed on the stories for there to be nothing behind them."

"Rumors can spread out of control and be proven false later-"

"From Volans et al 1896-"

"That study again, it was one guy-"

"-Statistically speaking, with over a decade of data, on the Zee voyages blessed by a Priest returned more often, report casualties and horrors less often, report lucky breaks more often-"

"None of the other academics agree that that's conclusive evidence God is real."

"What other explanation would you propose?"

"Morale. Wishful thinking. Selection, ships that seek blessings being more cautious-"

(They continue arguing.)

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It's a fascinating discussion and always good to get people thinking about how things work in the world. He listens in for a while, though he might end up going back to his cabin before the debate comes to any sort of conclusion.

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He can get more religious stories and confirmation that most modern chapels try to act like community centers and charities, while others are more... Extreme. There are sects that more resemble dangerous cults than a Good church. He can get a discussion of the New Sequence, the "revised" bible and Christian story that attempts to fit the High Wilderness into its understanding of things (somewhat poorly). He can get a dozen horror stories of the terrible things on the Zee, and a few anecdotes about how faith protected people from them from the terrors.

The debate comes down generally on the side of 'maybe God exists or maybe not, but Christianity is clearly not right about everything even if it has some good life lessons in there'. Individual positions vary, of course. Dusk has fallen by now and people are yawning.

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None of the evidence is conclusive, as far as Raafi can tell, though he's sure his world's scholars would have more of an idea of what to make of it.

He turns in with the sun; he'll need to be sharp in the morning, after all.

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The night is uneventful, aside from something howling(?) in the distance for a while.

Captain Abernathy is up bright and early, cleaning his rifle and humming cheerfully.

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Raafi finds him when he's done his devotions. "Good morning!"

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"Good morning! Ready to go hunting, I hope? We can be on our way this evening, I've taken care of my other business."

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"Mmhmm! I'll want to talk magical strategy with our companions before we go, but I'm ready. Are we bringing someone from the crew along?"

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"Four is already rather enough, don't you think? Any more and we're even more obvious to the quarry. Besides, they're enjoying shore leave."

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"Works for me. I'm ready to go when you are, then."

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"Tally ho!"

They meet the Remingtons by the same tea place they met yesterday.

"I understand Raafi wanted to discuss strategy before we embark," Abernathy says diplomatically.

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"Mmhmm, you should know what tricks I have available. The tricky one is two spells - one that can blind a target at range, and the other silences all sound within twenty feet of whoever or whatever it's cast on - if we run into something too big to handle, that gives us a clean getaway, but we won't be able to talk and I can't cast anything else with the silence spell up, so you need to know about it beforehand. I also have some divinations - three that'll look forward half an hour and tell us whether something is a good or bad idea, and two that look forward a week and give advice about something - I'm thinking we can use one of those to find our quarry, and I'll save the other for if we run into a complication - if we run into trouble and you have an idea that's risky to try you should tell me so I can check, though, is the upshot of those. I also have a spell that makes stone, in whatever shape I want - if we're attacked in a way that my other spells don't cover I can make us a fortress that way, and I don't want you to panic about it not having a door, in that case; I have a separate spell to make one when it's safe. And then I have a number of boons and blessings to cast when it's time - I can do the fire ward now or in the field; it lasts five hours, I'm not sure how long you're expecting to be out there. -oh, and I do want to cast Status now, that'll last until evening and it'll let me find you if we get separated and tell if you're injured."

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"I'm not at all used to this talk of spells, I do admit," Mrs. Remington comments. "My instincts say that our odds are best if we stand and shoot, in most cases. Nothing in these woods wants to get shot any more than we want to get bit. I do know that what we're hunting sees infrared, if that's relevant? They can see warm things, essentially."

Abernathy comments, "It'd be silly not to use them but I don't want to rely too much on magic. It'd be unsporting. Anyway, we should hold off on the fire ward until we have some sign of the quarry in the area."

"I wonder if you could create interesting landscaping or sculpture with the instant fortress?" Mr. Remington muses.

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"Not art, I don't have that much fine control. It's fine for bridges and things, though, I can make any rough shape I want. Anyway I'm sure we won't use half my magic, it's just that if we run into trouble there won't be time to explain."

He casts the Status spell, and offers the resulting glow around.

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Everyone touches it, with varying levels of dubiousness.

Mr. Remington says, "I got a lead on which part of the Reserve there have been Heater Lizard sightings. It's about an hour's walk from here, then off-trail."

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"Sounds good to me."

He follows along, occasionally seeming tempted to stop and look at some flower or tree or animal track but generally keeping up and staying alert.

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They mention it's good to make noise for now, to keep anything watching them from getting too curious. They ask him about his past travels as they walk.

Eventually they come to a section of cliffy jungle that also has what looks like some kind of geothermal pools. They smell of sulfur and are full of hot water, at least. 

"I suppose the Heater Lizards must like the water."

"It could be coincidence, we're not naturalists..."

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"Seems plausible, at least. Do you know what their tracks look like?" He starts to look around; he should be able to find tracks fairly easily if there are any.

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"They're large and four-limbed, with three forward toes and a back toe, middle front toe and rear toe clawed. And heavy, about as much as a horse or a tiger."

"Mind the gap here," Abernathy says, carefully stepping over a crusted-white fissure in the ground.

 

There are some tracks that look like that visible as they navigate between thermal pools. Two old and one newer.

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He takes a moment to look at the fissure, too, while he's examining the area.

"Looks like we've found them, then," he points out the tracks with the foot of his walking stick. "Fire protection?" He casts it and offers it around, leaving himself for last.

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The fissure smells a bit foul, and is a dark opening that's quite hard to see into. It doesn't look like anything is ready to leap out at them, at least. They all accept fire protection. Privately, Mrs. Remington is wondering whether this was really a good idea, but of course she doesn't say anything. Just adjusts her grip.

"Say something if something feels... Off, everyone." Abernathy says. "The human mind is observant and powerful. Raafi, can you lead us on the trail?"

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"Mmhmm," he nods. "This might be a good time for an augury, first, though."

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They look a bit doubtful, but, "Those have a reputation of not working when mystics and such attempt it, but your other powers have proof, so may as well."

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So he does, crouching to burn a pinch of incense and roll a par of dice on a small sliver tray.

"Weal," he reports. "Looks like we'll be successful."

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"Grand!"

They get much more serious as the hunt is afoot. Over the course of several hours, they track their way through jungle (seeing some interesting plants along the way), and eventually find a patch of disturbed ground that almost certainly contains their lizard. It looks to be about four feet long. With fire protection up, Mr. Remington volunteers to go forward and 'beat' it out of cover by stomping loudly and shouting.

When the Heater Lizard scrambles out of its hole, flames lick along its hide. It doesn't bother trying to attack, instead scuttling at top speed towards another piece of cover, setting a bush alight as it goes. Three guns bark, and several shots hit. The small fires set off by the panicking creature are suppressed by other plants, dark grey vines with purple flowers which almost seem to eat the smoke and heat.

The hide is imperfect now - only a clean hit through the eye or a limb joint makes for a perfect hide - but it'll serve well enough and it was over for the animal in less than a minute. They separate out the hide and meat and skull and some of the bones, for trophies, and several large organs that they think the scientists would want, taking photos of the butchering process and commenting cheerfully on it to Raafi. It's only fair that Raafi gets the hide, if he wants it. The meat proves to be slightly bitter in a way that carnivore meat often is, but with a thick heaviness to it and deliciously oily.

After that, it's about time to move on. His captain greatly enjoyed the stopover in the Nature Reserve, but New Winchester awaits! Thankfully, the remainder of the journey is uneventful, aside from Tisha the engine's rat-engineer giving him an address in New Winchester and a passcode - "Rubber Band Maxim". 'Some rats what are mostly good folks probably', according to her.

New Winchester itself is a far bigger city than Port Prosper. Prosper had perhaps thirty or forty thousand people - New Winchester is at least twice that size, built into, around, under, and through, a sprawling series of sky islands. Refineries and construction echo through the sky, and giant pipes rattle with their contents here and there. The outskirts of the city look abandoned, and smog coats the inner areas. They pass several landmarks on the way in- A hospital, Company House, Victory Hall, the scrapyards full of dozens of laid-up sky engines, Victoria Market (an upscale collection of twisty streets and warehouses, quite bustling).

They're guided into a dock by signals, and when the train clunks into place, all the crew relax and cheer. Raafi is free to leave, and Captain Abernathy says it was a pleasure.