"Whatever we were before, we are now Chaplains of Piranesi," The woman speaks in an even monotone. "I am the Grey Conformer."

"I go by the Gallant Reformer," the tired but cheerful man continues. "Adjective optional. And our quiet friend is the Glib Performer. Our last member is out at the moment. I'm afraid there's little here for you, save waiting for a locomotive to try for passage, for what it's worth."

"I see. Where might I get passage to? I have heard of universes beyond Ravnica, but only in the abstract. Visiting is not conventionally considered possible."

The Reformer shrugs. "You are at Piranesi, which is in the region of Eleutheria in the realm known as The High Wilderness. Whatever brought you here, it is unlikely to return you, I should say. The key place of interest would be Pan, a neutral area of sorts near the center of this slim dot of relatively less lethal sky - or perhaps Eagle's Empyrean, though they are keenly and determinedly unfriendly to foreigners. To say nothing of foreigners who reek of strange magic. They do control the only way out of Eleutheria, of course."

"Is all the Wildnerness so dark, or is that local?"

"Oh, no, the Halved doesn't like light very much. And most of it is dark and cold, by volume, the spaces far from stars - don't follow any captain who wants to travel the wastes without a damned good reason - but the Reach and the rest of it is brighter, at least."

"Then I shall endeavor to overcome the Empyrean's determination at some point. Fortunately, I am very convincing. I am - well, was, you're probably right - the very best of advokists. ...I believe the closest word in this language is 'solicitors', though that feels somewhat too narrow."

"May it serve you well. There's a great many dangerous things, but the worst are often other people. Even here, where the phantasmal and metaphorical dangers are ascendant over straightforward ones like the things in the Reach that generally simply wish to eat you."

"I've met plenty of phantasms, but mostly bound debtors and family, I don't imagine my experience will translate. People... well, not everyone can be reasoned with. But I believe I'll manage."

"Hmm. Well, would you like that tour?"

"Perhaps. What are the rules you mentioned?"

He smiles thinly. "Unfortunately, there is an unwritten fourth rule. The Chaplains may not explain the rules. The prisoners may, and you may learn them by observation. It really is quite safe if you're careful, but I understand not wishing to take the risk."

"Ah. No, I don't think I shall. I much prefer complex rules I know to simple rules I don't."

"Hopefully our busy harbor traffic control will be in a cooperative mood for your plans," The Glib Performer snarks, not looking up from his journaling. "In the meantime, there's dice and cards and wandering the boring empty grounds."

"Don't mind him, he's in a mood," the Reformer says warmly. The Conformer begins putting away the tea, moving mechanically.

"If I do find myself her a while, is there anything I could do in exchange for your continued hospitality? The thrulls are good workers, and with some time I could make one to leave you with - they're not quite sapient, nor quite alive, but close enough. And myself I can do some truth magic, write contracts that will enforce themselves, within reason. ...If you want more lights, that won't be permanent but it's quite easy."

"The lanterns fail for anyone except their prisoner, even after release. We manage." The Conformer's voice is polite and monotone.

"Piranesi provides the essentials, our cupboard will never be bare, though never rich. And you may rest here while we are about our duties. I would not turn away some assistance with the garden."

"You'll have to direct me; we bought all our vegetables. And my bad leg may be a bit of an impediment. But certainly." Also, she's probably going to have do manual labor regularly here, she is unlikely to be rich any time soon. Might as well start getting used to it.

If their attention is drawn to her leg, they'll notice her severe clubfoot. She puts very little weight on it, and everything from the shin down looks about as twisted as the thrulls outside, though it's elegantly disguised by the cut of her pant leg and the drape of her cape. She supports herself with a very solid cane, ivory-handled and filigreed and engraved to match her ostentatious clothes.

(Clothes and cane both are color-coordinated in white, black, and gold, clearly artfully designed and cut with a clear style in mind, one that even suits her coloration, but they are heavily decorated. They mostly manage to stay short of 'gaudy', but only mostly.)

The Gallant Reformer makes cheerful small talk about the prisoners as they go about the garden. This prisoner has given up their name; A perilous thing, he wishes he'd convinced them of another way. That one is engaging him in a fascinating series of ethical debates. Transforming from a thug to a scholar. A success story in the making. The thrulls can help with the gardening too. It seems more like a light hobby than anything else.

After a few hours there's a distant echoing bell-chime. A pair of tones coming from the stop, ding-dong, a pause, then another ten seconds later, and repeating.

"Arrival at the station, I assume? I should probably meet them there."

"Yes, indeed. The bell goes off when they're coming in to land. I don't understand the equipment, but visiting crews tend to give it a once-over, if only because they want to come back. Good luck!" The Gallant Reformer waves her off.

"And to you, and thank you all."

She turns to the waiting thrulls. (They didn't garden; too violent and too dim, respectively.) "Gruggs, follow. Two paces behind, but on guard."

Back to the station, and let's see what an 'engine' looks like.

The vessel approaching the dock has landed and begun disembarking uniformed men and women by the time she arrives. The sailors and uniforms both are dirty and worn from hard work.

It's a large roughly cylindrical metal thing - perhaps two or three hundred feet long, more a small ship than a large carriage in size. The side of the vessel is a long cylinder. Shiny-looking wood broken up by a few portholes, a pair of study hatch-style doors, and what looks like a big cargo hatch. A smoke stack peers out from above, closer to the rear of the vessel. Some of the panels are cracked and damaged and patched over with... Less inspiring bits of metal, dull and scratched. There's also the pointed shape of some sort of weapon poking through a metal debris shield at the front, and a large stained-glass window glistening deeply green. The cylindrical shape seems to be some sort of aesthetic choice, rather than a practical one. Low groans of settling machinery and the hiss of gas under pressure echo as she approaches.

The crew don't seem especially wary, even once they notice the thrulls. One nods at her a bit nervously.

"Hello. I've found myself landed here unexpectedly, and I'd like to negotiate passage. Who should I speak to?"

"The Bearded Captain will, once he's dealt with the prisoner I'm sure, ma'am."

"Would he benefit from preventing the prisoner from lying, do you think? Or is it past that stage? A 'verity circle' is among my unusual talents."

"I don't know much about the prisoner, ma'am. Only that we got him from a crossroads. And the Beard is more partial to gold and gems, I think."