Steeldriver

Welcome to *Steeldriver*. This is an interactive story, allowing *you* the opportunity to make important decisions along the way. Multiple playthroughs are encouraged, events can differ signficantly! To navigate the story, click the highlighted links. You can click the 'back' and 'forward' arrows up top if you want to change your decisions, but don't use the refresh, back, or forward buttons on your browser. Also along the top are your currency, health, and inventory trackers. VERSION: 0.2 [[Let's get started.->Index]] [[A note on pictures/images.->Pictures]]

*Faith! The thousandfold God is above! Pacts are made half the world away. Signed in agony. Steeldrivers push the frontier one step further, stake by stake. And the world stumbles onward, twenty three centuries after the Fall.* [[Start a new story.->Startup]] [[Load your story.->LOAD]]

**PROLOGUE: THE EDGE OF THE WORLD** <img src="https://i.imgur.com/AkyX6UU.png" width="35%" height="35%"> The Blackwood had eyes. It watched, ever vengeful. Somewhere beneath its choking canopy, at least one Wellspring—almost certainly several—burned eternally arcane. The Eastern and Southern Lines could boast similar circumstances, but only in the West had the work of reclamation been halted. Two expeditions lost, the blood of thousands watering the roots of towering trees. The forest and its Courts had won. Yet ordinary folk persisted. The West Line has an end, but around it homesteaders clustered, drawn by the allure of free land for any with the courage to claim it. Few would consider it easy work. The land had to be cleared, the thick foliage burned, murderous predators and godless spirits driven away. Land tilled, rocks torn up and cast aside. Even then, to plant or build a home would be folly. The laborious process of taming the land remained. Stakes of pewter, bronze, or steel needed to be driven into the soil at precise increments to purge the land. Without such efforts the Wellspring's influence would continue to seep into the soil and all it birthed, forming strange plants, drawing dangerous beasts and arcane entities. Your stakes may be bronze this day, but the name for your type of work was always the same: [[You’re a Steeldriver.->Intro2]]

{**Slot A:** (if: (saved-games:) contains "file A")[ (link: "((Load your saved game))")[(load-game: "file A")] ] (else:)[ *empty slot* ]} {**Slot B:** (if: (saved-games:) contains "file B")[ (link: "((Load your saved game))")[(load-game: "file B")] ] (else:)[ *empty slot* ]} {**Slot C:** (if: (saved-games:) contains "file C")[ (link: "((Load your saved game))")[(load-game: "file C")] ] (else:)[ *empty slot* ]} {**Slot D:** (if: (saved-games:) contains "file D")[ (link: "((Load your saved game))")[(load-game: "file D")] ] (else:)[ *empty slot* ]} {**Slot E:** (if: (saved-games:) contains "file E")[ (link: "((Load your saved game))")[(load-game: "file E")] ] (else:)[ *empty slot* ]} {**Slot F:** (if: (saved-games:) contains "file F")[ (link: "((Load your saved game))")[(load-game: "file F")] ] (else:)[ *empty slot* ]} [[Return to the Index.->Index]]

(append: ?SideBar)[\ [**Steeldriver: (if: $Chapter is 0)[Prologue](if: $Chapter is 1)[Chapter 1](if: $Chapter is 2)[Chapter 2]**] [Sol: $Gold] [Health: $Health/3] [[Inventory]] [[Save Game->SavePage]] [[Restart/Load->RestartPage]] ]

--------------------- Save or Load Your Game! --------------------- Once you Save your game, or if you are loading a game, use the link below to return to your last spot. Internet Explorer and Edge browsers may fail to save, if you are using the downloadable version of Lost in Laminate. --------------------- **Current Save Loaded:** (print: $SaveName) **Save Slot Status:** Save Slot A: (if: (saved-games:) contains "file A")[Slot Filled](else:)[*Empty Slot*] Save Slot B: (if: (saved-games:) contains "file B")[Slot Filled](else:)[*Empty Slot*] Save Slot C: (if: (saved-games:) contains "file C")[Slot Filled](else:)[*Empty Slot*] Save Slot D: (if: (saved-games:) contains "file D")[Slot Filled](else:)[*Empty Slot*] Save Slot E: (if: (saved-games:) contains "file E")[Slot Filled](else:)[*Empty Slot*] Save Slot F: (if: (saved-games:) contains "file F")[Slot Filled](else:)[*Empty Slot*] {(link: "((Save your game in Slot A))")[ (if: (save-game: "file A"))[Game saved in Slot A!] (else:)[Sorry, I couldn't save your game in Slot A.] ]} {(link: "((Save your game in Slot B))")[ (if: (save-game: "file B"))[Game saved in Slot B!] (else:)[Sorry, I couldn't save your game in Slot B.] ]} {(link: "((Save your game in Slot C))")[ (if: (save-game: "file C"))[Game saved in Slot C!] (else:)[Sorry, I couldn't save your game in Slot C.] ]} {(link: "((Save your game in Slot D))")[ (if: (save-game: "file D"))[Game saved in Slot D!] (else:)[Sorry, I couldn't save your game in Slot D.] ]} {(link: "((Save your game in Slot E))")[ (if: (save-game: "file E"))[Game saved in Slot E!] (else:)[Sorry, I couldn't save your game in Slot E.] ]} {(link: "((Save your game in Slot F))")[ (if: (save-game: "file F"))[Game saved in Slot F!] (else:)[Sorry, I couldn't save your game in Slot F.] ]} --------------------- (link: "Return to the Game!")[(go-to: (history:)'s last)]

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*Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.* The rhythmic sound of your mallet echoed off the distant trees, returning to your ears as if to remind you of the trespass. With every bronze stake you drive into the ground, the frontier is pushed back just a *bit* further. It took time, a proper expedition would have dozens of Imperial Steeldrivers, but working alone even you could eventually clear a fresh plot, ready for planting. The freeholder who had contracted you would then pay out, and you would move on to another plot, repeating the sequence through the turning of the seasons. Yet where you had once kept a handful of prospective plots lined up in advance, the demand for your work was growing slim. Westend had been without an expedition for too long, the flow of freeholders seeking fresh land was little more than a trickle. Perhaps soon there would be no need of a Steeldriver in Westend, and you would need to travel elsewhere, or take a new trade entirely. Certainly the work is far different from what you had expected to undertake, as a youth. [[You are native to these lands, Westender born and bred.->Local]] [[You grew up a ward of the Sollari, in the very Core of the Empire.->Foothill]] [[You moved through the Empire, your family itinerant traders.->Trader]]

“Westenders respect the Blackwood. To fear it is death.” You were young, barely past your eleventh alignment, but you remember the words clearly. Your father had stood above you, hand upon the cellar door as he spoke them. In the background the village alarm tolled the coming of a coordinated attack upon Westend’s palisade. It would prove to be the last, a final futile attempt by the Blackwood to drive your folk from its midst, but both your parents would die in the defense. The villagers of Westend had come to your hiding place afterward, raising you, caring for you communally. Truth be told you remember them far more readily then your parents, distant as your memories of them became. You know everyone who still resided within the palisade however, and most of those who braved it out on farms beyond-- and they in turn know you. (set: $Back to 1) [[You’re a Westender, true.->Intro3]] [[Perhaps you grew up in the shadow of the Sollari, in the foothills beneath the Cloud Forests?->Foothill]] [[Or you moved through the Empire, your family itinerant traders.->Trader]]

“They came from God, and rule us still.” You hail from the humid foothills beneath the Mountains of Light, upon which dwell the majority of Sollari. They are the people of the Celestial Seat, from which each Pharotate is drawn, although the concerns of Empire had been far from your mind as a youth spent as an Imperial Ward. Without parents or kin you were nevertheless well cared for, the Empire putting far too much effort into population growth to allow orphans anything less. At the age of ten your turn came, as it did for each of your childhood friends, to answer a request made by families or villages across the entire Empire. The Sollari had decided to send you West, as far West as one could go, to Westend. There in the wake of a raid from the Blackwood you were raised by the community as a whole, a foreign infusion of fresh blood to stem the slow bleeding of homesteaders, sol, and interest in the far West. Nevertheless you have retained a sense for Imperial bureaucracy. (set: $Back to 2) [[An orphan from the Core, yes.->Intro3]] [[Perhaps you are a native of these lands instead, Westender born and bred?->Local]] [[Or you moved through the Empire, your family itinerant traders.->Trader]]

“Sol is made on the frontier, taxed at the Core.” It may have been common knowledge, the slogan of merchants across the Empire, but that didn’t make it any less true. Your parents were traders, working the Southern Line, and it was into that life you had been born. Among the myriad of smaller kingdoms and states that crowded the southern frontier, constantly at strife with each other even as they pressed the Southern Wilds back stake by stake, your family made their living bringing the products of that strange land back to the Imperial core. Amber, furs, ivory—they could fetch a handsome price indeed. Yet when an Imperial request came down to your parents to run a supply convoy West, all the way to the End of the line, they could not refuse. That trip had ended in Westend, where fate had intervened in the form of a raid from the Blackwood. They made it over the palisade, those Ghosts of the wood, only to be driven back out-- but not before your parents fell in the defense. Without any other known kin you could have been sent to an orphanage in the Core, but Westend rose to the challenge as it always did, raising you instead. You stayed under a dozen different roofs, reaching adulthood under their collective care. Nevertheless you retain an acute acumen for matters of trade, and know the hand-signed trade language used on that Southern frontier. (set: $Back to 3) [[A Trader once, yes.->Intro3]] [[Perhaps you grew up in the shadow of the Sollari instead, among the foothills beneath the Cloud Forests?->Foothill]] [[Perhaps you are a native of these lands instead, Westender born and bred?->Local]]

(set: $Tester to "Blue") $Tester

(if: $Back is 1)[A Westender from birth, you know the edge of that old growth abyss better than any outlander.](if: $Back is 2)[Orphans could be cruel to each other, and you had learned to be defensive.](if: $Back is 3)[The Empire's roads were safer then most, but a trader without keen eyes often proved to be the trader taken first by bandit or beast.] It's what pulls your attention upward, from the stake half-buried in the ground before you. The Blackwood looms in the distance, already seeking to encroach again upon the burnt perimeter you established weeks ago. Named for the way light often seemed incapable of piercing the thick crown of heavy leaves that formed the canopy, you peer into that namesake darkness. As with any Wellspring-fed wood, the forest is unnaturally thick, the treets knotted together amongst vegetation of a hundred different ferns and shrubs that seemed liable to choke each other out. Yet they grow, a testament to the ferility of the soil, and one of the primary reasons reclaimation continued. An outlander may have called you mad for being so close, and so alone, to that vast impenetrable wood. Steeldrivers knew better. The Wellspring may burn somewhere deep within, causing life both natural and arcane to flourish, but as long as one kept their wits about themselves work such as yours was hardly the death sentence those who had never left the Corelands often implied. Certainly you were not in danger of soul burn, unless you embraced folly to traipse about the heart of the woods proper. Wolves were your greatest concern, most days. Even so, you can't shake the sense of eyes upon you... [[Stare deeper into the wood.->Deeper]] [[Look up, to the branches of the canopy.->Canopy]]

Raising a hand to your brow you stare deep into the black that seemed to inevitably form to your perspective, at every point in the forest beyond. The layers of brush and tree, grass and weed conspired to drench the wood in increasing shadow until your sight failed. Upon a broad field you could have seen for miles, but the Blackwood kept its own secrets, and eventually you cede the contest. A sigh follows, then a chuckle. So close to being done with this plot, and now you become skittish? (if: $Back is 1)[You’re a Westender to the bone,](else:)[You have come to adopt Westend as your own,] and that made you solid in disposition. Slow to anger, but unyielding in effort. Frontier folk the world over shared such traits of course, but only the Blackwood truly demanded such intransigence. You would see this through, then head towards Westend as planned. None missed the Alignment Festival if they could. [[Hefting your mallet, you return to you work.->Intro4]]

Raising a hand to your brow you look up into the black that seemed to inevitably form to your perspective, at every point in the canopy beyond. The layers of brush and tree, grass and weed conspired to drench the wood in increasing shadow until your sight lands upon… *something*. A clump of darkness upon an equally midnight branch, light glinting off what could be eyes. Or was it? You blink, and it is gone. A sigh follows, then a chuckle. So close to being done with this plot, and now you become skittish? (if: $Back is 1)[You’re a Westender to the bone,](else:)[You have come to adopt Westend as your own,] and that made you solid in disposition. Slow to anger, but unyielding in effort. Frontier folk the world over shared such traits of course, but only the Blackwood truly demanded such traits. You would see this through, then head towards Westend as planned. None missed the Alignment Festival if they could. [[Hefting your mallet, you return to you work.->Intro4]]

Find your measured point, place, slam the mallet home until the stake was imbedded firmly in the earth. Monotonous, tiring work but simply done. You place the last sharpened bronze stake just as the first light of God appears above, twinkling upon the darkening sky. When the last stake is knocked into the ground, nothing visibly changes but you *can* taste metal in the air for the briefest of moments. Confirmation that the line had activated, that your work is done. The evening chill follows, the sweat upon your skin quickly growing uncomfortable. Time to go. Setting the mallet down produces a small flare of neon particles upon the grass it lands upon, like dust roused from a dirtied floor. As always they're blue, casting little light but standing out sharply in their neon flight against the Blackwood beyond. Raw magic, expressed freely. Dusk always brought such expressions, lasting only moments but now emerging with every step. Your path back down the stake line is briefly traced by your own glowing footsteps. At the end, you reach for your jacket set atop the satchel you had left there. The dying light catches your wrist along the way, the pendent affixed to the leather strap there gleaming momentarily. What metal is it? [[Steel, the masculine metal worn by men.->Male]] [[Pewter, the feminine metal worn by women.->Female]]

The pendant is steel, evoking swords and plows, masculine pursuits. Broad shoulders and the hair upon your chin, slight as it may be, attest to that fact as readily as the holy marker. Tradition held that God above only took notice of a man or woman when they were thus marked, upon their naming day. To be without one’s pendant would be to risk eternity, as the Priests told it. Those that died in such a state would not ascend to meet the Thousandfold God, their souls instead free to be claimed by a Wellspring Ghost. A horrid fate, all agreed. With a mere twenty alignments under your belt however, you rarely thought of such things. Such was for the infirm, and your work as a Steeldriver had only served to strengthen you. Working all day in the sun with your mallet and measurements kept you lean and well-muscled, if not of the burly countenance blacksmiths often drifted towards. It was the careful placing of stakes that took most of your time, after all. Driving them in was a relatively simply exercise. Still, your simple rough spun tunic and pants ensured you kept cool as one could. Occasionally you worked without a shirt at all of course, but the evening chill is upon you, and you seize your coat instead. Thin and well worn, it nevertheless is leather and had always fit well. You put it on. (set: $Gender to 1) [[Actually, the pendant is Pewter, the feminine metal worn by women.->Female]] [[Satchel slung over your shoulder, mallet picked up once more, you make for camp.->Intro5]]

The pendant is pewter, evoking thoughts of writing quills and coronets, feminine pursuits. Narrow shoulders and wide hips attest to the fact as readily as the holy marker. Tradition held that God above only took notice of a man or woman when they were thus marked, upon their naming day. To be without one’s pendent would be to risk eternity, as the Priests told it. Those that died in such a state would not ascend to meet the Thousandfold God, their souls instead free to be claimed by a Wellspring Ghost. A horrid fate, all agreed. With a mere twenty alignments under your belt however, you rarely thought of such things. Such was for the infirm, and your work as a Steeldriver had only served to strengthen you. Working all day in the sun with your mallet and measurements kept you lean and well-muscled, if not of the burly countenance blacksmiths often drifted towards. Still, only on the frontier could a woman be found working in a professional largely considered menial. You've heard in Imperial Expeditions men exclusively serve as Steeldrivers, while women provide planning and leadership. Still, your simple rough spun tunic and pants ensured you kept cool as one could. Most other Westend women preferred skirts or dresses, but none would begrudge a Steeldriver for balking at that expectation. If a creature of the wood were to emerge, running in trousers would be far easier than a skirt. You have less of an excuse for your coat, thin and well-worn as it is. Leather and well-fitted, you put it on, reflecting on the fact you simply preferred it to a blouse. (set: $Gender to 2)(set: $Name to "Lira") [[Satchel slung over your shoulder, mallet picked up once more, you make for camp.->Intro5]]

Burnt roots crunch beneath your feet as you make your way quickly from the primary barrier you have taken all day to erect, back towards the secondary fallback. Rendered in the same manner as the first, this second line of bronze stakes jutting up from the ground serve as a failsafe, in the event your measurements had proven poor. If your work today proved to the contrary, and you are certain it would, your next task would be to leapfrog them over the other line to seize another space of land from the Blackwood. A process repeated, again and again, until you completed the plot or it came time to burn further. But in the moment, those are concerns of the future. Westend still lay a good three or four hours distant, and while you had never intended to make it before nightfall you do not wish to be far from the village before the sun dipped from view completely. For once the woods surrounding your reclaimed salient are quiet as you pass from the burned former forest back into the ankle-high grass that marked far safer territory. Even the birds must have called it an early day, you conclude, as your camp comes into view. They weren’t chirping, replaced instead by a mournful wind blowing in from the West. [[Home, such as it is.->CampIntroAlt]]

Did you have everything now? Westend was not far, but you would rather prefer to not make the trip twice. Stakes, check. Knife, check. Hat, che-- The thoughts blow out from your mind as readily as leaves in a storm, as you realize someone stands just outside your camp. No one came out here, not without purpose. The West Line was a good hour's walk, with only wilderness between. Only the villagers knew you were here anyway, perhaps some of the homesteaders in the region. An unannounced messenger from Westend, then? Perhaps its civility then that has the figure waiting beside one of your stakes, motionless but with their back turned to you. At this distance you can recognize a dark woolen greatcoat, by the looks of it, and little else. A hood even obscures their head. You had not noticed them before, nor heard their coming. And you certainly hadn't been expecting anyone. Why would they bother, when everyone knew you would be in Westend tonight anyway. No one missed an alignment, after all. [[Call to the figure. "Hail, stranger?"->CampHail]] [[Remain where you are, merely observe the stranger.->CampOb]] [[Approach the stranger, quietly.->CampAppro]]

The words have passed your lips, crossing the quiet expanse of reclaimed plain between you before you happen to notice the figure’s hand. Resting upon the stake nearest which it stood, even from this distance you make out unnaturally long fingers. Black, more obsidian shadow than a hand proper, each of which are tipped with a long, tapered claw. A warning if ever brief before, to your horror, the stranger *rises.* Already matching your size, the figure reveals itself to be twice the height of any normal folk as it lurches slowly to its feet. Your breath catches in your throat, fear grips your heart, a leaden pain matched with the sudden surge of adrenaline as you try to rationalize the impossible. Only one solution matched the pieces of this puzzle. This close to the Blackwood, what else could it be? This had to be a creature of the wood, an arcane spirit, a *Ghost*. But how? Such beings rarely approached one line of stakes, let alone passed through two. You had pitched your camp her specifically because the land had been purged of magic, rendered pure. How—it didn’t, it couldn’t— Ignorant of your terror, or simply ignoring it, the Ghost reaches up to pull down its hood. Turning as it does so, you notice a lengthened snout emerging already, bone white. Bit by bit it is revealed, shadows giving way to a deer’s skull where any sane being’s head would be. And there, in the socket turned towards you, a baleful blue fire burns in place of an eye. [[You exhale, your very breath emerging as frost.->TheGhost]]

Even the wind seems to join the birds in silence as you stand, all but frozen, behind the figure. Cloaked as they are you can make out little else, until you realize their hand rest upon the bronze head of one of the perimeter stakes. Even from this distance you make out unnaturally long fingers. Black, more shadow than a hand proper, each of which are tipped with a long, tapered claw. A warning if ever brief before, to your horror, the stranger *rises.* Already matching your size, the figure reveals itself to be twice the height of any normal man as it lurches slowly to its feet. Your breath catches in your throat, fear grips your heart, a leaden pain matched with the sudden surge of adrenaline as you try to rationalize the impossible. Only one solution matched the pieces of this puzzle. This close to the Blackwood, what else could it be? This had to be a creature of the wood, an arcane spirit, a *Ghost*. But how? Such beings rarely approached one line of stakes, let alone two. You had pitched your camp her specifically because the land had been purged of magic, rendered pure. How—it didn’t, it couldn’t— Ignorant of your terror, or simply ignoring it, the Ghost reaches up to pull down its hood. Turning as it does so, you notice a lengthened snout emerging already, bone white. Bit by bit it is revealed, shadows giving way to a deer’s skull where any sane being’s head would be. And there, in the socket turned towards you, a baleful blue fire burns in place of an eye. [[You exhale, your very breath emerging as frost.->TheGhost]]

Carefully you watch your step, ensuring each foot placed upon the ground would not snap an errant twig or unsettle a loose bit of rock. Even the wind seems to hold its breath as you advance, joining with the silent birds. Edging closer, you’ve crossed half the distance between where you had first seen the figure and its cloaked form before you realize their hand rest upon the bronze head of one of the perimeter stakes. Even from this distance you make out unnaturally long fingers. Black, more shadow than a hand proper, each of which are tipped with a long, tapered claw. A warning if ever brief before, to your horror, the stranger *rises.* Already matching your size, the figure reveals itself to be twice the height of any normal man as it lurches slowly to its feet. Your breath catches in your throat, fear grips your heart, a leaden pain matched with the sudden surge of adrenaline as you try to rationalize the impossible. Only one solution matched the pieces of this puzzle. This close to the Blackwood, what else could it be? This had to be a creature of the wood, an arcane spirit, a *Ghost*. But how? Such beings rarely approached one line of stakes, let alone two. You had pitched your camp her specifically because the land had been purged of magic, rendered pure. How—it didn’t, it couldn’t— Ignorant of your terror, or simply ignoring it, the Ghost reaches up to pull down its hood. Turning as it does so, you notice a lengthened snout emerging already, bone white. Bit by bit it is revealed, shadows giving way to a deer’s skull where any sane being’s head would be. And there, in the socket turned towards you, a baleful blue fire burns in place of an eye. [[You exhale, your very breath emerging as frost.->TheGhost]]

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/SNWqwZN.png" width="35%" height="35%"> *Coldfire*, your fear-addled mind supplies. Old Thoro had taught you the Steeldriver's trade, such as it was. Anyone could pound the stakes of course, most could measure the lines. But few outside a proper Expedition had the knowledge to work safely so near the Blackwood. In that moment however, face to face with a Ghost, you recognize with a cold sweat that most of your lessons had been about arcane beasts. This was something far more, something that had not bothered a Westender in years. Ghosts could think. Talk. And this one does just that. (colour: blue)[**"Her-ald."**] You can hear bone scraping against bone as the word emerges, even though the Ghost lacked lips or tongue. The word itself is rasped, the voice deep and rumbling, a halting pause between each half. Gleaming black claws reach out, palm held towards the sky as two curl back. Beckoning you forward. (colour: blue)[**"App-roach."**] Your very vision trembles as fear strangles your breath, clouding your thoughts. Approaching it seemed obscene, suicidal even. Ghosts approached folk to kill, or even worse to make a Pact. A fate worse than death. Yet approaching would get you close to your camp, to the circle of stakes the Ghost pointedly remained outside of. Safety, if you could perhaps dart around it. Or you could always take your chances, run for the nearest road now. The ghastly figure was tall, but seemed to move slowly. Mayhaps you could outrun it. [[Approach carefully.->GhostApp]] [[Run away, to the road!->GhostRun]] [[Remain where you are. Don't provoke it.->GhostStay]] [[A prayer! "God preserve, God look down upon me..."->GhostPray]]

Your plan is simple: to spend alignment night in Westend, making your way back to camp sometime tomorrow afternoon. A day's rest, and you would be back at work finishing your current plot. You mustn’t forget anything, you remind yourself as your tent and ward line come into view. Your tent is a simple canvas arrangement, the mallet leaning on your shoulder as equally suited to pound in the posts at each corner as it was the bronze stakes that form a perimeter around your camp. This third and final line of fifteen stakes equidistant around your belongings were placed out of a preponderance of caution instead of any experience with threats passing through your other stake lines. One could never be too careful, this close to the Blackwood. Hanging the strap of your satchel on one such stake and setting your mallet down head first, the weight of it keeping the handle upright, you glance about, making sure everything remained in order. The triangular tent is as you remember it from that morning, the ashes of your campfire likewise lingering with only the barest embers left. Bundled up just behind the tent itself would be your worldly posessions, such as they are, compact and well suited for travel. Come winter you would find lodgings in Westend, as you always did. Working small jobs, helping with the work avoided during summer. It rarely snowed in Westend, which made it an excellent time for repairing roof thatching or maintaining the palisade. But from spring to fall you moved along the edge of the Blackwood, plying your trade. Winter remained months away however, and the alignment celebrations would already be beginning in town. Best you hurry, collect your things, and begin the walk to Westend. [[Now, what did you need again?->CampIntro2]]

Holding up your hand, the calluses derived from swinging your mallet visible in the waning light, you count off your needs. Taking the last of your charged stakes would be necessary. You had not a sol left to your name and would need to trade them for a bit of coin. Your knife too would need to come along, the tip having snapped off a few weeks ago. Normally you kept it at your hip, but since then had left it behind each morning. Having it fixed and sharpened, or perhaps just replaced altogether would be proper. And of course there was the miller’s hat, loaned to you during your last visit to town. Selsie Cormac shared not a drop of blood with you, but somedays she seemed intent on mothering you regardless. [[Stakes, knife, hat. You pick up your satchel again, to store them all.->CampHub]]

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/ikaWjck.jpg" width="35%" height="35%"> Your small campsite sits silently within its ring of protective stakes, as the sun continues to slide down the horizon. The burned area of your current staking plot is visible in the distance, but far nearer there is little more than grass shifting with the wind. (if: $Check1 is true)[You have found your charged stakes.](else:)[You need to collect your charged stakes.] (if: $Check2 is true)[You have found your knife.](else:)[You need to find your knife.] You need to find Selsie Cormac's hat. [[Examine your stake perimeter.->CampStakes]] [[Enter your tent.->Camptent]] [[Search near the embers of your campfire.->Campfire]] [[Look through your supply bundles behind the tent.->Camppack]] [[Look up, to the heavens above.->Campsky]] (if: $Check1 and $Check2 is true)[[[Go out and retrieve the hat, stuck in the bush a dozen or so yards away.->Camphat]]]

Approaching the ring of bronze that surrounds your campsite, you select one of the stakes at random, moving to a knee beside it. Most such implements of frontier life were forged near the Core, to exacting measurements. Two and half feet long of pure bronze, the stake is a thick square on the topmost end, while the other tapers down into a sharpened point that now lay buried in the soil. The only breaks in the smooth yet unburnished metal are channeled grooves cut shallowly into each side about halfway up, running all the way up to a few inches from the top. Just how stakes drained and collected magic from the land had never been properly explained to you, that would take a scholar or—God forbid—a Pactholder themselves, and such learned men rarely came West anymore. The stakes do work, however. Of that you have ample experience. [[Examine another stake.->CampStakes2]] [[Look elsewhere.->CampHub]]

The tent is heavy canvas, waterproofed and stretched over the wooden frame beneath. Pegs, one at each of the four corners, hold it down firmly. Pulling aside the opening flap you step inside, pausing momentarily for your eyes to adapt to the relative gloom. Instead of a bed or sleeping sack you have simply repurposed one of the thick wraps you kept your other possessions within, the one spread out upon the floor usually containing your cookware and other daily use items. (if: $Check2 is false)[Its rumpled and disheveled. ](if: $Check4 is false)[A bowl lies discarded nearby, a remnant of your breakfast](else:)[Your bowl is gone], while your other shirt hangs from a rope strung post to post. It had looked like rain, otherwise you would have hung it outside, but the clouds had broken sometime near midday. (if: $Check4 is false and $Check2 is true)[Honestly, most of the mess before you could do with a bit of tidying.](else:)[Rough living, but at least it looks a bit cleaner than how you found it.] (if: $Check4 is false)[[[Pick up the bowl, it needs to be washed.->PickBowl]]] (if: $Check2 is false)[[[Adjust your bed, folding up the sides and straightening it a bit.->FindKnife]]] (if: $Check1 is true and $Check3 is false)[[[Leave the tent.->HatEvent]]](else:)[[[Leave the tent.->CampHub]]]

Embers linger in the ashes of your morning fire, but little else stirs in the small circle you outlined with stones. Your cast iron cooking pan leans against one such rock, while to the far side your small collection of firewood waits to burn. Next to your tent meanwhile a small chunk of wood covers the bucket of water you kept for miscellaneous use, a bit of extra material from your tent pulled over it. [[Examine the cooking pan.->Camppan]] (if: $Check6 is false)[[[Approach the bucket.->Campbucket]]](else:)[[[Approach the bucket.->CampBucket2]]] [[Check your firewood.->Campfirewood]] [[Explore elsewhere, for now.->CampHub]]

Circling around behind your tent, you approach the three heavy bundles resting there, lashed together with twine. When time came to move camp you generally borrowed a cart and pony from town, but you tried to plan ahead by eating through most of your stocked food and other heavy perishables before that time came. With work wrapping up on your current plot that time would come soon. For now however you focus on collecting your items for the trip to town. (if: $Check1 is false)[[[Now where are those stakes?->PackHub]]](else:)[[[You already have your stakes, though.->PackHub]]]

Tipping your head back, you look to the heavens. A thousand different pinpricks of light look back down upon you, twinkling ever brighter in the coming night. Some are stationary, fixed holes through the fabric of the sky. Others move much quicker, sliding across your view. Of those that wander several groups are most evident, clusters that formed an even larger spark if you squinted just a bit. There are no clouds, or the threat of a storm, to ruin the alignment festivities. [[Good. It was always less fun to dance in the Inn.->CampHub]]

Stepping out from your stake-ringed camp you make your way across the field surrounding it, boots crunching through fire-licked remains and new growth shoots alike. Your luck holds and the hat remains pushed into the bush, even as another gust of wind blows across the field. Reaching down you pull Selsie's loan free, the simple wicker hat formed from interlaced cuts of dried grass. The large brim would have provided ample shade during your work, but in truth you had never really found an excuse to wear it. New additions to your routine were bothersome, and you had only accepted it because Selsie would not have let you leave Westend last time without it. (colour: green)[Selsie's hat added to inventory.] (if: not ($Inv contains "Selsie's hat"))[(set: $Inv to $Inv + (a: "Selsie's hat"))] [[Sticking it in your satchel, you turn back towards camp.->CampIntro]]

Shifting to the next stake in the circle, you find it to be identical to the first. Bronze, worked into the ground by your mallet upon first arriving at this plot, unadorned excepting the grooves carved into the sides. Placing a hand upon the stake announces what you already knew, that it was not yet charged. Those that were would tremble gently. [[That’s enough for now. Look elsewhere.->CampHub]]

You pick up the bowl, carved from wood by your own hand. Its well-used and would soon need replacement. Really you should have started whittling a replacement some time ago. You make a mental note to begin after alignment, but for now merely tuck it under your arm. The bucket of water you kept for small tasks is just outside, near the campfire. (set: $Check4 to true)(if: not ($Inv contains "wooden bowl"))[(set: $Inv to $Inv + (a: "wooden bowl"))] (colour: green)[Wooden Bowl added to inventory.] [[Step back a bit.->Camptent]]

Kneeling beside your makeshift bed, you grip the heavy leather, intent on turning up the sides so dirt at least did not easily get inside where you lay. Moving the first corner reveals a metallic flash however, pulling your attention immediately. Its your knife, of course, buried to its hilt in the soft earth. Certainly, it would have proven useful in the extremely unlikely circumstances of some nighttime incident, but in truth you merely took a bit of solace in the steel length being driven into the ground. This land had been purified, but a Steeldriver simply rested easier with that sort length of steel planted firmly. Seizing the simply hewn handle you yank it free, the broken tip immediately becoming apparent. Even so, excepting your stakes that small bit of steel was undoubtedly the most valuable thing you owned. Retrieving its small scabbard from your satchel, you sling it around your opposite shoulder, allowing the knife itself to be slid into place just below your armpit, at a bit of an angle. (set: $Check2 to true)(if: not ($Inv contains "worn knife"))[(set: $Inv to $Inv + (a: "worn knife"))] (colour: green)[Worn Knife added to inventory.] [[Tidying your bed further, eventually you step back.->Camptent]]

The pan is ancient, well-seasoned and equally worn. The outturned lip has mostly broken or shaved away, but it still serves you well. A passing peddler had sold it you about a year ago, quipping the time he felt an honor to be selling an impotent metal to a Steeldriver. True, driven into the ground it would have no arcane-siphoning properties. Still cooked a hearty stew, though. [[Its not what you're looking for, though.->Campfire]]

Pulling away the bit of tent material you kept atop the bucket to keep insects at bay, you peer down in sudden surprise. The water, collected from the creek that tumbled along a few minutes away, is crusted with a thin frozen layer. With night rapidly approaching it had grown chilly, but by no means was cold enough to have frozen anything. [[An ill omen. Mouth a prayer.->CampPrayer]] [[Examine the bucket closer.->CampBucketExam]] [[Strange, but unconcerning. Ignore it.->CampBucket2]]

Stacked up in a neat pyramid, your small pile of firewood stands ready for use. Cutting from the Blackwood would have been folly, but the reclaimed land to the East featured plenty of generally unclaimed woodland. Making a trip that way would probably be necessary, in the near future. Usually you borrowed the cart of the Brooker family for such things. [[Another thing to note for later.->Campfire]]

*God above, protect me.* The invocation is simple, murmured most every day across most of the world by peasants and nobility alike. Rout reaction or humble beseechment, it nevertheless pushes the flutter of fear from your throat. Superstition could lead you to believe any number of things about a simple frozen bucket, after all. Perhaps it had merely been colder this morning then you had assumed? [[Either way, you focus on your work.->CampBucket2]]

The bucket, simply hewn wood, is cold—but only at the line of ice along the top, the back of your hand upon it reveals. Peering closer, you see one or two portions where the water has broken through already, as if the ice was melting. Perhaps it had merely been colder this morning than you had noticed? [[Either way, you focus on your work.->CampBucket2]]

The wooden bucket rests on the ground before you, (if: $Check6 is false)[the ice formed atop the water within mostly unbroken.](else:)[the ice formed atop the water shattered into chunks by your earlier use. Your bowl rests nearby, where you left it.] (if: $Check4 is true and $Check5 is false)[[[Clean the bowl you carry.->Cleanbowl]]] [[Step away from the bucket.->Campfire]]

Dunking the wooden bowl you found in your tent sees it easily breach the ice, cool water splashing against your fingers as you scrub the lingering bits of your morning porridge from the bowl. When you next pull it free the bowl looks as clean as it would ever be. Gently you set it aside, next to the bucket itself. (set: $Check5 to true)(if: $Inv contains "wooden bowl")[(set: $Inv to $Inv - (a: "wooden bowl"))] (colour: red)[Wooden Bowl removed from inventory.] [[Easily done.->CampBucket2]]

Stepping back towards the front of your small camp, a shock of frigid wind blows in from the West. Your breath momentarily emerges as a small cloud of frost as you gasp a bit, but the chill departs with the wind. You're left momentarily rubbing at your arms, half expecting snow to fall-- despite the fact it is still high summer. Glancing up, not a cloud stains the tapestry of light that made up the sky of encroaching night. Strange. Yet you notice something else, a bit of brown hooked onto a shrub someways off from your campsite. Selsie Cormac's hat! That gust must have blown it free from where ever you had stored it. It appears lodged quite stoutly in the foliage. (set: $Check3 to true) [[And the hat is the last item you needed to collect.->CampHub]]

Three roughly square bundles await your attention, as another burst of cold wind runs across the clearing. Your hair dances softly in response. [[Check the first bundle, the opened one.->Pack1]] [[Check the second bundle, in the middle.->Pack2]] [[Check the third bundle, the empty looking one.->Pack3]] (if: $Strike is > 2)[[[Stop wasting time, you know where your charged stakes are.->StakePack]]] [[Return to the front of your camp.->CampHub]]

Kneeling down beside the bundle of roughspun canvas, you push the opened flap on the side a bit. Twine wrapped around it, crossing in the middle, but the area nearest that opened portion had snapped when you first arrived. A minor annoyance, as the pack merely held your second set of clothes and an extra blanket. Once a week or so you would make your way to the nearby stream, to bath and switch outfits. It was a routine you had pushed a bit in your admittedly flexible schedule, making the trip just the night prior to ensure you looked presentable enough for going into town. Folding the flap back into place, you're at least assured there is little else of interest hiding within. (set: $Strike to it + 1) [[Check another, perhaps?->PackHub]]

You need not open the center bundle to know what awaited within: your food. A handful of snares placed around your stake lines ensured you supplemented your diet with a bit of fresh meat every now and then, but most days you had to make do with trail-hardened bread and heavy oats that could be made into a porridge. Hardly appetizing, but it was cheap and kept for several weeks at a time, limiting your need to travel to Westend often. As always you had made the canvas was well collected, all but sealed, before leaving this morning. Spirits and Ghosts of the wood occupied the minds of most who approached the Blackwood, but you were more likely to contend with small critters if they sniffed out your stash. (set: $Strike to it + 1) [[You look to the other bundles.->PackHub]]

The third and rightmost of the bundles at your feet is all but flaccid, lacking the bulk of the others. Lifting the flap reveals why, although of course you already know the answer. Within awaits a solitary bronze stake, the singular extra you kept on the odd chance one of your regular stakes broke during use. Like any well-crafted bit of metal that was unlikely, but it gave you piece of mind to know you had it—just in case. Otherwise this pack had been used to transport the rest of your stakes to camp, in the first place. And in turn it would eventually be used when you retrieved them again, in a few months. Only then would they be fully charged, the ground cleansed. Then you could sell them to Kurt Brooker, Westend’s blacksmith. That would bring in plenty of Sol, more then you made from the agreement to clear the land in the first place, but that was largely a sunk cost. The profit would be pulled right back out of your pocket by the need to buy another set of stakes, and like any good metal, that never came cheaply. (set: $Strike to it + 1) [[A cyclical system, but not what you should be focusing on now.->PackHub]]

Lifting all three bundled packs at once, you pull out the fourth slid beneath them. As if to remind you why you kept your charged stakes in such a manner a sound becomes immediately audible, a gentle ringing hum that would have been maddening to sleep near had the thick canvas atop not muffled it. One, two, three. You count them wordlessly as you pull them forth, the last of your previous job, three charged pewter stakes. Once separated the humming ceases, a symptom of their agitation when kept together. Now separated the only indicator of their state is the mark atop the flat top of the stake, utterly invisible when forged new but now glowing softly with arcane power. You knew few letters, and like most folk could not read, but everyone knew *that* symbol. <img src="https://i.imgur.com/dSYBAsq.png"> *Danger,* it all but shouted. *Beware. Magic.* [[You can almost taste the stored power.->StakePack2]]

Folk superstition may have attested to the danger, but in truth you know the stakes are quite safe. Even if intentionally broken they would simply release the power stored within, in much the same manner your walking upon the ground had earlier expressed bits of arcane light. The mere act of pounding stakes into the ground expressed more arcane potential then even a stake could acquire over months, after all. But you, like every other person in the Empire and beyond, could no more interact with such power then a blind man could see. It was simply beyond you. Only three beings could work magic. Beasts of a wellspring fed wood were most common, coming in all manner of shapes and attendant dangers. But they feared purified land, abhorred the civilization that inevitably followed. Most importantly, they were no more intelligent then a particularly keen dog. Their natural counterparts, Ghosts, did not share that same restriction. Ghosts could *think*; reason, speak even. But most of what you knew of them came from myth and folklore. Like their bestial cousins they did not generally venture from the wilderness. Tales told by traveling bards spoke most readily of Ghosts, and then only to tell of the grand campaigns, the blood and treasure spent, to slay a King and seal a Wellspring forever. History spoke of seven such wars, the last having been waged decades ago. The third of those touched by the arcane were the pact-makers, who most folk tried not to think about at all. Superstition came naturally to those who lived along the frontier, doubly so for a Steeldriver. [[Best not to dwell on it.->StakePack3]]

(set: $Check1 to true)Gently you fold the fabric back around the stakes, then slide them into the satchel still hanging from your shoulder. They fit almost perfectly, your purchase of the bag having originally been intended for just such use. A quiet hum announces their closeness, but with a shift of your shoulder they settle down into a position that would not annoy you for the walk into town. (colour: green)[Three stakes added to inventory.](if: not ($Inv contains "three stakes"))[(set: $Inv to $Inv + (a: "three stakes"))] (if: $Check2 is true and $Check3 is false)[[[From your kneeling position you stand back up.->HatEvent]]](else:)[[[From your kneeling position you stand back up.->PackHub]]]

Living on the edge of civilization and skewing young, Steeldrivers rarely have much in their personal possession. That which they do have is valuable however, even if only to themselves, and it would be well-considered to check yours often. (if: $Inv's length is > 0)[Your inventory contains a (print: $Inv.join(", ")).](else:)[Your inventory is empty.] {(click: "worn knife")[(go-to: "worn knife")] (click: "wooden bowl")[(go-to: "wooden bowl")] (click: "three stakes")[(go-to: "three stakes")] (click: "Selsie's hat")[(go-to: "Selsie's hat")] (click: "two stakes")[(go-to: "two stakes")] }

(set: $Back to 0)(set: $Gold to 0)(set: $Strike to 0)(set: $Gender to 0)(set: $Chapter to 0)(set: $Check1 to false)(set: $Check2 to false)(set: $Check3 to false)(set: $Check4 to false)(set: $Check5 to false)(set: $Check6 to false)(set: $Health to 3)(set: $Inv to (a:))(set: $Wound to 0)(set: $Name to "Mason")(set: $Augur to (a:))

Your battered knife. The handle is simply hewn wood, the blade precious steel. It is unadorned, but the tip is broken off.

Three stakes, the trademark tools of your trade. Each is about three feet long, tapering to a sharp point at one end. Of the three common sort of stakes, pewter, bronze, and steel, these are the weakest and least valuable sort. Of course a singular stake is worth nearly as much as your other possessions combined, but the trade in such tools are highly regulated, and only a fraction of their true value could ever be obtained when exchanging them for sol.

Your wooden bowl, hand-carved. Bits of breakfast still cling to it.

Selsie Cormac's hat, borrowed to you some weeks ago. Formed from grass shoots dried and interweaved, it is a light beige color and features a broad brim. Having had it for some time, you now have the opportunity to return it without offending Selsie.

You step forward. Once, then twice, achieving something like a normal gait despite the terror that hides behind your action, whispering that to approach such a being was death. It watches, deer skull head turned so that one fiery eye can track you. Yet it does not move, the cold wind blowing across the field shifting only its cloak. Further blue fire forms at the center of its forehead before spreading, forming a broken crown along its bony brow. It almost seems like its waiting for something, and you have no intention of allowing that vigil to end. You're close enough now to make a run for your stake line, if you wish-- but now that you're closer another option exists as well. Your mallet leans against one of the nearer stakes, its heavy end more than capable of crushing bone if you had the gall. [[Run for the stakeline!->GhostStake]] [[Go for the mallet, fight it!->GhostMallet]] [[This... this was a mistake. Run away!->GhostRun]]

Fight or flight, that eternal last resort, makes the decision easy enough. You could not engage a Ghost, you could hardly guess at what it was capable of. But you knew it to be different, evil. And that's enough to send you running in panicked flight. With a head start it takes only a few long strides to send you careening into the underbrush that marked the edge of the field, bush branches tugging at your clothes as you crash through. You dare not look back, gauge your progress, but instead merely scramble up the far side-- breaking out into another clearing. By the light of God above you cross it, breathing heavily from effort and fear in equal measure. Only as you approach another thicket of leftover scrub do you glance back, seeking the Ghost. And you find it: directly behind you, a burning blue crown aflame upon its brow. It reaches out, long claws digging into your wrist as it seizes you. You almost collapse there, your body seizing up, scalded by the cold, not responding to the bestial panic that burns through your every thought. Twisting you to face it, the Ghost leans over, eclipsing you in its shadow. (colour: red)[You have suffered 1 health damage.](set: $Health to it - 1)(set: $Wound to 3) (colour: blue)[**"You will lis-ten, Herald."**] [[You manage a gasped breath.->GhostMessage]]

The Ghost waits, seemingly frozen in its beckoning posture, but you do not move a step. Fear wells within you, overrunning its own banks, wracking you with indecision. You glance up, perhaps looking to the Thousandfold God gleaming like so many pinpricks of light in the sky-- or perhaps only to break your stare from the ghost. Yet in that moment you lose sight of it the cloaked figure suddenly looms in front of you, no longer distant. No folk could travel that distance so quickly. Fire blooms along its skeletal brow, forming a broken crown. [[Run for it!->GhostRun]] [[Pray, its your only hope. "God preserve, God look down upon me..."->GhostPray2]] [[Remain utterly still.->GhostMessage]]

The prayer escapes your lips in a jumbled heap, your left hand making the symbol of protection before you: a circle within a circle, God's Eye. Glancing up you look to God itself, the glimmers of light upon the tapestry of the night sky giving you strength. Protection could always be found beneath it's light, although the calming breath you take offset by it emerging as frost. You look back down-- and find the Ghost standing directly before you. (colour: blue)[**"They will... not an-swer,"**] it rasps, casting you in the shadow of its cloaked form. Blue flame bursts forth around its skeletal brow, forming a broken crown. (colour: blue)[**"We all di-ed for... *that.***"] [[Pray louder. "GOD PRESERVE ME, PROTECT ME...!"->GhostPray2]] [["What do you want!?"->GhostPray2]] [[Remain silent.->GhostMessage]]

(colour: blue)[**"Si-lence."**] A command, growled with unnatural authority. The Ghost's hand comes up, seizing your throat. Its touch is cold yet somehow scalding, your scream that attempts to follow dying stillborn. Fight or flight, that eternal last resort, decides in that moment completely on the latter but your body refuses to answer the call. You're rooted in place, frozen in fear, as the crowned Ghost leans in to meet your gaze. (colour: red)[You have suffered 1 health damage.](set: $Health to it - 1)(set: $Wound to 1) (colour: blue)[**"You will lis-ten, Herald."**] [[You manage a gasped breath.->GhostMessage]]

You exhale raggedly, your breath frosting. The taste of iron lingers in your mouth, like an open wound dripping fresh blood upon the tongue. Lesser arcane creatures could often be sensed by that tang, but in the presence of this crowned Ghost you nearly gag upon it.(if: $Wound is > 0)[ Its clawed grip upon you shifts, tightening further.] (colour: blue)[**"You will sp-eak, for the grave. Her-ald. Tell the Violet Lady, the ancient foe, that she is... wel-comed. My court... a-waits... her."**] (if: $Wound is > 0)[The Ghost releases you suddenly, and you tumble to the ground. Where it had seized you still burns, the flesh raw and blistered as you try to shake the pain away.](else:)[The Ghost had not touched you, but you recoil nevertheless, even as the towering figure remains stationary.] Its hands collect before it, claws disappearing in the large folds of its sleeved cloak. Above its skeltal head antlers flicker into existence, alight with the blue flames that formed its crown. (colour: blue)[**"Speak my words, Her-ald. Bring them down... up-on us. *Go.*"**] [[You hardly need more prompting. Run!->GhostMessage2]]

You break from your careful advance, feet digging into the loose dirt of the field as feint right before sprinting left. The Ghost stood between you and safety, but close enough to the stake line that you need only a free moment to make it. The Ghost moves, but slowly as you had anticipated, its unnaturally slim shoulders shifting as its skeletal head follows. You skirt just beyond the reach of its claws, sucking in a last gasp of air before diving headfirst between two stakes. [[Safety, so close!->GhostStake2]]

You break from your careful advance, feet digging into the loose dirt of the field as you feint right before sprinting left. The Ghost stood between you and safety, but close enough to the stake line that you need only a free moment to make it. The Ghost moves, but slowly as you had anticipated, its unnaturally slim shoulders shifting as its skeletal head follows. Skidding to a halt, your hands seize upon the mallet's long haft, the wooden grain familiar in your grasp. You cannot help but grin as you convert the movement into a wild swing, the mallet arcing madly as you aim for the chest of the towering creature. [[Instead your strike finds nothing at all.->GhostMallet2]]

You pass the stakes, relief welling in your chest-- which expels just as quickly as you're yanked back, *hard*. Your leg, the Ghost's obsidian claws are upon it, gripping your ankle. Even through your pants its touch is agony, a cold scalding that brings a scream to your throat. How? How had it caught you? No folk could move that quickly, cover so much ground? Your questions come out as a scream, one your captor strangles with a growled command. (colour: blue)[**"Si-lence."**] The simple word, broken in two, rasps across your mind with unearned authority. Yet you do go quiet, looking mutely at the creature that holds you a few feet from the ground, inverted by your ankle. (colour: red)[You have suffered 1 health damage.](set: $Health to it - 1)(set: $Wound to 1) (colour: blue)[**"You will lis-ten, Herald."**] [[You manage a gasped breath.->GhostMessage]]

You're nearly taken off your own feet without anything to impact, your audacity failing to provide the footwork actual combat training may have provided. Stumbling you turn, seeking the Ghost. Where? Where had it gone!? You find it shortly enough. Behind you, directly behind you, its blackened grip seizing one of your wrists before you even manage to raise the mallet for a second attempt. Its very touch freezes, scalding your skin as your grip weakens. The mallet falls and the creature uses its other hand to seize your throat, lifting you off your feet. (colour: blue)[**"Vio-lence, in the face... of annihilation. Fitting. You have not for-gotten... yourself, Herald."**] (colour: red)[You have suffered 2 health damage.](set: $Health to it - 2)(set: $Wound to 4) In that moment it almost sounds impressed, even as its agonizing hold upon you tightens. (colour: blue)[**"You will lis-ten."**] [[You manage a gasped breath.->GhostMessage]]

You whirl, and the flight begins. A cold gust spurs you on, goosebumps ready to form if you were not already drenched in a cold sweat. Terror thrusts you forward, but you spare a glance back, unable to keep yourself from one last look. The Ghost remains where you left it, regal and unmoving. That almost makes it more terrifying. Brambles pull at your clothes and hair as you smash through a hedge, tripping down into the ditch hidden beneath. The Ghost passes from view as your attention is pulled towards stopping yourself from smashing into a large rock deposited there by some distant rainfall. You do not slow your pace however, fleeing headlong and without much further thought. *Away*. The simple objective of getting away from the crowned being of the Blackwood drives you. (if: $Inv contains "wooden bowl")[(set: $Inv to $Inv - (a: "wooden bowl"))Your headlong flight pulls open your satchel along the way, causing the bowl you had picked up earlier to slip loose. You certainly aren't stopping to pick it up. (colour: red)[Wooden Bowl removed from inventory.]] Sprinting across fields, jumping further drainage ditches and natural rivulets in the ground, driving through brush and tree copses alike-- you emerge from one such grouping of trees to find a surprising sight. A road. *The* road, the West Line. [[Safety? It had to be.->GhostMessage3]]

The Blackwood surrounded Westend and its homesteaders, an overgrown noose. None cleared its westernmost point, creatures of the wood and Ghosts alike were most active there. Instead you worked along the edges, meaning you are actually a bit East of town. At least the weeks since your last sighting of the West Line have not changed it, it is just as you remembered-- straight and unerring, its paving stones carefully aligned and making it ever so different from the myriad of dirt paths that otherwise linked farms to villages to cities, and everything in between. That familiarity is almost soothing, but its what awaits you on the road itself that truly allows you to catch your first breath since the Ghost had sent you on your way... what must have been an hour ago, you realize with surprise by checking the sky. You're not alone. A cart is halted someways off, a simple two-wheeled design evidently pulled by the auroch yolked before it. Even from this distance you can see it is sitting skewed however, the wheel facing you bent at a strange angle. Beside it a cloaked figure kneels, but this one you are confident is no Ghost-- a bald head gleams, and when he stands to consider the predicament he is no taller than most folk. A traveler, one you come to recognize by by trade first, then recalling his name. Charms and wards hang from its sides, bits of fashioned wood and polished stone through which strands of rope run like a spine. They clatter gently as the man shoves against the wheel once more. [[That is Callis Arendale, traveling Augur!->Augur]]

**Chapter 1: WESTEND BOUND** (set: $Chapter to 1) Doubled over, you turn back the way you came. Of the Ghost there is no sign of pursuit. Nor does the Augur upon the road appear to present any danger. His movements are slow, his posture somewhat stooped. Callis had been to Westend half a dozen times that you remember, and had been old even then. If anything did pursue you, perhaps it would remain at bay were you to keep his company. At the very least riding into town, still another hour away, upon his cart would allow you to properly catch your breath. And everything would be fine once you reached Westend. *Right?* Pushing the Ghost from your thoughts, if only for the moment, you begin making your way down the small hillock to the West Line below. (if: $Wound is 1)[Your hand comes up to your throat, where the Ghost had grabbed you. The skin still seethes as if burned, and you can only imagine what it looked like.](if: $Wound is 2)[Your left hand moves to your right as you lift it, examining where the Ghost had grabbed you. The skin still seethes as if burned, looking like a bad rash were it not for the hints of black along the edges. To your great relief that at least appears to be fading quickly.](if: $Wound is 3)[Pulling up your pants leg a bit, you examine where the Ghost had grabbed you. The skin still seethes as if burned, looking like a bad rash were it not for the hints of black along the edges. To your great relief that at least appears to be fading quickly.](if: $Wound is 4)[Your left hand moves to your right as you lift it, examining where the Ghost had grabbed you. The skin still seethes as if burned, same as it does along your throat, looking like a bad rash were it not for the hints of black along the edges. To your great relief that at least appears to be fading quickly.] (if: $Wound is > 0)[Augurs were known for their abilities to heal, perhaps it would make sense to bring it up.] The Augur turns from his cart at your approach, revealing a leathered face and long beard-- it reaches mid-chest. A hand to his breast is clasped in greeting as his voice carries over the few steps of distance that still separate you. "Hail, (if: $Gender is 1)[lad](if: $Gender is 2)[lass]! Who might you be?" [[Answer him.->Augur2]]

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/DjDNJTM.jpg" width="35%" height="35%"> (set: $Name to (prompt: "Your first name:", ""))"$Name, eh?" The old man chews on the name, apparently missing several teeth you notice. Whatever his conclusion he seems satisfied, nodding to himself as much as you. The arm across his chest in greeting falls, only for the hand to land upon his hip. His eyes are dark, but even in the growing moonlight they gleam with curiosity. Glancing back towards the hill you had descended, he looks to you again with a friendly smile. "By the Thousand Eyes, I hardly recognize ye. I walk the West for a year, perhaps two, and all you young folk grow so that I must relearn your faces! Am curious though, must admit. Will admit. What brings you out on the road, then? Don't rightly know your trade, I think. (if: $Gender is 1)[Got the look of a farmer you do, lad. Only the *look*, though.](if: $Gender is 2)[Not many lasses dressed like that, not many as strong as you look either.]" (set: $Strike to 0) Telling him directly of the Ghost, of your panicked escape, is out of the question. Most folk were superstitious at the best of times about such things, and while Augurs were known for their knowledge of simple magics you still need time to process just what had happened. [["I'm... a farmer, heading into town for alignment."->AugurFarm]] [["I'm... the local steeldriver. Heading into town for alignment."->AugurSteel]] [["That's my business."->AugurBuss]]

"Farmer, eh?" One eye squints, the Augur very clearly taking your measure. "I think not. (if: $Gender is 1)[No man be working a farm alone, and I don't see a family traipsing along behind.](if: $Gender is 2)[Never met a lass who worked a farm alone, at least not one who wasn't a widower-- and you're too young for that, aye.]" He shrugs, the simple roughspun tunic he wore looking rather worn in that moment. "Keep your secrets, if ye wish. Young folk always suspicious of the world, won't hold it against you. Especially when I have need of you." He pauses, stroking his chin with the hand not upon his hip for a moment. "Name's still Callis Arendale, by the by. Proper greetings to ya." [["Good to meet you too, Callis."->Augur3]] [["Hail, and good tidings."->Augur3]]

"Steeldriver, eh?" One eye squints, the Augur very clearly taking your measure. "Now I see. Remember, although I think you were still apprenticed last time I came through? Very good, very good." He clasps his hands together, the simple roughspun tunic he wore looking rather worn in that moment. "God be tipping fate my way it seems, especially when I have need of you." He pauses, stroking his chin with a hand. "Name's still Callis Arendale, by the by. Proper greetings to ya." (set: $Strike to 1) [["Good to meet you too, Callis."->Augur3]] [["Hail, and good tidings."->Augur3]]

"Not hardly anyone's business, I would think." One eye squints, the Augur very clearly taking your measure. Then he shrugs, the simple roughspun tunic he wore looking rather worn in that moment. "Keep your secrets, if ye wish. Young folk always suspicious of the world, won't hold it against you. Especially when I have need of you." He pauses, stroking his chin with the hand not upon his hip for a moment. "Name's still Callis Arendale, by the by. Good to meetchya, proper like." [["Good to meet you too, Callis."->Augur3]] [["Hail, and good tidings."->Augur3]]

Callis reaches towards the sky, his other hand once more finding his chest. "God gaze up ye, $Name." As far as greetings went it was quite formal. The old man only passed through Westend every few years, but from your experience piousness and formality seemed a constant among them. Even if it came in a rugged sort of manner, honed from years on the road, often sleeping beneath hedges and in fields. Dropping the pose, the Augur turns, revealing once more his cart. The wheel is crooked as you had seen from afar, two of the pegs that held it to the axel having apparently sheared off. "Broken paving stone," the man explains, kneeling down to tap the hub with a bony finger. "Snapped it right off, it did. I know its been some time since the Expedition pulled out, aye, but I never thought a proper Line would get so bad. Yet here we are. And here ye be." His mouth is a thin line surrounded by the bulk of his beard, but when it smiles it seems to grow, taking over Callis' face completely. "I noticed your bag there. (if: $Strike is 0)[Now you may not have wanted to tell me your trade, but I remember it from last time. Steeldriver, aye, and them be stakes in there. Would... you happen to have any charged?"](if: $Strike is 1)[As I said, God be smiling upon me. Your being a Steeldriver, I would bet them be stakes in there? Would... you happen to have any charged?"] [["Yeah, a few pewter ones."->Augur4]] [["Why do you want to know?"->Augur4Why]]

"Good, very good. That's just what we need." The old man's smile grows all the wider. "Let me show ye. Aye, Val!" He puts two fingers to his mouth, whistling sharply. Almost immediately the call is answered by a sharp hoot, near enough to startle you almost to the point of jumping. Turning you find a small owl perched upon the side of the Augur's cart, its carefully kept feathers like fresh fallen snow and very different from Callis' vaguely disheveled look. Yet its the eyes that draw you in most readily, gleaming like milky pools as it regards you with keen intent. You have an immediate inkling of just what that meant. (if: $Back is 1)[Growing up in Westend, this is not your first time meeting Val.](if: $Back is 2)[You don't recall ever meeting something like Val during your youth in the Core, but since coming to Westend you have seen Val on occasion when Callis was about.](if: $Back is 3)[Your youth spent traveling had introduced you to all sorts of folk, wanderers and merchants making common camp often-- and some had traveled with similar sorts of animal.] A creature touched by the arcane, born to a wildwood, once linked to its Wellspring. But that connection had been severed, willingly or not you could not guess, the owl's continued existence thus owing to a new source of life. One that could only be formed by a Pact. [[Draw God's Eye between you.->AugurEye]] [["You're... a mage, of sorts, yes..."->AugurMage]] [["I am... very much not in the mood for Ghosts right now."->AugurPact]]

"Why?" The old man's smile grows all the wider. "Let me show ye. Aye, Val!" He puts two fingers to his mouth, whistling sharply. Almost immediately the call is answered by a sharp hoot, near enough to startle you almost to the point of jumping. Turning you find a small owl perched upon the side of the Augur's cart, its carefully kept feathers like fresh fallen snow and very different from Callis' vaguely disheveled look. Yet its the eyes that draw you in most readily, gleaming like milky pools as it regards you with keen intent. You have an immediate inkling of just what that meant. (if: $Back is 1)[Growing up in Westend, this is not your first meeting Val.](if: $Back is 2)[You don't recall ever meeting something like Val during your youth in the Core, but since coming to Westend you have seen Val on occasion when Callis was about.](if: $Back is 3)[Your youth spent traveling had introduced you to all sorts of folk, wanderers and merchants making common camp often-- and some had traveled with similar sorts of animal.] A creature touched by the arcane, born to a wildwood, once linked to its Wellspring. But that connection had been severed, willingly or not you could not guess, the owl's continued existence thus owing to a new source of life. One that could only be formed by a Pact. [[Draw God's Eye between you.->AugurEye]] [["You're... a mage, of sorts, yes..."->AugurMage]] [["I am... very much not in the mood for Ghosts right now."->AugurPact]]

The old man puffs up a bit, pushing your hands down with narrowed eyes. "None of that now, (if: $Gender is 1)[lad](if: $Gender is 2)[lass]. I am beheld by God, same as you. You're frontier folk, you know that well enough. Val is of a wood, aye, but she ain't no Ghost or other such thing to fear. And besides, you're going to anger her." At your side the owl ruffles her feathers a bit, but keeps staring at you with those knowing eyes. As if keen to break the tension between you and the bird, the Augur clears his throat. "Now see, my cart's axel is broken. I can get it repaired in town, but that will cost a bit of Sol, a good bit of time, and I won't have most of my things for the alignment tonight, see?" He rubs his hands together, the skin hardened and gnarled by long years on the road. "Or if you would give me just one of your stakes there, Val and I could have things back together real quick. I could bring all my goods into town, and of course could try and pay you back some way. How does that sound? Hmm? Oh, and of course you would be welcome to ride with me into town, rest those weary legs!" [["You would pay me back in Sol?"->AugurSol]] [["Alright, I suppose I can give you one of my stakes..."->AugurAgree]] [["Absolutely not! Such things are evil!"->AugurNo]] [["I'm... not really comfortable doing that.->AugurNo]]

The old man laughs, a coarse but friendly sound. "None of that now, (if: $Gender is 1)[lad](if: $Gender is 2)[lass]. I can manage a few simple tricks, but I'm no Absolved brother. You're frontier folk, you know that well enough. Val is of a wood, aye, but she ain't no Ghost or other such thing to fear." At your side the owl ruffles her feathers a bit, but keeps staring at you with those knowing eyes. As if keen to break the tension between you and the bird, the Augur clears his throat. "Now see, my cart's axel is broken. I can get it repaired in town, but that will cost a bit of Sol, a good bit of time, and I won't have most of my things for the alignment tonight, see?" He rubs his hands together, the skin hardened and gnarled by long years on the road. "Or if you would give me just one of your stakes there, Val and I could have things back together real quick. I could bring all my goods into town, and of course could try and pay you back some way. How does that sound? Hmm? Oh, and of course you would be welcome to ride with me into town, rest those weary legs!" [["You would pay me back in Sol?"->AugurSol]] [["Alright, I suppose I can give you one of my stakes..."->AugurAgree]] [["Absolutely not! Such things are evil!"->AugurNo]] [["I'm... not really comfortable doing that.->AugurNo]]

The old man puffs up a bit, pushing your hands down with narrowed eyes. "None of that now, (if: $Gender is 1)[lad](if: $Gender is 2)[lass]. I am beheld by God, same as you. I do not conspire with Ghosts. You're frontier folk, you know that well enough. Val is of a wood, aye, but she ain't no Ghost. Best watch yourself, you're going to anger her." At your side the owl ruffles her feathers a bit, but keeps staring at you with those knowing eyes. As if keen to break the tension between you and the bird, the Augur clears his throat. "Now see, my cart's axel is broken. I can get it repaired in town, but that will cost a bit of Sol, a good bit of time, and I won't have most of my things for the alignment tonight, see?" He rubs his hands together, the skin hardened and gnarled by long years on the road. "Or if you would give me just one of your stakes there, Val and I could have things back together real quick. I could bring all my goods into town, and of course could try and pay you back some way. How does that sound? Hmm? Oh, and of course you would be welcome to ride with me into town, rest those weary legs!" [["You would pay me back in Sol?"->AugurSol]] [["Alright, I suppose I can give you one of my stakes..."->AugurAgree]] [["Absolutely not! Such things are evil!"->AugurNo]] [["I'm... not really comfortable doing that.->AugurNo]]

"Ah well," Callis rubs at the back of his neck. "Sol ain't something I often have any of, given me trade. The villages dotted along the Blackwood are rich in good folk, but poor in iron, aye? But I will make good on it someway or another, tonight or tomorrow, I can certainly promise that." [["Alright, I suppose I can give you one of my stakes..."->AugurAgree]] [["Absolutely not! Such things are evil!"->AugurNo]] [["I'm... not really comfortable doing that.->AugurNo]]

(if: not ($Augur contains "Fixed Cart"))[(set: $Augur to $Augur + (a: "Fixed Cart"))](colour: green)[Callis will remember that.] The Augur's eyes light up, his teeth gleaming in the growing moonlight. "Wonderful, aye, just wonderful-- if you would just give me one, it will not take long." Reaching into your satchel, you pull out one of the pewter stakes, examining it only momentarily before handing it to Callis. He takes it carefully, almost reverently, even as his hands tighten on the bare metal. (colour: red)[One stake removed from your inventory.](if: not ($Inv contains "two stakes"))[(set: $Inv to $Inv + (a: "two stakes"))](if: $Inv contains "three stakes")[(set: $Inv to $Inv - (a: "three stakes"))] The snowy owl walks along the edge of the cart, moving to a position over the bent wheel. Callis looks to it, words unspoken before he turns to you. "Would you be so kind as to lift me cart? Just a bit, so that the axle can be mended straight." [[With a nod, you step closer, planting your feet before gripping the side of the cart.->AugurAgree2]]

The beard Callis wore so long frames his frown. "Come now, help a weary traveler out, aye? Would be but a few sol from your pocket, all things considered, and mighty help for a man in need. As I said, I will make good with you later." [["Alright, I suppose I can give you one of my stakes..."->AugurAgree]] [["The answer is still no, I'm sorry."->AugurNo2]] [["I said no!"->AugurNo2]]

(if: not ($Augur contains "No Cart"))[(set: $Augur to $Augur + (a: "No Cart"))](colour: red)[Callis will remember that.] "Ah." He is clearly disappointed. "Well, it be your decision. I shan't push you any further. Let me grab a few things, trinkets really, and we can leave the cart here for now. Have that blacksmith of yours... ah, what is his name? I will walk back out here tomorrow, get things fixed. Least I know the West Line ain't traveled at all, this far out. No need to fear for my things!" He makes good on his word, scrambling with surprising dexterity up onto the covered rear of his wagon. Rummaging through the collected bags and parcels, you're left with the clinking of glasses, the rustling of canvas, and eventually the heavy *thump* of the Augur hopping back down. Across each shoulder he has a pack, pockets bulging. Of the owl, Val, there is no sign. You don't seem to remember it moving, or flying away. "Ready?" Callis asks, stepping up beside you with a tug of his beard. A few simple straps allows him to unhook his aurochs from the cart, so that he can guide it along as well. [["Ready."->AugurMove]]

Two stakes, the trademark tools of your trade. Each is about three feet long, tapering to a sharp point at one end. Of the three common sort of stakes, pewter, bronze, and steel, these are the weakest and least valuable sort. Of course a singular stake is worth nearly as much as your other possessions combined, but the trade in such tools are highly regulated, and only a fraction of their true value could ever be obtained when exchanging them for sol.

With a surge of strength you shift the cart, less lifting it than shifting the undercarriage. Still it seems to be enough as the wizened Augur kneels down to adjust the wheel, returning it to an upright position. For a moment you think he is done, but in truth that is merely where the mundane ends. What comes next is bright, a flickering white light that stands apart from the blues you so often associated with the magic of the Blackwood. You look away, blinking away lingering marks that float before your eyes, as if you had stared briefly at the sun. Before you even look back the Augur slaps a hand on your shoulder. "You can put it down, it is done." The barest scent of metal emerges upon your tongue, stirring memories of the crowned Ghost. But here there is no towering figure, strange speech or demands. Merely Callis and Val, the latter once more peering at you with a quirked head. "(if: $Gender is 1)[Not so hard, was it? Luckily you're a strong lad, driving those stakes and whatnot.](if: $Gender is 2)[Not so hard, was it? Luckily for me you're no fainting daisy, aye? A steeldrivin' lass, a good alloy. Faith favors me.]" [["It was nothing, Callis."->AugurNoth]] [["Can you... explain what you did?"->AugurExplain]] [["Let us just be going."->AugurNoth]]

"I appreciate it," the Augur continues, knocking dust from the knees of his trousers. "Let us get aboard, aye, and be on the way. I'd like to have some time to set up my things before the alignment proper, aye." [[It is time you got moving.->AugurMove]]

"Perhaps it would be best if we save that for the road, if at all," the Augur replies, knocking a bit of dust from his knees. "If we stay here jawing we both will miss the alignment, aye?" [[He's not wrong.->AugurMove]]

(if: $Inv contains "two stakes")[Climbing up with surprising dexterity, Callis settles into the driver's position behind the lumbering aurochs that had otherwise remained silent since your arrival. You take the position to his right, and with a snap of the reins the horned creature before you shifts into a leisurely walk.](else:)[Side by side you walk down the West Line, taking an easy pace, Callis' aurochs following behind in its plodding manner.] In that brief moment of silence your mind drifts back, to the Ghost, your flight. What had it asked, or perhaps better said, what had it *demanded* of you?" (colour: blue)[**"You will sp-eak, for the grave. Her-ald. Tell the Violet Lady, the ancient foe, that she is... wel-comed. My court... a-waits... her."**] Even now, a good bit of time and distance removed from the event a cold chill runs down your back. Why had such interest been taken in you, of all people? Perhaps it was your proximity to the Blackwood itself. Ghosts could pass through stake lines, and walking upon purified land did not hurt them, but it was well known they did not like it. Something seemed to revolt in their very nature, a fact that was often used to explain their savagery in battle or raids. And the last raid Westend had suffered, now a decade past, had been the last you've heard of Ghosts in any meaningful way. What had changed? You do not know. Nor do you know what it had intended for you to do. *Tell the Violet Lady?* Who could that mean? Westend had its share of women, of course, but none that would be considered a proper Lady. That was something one found in a city at the Empire's core, not out at the very edge of the frontier. Did the Ghost expect you to travel? How? You have not a horse, expensive as they are, or even an oxen or auroch. Even among rural villagers, Steeldrivers were known for their poverty, so to speak. You have never needed anything like wealth, such things simply did not concern you. Certainly it couldn't-- You're cut off by a nudge from the Augur beside you, the old man peering at you with curiosity. "You alright there, (if: $Gender is 1)[lad](if: $Gender is 2)[lass]? I don't think you heard a thing I said, hm? (if: $Wound is > 0)[I noticed you were hurt." [["Yes, well..."->FixWound]] [["I'm fine, really."->FixWound]]](else:)[I hope I don't overstep, so to speak, but when you came upon me... you were anxious. Still are. Something happen on your way to the Line?" [["I... saw something..."->AugurSaw]] [["I don't want to talk about it."->AugurNothing]] [["It was nothing. I'm fine."->AugurNothing]]]

"I have a bit of experience dealing with injuries," the Augur notes, as Val ruffles her wings upon his shoulder. "Comes with the job, aye? That (if: $Wound is 1)[mark on your neck, hard to miss. Some sort of rash, or burn?](if: $Wound is 2)[mark on your wrist, saw it when your shirt pulled up a bit. Reach into something nasty? Stand of oakburn mayhaps?](if: $Wound is 3)[mark on your ankle, noticed it as you walked up. Easy to miss, but I've got a sharp, I do. Some sort of burn?](if: $Wound is 4)[mark on your throat is the obvious one, but another on your wrist? I would think ye fought someone out in the woods, but those look like rashes. Or burns.] I can help." He reaches into his cloak, apparently digging through a variety of pockets. You're just about to tell him to not bother when he pulls forth a small wooden jar, flicking open the cap to reveal a white oily looking substance. "Salve," he explains, offering it to you. "(if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")[For helping with me cart.](else:)[For escorting an old man into town.] No charge, and it will help." Taking the offered jar you use two fingers to dab it onto the mark the Ghost King left upon you, the lingering itch and irritation replaced by a cool sensation-- both of which grow distant as you return the salve to the Augur. He slides it back into his cloak, but on his shoulder the owl watches you curiously. Its eyes, so white, seem to ask to speak what is not said: *that was no ordinary rash.* (set: $Health to 3)(colour: green)[You've been healed!] Callis tugs at his beard. "Young folk think they're invincible, but you're not (if: $Gender is 1)[lad.](else:)[lass.] And those who can help are few are far between, this far out on the West Line." Another tug, as if he's considering if he should ask the question that eventually comes. "I hope I don't overstep, so to speak, but when you came upon me... you were anxious. Still are. Something happen on your way to the Line?" [["I... saw something..."->AugurSaw]] [["I don't want to talk about it."->AugurNothing]] [["It was nothing. I'm fine."->AugurNothing]]

The Augur's eyes widen a bit, but his mouth shifts into a frown. You sense unease, but the old man persists. "Aye? And what that be?" You hesitate, unsure if you should continue. Most Westenders spoke little of the Blackwood, as if mere mention could invite its wrath, and all grew discomforted by talk of Ghosts. They are dangerous and taboo. As a Steeldriver you were somewhat expected to have the occasional encounter, of course, but the Blackwood around Westend had been quiet since the last raid, a decade ago. Would it be wise to trust a stranger with what your story? Upon Callis' shoulder, his owl stares at you. [[Tell him, a little bit at least.->AugurNothing]] [["It... it was nothing. Nevermind.->AugurSaw2]]

"Ah. Of course." He tugs at his beard, the clearing that formed around his lips marking his frown. Val hoots sharply upon his shoulder but he reaches up, running a finger down her back, quieting her without a word.(if: $Wound is > 0)[ He glances at your wound again, although already the mark grows less evident.] "Well," Callis finally concludes, "consider this an open invitation, aye? If ye ever need to talk, once we reach your village. About anything. I doubt there are many within the palisade who understand just what can happen out near the Blackwood, but I've walked the roads north and south of here, see quite a bit in my time. Val," the owl chirps quietly at being mentioned, "Val has too." [[A light on the road ahead gives a welcome break from the topic.->TheoArrives]]

You pick your words carefully, wary of giving too much away. Even so, you have plenty to tell. Mostly you speak of the crowned Ghost itself, its towering height, bony visage, burning gaze. Even now, divorced from the event by time and distance the encounter still sends a chill down your spine. You rub absentmindedly at your arms, even though the frigid wind that had accompanied the creature is gone-- but you mention that too. Callis listens intently, pulling at his beard, wild eyebrows furrowed. You stop short of telling him of the message, but the Augur hardly needs it to give you a troubled look. (if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart)[Adjusting the reins of his Auroch in his hands,](else:)[Stepping a bit more quickly at your side,] the old man shakes his head. "Not good... not good at all, (if: $Gender is 1)[lad](else:)[lass]. You are sure you saw the crown, hm? God above... ye saw a proper King, do you know what that means?" [["I have no idea."->AugurSaw3]] [["Not really, no."->AugurSaw3]]

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/l3iF8Xp.jpg" width="35%" height="35%"> "Hey, $Name!" You know the voice before the figure behind the light, a lantern mounted upon a stick, hurriedly comes up beside you. (if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")[With a hand upon the side of the cart Theo leaps up into the back of the cart, his smile bright as he looks between you and the Augur.](else:)[Falling into an easy stride beside you and the Augur, his bright smile flashes as Theo looks between you and Callis.] Theodric Fells, of Westend, and a friend since (if: $Back is 1)[youth.](else:)[your arrival in the village.] He's tall and lean, sharing your age, and wearing his festival best-- a bright red tunic with carefully stitched decorations along sleeves and up along his collar. Most families had a seamstress under their roofs, but Theo's mother worked with needle and cloth like few others could. "Augur... Arendale, wasn't it?" He asks, grasping the older man's forearm when offered and pumping it excitedly in greeting. Theo might have been your best friend, but he was on good terms with just about everyone in the village, and never forgot a name. The same cannot be said for Callis, who clearly struggles to dredge up an inoffensive response. Theo is ahead of him there already, standing up straight(if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")[ in the back of the cart] only to bow extravagantly. "Theodric Fells, at your service! Although my friends call me Theo, and you must too." Callis seems taken aback, another common reaction to Theo. Perhaps it would be best to intervene. [["Theo, what are you doing out here on the road?"->TheoWhat]] [["Good to see you, Theo."->TheoGood]] [[Let Callis speak.->TheoLet]]

Rubbing his hands together, Callis exhales sharply. "Where to even begin... ah, it bodes ill to even discuss such things out here. Let me say this: there be all manner of Ghosts. Courtiers, Margraves, Dukes-- but only a handful of Princes, and a singular King for each Wellspring. They rule their courts, in their own way, but they do not leave the forests. And you met this Ghost King behind *both* stake lines?" The old man sets his jawline sharply. "We can speak more in town. We must. Decide upon what this means. But you must not speak to your Prefect before we do so, do you understand?" He meant what could be called Westend's leader, the appointed local representative of the Imperial bureaucracy. "Liable to start a panic, doing that." A light upon the road ahead draws both your attentions, and you seem to exhale together upon recognizing the simple yellow glow of a lantern-- and not anything like arcane blue. "We can talk more in town," Callis reminds you, with a bob of his bald head. (if: not ($Augur contains "Ghost Road"))[(set: $Augur to $Augur + (a: "Ghost Road"))] [[The lantern-holder steps up before you.->TheoArrives]]

Theo points to the band of cloth around his right bicep, a simple bit of yellow fabric. "Been volunteering for the Watch, recently! Not that there is much to watch for, of course. Not from the Blackwood, at least, and if there was I suspect we'd hear you screaming before we saw anything, aye?" His friendly ribbing doesn't land particularly well given your encounter with the Ghost, and at the very least he recognizes that, speaking up again. "I was watching for you specifically, though, $Name. You're the last one in, as usual, for the alignment. Finding you with Master Arendale is quite the surprise however. I daresay the Inn will be packed, with all the travelers we have in town!" Splaying a hand, Theo counts off his fingers one by one. "An Augur now, the Saes merchant, and an honest-to-God *noblewoman* with a Chelydra escort!" His last finger, the pinky, wiggles without purpose beneath his wide smile. (set: $Strike to 0) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["A noblewoman? In Westend?"->Noble]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]]

"Same, same," his smile is as easy as it is inviting, although the smack on the back he delivers stings a bit. "Almost thought you weren't going to make it into town tonight, then I would have had to go looking for you." Theo points to the band of cloth around his right bicep, a simple bit of yellow fabric. "Been volunteering for the Watch, recently! Not that there is much to watch for, of course. Not from the Blackwood, at least, and if there was I suspect we'd hear you screaming before we saw anything, aye?" His friendly ribbing doesn't land particularly well given your encounter with the Ghost, and at the very least he recognizes that, speaking up again. "I was watching for you specifically, though, $Name. You're the last one in, as usual, for the alignment. Finding you with Master Arendale is quite the surprise however. I daresay the Inn will be packed, with all the travelers we have in town!" Splaying a hand, Theo counts off his fingers one by one. "An Augur now, the Saes merchant, and an honest-to-God *noblewoman* with a Chelydra escort!" His last finger, the pinky, wiggles without purpose beneath his wide smile. (set: $Strike to 0) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["A noblewoman? In Westend?"->Noble]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]]

Callis glances to his shoulder, notices his owl is gone, and tugs his beard. "I think I remember ye, aye. Were a wee little thing last I came through, up to my belt perhaps. Older now, I see. Still loud though. Remember that most. What is your trade, son?" Theo points to the band of cloth around his right bicep, a simple bit of yellow fabric. "Been volunteering for the Watch, recently! Not that there is much to watch for, of course. Not from the Blackwood, at least, and if there was I suspect we'd hear you screaming before we saw anything, aye?" His friendly ribbing doesn't land particularly well given your encounter with the Ghost, and at the very least he recognizes that, speaking up again. "I was watching for you specifically, though, $Name. You're the last one in, as usual, for the alignment. Finding you with Master Arendale is quite the surprise however. I daresay the Inn will be packed, with all the travelers we have in town!" Splaying a hand, Theo counts off his fingers one by one. "An Augur now, the Saes merchant, and an honest-to-God *noblewoman* with a Chelydra escort!" His last finger, the pinky, wiggles without purpose beneath his wide smile. (set: $Strike to 0) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["A noblewoman? In Westend?"->Noble]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]]

"I know! Usually we have Master Tain, or that Rigby fellow come in for a festival day. But this Saes, Iskander, is the only one to have made it for alignment this year." Looking to the Augur, Theo turns consoling, if only for a moment. "I hope you weren't looking forward to sharing news from the Empire and beyond, because this Iskander beat you to it. There is so much news too... the Tyrant has united half the South, another King is... ah, Iskander can tell more. The more I talk about it, the more I feel the urge to run off-- and the Prefect would tan my hide for thinking like that." Callis shrugs, his threadbare cloak shifting on lean shoulders. "I mostly keep to the smaller villages. Sollari and the Curate don't particularly like Val much, ye understand. Tis a bit odd a Saes would come out here though, they usually run the bigger caravan routes."{ (if: $Back is 3)[You remember snippets of your youth, on the trade routes with your parents. The Augur is right, Saes kept to big cities and the busiest routes normally.] } Now its Theo's turn to shrug, but his enthusiasm never dampens. "Well, Iskander *is* here, and their prices are **amazing.** Seriously. Never seen textiles or bits of pewter going for so few sol. It has Kurt," he meant Westend's blacksmith, "and our own petty Tyrant, Isabelle, all sorts of unhappy! But hey, you've got charged stakes to trade in, right $Name? 'Course you do. Well instead of taking them to Kurt, you could probably trade them to Iskander. Get a few extra sol, although Kurt would *probably* hear of it and certainly wouldn't be happy..." (set: $Strike to it + 1) [["A noblewoman? In Westend?"->Noble]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]] (if: $Strike is > 2)[[["That's enough about the newcomers."->EndNewcomers]]]

"An honest-to-the-Thousandfold-God noblewoman," Theo asserts, hands gesticulating wildly. "A Sollari, and she is even wearing that strange material all the stories say they wear. *Laminar.* The stories never said it was so scandalous though, skintight and glossy and all bright colors and--" Callis cuts him off with a sharp grunt. "Let's focus elsewhere, lad.(if: $Gender is 2)[ Especially with a young lady right here, hm?]" Theo only widens his grin, rubbing at the back of his head with a bit of embarrassment. "Right, right.(if: $Gender is 2)[ Apologies, $Name. Got carried away.] Where was I... oh yes, well, she *is* Sollari. A proper lady, golden eyed and in (colour: purple)[violet] laminar." You all but jump (if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")[up from your seat in Callis' cart](else:)[up from your place between Callis and Theo on the road], bringing the attention of both your companions solely upon you. The Ghost's message had been for a *Violet Lady*. Who else could it mean, besides a full blown noblewoman, in violet laminar? Why was she here? How could the crowned Ghost have known? (if: $Back is 2)[You may have just been a child during your time at the Empire's core, but you know from experience that Sollari rarely ventured to the frontier.] "You okay, $Name?" Theo breaks your self reflection, squinting at you in the twilight. [["I'm... I'm fine. Just surprised a Sollari is here at all."->JSuprised]] [["You're certain she wears violet?"->JViolet]] [["Did she say why she is here?"->JWhy]]

"Not all Chelydra are purely warriors," Callis supplies from his position beside you, even as he continues to watch the road ahead. "Being the Empire's shock troops are what they're known for, but they're as free to choose as any man. Finding one assigned to a Sollari noblewoman isn't altogether surprising, probably as a bodyguard." "That would explain the armor," Theo says, slipping back into control of the conversation. "Not that we can ask him, of course. I don't think Chelydra have the... whatever lets us speak." "They don't lad," the Augur intervenes. "Probably can sign though." "(if: $Back is 3)[Well hey, $Name can too! From when you were a kid, right $Name? Maybe you can strike up a conversation.](else:)[The trade language, with the hand movements? I saw the Lady doing it, but I certainly can't. Probably for the best.] The Chelydra is nearly seven feet tall, and well, *very* imposing. Had it not walked in beside the Lady, we probably would have thought him to be some beast of the Wood!" (set: $Strike to it + 1) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["A noblewoman? In Westend?"->Noble]] (if: $Strike is > 2)[[["That's enough about the newcomers."->EndNewcomers]]]

"Great timing," Theo agrees, (if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")[jumping down from the cart to jog a few paces ahead of the plodding auroch.](else:)[striding forward at a slight job a few paces ahead of you and Callis.] "We're here, anyway. Westend!" You crest the small hill moments later to find the village stretched out before you. A stout palisade surrounds about fifty homes, although you know that at best only half are occupied-- and those are centered primarily around the open bit of green that marked the Commons on the far side of the village. All are simple structures, thatched roofs and wooden walled. Even from this distance you can see figures moving across Commons too, and the barest hints of music drift upon the warm night breeze. Food and festivity would reign tonight, and with the homesteaders who usually lived outside of town in for the event it would be crowded at Westend's only Inn, *The End of the World.* As the frontier outpost of an Expedition, Imperial Steeldrivers leading the push ever deeper into the Blackwwod, Westend had bustled with soldiers, craftsmen, and Imperial hanger-ons of all sorts. But it had been over a century since the 2nd great disaster, and eighty years since the garrison had pulled out. That left only farmers and common village folk now, but still-- by Westend's diminished standards alignment night would be as lively as it could manage. "Damn me, but the Sollari can keep their cities at the Core," Callis muses, Val flitting her wings upon his shoulder once more. "Good frontier folk are my kind of folk." [[And they're your folk too.->EndNewcomers2]]

Theo knew you too well to believe that, but he was also too jovial to push you harder on the matter. Instead he slaps his hands together, looking back to the road ahead, drawing attention away from your discomfort. "Well, Lady Anvollis-- that is her name-- only arrived yesterday. But she *did* ask who our steeldrivers were, asked me personally in fact. And I told her about you, that you're the only one left now that Old Theo stays inside the palisade. I suspect she will want to talk with you." (set: $Strike to it + 1) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]] (if: $Strike is > 2)[[["That's enough about the newcomers."->EndNewcomers]]]

Returning to the topic of her dress induces Theo to glance at Callis, but the Augur doesn't stop him from *briefly* revisiting it. "Yeah, violet, just like I said. She's hooded, although I think they call it veiling, like the stories say. And that's white, with the skirt. But mostly violet." He perks up suddenly, holding a finger up and waggling it at nothing in particular. "Lady Anvollis-- that is her name-- only arrived yesterday. But she *did* ask who our steeldrivers were, asked me personally in fact. And I told her about you, that you're the only one left now that Old Theo stays inside the palisade. I suspect she will want to talk with you." (set: $Strike to it + 1) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]] (if: $Strike is > 2)[[["That's enough about the newcomers."->EndNewcomers]]]

"Mhm... it would be kind of rude to ask that, I think. So directly." Theo taps a finger against his lips, thinking. "She says she is a scholar, though. Which makes sense. Everyone knows Sollari are smart, and while most become Magistrates they don't *have* to do that. I think." He perks up suddenly. "Lady Anvollis-- that is her name-- only arrived yesterday. But she *did* ask who our steeldrivers were, asked me personally in fact. And I told her about you, that you're the only one left now that Old Theo stays inside the palisade. I suspect she will want to talk with you." (set: $Strike to it + 1) [["We've never had a Saes merchant, not for as long as I can remember."->Saes]] [["Chelydra haven't been in Westend since the expedition left."->Chely]] (if: $Strike is > 2)[[["That's enough about the newcomers."->EndNewcomers]]]

<img src="https://i.imgur.com/7fycjcZ.png" width="50%" height="50%"> Descending the hill, not for the first time you recognize the achievement Westend represented, despite its slow slide into a backwater. At one time this land had been entirely the Blackwood, thickly forested, radiant with arcane magic and danger. But the Western Expedition had clawed civilization from that wilderness, fighting Ghosts and creatures of the wood, felling the trees, claiming the land for the Empire alone. Even now, a century later, the land surrounding Westend remained nothing but knee high grass. If one traveled further West, to the distant trees, they would find the Expedition's stakes still marking where they had halted. The palisade too was their work, although they probably wouldn't have allowed the moss and lichen to grow on it as thickly as you now observe. Another few decades and it would probably collapse, although few worried so far into the future when one had harvests and family to occupy them. For now it served its purpose, and from the watchtower above you can see a figure waving at your small party. Aaron, you think you can identify through the gloom, eldest of the Durmac family's sons. The gates stand open to you, framed by burning torches, but they are closed once you pass through-- Theo had mentioned you were the last they were waiting to arrive. "I'll be at the alignment itself, of course," Theo speaks up, tapping your shoulder for your attention. "And the meeting of the Councils, now that we're both old enough. (if: $Gender is 1)[I doubt the Men's Council will have much to really decide upon, the Women handle that, but still-- tradition.](else:)[Can't speak for your Women's Council, of course, but I suspect our Men's one will be rather boring. You never leave us much that needs discussing that's exciting.] Otherwise I'll be up in the Gatetower, though-- if you need me! Aaron is probably waiting for me right now. Was there anything else you needed, $Name? Or, of course, same for you Master Arendale?" The Augur shakes his head. (if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")["I'll take my cart to the Commons, try to get most of my business done before alignment."](else:)["I'll go find your Prefect eventually, let her know about my cart we left behind. But for now I need to get onto the Commons, try to get most of my business done before alignment."] He offers his forearm for you to grasp, same as when you met. "(if: $Augur contains "Ghost Road")["Come find me soon, and we can talk more about... what we discussed earlier.](else:)["If you need to discuss anything, *anything at all*, come find me."] Releasing you, the Augur continues on(if: $Augur contains "Fixed Cart")[ once you jump down from his cart]. Theo meanwhile looks to you, his question still hanging in the air. [["I'm good Theo, I'll see you later."->Ch2]] [["Where are the newcomers, again?"->NewWhere]] [["Any recommendations on what I should do?"->TheoReq]]

"Then I will see you later," Theo concludes, ascending the staircase that led to the palisade and gatetower. "Door is open up here, though. Don't be a stranger!" His tall form is overtaken by the light that emerges from the gatehouse door, and then he is gone. You meanwhile adjust the strap of your satchel, the (if: $Inv contains "two stakes")[two](else:)[three] stakes there weighing heavily. Trading those in would be a good first course of action, that would get you the Sol for anything else you might need. So too did you still have Selsie Cormac's hat, that would need to be returned at her workshop near the spring. Kurt would be near there as well, and if you wanted to spend the Sol to get your knife fixed he would be the man to ask. Otherwise you could enjoy the evening, perhaps pay for a bath at the Inn. Pretend like your encounter with the crowned Ghost had never happened. Or... you could address it directly. (if: $Augur contains "Ghost Road")[The Augur Callis had asked you to speak with him again, after all. Perhaps he could tell you more about what had happened, and give advice.](else:)[The Augur Callis had at least some knowledge of the Arcane, and seemed well traveled. Perhaps you could ask him about what had happened, and he could give advice.] Certainly your old mentor and the former steeldriver Thoro couldn't provide much, his wits wandered at times. Although you could still try. Prefect Alys, the village's appointed leader, could also be asked. If the Blackwood stirred, she would need to be told, although you have no idea how she might respond. And of course the Violet Lady herself, this Sollari noblewoman, she could be sought out. You do not know much of nobility, or the Empire's ruling species, but you *do* know the Sollari generally hated the Blackwood, and anything arcane. The Empire's Curate hunted down those who made Pacts and dealt in magic too. How would she respond? You find it hard to imagine the answer would be 'well', but Theo had mentioned she had not made it clear why she was in Westend in the first place-- except to mention she had been looking for the local steeldriver. *You.* [[Choices upon choices. You would need to make decisions, and hope you make the right ones.->CH2P2]]

Theo taps his chin. "Well, Lady Anvollis will probably be at the Inn, and wherever she is her Chelydra will be nearby. Kind of like a giant, seven foot tall shadow. The Saes merchant, Iskander, setup just outside one of the abandoned huts on the Commons. Which of course fired Tyrant Tanner right up, but our Innkeep can't exactly do anything about it. And you just heard the Augur, he will be near the Commons too." He seems ready to leave it there, but startles back into speech suddenly. "Oh! And your mentor, Old Thero, he will undoubtedly be telling stories all night by the spring! Not that he's a newcomer, I just thought you would like to see him." [["I'm good Theo, I'll see you later.->Ch2]] [["Any recommendations on what I should do, Theo?"->TheoReq]]

"You would know your needs better than I, $Name," Theo notes, but nevertheless his tendency towards always speaking when given the opportunity shines through once again. "Knowing you, though, you've got some charged stakes you need to trade in for proper Sol. That would mean a trip over to the Blacksmith, but I was speaking true when I said the merchant Iskander can probably give a better rate for them. After that? Whatever you want! Alignment night has all sorts of things to do, and you needn't worry about missing out. When the Councils meet and its time for Alignment proper, we will ring the bell from the gatehouse here. Impossible to miss." [["I'm good Theo, I'll see you later."->Ch2]] [["Where are the newcomers, again?"->NewWhere]]

**Chapter 2: TWILIGHT IN WESTEND** (set: $Chapter to 2) //Current End Point//

The images utilized in this narrative fiction should be considered placeholders, as I make no claim to the use of said images beyond fair use. Consider them indicative of intention, and not perfectly accurate representations of described characters, places, and events. [[Go Back->Start]]