like puzzle pieces, and now we're here at a standstill

Additional Revenant explanation! Because why not?



First, someone's made art of my current state. Fantastic. And such a deal at two thousand Lindens.

Second, I really tried to make a pretty frame and turn these images out proper, and...the head is not having it at this point. I'm currently huddled around the jar of candied ginger eating rice cakes with cream cheese, because it has the best chance of staying down. Love this for me.



So, something I only noticed when I logged in today--as I mentioned in the previous entry, I changed zero settings, just captured it as is. It uses the standard ZHAO II framework, so you can edit the notecard inside and add in new poses, et cetera.



But this is the one I really wanted to track down. So, when I'm feeling better, I'm going to look at changing some of the times, but it's a very straightforward notecard. I would definitely make a copy if you're not used to working with interior scripting, but there is a handy help button on the HUD that will toss you a general ZHAO II help card.

Hope that clears up some things!

Have a shot of adorable Xiu blep:



And to tie this up, I can't even get the kids to behave when it's just trace shadows of their adult selves:



They are exceptionally stubborn. I blame the parents, really.

And that's all for this! Seeya!

I looked across the room and saw a face shining in the dark

So because Grim loves us, even when we do madcap things like go to his store and take over his throne, or (somehow) get wedged between Grim and said throne, he gives us some stellar group gifts. This is the latest.



May I present the "Lenore" Tombstone Spectacles from /Vae Victis\.



So bit of explanation, because normally I move at least a little during photo shoots. I was in the Slippy Ship (that name still makes me giggle) that is the live music venue in Aphrodite. See, when the Fender sim returned to the mists--the one that was a HUGE performance space for the Dirty Grind collective--a lot of us scrambled to find new places for folks to play. Some of the folks behind Hotel Chelsea set up new performance dates for music and poetry in a couple of venues, and in the meantime, Tannhauser's Countess pondered if the bar on the scrappy little moon drawn into Tanis' orbit might work. We decided, in discussions with performers, that Wednesdays could work, so most Wednesdays now, the sets start at four pm SLT with either Corwyn Allen or Justinejohndory Amethyst, followed by Gypsy Dhrua, usually followed by Effinjay, or sometimes just Frogg Marlowe solo.

I haven't been able to make all of them, but the ones I have are starting to have that same feel that the Grind has--slightly run-down, graffitied art on the walls, and good music to groove to.



The down side, for me, is some nights...volume hurts. Like, I want to listen, but...some nights the headache interferes. So rather than be dancing on the lower floor, I was on a couch upstairs in the gallery.



And no, I don't know who the fellow was behind me. But here's the HUD, which features five separate parts that can be tinted seven different shades, to go with any conceivable look.



All in all, these are simple, elegant, and gorgeous. And, with the glasses being mod, they can be shrunk for Dinkies and tinies, or slightly enlarged for furry snouts. They'll work either way.

So how do you get your grabby paws on these? Nothing simpler--drop by the mainstore (linked above), and join the group. It'll cost you a ten-spot, but after that, you can pick these up free. Yay all around!



Now if you'll excuse me, more tests on the morrow, so off the keys I go! Onward!

I cannot move, I close my eyes

I usually don't make New Year's resolutions. For one, they're usually all aspirations beyond most peoples' ken. For two, they're far too easy to break.

I made one this year. Just the one.

And nearly broke it as we draw closer to midnight.

So--I have no strong guarantee this will work, but the resolution was: one entry every day of 2023. It probably won't work. But I am going to try.

In the meantime, while I sort that out, there is some reshuffling of estate things, while we reconfigure, which means the cats are tucked in wherever I can find room for them! So have this shot of Eratosthenes, the former library cat, sleeping in a large part of the new shop space. Well, he is a mega. He takes up a large amount of terrain. :D

when you get back on a Saturday night and your head is caving in

(Roleplay-ish)

She sat in a chair woven of birch branches and strands of lights, brooding. Her knees were tucked under her chin as she remembered earlier, the hours earlier, his lips on her skin, his firm embrace, his presence, after so, so long...and his words, murmuring that he could sense her hunger, he could tell how long it had been since she fed...



Briefly, she resented this, blinking in a rush of sudden emotion, before she paused, and truly thought that through. And...she sighed. Because, of course, why would someone so close to her heart not know her? How could she so foolishly dismiss the insight of the first one who'd ever inherited her gift, or curse, whatever it was in truth...and who knew the shape and flavor of that particular hunger, himself?



How, indeed.

She shook her head at herself, tongue clucking. She'd grown so accustomed to being the only one, arrogant, perhaps, with that hunger, red of eye and long of tooth, her constant companion. She'd grown used to its presence, always a few steps behind, always aware of the gnawing in her belly, the desire to grow her fangs and...just...bite.



But she also refused to just use people for fodder. And she'd gotten fairly good at ways to restrain the need--she'd grown quite fond of arsenic tea, and there was a certain extract made from Destroying Angels and manchineel, though it was difficult to produce. There was one other thing she could do in times of great duress, but...she preferred not to think about it.



She sighed again. Perhaps an apology was due him, for so mistakenly thinking she could simply turn aside his innate understanding, her own hunger, concentrating on his...but again, habit, custom, arrogance, she saw it now. She fed him and was, somewhat, fed herself; he fed her, and felt the same. It wasn't just the sweet red on the lips, it was the trail of entwining energy that came with it. That trail of energy, the cord that bound them together, reinforced with every touch, every kiss, every bite.



She wrinkled her nose. Yes. She definitely owned her love an apology. She went into the treehouse, hunting for her writing desk, a spare pen, and the Gearhaven seal to press into the envelope after. At least the garden was close to done...

do you turn into your effigy?

(Roleplay...ish? Entry?)



A slip between worlds, a tug on the fabric of reality, a delicate fold in the matrix of time...When the mists cleared, she found herself standing in the shadows across the road from the shop. She stepped forward, grateful for the travel cup of warm arsenic tea she held, proof against the rising damp of the evening. She was in Castle Rock, Maine.

Travel to the literary universes was always tricky; this stop more than most. Complication was already setting in, she saw, as the proprietor of the shop stepped into the open doorway. She squared her shoulders and made her way across the street. This was necessary. Needful, one might even say.



It was a moment to barter a bit of herself away to Mr. Gaunt; a moment more to return through the portal in the alley. The longest leg of her journey, in fact, required walking up all the turning steps to the tower.

Now, all she had to do was use the ring to reinforce the wards on the estate..before the full curse fell.

Simple.



It was a pretty thing, at least. Clean lines. A bas-relief eye in the crimson metal, sigil for so many things.



She slipped it on. It fit...as if it had been cast specifically for her. Perhaps it had. There was ever an element of risk in trades; perhaps she would not win, and Gaunt would delight in her suffering. Perhaps she would, and Gaunt would realize some fish are too big for his hooks. Either way, it accomplished the most needful thing: prevention of the slow erosion in reality beyond the tower...where New Alexandria used to be.

She dare not do any less--not only for her own people, but for those of Darkmere she'd invited in. Though, on reflection, she likely could have trusted their Duke to help...Still. Done was done. And she was home again. She stood and began to cast.



In the end, the invocation was the simplest part; words that were rote at this point, retying her magic to the realm, her spellcraft to her Duke's, to wreathe the land in a protective net. Self-sustaining, as well, which required a tricky bit of phrasing; the last thing she wanted was the ring to turn on the wards and slice through them when the unblinking eye chose to shut.



All too soon, it was done. Another hour and the visible magics would fade, the ring would come off. She could return it to the small box she was sure it hadn't come with, originally, and go on about her work. She would sleep soundly tonight, she thought...which would be something of a relief.

This, by the way, is a gift from /Vae Victis\ for the Warehouse Sale, which opened August 23rd. (Or just keep an eye on their web page for more information.) And it's still this pretty.

I'll likely cover what's actually in the booth at the Warehouse in a day or so, but I wanted this out first. It comes in five colors, a sturdy brass, a strong-cast silver, a dead-of-night black, a gleaming white, and this, the scarlet. I was wholly prepared to adjust and fiddle, since it was a ring, and the whole of my SL existence has featured fiddling with adornments, regardless of where they attach. But this? No need. It fits perfectly.

dark necessities are part of my design

up on Melancholy Hill, there's a plastic tree
are you here with me?



I don't...I've never been able to un-love, easily. There are nights I envy those who can throw others aside blithely; that's never been me. I love until it's--emotionally, psychologically, sometimes physically--beaten out of me, and even then...I love, but distantly. I love, but I know I've lost. I love, but I mourn.

"just looking out on the day of another dream
where you can't get what you want, but you can get me



Tonight has a flavor of more, because there has been another loss. It's not just the one I can't have; it's the one bright, shining spark who deserved more time. But can't we all say that, at some point? Still, Ktahdn has passed, and it hit me hard enough I can't imagine the level of grieving for those closer. He was...art with a pulse, in a lot of ways. Living thread of music and sculpture and words. And he will be missed.

so let's set out to sea, love
'cause you are my medicine when you're close to me
when you're close to me



In the interim of hearing the news, and feeling the loss of presence, if nothing else, of a lot of loves...I've been building. I finally finished the shore path I started in 2021 and never got back to. Now it leads from the front of the garden, down to the Fish and Whistle, the new pub by the fishing area. Linkages slowly forming, day by day. And the island in the Dark Sea got leveled in a mis-click, so...I raised a new one. But before, it was a gentle swell of curve, and now...well. Now it's an imposing bluff. Bit higher than I intended.

so call in the submarines, 'round the world we'll go
does anybody know, love
if we're looking out on the day of another dream?



Still, now it has a path too. It's a bit trickier coming down, than going up, because of the steep angle, but that's also why there's a fence. So no one falls off who doesn't want to.

Sometimes everyone falls, though, in spite of our best intentions.

if you can't get what you want, then you come with me



At the top it's much the same as it was before--sheltering trees, a place to stop and rest, the drifting fog between the standing stones. I removed the memorial that used to be up there, as well--though that was designed by Alia for Finn, when he passed, so...maybe it's time that returns. Not sure yet.

up on Melancholy Hill
sits the manatee, love



In other removalist news, there's only one thing left on the Krakenstorm sim, and after the owner of that ship is contacted, and removes it, it will likely be returning to the Linden mists. Though there has been a nibble of interest in renting it--we'll see where that goes, but honestly, I think we'll end up losing it. Going from five sims, down to three, now that New Alexandria's renter has moved on. Passages, transitions, losses. We're in the thick of them.

just looking out for the day when you're close to me
when you're close to me



The one bit of good news in all of this--Darkmere rises, and its denizens return. Which is kind of funny--its duke and master has been a friend for so long, but he'd wandered from the grid for several years. Still, when he returned, word went out, and his people joined him. And I'd met only a handful, once or twice, most I never met in all those long years between the then, and the now, but--they've become some of the joys of my virtual life. Scrim Pinion is such a talent, and he, like Violet, always introduces me to some new song, or new musical group, that then I must dig up and learn more about. Lilly his lovely wife, quieter, gothically amused, but also a joy to spend time with. Diana their reprobate third, eternally searching for new shops (an affliction I share) and the highest of surfaces to sit upon (an affliction I don't). Mourna, shy but present, Vertigo, all fire and electric energy, Charlemagne the genuinely maddened, but in good ways...and still the likeliest candidate to crash a sim on pure accident...(Scrim calls Chaz' inventory a level one cognitohazard. He's likely not wrong. Chaz reminds me palpably of Stiv of the before times, the long-lost dead god of Enigma)...and all the rest...They're good people. Fun people. Funny, not infrequently. And most of them had left the grid, too.

Suppose that shows you the pull one person can have.

when you're close to me...

Now I just need to find ways to lessen the pull.

(The song lyrics used are from "On Melancholy Hill", of course, by the Gorillaz, from the Plastic Beach album released in 2010. Though this one might also be apropos...even if I can't figure out if I'm him, or her, in this scenario. Maybe I'm both...which is far from comforting.)

and what am I now but your reaction, I'm all those memories you tried to steal

There is no one thing left, but that one thing, and that one thing, you cannot have. What now?

Gooood question.

So. I've been gone a month. Longer than, really, if you count the slipped story, and that, I'm not sure I can go back to--both the story and the story-tellers have changed in the intervening time. I'll try, but it won't be the story I would have told then, and it may not even be the one I'd tell now, all things considered true.

Am I being obscure? Probably.

So what's happened? Big changes, big transitions. New Alexandria has fallen without a mention, much as I'd meant to mention it; Port Fortune has (sort of) risen in its memory, though not its place. Krakenstorm my beloved, while still there, is not; it will soon be released by the land's owner back into the mists. New Alexandria's former territory will depart as well, around the same time, leaving Gearhaven no longer five, but three.

But in reality, we're mainly two, because Darkmere rises again in the Dark Sea. I've been enchanted watching it rise, and watching its scattered denizens return. They couldn't be happier. I think I couldn't either.

Soon the black sun and the darkened moon will shine their occult rays on the fens and marshes, and for once that is not hyperbole; Lucifer Baphomet is designing the sun and moon for his skies, and they are...distinct, and different. And very much him.

What else?

The Night Court has fallen; vestiges of it still remain in Silver City, and while I do not wish them well, at least I do not wish them harm, and that is about the best that can be hoped for. Once again, Gearhaven is home to refugees from elsewhere, and I'm doing all I can to make our strange, wild lands somewhat more...tame? Tame is not the word, but it's the only one coming to mind...for their stay with us. They're looking towards owning their own lands, so their sojourning within our borders is for a finite time, be that weeks, months, or years. And that's fine; all things change, whether we wish them to or not. Nothing stays the same.

I'm now an official blogger for Vae Victis; I suppose I should thank the nepotism of friendship for that, but honestly, I'm awed and amazed that I was approved. Because, as every reader of this blog knows, I don't take pictures in the best, most optimal light; I take them for what is seen, by most, on the grid as is. Very few fancified effects; for all my fancies, and many are innate at this point, I am a realist where the lens is concerned.

I will try to note where I was given product, versus just buying it on my own; the Dracul Regalia horns of last entry, for instance, were given graciously by Grimoire Hexem. The next entry, on the Hiraeth antlers, I bought those on my own. (Amusingly, they're one of the product offerings I could have had, gratis, for the blogging, but--I wanted them, I bought them, I made them mine. So there.)

And I'm putting the blog back together. Whatever haphazard glitch in the matrix disabled it in the first place, I can no longer find the originals to restore, so--going back to the template before the template I had before the last template. Annoying, but there we are. I will slowly add things back in as we go.

And...that's about one. Down one hand surgery, will have another hand go under the knife next month, but that's RL...in SL, things are...more or less good. Well. They're good, they're just...either I have way too much free time, and nothing to do with it, or no free time at all, and I'm scrambling to get everything done. Isn't it always the way?

But from here, I start to reweave the threads, and we'll see what happens from there.

Has to be better than a month of nothing at all...

the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most

Heartbreak. That's what this tastes like.



Stepping back from allegory for a moment. I went to high school in a very small, and very rural, area. As an adult, looking back on it, I can see the issues clearly: a bunch of queer kids finding our identity in a repressive, conservative school, with all the inherent pitfalls therein. But at the time, on the ground, all we knew was that our parents didn't understand us, and in many cases, didn't want to.

We had alcoholics under eighteen, drug addicts, because existing in these spaces was so difficult. We weathered suicide attempts, and once or twice, had to cope in the aftermath of suicidal successes. We had parents who committed their kids to psych wards, attempting to "cure" them. It was nightmarish, and cruel.



Through those four years, there was someone else in my life. We never dated, neither of us wanted to be that for each other. What we did become, was--family. I thought of him as my brother, to the point that even now, when I think on him, that is the first word that comes to mind.

Through all the chaos, all the times the world lit on fire, all the time the ground froze and chipped off pieces of our defenses from sheer cold, we stood together. I told him things I've told no one else--not blood relations, not current partners. I was the first call he made from the conversion therapy center his parents slapped him into after his second suicide attempt.



I tell you this not to seek sympathy, but to give you context of how close we were.

As is the way of life continuing, those of us who survived high school--and, it must be said, not all of us did--chose to flee the stifling confines of religion and repression. For him, that was Louisiana. For me, I returned to California.

We wrote long, extravagant letters to keep in touch, called each other between them. There were (rare, but occasional) visits--once, when he came out to California, once, when he went to spend time with a friend in Colorado. Even being so far apart, even after all the years since high school...we still felt that deep kinship. My brother; his sister; life went on.



Until a particular president was elected that I thought was bad for the country. History has proven me right, but at the time this was the first issue that divided us. We argued, in letters, in phone calls, each trying to get the other to hear.

But he was the one to say, "You're not my sister anymore".

There is a very particular pain that settles into us, carving out space in our bones, with a pronouncement like that. He cut off all contact, returning my letters, hanging up when I tried to call. Eventually, I stopped, and just breathed in the pain of it, trying to cope.



Two years later, a hurricane struck the city he was in, and he was listed among the missing.

It took another year of poring over records at a distance, calling his place of employment, calling churches, emailing every address I had of him and our former high school friends...tracking down friends and barely acquaintances who might know how to contact his family. Trying to find word. That was hard, too.

Not as hard as the day I finally saw his name on a body retrieval list.



Knowing he'd passed...that was crushing. Knowing we'd never be reconciled again...that was...excruciating.

This man I considered closer than blood, closer than family born, was now...gone.

I tell you that to tell you this.



There's been a certain leaked memo in the past week. I'm not going to say much on it directly, save to say--everyone in what's become the extended in-world family is--ideologically, at least--on the same page. But even knowing that, an argument broke out on particulars. And two of us watched in horror as the family fractured before our eyes.

That same dawning sense of loss. That same feeling of the chasm in front of me, where formerly mutual love and support existed.

I don't know what's going to happen with this family's fracture. I know there are things we may not be able to come back from. I know trust has not just been broken in some places, but cremated and buried, as well.

I don't know if we can heal. And I don't know what happens from here.

The one thing I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt--I'm still going to exist on the other side of this. Because I've gone through this once, and survived. Sadder, more melancholy, grieving for the lost...but survival, nonetheless. It's--kind of what I do.

The only other thing I know is...right now, in this moment--moment to moment..it's hard to breathe. And I don't know when that feeling's going to go away, either.

and I don't wanna be lonely so show me the way home

I have finally gotten around to buying THING, and have installed it (at least for now) in the only place it makes sense: the cathedral in Tannhäuser Gate.



Rory Torrance is the artist behind this, and several other pieces I've bought over the past few months (they're all in Krakenstorm's welcome center, this was...bigger). To make the animated pieces move in the ways he wanted, he's said he had to write the code from scratch. I remain impressed.

He has two studios of his work: the Strangelands main studio, and the smaller Strangelands gallery in Elysium (as well as his work being part of the World Culture Hub, I believe, and I thought Soup's art gallery in Stormhold--though that may be devoted to Zenmondo Wormser's set of exhibits).

[Note from the Editrix: just learned he also has an exhibit at the UASL.]

At any rate, he's worth checking out. Definitely an eye for movement, pattern, and shape, and some strong messages in his work. I'm biased, sure, but I don't think I'm wrong.

so, where is the Duke, anyway? (part CLVIII)

(Roleplay entry. Continued from part CLVII.)

A fragment from a past not ours...

When the Malaclypse struck Aetheria, the people had only a handful of months to prepare. The best mages from all the competing courts drew together and pooled their energies, extending the time remaining enough to build generation ships--ships large enough, powerful enough, that some might survive long enough to settle a new homeland. One by one, the Radiomaster watched the ships blink out of range of the scanners, and knew it was finally time.



He'd elected to stay behind--someone strong enough had to, to hold the spells distorting the flow of time around the planet. But that time was drawing to a close, and he, along with the interwoven threads of all the spells, would be torn asunder when the planet's core exploded. Malathian, they had managed to slay, finally, but his destructive will yet moved through the very soil under the Radiomaster's feet.



He made final preparations, laying in his narrow bed in the highest tower. He had no idea how far the shreds of distorted reality would extend. He hoped, for all their sakes, it would be confined to their own star system, but--even that surety had been stripped from them with Malathian's curse.



He breathed out, slowing his heartbeat, his breathing, his skin chilling with his efforts. He had done all he could. And with one last flick of directed thought, he let go of the massed spells. A brief moment of searing pain, a sensation of shattering, and the oddest feeling of being watched, by a--cat? In the guise of a man?



Then even that was gone, and the fragments of Aetheria raced through the time stream, to land where they would.



And the fragments of destroyed Aetheria raced through the timestreams, some ending up on a place known as Tanis...

so, where is the Duke, anyway? (part CLVII)

(Roleplay entry. Continued from part CLVI.)

A *click* as the comms opened, followed by Justine's voice. "To All Duchy Citizenry. I'm going to make an attempt to retrieve the eldritch Warhead. All assistance welcomed."

Laurence’s voice on the channel: "Message received, support is now on its way, over."

"Ruhroh," said the bard.

"Oh, no," said the Duchess. "Okay, I'll change."

"All units, report?" she heard Justine say, as she found an outfit and flew to Darktow, diving into the Dark Sea.

"Swift here," said Thomas.

"Alive and well," said Laurence. "All units accounted for."

"No work for me?"

That was a new voice. Emilly struggled to place it as she approached the site. Doctor...Anael? No. Azazel? No. Something...

"No work for me?" he said, and it clicked into place. Araphael! That was it!

She approached, seeing the flashes of light through the water. Right, there was still an active hostile. Thankfully, she had found a working weapon in the interim.

She heard Laurence laugh. "Don't sound too disappointed Doc, there are plenty of life forms here to study."

She approached, landing on the sea bottom, weapon held at the ready, and as soon as her feet were beneath her she started firing. And firing. And firing. Bolts of green sang through the dark waters, landing too far away for her to tell if she'd truly hit the remaining hostile--but the fact she wasn't getting shot back made her hopeful.

"If the Duchess isn't too busy blasting them to pieces," Laurence said, laughing.

"No, no, that was the tentacle star. We've alreeady examined one of those--up close. We don't need to capture another one."

"I'm actually relieved," said the doctor.

"Best be on guard," Laurence aded grimly.

"I think I will be fine, I am partially tentacle as well," the doctor added, and Emilly blinked. Partially what?

"All I know is, I'll be happy when we get this thing back to Tannhauser. The water right now tastes FOUL."

She watched a large flat carrier vehicle move through the waters as she walked towards the smoking husk of the last hostile.

"The sky truck seats three, if anyone else wants a ride," Justine said over the comm.

"Laurence? I can swim back up and meet you at the station?" she asked, watching Araphael climb into the back seats.

"Take the Duchess, I will secure the area," Laurence said.

"All right, then." She climbed onto the truck, watching the servos help Justine drag the eldritch thing to the back of the vehicle.

"No problem at all," Justine said. "I'm going to bring this to the hangar on level eight, and we can figure out what to do with it from there."

"Who know if there's anything else lurking down here," Laurence said darkly. She sighed, nodding.

"That's what worries me." She checked the map again, brow furrowing. "The Dark Sea ghost is still reading on the map, so be careful along the border, Laurence."

"Get back safe," he said.

Up they went, through layers of dark water, breaching into air. She coughed for a bit, converting back to breathing oxygen, and they went up, until the air became very thin. Justine touched a button and a bubble shield sprang up around the truck. It took a bit of jockeying, but finally, the cargo was in the hangar, they dismounted, and Justine flew off to park the sky truck.

"The cargo is secure in the classified hangar on deck eight," Justine said.

"Copy that," Laurence replied. "Were there any issues on the way back?"

"Not at all. Everything is five by five."

She grinned ruefully at the doctor, as the hangar doors closed, and they walked back into the station. "The one thing that went according to plan."

The doctor smiled back.

"Yes," said Laurence. "It was a nice, smooth operation."

Justine laughed. "Well, after how rough the first half of the operation was, we needed something to go right!"

"Too true!" She waved at the doctor at the lift, and went up to the command deck to leave a report for the Duke.

(Continued in part CLVIII.)

so, where is the Duke, anyway? (part CLVI)

(Roleplay entry. Continued from part CLV.)

"I'm in front of something stone..." said Swift, in a concerned voice.

Emilly floated in the water just offshore, watching the wreckage. "Yeah," she said. "Near Steam."

"With waving tentacles..."

Emilly blinked. "Oh, no, that's supposed to be there."

"What?" Swift asked, after a long pause.

Emilly dove back underwater, swimming to where the underwater temple used to be. She lands neatly on the sand beside Swift, peering into the well of writhing green flesh.

"Maybe I should have put up a sign? 'Harmless'? Or, at least--'Contained'?"

Swift just stared at her, then shook his head, and swam back to the gunship.

"We can't get close enough to them," said Laurence.

"I got a heat grenade type shell--try that?" asked Briggs.

"Try it!" said Justine.

Emilly swam closer, trying to edge around the remains of the ship still at the crash site.

"I've got eyes on--" Justine said. "They're firing on something!"

Emilly groaned, gouting blood into the dark waters, midsection charred. She was very, very glad she was no longer carrying the heirs.

"Me," she finally whispered, slowly swimming away, returning to the TG tram, summoning a shuttle to take her to Tannhauser Gate station. "I got too close. That...is a very big gun..."

"That shell hit!" crowed Justine.

"Damn things can repair themselves too," said Laurence.

"They--WHAT?" yelped the Duchess.

"Direct hit!" said Laurence. "One hostile down."

"[Sh*t]," said Justine. "There's one left."

"This is Gearhaven Actual," Hiro said for the third time. "Return to Tannhauser Gate. Mission scrubbed. New data to be reviewed in second mission briefing."



"Briggs, can you pick us up and get us back to the station?" asked Justine.

"Yes," he said. "Packing up now."

"Laurence, stay with me. We're waiting for extraction. Tom, you're awfully close to the crash site. Are you taking fire from the one remaining hostile?"

"On board the ship," said Swift.

As Justine and Laurence boarded, Laurence checked Justine over for wounds. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"I think I'm okay," she said, holstering her blaster. "Tannhauser Command to Duchess Emilly, come in?"

Emilly didn't answer, shifting on her way up to Tannhauser, picking a form mostly at random--a pale bunny. She felt rather helpless for this fight, maybe that was why. She made her way to the command deck. Hiro was peering intently at the screen when she arrived.

"So what is our situation?" Justine asked. "We eliminated three of the four hostiles. There are still tentacle monsters. But most importantly, TOTS appears to have moved."

"Right," Emilly said, slumping into a chair. Hiro looked over with concern.

"As far as I know, the Duchess is the only one who actually saw the ship move and knows where it is."

Emilly nodded at Justine's words, even though Justine couldn't see the motion. "I don’t think the cargo's on board anymore..."

"No?"

"No, I think it's still at the crash site."

"Let's go to the briefing room. If anyone has visual recordings of the crash site, please share them with me."

Justine, back on the station, took the lift to deck 02. "Okay, let's get what we've got up on the screen here."

"This is what's left at the crash site," she said, pointing out the forward section of the ship, the various threats around it, and the--whatever it was--that had slid partially into a deep furrow behind the ship.

"One hostile, some interdimensional incursion, and...one guardian monster."

Emilly leaned forward, peering at the image. "Hiro, no," she said softly.

Hiro looked over at her, shaking his head. She sighed and sat back in the chair.

"The cargo is a weaponized eldritch warhead," Hiro said.

Justine frowned. "I...see."

"We bought it from an instance of Jack Parsons...We do need it back on the station before anyone--the Federation, the UAP, et cetera...get it."

"Oh, we get it," Justine said darkly. "It's still being guarded by one remaining hostile. We've learned that if we fire at the hostiles enough, they stop firing back briefly. We might be able to get past it and retrieve the cargo, and get back out."

"What happened to the others?" he asked. "Did you kill them?"

Justine nodded. "Chief Briggs was able to take them out with heavy artillery, before he ran out of shells. A launched heat grenade took out the last one we were able to destroy."

Justine looked down at the control panel. "Hold on...I've got a shot of the new location of TOTS." She threw up the image of the collection of scrap metal.

"And that, friends and neighbors, is where the ship ended up," Emilly said.

"That is close to GH," Hiro said. "Is the site secured?"

"It's IN Gearhaven," Emilly retorted. "Or at the very least, just edging into the Dark Sea, but on land. If you were standing at that center lithon, Hiro, and walked left? You'd be at Steam."

Justine sighed. "Well, it appears the core is no longer on fire, at least."

"No, but...it fractured," Emilly said.

"So we can worry about that later," Justine said.

"Any news on the survivor?" Laurence asked.

Emilly shook her head. "Never got close enough to the ship. Kept getting shot."

"Justine..." Hiro began. Justine startled as all the station klaxons started screaming.

"STAN! What is that??"

STAN turned the screen black, before words scrolled up:

STAN: Eldritch anomaly detected.

An image appeared on the screen. Emilly sat up in the chair. "Wait! I saw one of those! I pointed that out to Briggs when we were going to the shuttle!" She turned to Hiro. "You don't have ANOTHER of those alien--things--aboard still, do you??" she asked frantically.

"I doubt it," Hiro said.

"The fact that you're not sure fills me with dread."

"STAN, bring all station defenses online!" Justine cried out, tapping the control panel. The picture changed to something desaturated and slightly grainy.



"Please tell me this isn't a live feed," said Laurence.

"I think it is," replied Justine. "STAN? What is going on?" She rushed to a separate terminal, pulling up data from the scanners.

STAN: All defensive systems online.

"Okay, so...We have a lost weapon guarded by hostiles in the Dark Sea," the Duke said slowly. "A moving crash site close to the Mansion...We have--whatever--happened...last night...and now that." He pointed at the screen.

Justine looked puzzled. "There's nothing on the scanners." She looked up. "Laurence, can you see anything?"

Emilly looked over her shoulder. "That's not possible."

"It is if something is jamming us," Justine said.

"Are we being jammed?" Hiro asked.

Justine ran a frequency modulation bypass filter on the scanners. Laurence looked over her shoulder.

"What the hell are they?" he asked.

Emilly shrugged. "I don't know."

"I'm heading to Command Ops," Hiro said, moving at speed out of the room. Everyone else piled out after him, running to the gunship again. Justine stumbled over to the copilot seat, strapping in in a hurry.

"Shields up!" Hiro said. "Reactors online!"

"I see them! West side of the station," Justine said. "Behind the cathedral. Chief, can you take us there?"

Briggs flew around the station, zeroing in the on the targets in the gunship.

Emilly stood, starting to move towards the door, and paused. She looked down, seeing pinpricks of red slowly blooming on her white dress. She tapped her comm, not sure if it was still on.

"Guys...I don't think...the patch work held..."

There was screaming over the comms, then--

"Briggs? BRIGGS!" yelled Justine.



Emilly fell to her knees, holding her stomach. She tried to stagger to her feet, and collapsed. Everything...went...dark.

(Continued in part CLVII.)

so, where is the Duke, anyway? (part CLV)

(Roleplay entry. Continued from part CLIV.)



Just as Briggs reported he had exhausted his supply of shells, the radio crackled to life. It was Hiro. "This is Gearhaven Actual; Justine, do you copy?"

"Roger, Gearhaven Actual. This is Commander Johndory."

The comms lit up with cross-chatter.

"Under heavy fire!" yelled Laurence.

"All right, I can get about fifty meters from the crash site--" the Duchess chimed in.



"We've got some sort of--hellmouth--open in the center of the Dark Sea," said Justine, "and there's--something--coming out--"

"WHAT?" yelped Emilly.

Justine swerved the Stingray away from the crash site, dodging laser blasts. She turned to look at the jumpseat behind her. "Laurence! Are you all right back there?"

There was a groan over the comms. "Hit again," said the Duchess.

"Briggs? Swift? Report?" said Justine.

Laurence took off his mask, breathing heavily. "Feeling pretty lightheaded--how are you holding up, Justine?"



"This is Gearhaven Actual. Justine! Do you copy?" said the Duke.

"Standing by artillery set-up," said Briggs. "But I'm seeing some straight sights--"

"I'm all right," Justine said. "Heading for Briggs. Swift, keep outside a fifty meter perimeter from the crash site."

The Stingray was hit on the next pass. Justine struggled with the controls. Between gritted teeth she spat out "She...isn't...responding..."



"It's moving again!" yelled Emilly. She swam up, following the pieces of the mad ship. It fetched up against land again, this time--just down the hill from Steam towers. Great.

Justine regained control of the little flyer, sliding her right along the land line between the Dark Sea and...the other Dark Sea. "This is going great."

"Return to Tannhauser Gate," said Hiro.



"I'm sorry, GH Actual? Please repeat last command?" Justine asked.

"Do you have a visual on the debris field of the Bad Mofo?"

"Not at the moment, returning there now."

"Duchess...did you say the ship is flying?"

"Not anymore," she said mournfully, staring at the pile of rubble next to the TG tram.

(Continued in part CLVI.)