"We are, literally, in a fairy narrative," Grunt told Mastiff as he worked on getting the door further in open, "Ever had to train for raksha?"

He'd give the bodies a quick search just because, depending on what this Story was, there might be a clue. Mostly this felt a bit less murder mystery and a bit more Masque of the Red Death but, hell, the damn things were crazy.

"... No.  SOP now is to immediately ring up Lucifer in case of mass-Raksha attack.  It'd mean WAL was starting trouble and would pitch a fit if we intervened too much."  He says uneasily, "That and the last one screwed up hard..."

He'd obviously heard of Grunt's interactions with them.

The bodies are designed for speed and harrying, all sharp angles and laughing lips and no strength.  Already they are beginning to unravel a bit at the seams. One thing's for sure, though, he'd fought goblins before and they don't seem to fit WAL's aesthetics.  It's not something he can particularly pinpoint but he knows a WAL-goblin when he sees one.

Also, the fact that not a single one has a weapon she'd use.  WAL preferred modern firearms, or Aztec-like stone-age weapons- hunks of obsidian hammered into bone or wood.  These are graceful, crystal European-style weapons.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:03, Sun 07 July 2019.

"These aren't from White Arc Lightning," Grunt told Mastiff, "And while I'd love to drop this in Lucifer's lap SOP is busted for now."

Mentally he started praying, although not to anyone specifically.

"Okay, we have to play our role until the climax of the story is close. Then we can try to force a change, which means we have to be stupid for a while."

And he went to move to the next door.

"How fucking stupid do we gotta be?" He asks as they open up the next door.  Well, they're headed towards the bridge, and here it is- a rather cramped affair even by transport standards.  There's a pair of crash couches, a viewscreen mounted on the front bulkhead where stupider people might put a windshield, and a wide variety of instrumentation panels.

Grunt knows this type well enough to know a dead bridge when he sees one.  There's a little light blinking on the left- the feed to the reactor's been cut.  Meaning all this time this section of the ship's been completely without power.

Grunt can hear a horn blast again.

"About as stupid as a given main character in a drama," Grunt admitted as he cursed, "No power, they must have been running it on their charms. We want control, we need power, which means we head to the reactor."

His head cocked at the horn and he set off again, this time trying to get into the bowels of the Royet. There'll be a perfect moment for the prey to turn and ambush the hunters but it wasn't quite yet. Not enough....drama.

"The reactor's merged with a god.  Either the god's dead or it's replaced it.  Pulled a trick like WAL's," Mastiff supplies. "I've got some skill in reactor maintenance but if the God's dead best I can manage is some internal power.  Not enough for a jump.  If the Fae's in there then we might as well be fucked."

He starts checking his armament.  "Got enough bullets, I think.  Push comes to shove I can make some more from scratch."

Back to the reactor means doubling back.  The bridge is more or less a dead end.

(You can try a Learning roll to recall schematics- 40 will get you a back door to the bowels of the ship)

(7, 7, 6, 5, 4, 4 & 2
And that's a nope, float the 7s)

"I don't know this model at all. We might be able to splice a few sections to my anima banner but that'll fry circuits quick," Grunt said, brushing off some of the debris from the hunters, "But we're not getting out of this without dealing with that fae, our best shot will be if it wears a mobile form. Not really equipped to fight architecture or, hell, the feeling of restlessness at the start of a vacation."

He headed for the door.

"Not sure if its is good or bad luck that neither of us are exactly the heroic type."

"Speak for yourself,"  Mastiff says as follows behind, "If you spot any loose bits of pipe let me know.  I may run out of ammo sooner or later and I'll need to switch."

The door slides open.  The corpses of the hounds are almost totally dissolved.  They can hear giggling from right behind them.

"Should we consider the original crew alive or dead?"

"I'd consider them bait. So alive," Grunt replied as they moved back into the corridor, eyes tracking. He makes a point of looking up as well as scanning the sides. "Only brought the one? Hopefully it won't come to that."

He tried to ignore the ambiance of things, particularly the laughs, whatever did this wanted them emotional. Theatrics were a cheap way to get them tired. Best to head towards the reactor and see what they could do in direct meetings.

"I have a few mags, and can generate more from Essence if necessary but that gets draining real fast.  No reason to spend Essence when you've got the physical wham-bam."
  He tells Grunt, "What I mean is, do we rescue them or do we pop them?"

Mastiff trains his gun up and to the left.  There are scratches on the ceiling ranging from the light touch of a knife to the deep gouge of a claw.  They all, rather predictably, lead to the ventilation shafts.  In a way it's almost classless, like, of COURSE they lead there, where else would they go?

What's not predictable is when he looks a little closer he finds a crystal rod jutting out of one of the ventilation shafts, the rod about the width of a broom handle.  It's just within hand's reach.

"We have to try to save them, unless you want to have C3 crawl right up our asses," Grunt admitted as he eyed the crystal rod warily. Which didn't stop him from trying to grab it. "But if it comes down to it we don't let this mess keep hostages."

"Yah, I read ya."

Mastiff almost says 'Don't touch that' but Grunt has already beaten him to it.  The crystal rod pulls and pulls, finally pulling free of the ventilation shaft.  It's a spear, much like what the hounds were using, complete with a long crossguard.  Someone's blood is at the end.

Mastiff sniffs once.  "Human."

Grunt nodded.

"And fresh enough that they had to be alive not too long ago. The SOP would be careful progress and securing everything behind us as we go," he told Mastiff, "Since that's off the table, we sprint and try to barrel our way through. Small fries are mine, bigger fish are yours until we can dog pile them."

There was the faintest hint of a grin on his face.

"And Control has to buy our drinks when we're out."

Into the breach, as it were, Gabriel jogged.

The next five minutes pass in a blur.

Grunt sprints ahead, Mastiff behind, and a world of creatures assails them as they rush through the halls.  He stabs and slashes his way through the chaff, small alien-like beings, elfin creatures with huge eyes.  A hulking monstrosity raises an axe to chop him to pieces when they reenter an engine room, and Mastiff puts it down with a burst of shots that hit it perfectly in each eye, not a bullet wasted.

With time they find themselves having burst into that initial room with all the fungus.  Time seems to come back to normal; the two are covered in strange blood, blood that isn't their own, not a scratch on their bodies.  The giggling is loud again in the room.  A long mushroom sways in the atmosphere, cloying and sweet to the tongue.

"Ugh... what was all of that?" Mastiff checks his bullets, "One mag down. Feels like everything was just a blur."

Far off, they can see a small lake shimmering purple in the artificial light-sun of the compartment.  The container seems larger than it was before, like they're not even on a ship anymore.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:56, Tue 20 Aug 2019.

"Waypoints, I think," Grunt told Mastiff as he looked around, "This place seems to be their welcome mat."

He looks around.

"We can probably forgo subtle, which means that lake is the first stop."

Then he yelled.

"You know, we could just talk, if you're interested."

The lake shimmers in front of them.  It's so far, but they can see it perfectly- and they can see the figure stepping out from lapping purple water on to the alien shore.  Tall, lithe, black of skin and gold of eye and fur, the Fair Folk man blinks at him with alien interest.  The form shifts, now an elegant woman, covered in moss and green and bearing a long bow.

"Ye who come to mine kingdom, being of mere flesh and bone, wilt thou give thine full name so that thou might enter mine halls?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:19, Mon 26 Aug 2019.

"The duties of a host and their guests mirror each other," Grunt replied, taking off his helmet with a resigned shrug, "I am named Gabriel but designated Grunt."

"Mastiff.  Ibrahim Doyuz."  His coworker gruffly responds, weapon still at the ready just in case.  He's obviously content to let Grunt take the lead.

"Mine name is TarotoraT, the third, shapeless Regent of the Third Kingdom,"  She says in her sing-song voice, "Thine presence is concerning, a shifting of the balance between me and mine of the First and Second Kingdoms.  I meet pledge peace between us, so long as thou lay an oath of peace alongside mine."

"We are vassals, of some rank true but not so highly placed that we might make such pledges upon our own remit," Grunt replied, sweat breaking out on his brow, "For such accords we would need to communicate with those outside this place. We might offer our personal parole while here, if you extend your kingdom's aegis over us."

"Alas, I do not understand," TarotoraT sings to him, "There is nothing outside of here, o stranger.  Thoust come from the void of the void, is true, but me and mine kin have no means to reach it.  That is also beyond a remit.  But mine power is not so small that I cannot offer thee safe passage if thou would only wear my torc."

"There is another of your kin in the void, kept safe in a shell like this but vastly larger," Grunt replied, "And we may be able to speak with them if you indulge our needs."

"Verily!"  Her eyes bulge, "We were created as the last!  To hold the last line, to keep the edges shut, to die as final sacrifices to the end of the timeline.  A fatal remit, and one most onerous.  Mine kin, do thou know the means of their creation?  From what sire/ess?"

"She is called White Arc Lightning and known to me only indirectly," Grunt replied, "Can the communications systems of this vessel be restored?"

"Thy question makes us, unsure," The fae tells him.  "The machinery of this vessel perplexes us.  The paths of electrons are not mine to travel.  The city of circuits cannot be breached without mine brother's approval."

"What is his name, and would he approve?" Grunt asked, eyes still tracking the....growth that had spread across the ship, "I am afraid time may be growing more precious than usual."