6.8 KiB
| title | created | updated | syndicated | public |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 00049 | Thu, 29 Dec 2022 18:55:34 -0700 | Fri, 30 Dec 2022 08:12:55 -0700 | yes | yes |
00049
"They are a good guide," Inky corrects adamantly. "Do you hear that, Bread? You're not allowed to disappear until you've had an entire bag of these croutons, and even then you're still not allowed. If I'd known you'd never had croutons before I wouldn't have let you walk a step further into that hall. That was simultaneously the worst and best idea ever. Mango! Croutons! What a travesty. Did you even taste any of it? No? You have to! How can you offer guests delicious fondue without croutons? Speaking of which, we haven't gotten that fondue you promised yet, that's reason #144 you can't disappear. What's reason #143? Crostinis. Small toasted bread. Slice of life. You can put cheese on it too, if you really must …"
And so on. While Inky talks at Bread in a bid to keep them conscious, they whisk out a first-aid kit from their courier bag and kneeling on the floor, proceeds to stem the bleeding from the chest wound with coagulant-coated bandages. Slowly, they tip a flask of tea infused with some restorative herbs down Bread's open mouth, careful not to pour too quickly. Inky pauses mid-diatribe and mid-pour to thrust another flask of tea into Confidence's hand, the one wrapped four-fifths of the hotelier and ask, "Are you injured? Please keep an eye on your companion, I will summon for assistance."
Standing up, Inky walks to a window, opens it and peers out. They look around for a hot air balloon and notice the unmoored airship. After squinting at it with a mini-spyglass, they see Alex standing at the helm of the ship with a young hemogoblin on board. Inky waves, and makes a vertical cross sign with a fist and thumb on the opposite upper arm a few times. Next, they pull out a small tin whistle, and toot a few sharp notes in the same cadence as the one-liner directed at Bread earlier by the gondola station. After a moment, a scops owl swoops in to land on the windowsill. Inky inserts a rolled piece of paper into a small pouch hanging at the bird's back, and the bird flies off again.
Returning to the figures slumped against the wall, Inky places the Ginnarak crystal in a lightly padded cloth bag, stowing it away in their knapsack-style backpack. They resume checking and tending to the toques' injuries, while expounding upon various permutations of toasted bread to a captive audience.
Bread closes their eyes and smiles dreamily at the descriptions of various breads. They weakly sip the tea as you tip it into their mouth and swallow with effort.
They sigh and open their eyes. They focus on you and maintain eye contact as you draw from a seemingly bottomless well of knowledge on the topic of toasted breads. Bread and life are clinging fast to each other, neither ready or willing to let go of the other. They are going to be okay.
Confidence's wounds are superficial. They are winded from dragging Bread and the hotelier up seven flights of stairs. But they are fine.
The hotelier's wounds are sadly quite fatal. Honestly it was all over for him the moment he took the full force of the captain's plasma canon to his chest. He babbles, "It's not ... I wasn't ..." And then with sudden realization and quiet resignation, a clear-eyed, "Oh." And then he is gone.
His courage in the face of danger is the reason you now have the third of the five Ginnarak Crystals in your pack. Whether or not his death was in vain is now largely up to you and what you decide to do with the crystal.
~
Downstairs in the Great Hall of the library, one of the remaining Cyberplasms crouches down next to the inert cybernetic eye that until very recently belonged to their captain. They pick it up and turn it over in their hand. "Worry not, my captain," the ghost mourns. "We will find the quintessence. And once we do, we will be made anew in the forge of our Mother."
He rolls the orb in palm of his hand. A faint arc of energy crackles across its surface. And the eye rolls over of its own volition and looks up at the pirate.
Suddenly reverent, the pirate gently places the eye on the ground as a ghostly face begins to form around it. The pirate waits patiently, attentively. It's not every day one gets to bare witness to a new birth. The ectoplasm that gathers around the eye forms a rail-thin body. Its head is bald and its face sports a neatly trimmed mustache. It is missing an arm and a leg.
Dutifully, the witness fetches a recently discarded arm canon and leg booster. The exotica tap into the energy provided by a new crossing over, and come online, and create a new mesh.
The hotelier stands and looks down at its new body. As it were. It looks around at its surroundings. It picks up a few books and starts shelving them.
The pirate, mostly wishing to provide companionship and comfort to the new ghost, assists with tidying up.
~
Alex, you are at the helm of the balloon-ship. As you start to drift slightly up and away, the blue dome of the hotel comes into view. On its peak you can see a life-sized statue of a stern-faced Runesocesius wielding a spear, drawn back as though ready to hurl an angry thunderbolt down at the world below.
The hemogoblin is still down on the deck by the canons. You see it waving cheerily at the library tower. You squint in that direction, but can't see what has caught its attention.
A small tufted-ear owl silently lands next to you breaking you from your reverie. The owl is wearing a small harness with a pouch at the back. Inside the pouch is a rolled piece of paper signed by Inky, up on the seventh floor of the tower.
You count seven windows up the side of the tower from its base. There seems to be some movement inside, but you can't make much out from here. With a lucky shot, you think you might be able to hook the window frame with a zipline.
~
Outside, a pink zephynos is spinning raw cloud into a minuscule opera house and performing arts center under the direction of an amber imp with a new hunger for life. It is an organic looking structure: a primary concert hall, surrounded by a number of smaller stages and performance areas spiraling out from the center like a nautilus shell.
The imp smiles happily, proudly. What tales will be told here! What songs will be sung! "Lorehold," it whispers to itself. "You will tell the world's stories."
It is already trying out lines in its head, imagining the play it will write of this day. About the hotel and the library and the pirates and the cloud dragons. About a pair of adventurers. And a very brave and lucky drone pilot that dared to chase its dreams.
WHAT DO YOU DO