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Two weeks after leaving port, they arrive in Salinas. Pannych has the galleons approach each other and drop anchor when they’re in eyesight of the city, but well out of weapons range. She orders everyone aboard the Birthright for another speech - she stands just before the wheel, with Phyr and Vector on either side of her, with the combined pirate crews bunched together on the main deck below.
“OK, everyone,” she begins, shouting with her hands cupped around her mouth as before. “Great job! You got us to Salinas, and upheld your end of the bargain! And we are nothing if not fair demigods, so we’ll take a dinghy and row ourselves to shore. I don’t think any of us wants those city folk spooked by your jolly roger - isn’t that right, Captain Greenbeard?”
“His name’s Max Fightmaster,” Vector whispers to her.
“What? That’s the dumbest name I ever heard.”
“No, there’s a real guy in the Army Reserve with that name.”
“The fuck?!” Pannych shudders as if to shake loose the incredulity. “Why don’t you just name your kid, I dunno, fuckin’... Rad Heroman?”
“That’s another real life name, he’s in the Marines,” Phyr says. “You shared a listicle with us.”
“A what?!” She looks at the crowd, and can see that she’s losing them. She refocuses. “Look, I don’t care what your name is, I’m calling you ‘Captain Greenbeard’ because you’re now the captain of this ship, and your beard is green. If you aren’t happy about either of those, then I can change them for you.”
“No, no,” Captain Fightmaster says, “That’ll do, an’ thank’ya kindly.”
“See,” Pannych says to Phyr and Vector, “Everything’s fine. We’re all happy. Oh, wait, there’s one more thing I wanted to know - what are you gonna do with the prisoners?”
The pirates all seem to suck in air through their teeth in unison. “The thing is,” Captain Fightmaster explains, “If we press ‘em into service, they’ll just mutiny at the first chance, as ol’ Edric doesn’t take too kindly to our piratin’ ways, an’ takes even less kindly to deserters or those who turn a blind eye. So fer them, it’s kill us, or face him - even if we let ‘em go. An’ while a sea full’a pirates may provide anonymity enough for us to hide amongst our… colleagues, a known ship with known whereabouts is much easier to track down an’ retake. So if you be catchin’ my implication-”
“It’s kill or be killed,” Pannych concludes for him. “No, I get it. That’s cool.” She nods, and turns toward the dinghy at the rear of the poop deck. “We’ll be seeing you, then,” she calls over her shoulder. “And if you ever run into Nadab, just-”
“CHILL!” Phyr has both hands thrust over the deck, and an arctic blast in a nice broad cone soon freezes them all solid. As they swiftly die of hypothermia, the ones in range give the adventurers a total of 60 experience points each.
“Dammit, Phyr! What the fuck,” Pannych screams.
“Now what? Are you telling me you were just gonna let them go, so they could kill Captain Starling, and take all this cargo for themselves?”
“No, of course not!”
“Then did you want to take them alive, so we’d be outnumbered?”
“No, we needed to kill them all dead. Duh.”
“So what the fuck are you mad about?”
Pannych balls her hands into fists and is literally shaking with anger. With her eyes shut tight, she barely controls her voice as she says, “I was gonna make a really cool pun and then you just stole my thunder!”
Vector chuckles and says, “Except he didn’t use Bolt, so you have zero chill, right?”
“AUGH!” Pannych storms off in a huff.
After freeing the merchant marines, Captain Starling asks the adventurers for a word while the sailors restore the High Queen’s colors and survey the cargo for losses. She leads them to her quarters, her chestnut-brown hair swaying in a long braid across the back of her olive green frock coat. She doffs her bicorn hat and straightens the gold plume before setting it down on her desk, and bids them be seated. Her deep brown eyes and golden-brown skin have a satiny luster in the lamplight as she stares them down.
After a long beat passes, she says, “All right - I don’t take kindly to mutineers, but mutineers don’t usually do a double-reverse, save my crew’s lives, and make me an admiral in the process. So I’m willing to forget that the last week and a half happened, and my official report will say we took heavy losses killing pirates to retake the One Horizon and the Boundary Line by ourselves, and skeleton-crewed them before we could replenish our numbers. Any sailor who remembers different will be given extra rations of grog until they see it our way. Your presence will remain off the books. Is that agreeable to you?”
The adventurers all nod, and she continues: “So. Your reputations precede you. Sir Briansworth told me who you are - I believe his exact words were, ‘A reckless and undisciplined gang of cock-sure mercenaries with no respect for authority, procedure, property, or life.’ But what I just saw was a stark contrast to all that: you were cool, cunning, and coordinated, and as far as I can tell, our losses are only on account of you staying in the brig as long as possible on my orders. You did the right thing, at the right time, for the right reasons, and that’s a vanishing rare quality in my experience. And yet…” She trails off as she looks them over again, as if with new eyes. “I put little faith in gossip, but it usually forms around a kernel of truth. Tell me - what kernel sits at the core of this confusing clutch of calumny?”
The adventurers look at each other, then Vector raises a hand and says, “If I may? My friends are new to this world. The rumors you heard are probably all true, at least for the most part. But Pannych is a quick study, and Phyr has a good heart - they just needed a couple days to catch on, is all.”
Starling looks to the “demigods,” and they nod gamely. She takes a deep breath and says, “Very well - I believe it is as you say.” She drums her fingers on her desk for a moment, then says, “Here’s how this works: half of all recovered booty goes to the treasury, and the other half is split evenly among the crew. I’ll give the three of you each a double-share, since you’re not with our outfit and you could’ve easily gone full pirate. Then we part ways, and we never saw each other. That way, word doesn’t get back to Nadab that I’m letting demigods run loose - as if I could do anything about that - and you don’t have him on your trail. Do we have an accord?”
The adventurers nod agreeably, and they all shake hands. After the cargo is inventoried and divvied up, and the Birthright’s missing cargo taken into account, the adventurers liquidate their share of the booty so they don’t have to carry any extra gear. They end up with just over twelve grand apiece.
The ships raise anchor after restoring the High Queen’s colors and sail cautiously into the port of Salinas. The adventurers can see from the height of the ship’s deck that the city spreads along the shore and curves in a semicircle into the surrounding desert. To the East, the vegetation of the scrub plains grows gradually denser; to the West, the rocky terrain yields to sandy dunes. The city is a sprawl of yurts, shotgun shacks, and mudbrick buildings, sprinkled with black solar panels all over. Here and there, sturdy guard towers dot the landscape, denser near the city limits and more thinly dispersed throughout the city proper.
Admiral Starling says to them, “End of the road, so to speak. It’s midday, so almost everyone is holed up inside to beat the heat. Good time to blend in, get the lay of the land, and act like you belong.”
Vector says, “Thanks for the advice. And for your hospitality. Bon voyage!”
She gives them a crisp salute, which they return, and says, “I’m of the mind that doing favors to demigods tends to pay off in spades - many seem to have forgotten that, though. Anyway. Happy trails.”
As the adventurers disembark to explore the city, the cool ocean breeze plays tug of war with the hot dry air from inland. Vector carries his bag of replenishing cheeseburgers in his go-bag, and Pannych carries Phyr’s burritos - her own is stowed in her bag of tricks, along with ten dozen bottles of water, which are all able to go in one slot on account of being identical. Note that if you DID NOT CHOOSE “DASTARDLY DECEIVER” when dealing with the noobs at Fort Roguelike, then she has pitched the Orbs of Destiny overboard during the voyage. Phyr carries the map in both hands, having gotten it back from Vector, and studies it as they walk.
While crossing the beach, Vector points to one of countless large cast-iron cauldrons boiling away on the sand with some copper apparatus above them and asks, “What’re those?”
Phyr looks up from the map and shrugs, but Pannych says, “I don’t know what to call them, but you boil seawater to get freshwater, which condenses up in that copper thing, and then scrape out the sea salt to sell it.”
Vector says, “Oh,” then points to a bunch of tall, cylindrical machines sitting idle in the sun, each just a few feet from a cauldron. “Then what’re those?”
Pannych shrugs this time, but Phyr looks up from the map again and says, “That’s a still. Does the same thing, but with magic. They’re shut down for some reason, though.”
They wander aimlessly through the city, seeing only a handful of people over the course of an hour’s walk. Pannych leads them along a path more or less away from the sporadic guard towers, few of which are staffed at the moment. Very rarely, they catch someone’s eye through an open-air window. After studying the map, Phyr briefs them on a plausible story to establish that they’re traveling overland from the East, instead of having arrived by boat from the North.
Eventually, they come to Warner’s Wayfinding, a large yurt attached to an even larger squat mudbrick building. It has no windows, and flaps flutter over the vent grilles atop the walls. Unable to knock on the canvas “door,” Pannych holds the thick cloth back for the others to enter. Vector stoops as he steps inside, and calls, “Hello?”
It’s twenty degrees cooler indoors, and breezy thanks to the open windows, through which shafts of sunlight dimly illuminate the digs: woven grass mats floor the hut’s interior, two aisles of shelved goods stand to the left, and there is a seating area to the right where a closed-top water pitcher and several glazed clay cups sit on a table.
Beyond the counter is a small living area where a dwarf lays bare-chested on a cot, an open book tented on his belly - his eyes are open, and he turns to look at them without rising. After blinking a few times, he sits up and yawns, then says, “Ho there, travelers! Sorry you caught me napping - don’t usually get customers at this hour.” He stands and stretches briefly, wearing only a pair of brown trousers, then dons a cream-colored linen shirt and approaches the counter as he says, “Welcome to Warner’s Wayfinding! I’m Warner Hobbes, sole proprietor. Can I get you some sunscreen? Provisions?”
“Transport, actually,” Vector says. “I take it that’s your garage?”
“Aye, it is,” Warner confirms with a nod, “But I’m afraid I’m not taking clients now.”
“We can pay a premium for expedited services,” Vector offers.
Warner clicks his tongue and runs a sandstone-colored hand through his stony gray hair and says, “If only that were the issue. No, my buggies are outta commission.”
Phyr pipes up: “Hey, I’m a technomancer. Want me to take a look at ‘em?”
Warner looks the adventurers over with pale water-green eyes, then sighs and says, “Sorry, it’s just not that simple. I can offer my stock, I’ll even give you a discount for the inconvenience, but I’m grounded for the time being.”
Vector says, “Well, look: we just got into town from Plainsedge, and we are tired of walking. We need to get to Hope’s End. Urgently.”
Warner double-takes and says, “The Hell you wanna get out to Hope’s End for?”
“Long story,” Pannych says. “Tell you what: you tell us yours, we’ll tell you ours?”
Warner slumps his shoulders and sighs, then waves them over to the table and starts pouring water into the cups. “It’s like this,” he begins, “Ever since this damned war started, supplies of mana potions have been squeezed and squeezed some more. We can’t even run our stills, we’ve been reduced to cauldrons. We’re not rich enough to buy any on the black market, especially with less salt to sell, and we can barely keep our hospitals running - nearly everything our mana condensers can make is seized by that blasted paladin and her goons! She says it’s to serve a higher purpose, but fuck’s sake, when we asked what happens if we need more for the hospitals and it eats into her take? She said, ‘Then I will relieve you of your hospitals to ease the burden’.”
He shudders at the memory and continues: “Stars’ names, that ain’t the way of the gods! But anyway, the bandits have been getting bolder, as there’s fewer travelers to rob these days, and they’ve started attacking the city. Me and some others spent the last of our fuel on a gambit: take the fight to them, and see if we could score any mana in the bargain - but no dice. We just got back today, with nothing to show for it. Now, instead of barely hanging on, we’re well and truly fucked. No end to the war in sight, and we got no way to dig ourselves outta this hole!”
“So,” Phyr asks, “How much mana would it take, ballpark figure, to get your buggies recharged?”
Warner shakes his head and says, “I couldn’t do that - no, if you had the mana to do that, then there are much more pressing issues to handle first.”
“Fine,” Phyr says, “Then how much for the whole shebang?”
Warner looks askance at him and says, “What exactly are you suggesting?”
Phyr says, “Look, just tell me what you need, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Warner’s suspicion grows, and he says, “I dunno - bad enough I’m telling you our problems, but you’d figure all that out talking to half a dozen people anyway. I ain’t about to tell a bunch of strangers exactly how hard up we are, though. Don’t you owe me a story now? Who the Hell are you all, anyway?”
Pannych rises and curtseys, saying, “I am Pannych, lesser goddess of fear and anxiety.”
As she sits, Phyr stands and bows with a flourish, saying, “And I am Phyr, lord of destruction and chaos, whose - no, skip that part. I’m Phyr, technomancer extraordinaire, and I’m here to see how I can help.”
Vector remains seated and says plainly, “Name’s Vector. Just a guy. They’re my friends.” Warner’s wide-open eyes look all the wider, owing to the pale circles around them, presumably from habitually wearing goggles. Vector continues: “We’re on our way to Hope’s End to put a stop to Nathanael Thorn’s upcoming tournament and slay him. But the tournament starts in two weeks, and we’re not about to venture into the Forgotten Wastes on foot.”
Warner picks his jaw up off the table and stands to go retrieve a pair of black goggles and a white linen cloak from a stand in the living area, saying, “Come with me! We need to go see the Council of Elders right away!”
Warner hurriedly leads them deeper into the city, along winding paths between yurts and huts, to a long two-story mudbrick building. Like all the others, it is fairly plain to look at, but it has “City Hall” engraved on a wooden sign above the door. Inside, the air is slightly cooler in the shade, and they walk over hardwood floors through a lobby, crossing a hallway before entering a large meeting room where a dozen-odd elderly folks are speaking quietly. They look at the newcomers, and the orc woman at the head of the long conference table says, “Warner? To what do we owe this interruption?”
“Pardon me, Elder Shay,” he says breathlessly, “But I think these travelers may be able to help with our problems!”
The elders regard them with suspicion. Shay says, “And who are these travelers?”
Pannych curtseys and says, “I am Pannych, lesser goddess of fear and anxiety, and I have come to this world to slay the Influences and bring peace to the land.”
Phyr bows deeply and says, “And I am Phyr, lord of destruction and chaos, technomancer extraordinaire - I come to bring peace and prosperity to those who shall abide it, and to lay waste to those who would trespass upon my domain and… like… guys who wave their dicks around for no good reason.” Pannych and Vector look at him weirdly, and he mutters, “What? I haven’t finished re-thinking it!”
Vector shakes it off and straightens for a bow, saying, “I am Vector, a humble mortal who travels with these demigods as their ambassador and facilitator.”
The mood of the room shifts from defeated skepticism to outright confusion. A particularly wizened old man with bright eyes and leathery skin says, “Those are ominous epithets for a group of peacebringers.”
“The world is in turmoil,” Vector says, “And those who threaten its people are both ruthless and powerful. We are here to beat them at their own game.”
“Perhaps they can be of assistance, after all,” Shay muses with growing interest.
“Or perhaps they are spies, sent to assure our destruction,” says a pale man in late middle age. The elders descend into a susurrus of murmurs.
“Why on Earth would we do that,” Phyr asks loudly.
The pale man says, “You could be agents of General Mephistopheles’ army! He might have sent you to gain our trust, only to stab us in the back and rob High Priestess Morrigan of our tribute!”
“No,” Phyr says, shaking his head, “I mean, why would we do it that way?” He draws a blaster and places it on the table. “This plasma blaster is a powerful weapon, way beyond anything you mortals can make - and I have two of them. If I wanted to, I could level this place in an afternoon, so why bother with the long game?”
One of the elders, an elf crone with short white hair, inspects the blaster briefly with glowing eyes and says, “I have never seen anything like this, in all my years.” Her astonishment grows as she continues to turn it over in her hands and scrutinize it. “In the hands of a mortal, it would be deadly,” she adds, “But in the hands of a demigod? Destructive beyond imagining.” She places it delicately back on the table, and concludes deferently, “I believe Lord Phyr is telling the truth: he has no need for such games with the likes of us.” Phyr re-holsters the blaster.
“Maybe he doesn’t know how close we are to the brink of destruction,” the pale man insists. “What if he feared a fight, and is playing it safe to avoid unnecessary-”
“Look,” Pannych interrupts him, “We just came off of double-agent duty. We saved a merchant marine galleon from two pirate galleons, but we had to play along with the pirates to do it. We are not in the mood for shenanigans or mind games - we are here to help, and that is all. If you don’t want our help, then we can pack up and leave town immediately.”
Silence descends upon the room. Slowly, the elders begin conversing with their neighbors in hushed tones. The pale man does not speak with anyone, but instead simply looks around as if to gauge the other elders’ reactions - Phyr notices this, and begins watching him intently.
After some moments, Shay calls for quiet and speaks again: “We are sorry to have doubted you - tough times have hardened our hearts. Our mana condensers have been commandeered for the war effort, disrupting our economy and the rest of our way of life in its wake. And recently, in the hour of our greatest desperation, people are going missing, and it seems there is a necromancer in our midst.”
“A necromancer,” Vector asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t tell him about that,” the pale man all but yells. “If they know we are on the verge of destruction, they could tip us over the edge!”
“We know you’re on the verge of destruction,” Vector says. “You only need to talk to half a dozen people to see that.” He nods at Warner. “And if we had ill intent, we wouldn’t be approaching you with offers of help - we’d have retreated to plot your destruction already.”
“A long con,” the pale man says with a knowing nod and an accusatory gaze. “Earn our trust, then sow the seeds of-”
“ENOUGH!” Everyone turns to see Phyr holding a blaster straight up in the air. “I have had it up to here with you, man!” He lowers the blaster, levelling it at the pale man. “Turns out there’s a necromancer in town, and here you are, all withered and pale - coincidence, maybe, but you sure look the part! And you’re the only one trying to derail our relief effort here. Makes a guy think you’ve got something to gain by keeping us at bay.” Dead silence is pierced only by suspicious looks between Phyr and the pale man.
“Please, lower your weapon,” Shay says. “No one stands more to lose from our town’s woes than the magic guild’s head librarian, and Elder Stewart has in fact been-”
“Wait - Stewart?” Phyr looks crookedly at her. “The last necromancer we killed was named Stewart.” The pale man goes wide-eyed.
“Surely you don’t put much stock in such a coincidence,” Shay says.
“Maybe,” Phyr replies with a half-shrug, blaster still trained on Stewart. “But I know someone who’s bad at naming things and has a pendant for this sort of-”
“Pause! OK, first, it’s penchant.”
“Pause! OK, first, it’s penchant.”
“Whatever.”
“And second,” Pannych continues, “You can’t threaten this guy’s life on a hunch like that!”
“Really,” Phyr asks. “The first name you re-use, and you’re telling me it’s just a hunch?”
“Put the gun down. Now,” Pannych demands.
“I can’t! It’s paused, remember?” Pannych frowns. “Look, I’m telling you, this is definitely the guy - hidden in plain sight, recycled name, looking the type but above suspicion among his peers - this has your shitty humor all over it! We probably would’ve gotten sucked into some wild goose chase if we didn’t-”
“FINE! It’s wearing off soon. Do whatever - but if you’re wrong, then it’s your ass.”
Pause wears off. Phyr pulls the trigger. Stewart is caught completely by surprise, as from his perspective Phyr has just fired mid-sentence, and his face and chest explode as they are enveloped in plasma. The elders on either side of him instinctively push away from the blast, and a couple fall out of their chairs. Guards rush in as chunks of Stewart fall from the ceiling and walls.
“Drop your weapon,” one of the guards shouts, brandishing a polearm with menace ever so slightly tinged by terror.
Phyr dutifully holsters his blaster. As the guards cautiously converge on him, Vector backs away, and Pannych stands petulant with her arms crossed - then Stewart’s remains start to glow purple, and an ethereal shape takes the place of his upper body, accompanied by rumbling laughter. “You fool! By killing me, you have made me more powerful than you can possibly imagine!” The guards wheel on the rising necromancer, and fan out to surround him. The ominous laughter begins anew and waxes maniacal as the purple glow intensifies. But no sooner have the guards refocused on the risen elder than Phyr has redrawn his blaster, and vaulted over the table - he pulls the trigger three more times, and all that’s left of Stewart are blackened gibbets. The adventurers each get 5 XP, putting Pannych and Phyr at third level.
Phyr turns back to Pannych and Vector, and says loudly, “See? I told you my hunch paid off!”
Shay says, “That was all on a hunch?!”
Phyr stammers, and Vector says, “He’s very intuitive. Look, I know this wasn’t the most orthodox way of solving your necromancer problem - but it is solved at the end of the day, isn’t it?”
Shay is transparently flummoxed for several seconds, then shakes her head and firmly demands, “Sit down.” Once everyone is seated around the conference table again, Shay says, “All right, Warner. Your travelers have proven their - worth. How do they propose to help?”
“Well, I didn’t want to get into specifics with them earlier,” he says, still shaken a bit from the encounter with the secret necromancer. “But they’re demigods, so I thought you should speak with them.”
Over the next couple of hours, the Council of Elders go over their infrastructural needs. Phyr takes notes, and then spends the next week traveling around the city: he recharges stills, buggies, and the mana batteries that serve as generators for various buildings; he is able to repair solar panels and mana condensers that need it; and with his professional-level Informedness and Crafting, combined with his Technical Intuition, he is able to recommend some improvements to various designs that will increase yield and efficiency.
During the same week, Pannych and Vector ride out on a bandit raid with Warner and a crew. They cover new ground this time, and hit paydirt, bringing back a considerable amount of money and a modest but sorely needed supply of mana potions. Phyr uses the bulk of them to keep doing his work, as his enchanted earring makes him more efficient than any of the city’s other technomancers. All told, the adventurers earn 30 experience points each for their endeavors, which gets Vector to level 8.
With eight days to go before the tournament, Warner agrees to take them to Hope’s End. They pack their things and make ready to leave at dusk, planning to travel overnight and rest during the heat of the day.
To CONTINUE TO CHAPTER 12, click here.
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