In the delta of twin mountain peaks wreathed with cloud and sullen ash an otherwise unremarkable town sits, green and golden, shining as it catches the last light from the setting sun.
For a year you have traveled, criss-crossing the vast breadth of the Empire, through forest and river delta and the depths of the desert, seeking this place.
You'd followed the new railroads with their steaming engines to Cisna, by the ocean, where you'd heard faint rumors that someone knew the location. in Cisna they sent you to the factories in Ketch; from Ketch, following the water as it winds through the desert wastes of Bornia; from Bornia onwards.
Soon you'd been everywhere called Empire, looking for the one artisan capable of crafting a true crown, one fit for the Ruler of an Empire.
And everywhere they said the same: The village is just over there; or it is farther off; it is on the East coast, or the West coast, or no coast at all.
To say it has been frustrating would be an understatement.
Now that you're here it's not exactly what you expected. From atop the nearest knoll you can see the entire municipality nestling against the banks of a glittering river. Nothing close to the gilt and splendor of the capital, of course, but still a tidy collection of modest houses, bright-shuttered and cleanly kept. Here and there a light flips on against the falling night. A clocktower stands high over the center of town, colorful stalls and tents leaning against its sturdy base. Tall chimneys puff with smoke as dinner biscuits bake over hot fires, the scent of roasting meat and rising dough just close enough to scent the air.
In fields flanked by strong wooden fences cows graze on thick emerald grass, so white and clean they seem almost to glow in the approaching twilight. As you watch, a young woman runs out, her hair trailing behind her like a golden shroud, to sing them home to supper.
A lovely, peaceful evening is falling in the shadow of the fire mountain, but it has been a long journey, and in less than a week you must be back in the capital, crown in hand. There is no time left for even a pleasure as simple and timeless as drawing down the day.
Your Bug, the latest in conveyances fresh off the line in Amberlin, cocks its head. One multifaceted jeweled headlamp points at you with patient regard. You hit a switch on the mechanical's carapace, a popping, rumbling engine joining the sounds of the evening drifting on the clear air: the herdswoman's song; chickens settling in to roost; the clang of a hammer hitting a forge. You do not look at the stars picking their way through the dark purple skies above the mountain.
The white cows shake their curved horns and low at the dinner trough as you ride by, but their herdswoman stands staring at the horizon instead, her eyes searching for something lost.
(set: $grain to 0) (set: $coins to 10)
[[Ask her if she needs help]]
[[Ignore her and head into town]]Whatever her problem is, it isn't yours to fix. You accelerate, the conveyance whistling and snapping as gears change somewhere deep inside, riding towards the sound of a blacksmith's hammer ringing in the falling dark. (set: $gold to $gold -1) (set: $selfish to 1)
You just want to get this one final task done and out of the way.
"Out of the way!"
The herdswoman is thrown against the fence by your impatient passing, her basket knocked into the air. You and your mechanical Bug are nearly gone from sight before her golden grain even rains down on the packed earth.
The cows grumble at the sight of their supper trampled underfoot, horns cracking against one another. The herdswoman is still watching the stranger's fine red cloak streaming against the snarl of steam rising from your mechanical when a small calf comes ambling out of the darkness, nosing at the grain in the street, and nudges her hand.
[[ride to the blacksmith]]
[[find an inn]]No time for pleasure, maybe, but the last year has brought you many lessons. You should at least see what she needs.
You slow, Bug's whirring legs coming to a stop in front of the pasture. The herdswoman's eyes are luminous and unhappy as she turns to look at you in the cresting dark.
"Stranger! Please help me! One of my father's cows is missing," she says. "My smallest, most precious calf. He always wanders, but he's never been late before. I can't leave him alone in the darkness, and I have no one to watch my herd while I search." She looks down at the basket of golden grain she holds clutched in one fine hand, trembling with worry.
[[Help her]]
[[This is beneath you]]You hesitate, listening to the sound of a blacksmith's hammer ringing on an anvil nearby, but when you look down at the herdswoman, her eyes are full of unshed tears. She stares out over the field drawn close to darkness.
What is one more hour after a year of searching? (set: $gold to $gold + 1)
"I will help, lady."
She holds out her basket, brimming with sweet, golden grain. "Thank you, kind stranger. He will come running when he smells the winter oats and barley."
[[Take a handful]]You lean down and cup a handful of grain. It glitters in the dusk, bright against the fine leather of your gloves, scenting the air like sunlight and fresh hay, a summer afternoon held in the palm of your hand. When you close your fist, it is like a light goes out.
The herdswoman sighs in relief and points past the end of the field, where a small hill and a copse of trees stand on the horizon. Just past this you can hear the river rushing over stone.
"My little one likes the water. If you hurry, there is just enough time to get there and back before full dark."
She looks out over the landscape, the ground becoming harder and harder to see, the trees knocking and shivering against each other. Her body is tight with worry. "Please hurry. Nothing should be left alone in the dark."
[[search for the calf]]
Streetlights begin to flicker and glow. The road turns from packed earth to solid cobblestone. Flying through narrow streets hung with signs and celebration banners, the spectacle of your shining Bug causes commotion and dismay. Horses shy nervously in your wake.
You ride past it all, following the sound of a hammer striking an anvil, but when you stop in front of a delicate iron doorway set in stone at the end of a narrow alleyway, there is nothing but silence.
The journey took too long. The shop is closed.
[[try the door]]
[[wait until tomorrow. go to the inn]]
You clatter along on Bug through half-lit streets and alleyways clean enough to be main thoroughfares. Bug's glittering eyes throw a cone of light in front of you, but there is never anything to see. This is troublesome for reasons you don't fully understand; it is unexpected, wrong somehow. In the unparalleled magnificence of the capital and in dozens of small towns and cities across the Empire, alleys are where the most interesting things happen, filled with shadows and filth, and in them you are apt to meet all manner of men and beasts tending to their secrets. Why would this town be anything different?
You turn a corner. It has been a long day, and you're thinking of the last time business and pleasure took you into the comforting undershadow of your beloved city, so it is easy not to see a solid black shape in the cone of light Bug is casting until there is very little time to react.
[[swerve]]
[[stay on the path]]The herdswoman dissolves into the landscape behind you, her hair shining as the light fades, until only Bug's headlamps illuminate the way.
The town's lamps were burning behind you when you left, but their light seems to fade with every passing moment. Small, discordant sounds interrupt your musing. Your uneasiness grows. Someone keeps pace with you from just outside Bug's cone of light. Menace presses in on you from every side. Are those shapes shifting in the trees, or is that your eyes straining to make sense of the darkness, your own breath harsh in your ears? You do not belong here. The small sounds of the darkness are close, everywhere at once, inescapable.
Fear pulses in time with your heartbeat. You strain to hear the sound of a crying calf. You want nothing more than to turn around.
[[head towards the river]]
[[head to town instead]]There's only a week remaining before the coronation. Tradition is explicit: this blacksmith, and only this blacksmith, can craft the crown.
You'd argued and fought with your advisors, but they all said the same thing: seek out the blacksmith. No other, only this one. Bring back whatever crown he gives you.
You'd met a lot of blacksmiths on your path across the Empire, any number of them capable of creating brilliance and beauty, but you'd continued. And now here you were, at last.
Surely a simple blacksmith wouldn't mind being interrupted for something so important? Surely not when he's still inside the shop working?
Bug hisses and vents steam as it lowers to the ground. You stand for a moment in front of the door and listen to silence ring in the dark. This must be the place: a careless hand has scrawled "The Blacksmith" below the heavy iron window in white paint that sparks as it catches the light, the lettering executed with much haste and no sense of aesthetics. The forge is set back away from the other streets in town, the door set directly into the rough stone of the mountain itself, though the alley leading to it is empty, well-lit and unremarkable. The shop is closed and shuttered up tight, but through the window there is the faint glow of a banked fire still burning inside.
You reach towards the door. (set: $gold to $gold + 1)
"My forge is closed. Be on your way until late morning." The voice is deep, an echo of ore and slag rolling against each other beneath the surface of the world. There is nothing threatening about it, in the same way that there is nothing threatening about an avalanche or a bear fishing for salmon or a snake hunting mice in the grass, but your heart stutters and leaps for a moment just the same.
You look up and down the alleyway, all fine red stone stretching side to side, the gas lamps throwing dancing shadows against the walls. You are alone.
[[Press the issue]]
[[wait until tomorrow. go to the inn]]It's night all across the Empire. In Amberlin's salons and ballrooms the coronation parties are starting, people in thin, expensive silk and outrageous hats dancing and and singing, celebrating the hope that the heir will return from a year of searching appropriately prepared to lead them.
Heir or no heir, next week there will be a new ruler directing the course of history.
Why should you wait for the Blacksmith to take his rest? Surely this is more important.
"Blacksmith, I am an Heir of Amberlin. I have sought your gifts over this long year, and I have no time left to lose. I must have a crown by next week."
There is an amused rumbling from somewhere nearby. "No time to lose? Nor is my time yours to take. The door opens again at first dawnlight. You may come an hour before noon and no sooner. Farewell." (set: $gold to $gold -1) (set: $impatient to 1)
The Blacksmith will speak no more. You watch the filigreed door as the fire inside fades to nothing. Afer a time, you have no choice but to climb back on your mechanical. Bug's shining carapace shakes to life as steam-driven pistons shoot it aloft on tall, nimble legs.
[[find an inn]]
[[Begin]]With a muffled oath, you jerk the mechanicals' steering antennae to the left.
You are going too fast. Bug knocks against the wall and trips, tumbling end over end, the metal carapace of his body shrieking against the pavement before scraping to a halt several feet away.
You groan and feel your face carefully. A cut near the eyebrow; a bruise swelling on the cheek. You missed the worst of Bug's dramatic landing, but your fine clothes are scraped and torn. You look down at your ruined linen pants and sigh.
By the time you turn towards the mechanical, Bug has righted itself and is already vibrating its way upwards. The fine lines on the carapace are scraped and dinged, but everything seems to be functional. You make a note to thank the clockwork factory.
Your hat is missing. Fine pressed wool trimmed with lush black fur, it's never failed to keep sun and rain from your face--and anonymity remaining on it--and if it must be lost, you would rather the story be somewhat more interesting.
Ah. There.
You bend down to pick it up and freeze as the hat opens one narrow green eye, lashing out with a set of sharp claws.
[[investigate further]]
Whatever it is, it's no business of yours. You accelerate as you keep to the path, narrowly missing the trembling bundle of fur and bone. You think you see a pair of ripped, leathery wings curling around a triangular head as you race by.
Where is that inn, anyway?
(set: $gold to $gold - 2) (set: $careless to 1)
[[find the black crow inn]]Can she not tell what value you bring to this world? You're shocked that she would ask you for something so pedestrian.
"Do you see this shirt? Spun by devoted acolytes of the Mother from the purest silk in the Sapion Islands. They craft only three a year. These gloves? Leather from the finest tannery in Amberlin, sewn and embroidered by an unparalleled artisan. I am not inclined to ruin them over someone's lost cow. Find someone else, girl." (set: $gold to $gold - 2) (set: $selfish to 1)
You think of the burden that brought you here, to the outskirts of the town under the shadow of the fire mountain, and of all that waits after your task completes.
You cock your head, focusing on the sounds drifting in the still air: there, beneath the lowing of the cattle, you can just hear the telltale clang of metal on steel. "Besides, I've important work still ahead of me tonight."
The mechanical twitches in eagerness, as if the giant metal bug is tracking something or scenting the air, and a moment later its legs whirl against the ground.
You leave the huntswoman sniffling in the dark, too distraught to notice a small calf has ambled towards her through the twilight and stuck his nose in her basket of grain.
[[ride to the blacksmith]]
[[find an inn]]There are words just below the edge of hearing, whispers speaking from the edge of darkness as you pass by. What's out there?
The truth, the darkness whispers. You are a leader of the Empire, precious to the land. Why did you agree to find something so insignificant as a lost calf in the first place?
If you die out here, the voices in the darkness whisper, you will never rule. No one will remember you. Is it worth it?
[[keep going]]
[[head to town instead]]
You ride forward on Bug. The cow squeals in alarm and shoots backwards, away from your mechanical. He is terrified.
[[show him the grain]]You stop Bug a few feet from the cow, not wanting to spook it.
"Here, now," you wheedle. "Come on over, little guy."
The calf ignores you.
"Come on, buddy, don't you want to go home?"
[[show him the grain]]You remember the feed. When you open your hand, the grain shimmers as if it was holding the last golden light of the setting sun.
The calf perks up, sniffing hungrily at the air and prancing up the riverbank on nimble feet. Soon he is snuffling in your hand, his long, pink tongue swiping the grain from your gloves. As he chews, tiny fires ignite and just as quickly go out inside the soft pearl of his horns.
You scratch him behind the ears and lead him home, careful to make sure he stays close.
You begin to understand why nothing should be alone in the darkness.
[[return to the herdswoman]]The calf lifts his nose to scent the air and takes off running. When you ride up behind him some moments later, all is well.
"Thank you," she says, laughing, her entire face lighting up as the calf dances circles around her, licking her with his long, pink tongue. "You have saved him! Please, take this as a reward." (set: $gold to $gold + 1)
She hands you a bag full of her shining golden grain.
[[Ask her for gold instead]]
[[take the grain]]Night has drawn fully over this sleepy hamlet on the farthest edge of the Empire. It's not surprising that the shop is closed.
You consider insisting, but for what? Tradition is explicit: this blacksmith, and only this blacksmith, can craft the crown.
You'd argued and fought with your advisors, but they all said the same thing: seek out the blacksmith. No other, only this one. Bring back whatever crown he gives you.
You'd met a lot of skilled lacksmiths on your path across the Empire, any number of them capable of creating objects of heartbreak and beauty, but you'd continued searching for the one who lived in the fire mountain. And now here you were, at last.
Surely it can wait one more night.
Not everything can be rushed. There is enough time for your task tomorrow. You'll speak with the blacksmith then. (set: $gold to $gold + 1) (set: $patience to 1)
[[find an inn]]This is not what you expected when you agreed to help the herdswoman with the missing calf. Fear electrifies you. Bug's headlights don't see nearly far enough in the dark. What's out there?
The truth, the darkness whispers. You are a leader of the Empire. Why did you agree to this in the first place?
If you die out here, the voices in the darkness whisper, no one will ever know.
That's it. You crank Bug's speed into high, his steam engine screeching like a teakettle, and ride as fast as you can out of the darkness.
As you pass by, there is just enough light to see the herdswoman's face crumple with grief.
(set: $gold to $gold - 1) (set: $coward to 1)
[[ride to the blacksmith]]
[[find an inn]]You crouch down next to the offending hat. Two green slits glare at you in fury.
"Oh, hello there," you try to say, but find yourself choking on the smell. Whatever is under the hat watches you through narrowed eyes, emanating a musk that can only be described as overfilled refuse pile meets coronation-day outhouse, with the creeping, persistent bloom of a vial of deady nightwing.
Now would be a great time to forget how to breathe, but you really like that hat.
"Ugh," you say, reaching down from as far away as possible to peel what used to be your best hat off this disgusting bundle of fur and bones. The thing cowers at first, but as the hat lifts off it snaps at you with long, curved teeth, fast enough that you realize it was a warning: if it had wanted to slice you open, you'd be sliced.
"Hrylga," the creature moans.
The moment the hat is gone, it launches itself desperately towards the sky on a pair of torn, leathery wings. As you watch, it gets caught by the chain around its foot and ripped back down to earth. It's been trapped by someone, likely on purpose.
You're not even sure what species it is, and you have no desire to get close enough to tell.
Finding itself still stuck on the ground, the creature horks pitifully, drooling as it licks at a diseased patch of bare skin. It bears its teeth at you in something approximating a smile.
"Hrylga," it says again. It seems to be trying to communicate with you.
[[help it]]
[[leave it]]The dim alley turns into a bright, well-lit avenue. Just down the street you can hear the bustling sounds of a busy inn coming from a neat brick building. Hanging from an ornate pole is a freshly painted sign with the image of a crow holding a sickle and hammer.
This must be the Black Crow Inn.
You bring Bug to a stop outside the front door and engage his safety protocols. It's time for that drink.
[[go inside]]
You were in the borderlands this year seeking the obscure and secretive wisdom of the treepeople when a poacher's snare hung you, upside down and screaming, more than twenty feet above the forest floor.
You were set free by a flying beast with fine fur and pale, granite skin smooth as stone. A glimpse, nothing more, before it disappeared into the thick canopy.
The treepeople called them gargoyles and hunted them for sport.
It looks a little like the drawings you'd seen, if less tidy. The longer you watch it struggle in its own trap, the more you begin to understand it bears you no harm.
"Hrylga. Hrylgahrylga!"
As it alternates between panicked attempts to fly and cowering and snarling at you, you get a decent look at the trap locking it in place.
You think you could free it, if you could get the... whatever... to calm down long enough to let you try.
(set: $gold to $gold + 2)
(if: $grain is 1)[[try the grain]]
(if: $grain is 0)[[you have nothing that would help]]
You've never seen anything so disgusting. You're certainly not going to help.
On second thought, that hat is a total loss. You get back on Bug, leaving the...whatever it is...secure in its trap and your plague-carrier hat discarded next to it on the ground. Someone probably trapped it for a good reason.
Now you really need a drink. It's past time to find that inn.
(set: $gold to $gold - 2) (set: $indifference to 1)
[[find the black crow inn]]"I don't want this. Don't you have any money?"
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice full of distress. "This is all I have."
"No good deed goes unpunished," you tell her. (set: $gold to $gold - 1)
You don't wait to hear her response. You've wasted enough time here.
[[ride to the blacksmith]]
[[find an inn]]You have no use for grain, but you have learned always to accept what is freely given.
This is likely all she has to give.
"A worthy gift, herdskeep. Thank you," you say, stashing the grain in one of Bug's saddlebags.
(set: $grain to 1)
[[find an inn]]
[[ride to the blacksmith]]The herdswoman's grain seemed to calm the calf. Maybe it could do the same to...whatever this is.
You dig through Bug's saddlebags, his steam motor idling as he waits, sifting through the many gifts and treasures you've accumulated on this long journey until you find the grain.
"Hrylga," you say soothingly, shaking the bag, and the creature freezes, its long muzzle sniffing at the air.
You open the bag and light streams like the sun from the opening. Hrylga watches it--and you--closely, but you can tell it seems a little less agitated.
You put the bag down where it can reach it, waiting for it to dart out and snatch the grain before you get close enough to engage the mechanism and open the trap. It trembles but doesn't shy away.
When the trap releases, Hrylga shoots into the sky immediately, taking what used to be your favorite hat and the bag of grain with it.
It felt good to help something in need, but you're exhausted and sore. Now you really need to sleep.
(set: $gold to $gold + 5) (set: $grain to $grain - 1)
(set: $hrylga to $hrylga + 1)
[[find the black crow inn]]You dig through your pack, potions and rations tumbling to the side as you pull out anything from your travels that might help: red sand from the eastern coast of Ornmashu, said to bestow wisdom; smelling salts from Goldcoast's breathtaking harbor; the crystal star gifted to you by the treepeople who live along the northern border.
You show him each of these things, then put them back into your pack-- a brief whiff of the salts allows the smell of salt-tipped pines and crashing water to overtake the sour rankness preferred by your new friend Hrylga-- but they have no effect until you show it the star. It screeches and covers its eyes, cowering as far from you as it can get, more agitated than ever.
You'll have to leave it here.
"Sorry, Hrylga," you say. "Keep the hat." You put the hat close enough for him to reach, mount up on the chirruping Bug and leave the creature alone in the alley.
It's past time you found that inn. You really need a drink.
[[find the black crow inn]]You step into a blast of warmth and light, travelers and townsfolk alike laughing and arguing as they sit around tables filled with tankards of beer and cups of wine.
It's the perfect inn: warm, comforting, full of friendly faces but not overly crowded.
is that innkeeper...glowing?
The innkeeper jumps, surprised to see you looking. Definitely not glowing. A trick of the light, or of your tired eyes.
He greets you with a hearty "Hello there!" and directs you to a prime seat right next to the roaring fire.
"What do you need this fine evening?"
[[ask what he has for supper]]
[[just a drink, thanks]]"We've a fine soup tonight! Ruman, they call it over in Ketch. Floured noodles made right in our kitchen with grain ground in our own mill, cooked in a rich mushroom salt-broth and topped with slices of whitefish and fresh sealeaf."
He hands you a full mug of beer.
"Complimentary, on account of the coronation happening soon. Can you believe somewhere out there the Heir is touring the continent? I hope he comes in here! Wouldn't it be something."
[[I'll take the soup, thanks]]
[[just a drink, thanks]]
[[I'm the Heir, actually]]You're not actually very hungry after all.
"Just a beer, thanks," you tell the innkeeper. He slides one down the bar to you.
"First one free in honor of the coronation happening next week," he says. "Sure hope our young Heir has just about finished his world tour by now. Wish he'd come in here, I do! Suppose I'd never know if he did, though."
You nod and smile, taking your drink to an empty chair set close to the fire.
You've been to dozens of towns and cities over the last year, and the inn is always where you learn how people really feel about the Empire. You listen idly, sipping your drink, letting the conversations wash over you.
[[listen to coronation chatter]]
[[listen to talk about the Heir]]
[[listen to talk about industry]]
The fire crackles pleasantly in the fireplace. The innkeeper brings you a second beer with your soup. You thank him and watch him bustle around the busy inn.
The soup is rich, flavorful and deep, the noodles soft and warm. The fish flakes into soft pieces in your spoon.
You'd gone to Ketch in the last year seeking wisdom and truth, and while it's not exactly the same, it is very close.
Soon you are full and drowsy in your chair by the fire. You've been to dozens of towns and cities over the last year. The inn is always where you learn how people really feel. You listen idly, sipping your drink, letting the conversations wash over you.
[[listen to coronation chatter]]
[[listen to talk about the Heir]]The upcoming coronation is all anyone can talk about. Around you, people speculate on everything from the expected color and texture of the lace and feathers preferred by the elites to the quality, or lack, of the Heir's leadership. Some go so far as to put down bets: whether the young Heir will come back to Amberlin, or will have settled down somewhere on the southern shore to live life in obscurity and peace; whether the young Heir will find the Elder and return with his boon, or return emptyhanded and in disgrace.
Some scoff and mark it all down to pageantry, swearing on their lives that they saw the Heir holed up in one of Amberlin's more disreputable brothels just last week. At that the table roars with laughter--and just what was he doing in the brothel himself anyway?--until the speaker, red as a spotted beetle with embarrassment, is run out the door.
Mostly, it seems, they hope the last year has shown the Heir what he needs to know to rule wisely and with compassion.
You hope they're right.
You're just about to retire, looking forward to sleeping in a soft bed for the first time in weeks, when someone next to you says "Stranger! You look trustworthy. Arbitrate a dispute between my brother and I."
The brothers move to either side of you, glaring at each other, their hands gripped tight on mugs of ale, and you can sense that if the problem between them doesn't get resolved, there will be more than a lost argument at stake.
[[offer advice]]
[[go to bed anyway]]The innkeeper guffaws until his face turns red and streams with tears.
"That's a good one, friend! Now, how about that soup?" (set: $gold to $gold - 1)
[[I'll take the soup, thanks]]"I can try."
The smaller brother harrumphs from underneath his thin, stylish mustache and glares across you at the other.
"Our mother and father passed away. They were never kindhearted folk, you understand? But fair, and they loved us as best they knew, even if maybe they loved money more. I followed them into trade, just as they wanted--now our merchant house is the largest in the western side of the Empire!--but my brother here left as soon as he could, and he never did visit enough for Mother. The will they left was clear: a share of the inheritance was contingent on attendance at the funeral."
Here the smaller of the two twitches his cuffs nervously, adjusting his thin wrists inside the fine silk of his shirt.
"I did try to contact him, you understand. I sent several messages, even one by an automechanical flyer--at significant cost to myself, you understand. The southern trades, through the canals--they haven't paid off, and--well. Regardless. Tamsyn didn't come home in time, and now my hands are simply tied."
The second brother crosses the bulk of his arms over each other and scowls. His shirt has been rolled to the elbows. Browned by the sun, his bare forearms are covered in blue ink that swirls in concentric patterns up both crossed arms, seeming almost to move of its own accord under the dim lighting.
"I told you, Edwyrd. I got your metal bird, and I heard it sing the message. We ran into a storm getting back to Porthaven that nearly sunk my ship, cost two weeks' travel and the whole load of cargo!"
Edwyrd rolls his eyes behind his clerk's glasses. "A storm keeping you away! You, a windcaller! He's a windcaller," Edwyrd confides to you. "He has mastery over the winds! He could call down my own personal stormcloud right now! or so he used to make very sure I knew, back when we were children. I'm to believe a simple bluster and a few blundering deckhands kept him from our parent's funeral, and him the very Captain of the ship!"
"I ain't a force of nature, Edwyrd! Just a simple 'caller. I have responsibilities to my crew, and I need that money to make repairs!"
"Well isn't that a first, Tamsyn! You a simple anything!"
[[legally, the money is all yours to keep]]
[[morally, you should split it with your brother]]
[[have you considered a more elegant solution?]]
"I have neither the time nor the interest for that. Good luck figuring out your own problems."
It's nothing to you either way. Why should you get involved?
(set: $gold to $gold - 1)
[[head upstairs to bed]]You wake fully rested, the early morning sun streaming in through the window and striping your bed with light.
You stretch and walk into the bathroom, where an assortment of colored bottles filled with soap hang on the wall underneath a steam shower.
[[take a shower and put on clean clothes]]
[[keep stinking]]You leave the brothers drinking by the fireplace and walk upstairs, to a room with a thick oaken door, a private bathroom, and a very soft featherbed.
[[sleep for 8 hours]]
You take a shower, the steam-driven bath system rattling water through pipes in the wall and dropping it with all the fury of a torrential downpour. It feels incredible on muscles made sore and tight from weeks of sleeping on the ground.
You've even got a clean shirt around here somewhere and a pair of pants that aren't ripped. You should probably put those on.
You emerge clean-smelling and strangely relaxed, considering today is the day you complete the task of a lifetime.
You'll need to visit the Blacksmith soon, but you have time to find breakfast first.
[[check out the market]]You're a bit too used to your current patina to wash it all off just yet, particularly in a steamsystem that fancy. Hot water can be dangerous.
What's the harm in smelling a bit, anyway? (set: $stink to 1)
You have time. Let's see about breakfast.
[[check out the market]]On your way out, the innkeeper stops you.
"Pardon me, sir, but if you've a moment--would you mind dropping this package off with my mother and father? They run a breakfast stall in the morning market, and my father needs his medicine. Getting on a bit, they are, and I've offered them rooms with me, but. Well. They'd rather work, you see."
[[of course]]
[[do I look like a servant?]]"That's enough," you say, raising your hand. Your voice is quiet and even, hardly loud enough to cut over the din of the tavern, but their attention turns to you immediately.
"Legally, there is no obligation for your brother Edwyrd to provide you with a share of the inheritance. Your parents were within their legal rights to secure whatever conditions they required. Should Edwyrd wish to keep all of the money, he may do so."
You drain your glass, noting that Edwyrd looks troubled despite having been reinforced.
Ethics and legalities are rarely the same, and the law is the law.
(set: $gold to $gold + 1) (set: $legal to 1)
[[morally, you should split it with your brother]]
[[head upstairs to bed]]
"Ethics and legalities coincide only rarely. A legal obligation is not the only consideration. Morally, your brother having done everything in his power to abide by the terms of the agreement, you should consider splitting the inheritance with him and allow him to go on his way. If you do not care to see him again, this is the easiest way to divulge yourself of any further contact and move on with your life."
"I had to bury them all alone. Just like I had to take care of them," Edwyrd mumbles, blinking rapidly behind his glasses before motioning the innkeeper to refill his mug of beer.
"I don't--" Tamsyn begins, but stops, looking conflicted.
Like most disputes, you suspect this doesn't have anything to do with money, in the end. (set: $moral to 1)
(set: $gold to $gold + 1)
[[have you considered a more elegant solution?]]
[[head upstairs to bed]]"Perhaps the most elegant solution to your problem depends on your ability to work together," you say.
They look at each other in confusion.
"Edwyrd, your brother did everything in his power to be present for your parents' funeral, but even practitioners are subject to the forces of nature. Tamsyn, Edwyrd is bound by the legal agreements he agreed to, and it's clear behaving in a manner that defies the legality of the situation will cause him deep distress.
Edwryd looks relieved to hear you say this.
"What I propose is an alliance. Edwyrd, you keep the entirety of the inheritance. But--" you raise a hand at Tamsyn's deep murmur of discontent. "You grant your brother an equal share in your trading company. Tamsyn will be in charge of cargo transport and able to pay an efficient, competent crew. Once repairs are completed on his boat, you'll be able to better control the southern canals and take advantage of the market there with increased control and efficiency."
You drain your glass, nothing that each brother looks first shocked, and then relieved, in turn.
"I don't know why we didn't think of that," Edwyrd sputters finally.
Tamsyn turns to you, his eyes suspiciously shiny in the light from the fireplace, and says, "Well, it's not perfect, but--I think it's our best chance. Thank you, stranger."
(set: $gold to $gold + 2) (set: $creative to 1)
[[you're welcome. goodnight]]
[[that wasn't free advice]]
You spend some time browsing through the stalls.
[[browse the bookseller]]
[[try the spice vendor]]You gave your word. Of course it's worth it.
You jerk Bug's head to the right, his headlamps flashing against the treeline, and something hisses in displeasure.
"The herdswoman will remember," you say, and begin to sing, loud enough to drown out the voices.
The darkness is just darkness, or it is something else: it doesn't matter. You are not leaving without the calf. (set: $gold to $gold +1) (set: $brave to 1)
Ignoring the taunting whispers that hiss from just outside your reach, you follow the sound of the river until you stand before roaring water running over earth and stone.
A small white calf stands on the shore. As you approach, he turns and looks at you warily, water dripping from his mouth. He seems skittish.
[[talk to it]]
[[ride forward]]Tossing down a few coins for your drink and dinner, you leave the brothers drinking by the fireplace and walk upstairs, to a room with a thick oaken door, a private bathroom, and a very soft featherbed. (set: $coins to $coins - 3)
[[sleep for 8 hours]]
"That wasn't free advice." You wait expectantly.
The brothers exchange looks. Edwyrd pulls out a small purse and drops a ruby into your hands.
"Take care, idiots." You head upstairs, the ruby a comforting weight in your pockets, thinking about ways to take over that southern canal route yourself. (set: $gold to $gold - 3) (set: $ruby to 1) (set: $selfish to 2)
[[head upstairs to bed]]You take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the bookseller's, the shopkeep's goodbye following you down the market street, still thinking about what the Oracular Bookstack told you.
It felt important, but... is that breakfast? There are more important things than oracular visions, things that are here and now. Fresh dew evaporating in the clear morning air. Butter and frying fat.
Your stomach rumbles. You follow your nose to a small stall where a bickering old couple shout instructions back and forth at each other as they work.
(if: $package is 1) [[remember the package]]
[[order food]]The bookseller's stall is dusty and rich with decaying knowledge. The man tending the stall smiles at you, pointing at a towering stack of books tilting and wobbling, defying the laws of nature to remain upright. A rainbow of leather covers and gilt edges beckons.
"Have a question for the future? Try the Oracular Bookstack! Just put your hand out--that's it!--and think about your past and future, see? Allow the book to find its way to you."
Why not?
You brush your fingers up and down spines so old and worn as to be unreadable until your hand closes on a small, thin volume, almost of its own accord.
(if: $selfish > 0) [[pull an inky black book from the stack]]
(if: $brave is 1) [[pull a vibrant red book from the stack]]
(if: $coward is 1) [[pull a dark blue book from the stack]]
(if: $hrylga is 1) [[pull a dark gray book from the stack]]
(if: $careless is 1) [[pull a battered black book from the stack]]
(if: $creative is 1) [[pull a pristine red and gold book from the stack]]
(if: $ruby is 1) [[pull a blood red book from the stack]]
(if: $stink is 1) [[pull a seafoam green book from the stack]]
(if: $indifference is 1) [[pull a sullen orange book from the stack]]
(if: $impatience is 1) [[pull a bright orange book from the stack]]The spice keeper watches you move up and down the rows of spices he has for sale.
Pepperseed, birmbark, weedlin, sweet lovine, curried rosina. You pause, sniffing and remembering.
You think of the islands of the south, past the canals, where a quiet, playful people cast nets in the sea and stuff their fish with wild columbina; of desert nights spent drawn under a painted sky with a reluctant teacher, far from the city of the wastes, waiting for weedlin and seeded pree, spicy and plump with water, to illuminate the night.
You rub finger and thumb against the papery roughness of birmbark and remember the people of the eastern plains, the northern forests, the breadth of the Empire and its people.
[[browse the bookseller]]The book seems almost to leap into your hands, black as pitch and slightly burned around the edges.
You flip your thumb against the singed pages until you find one with discernible writing.
"All things are equal in value, and no one life above another. Those who attain the highest office are servants to all."
Whatever that means. You put the book back and go on your way.
[[find some breakfast]]This book has been chewed up, spit out, soaked and torn. It's a wonder there are any pages left still clinging to the spine.
You open it up to read the following on one torn page:
"Carelessness and ignorance will cut as surely as any lost time and more deeply than a dozen swords."
You think of the herdswoman's lost calf with a sense of guilt.
"Thank you," you mutter, leaving the book on the counter.
[[find some breakfast]]Your hand was drawn to this book for reasons you don't understand, but it fits nicely in your hand.
There is a crossed sword in gilt on the cover.
You thumb the golden pages until a passage leaps out at you:
"Courage is more than brash valor: it is continuing on when all conspires to stop you."
You close the book and slip it back into the stack.
[[find some breakfast]]The book in your hands feels smooth and soft, like birchbark, and is the dark grey of a hurricane.
The pages are rough and pleasing on your thumb. You flip to a random passage and read:
"All living things deserve kindness: a hand extended in need comes back to you tenfold. Those who help others help themselves."
You think of Hrylga, cowering in a trap last night, free to soar over the town this morning because you stopped to help, and know you did the right thing.
You thank the old woman and head out to find breakfast.
[[find some breakfast]]The book is plain and flimsy, made of paste and shoestring. The paper cover flakes in your hand.
You flip it open to see a hand has written:
"Discretion is the better part of valor, but to be ruled by fear is not to rule at all. Stick with what you start."
You feel ashamed, and don't meet the old woman's eyes as you drop the book on the counter and hurry off.
[[find some breakfast]]It's beautiful, this book, perfect and shining in the sun. The symbol of the Empire is worked on the front in gold leaf.
You sift through the pages with reverence, pausing when a passage catches your eye:
"Control over our lives and destinies is an illusion; what we can affect is what constitutes an acceptable outcome. Creative resolutions to difficult problems are the hallmark of a promising leader."
You think of the brothers from last night and wonder how they're feeling this morning.
[[find some breakfast]]The edges on this book are sharp, almost faceted, and the same color as the ruby in your pocket. As you turn it in the light, rainbows refract against every surface in the shop and shatter in a dozen pieces.
You leaf through the pages--heavy, expensive paper--and all are blank except for one:
"Those who would rule should find comfort in good deeds, not in payments extorted for personal gain."
The ruby feels heavy in your pocket.
You close the book, careful not to cut yourself, and leave the shop.
[[find some breakfast]]This thin volume is only a few dozen pages. As you run your thumb on the edge, flipping the pages against each other, a fresh, clean smell, like the sea, wafts from them. You're afraid your hands will leave dark, dirty smudges on the pristine white paper.
Inside, the inscription reads, "A clean, fresh start is worth a moment's time."
You suddenly wish you'd taken that shower.
[[find some breakfast]]The thin volume is bound in rough linen and edged in red.
The page you flip to reads, "All things deserve kindness and assistance."
You think of whatever it was you passed in the alley last night with guilt and slink off to breakfast.
[[find some breakfast]]This book is nearly hot to your touch, and you gasp and nearly drop it.
Bound in iron, it opens to a page of its own accord.
"As all who rule know, patience wins over arrogance and insistence."
You wonder if trying to pressure the Blacksmith last night was the right thing.
[[find some breakfast]]The small clear ting of a hammer on steel starts as you make your way across town. You follow the sound for a second time, navigating Bug through streets filled with children playing, other mechanicals, horse drawn carriages and walking townsfolk, finally coming to stop at the end of the same small, narrow alley.
This time there is no iron door: the way into the mountain is open, the glow from the fire inside competing with the sunlight.
[[ask to enter]]
(if: $impatient is 1) [[enter without asking]]It's wise to show deference and respect to a master artisan.
Clearing your throat, you ask permission to enter the Blacksmith's domain.
"Blacksmith, I've sought your wisdom for a year and more, and I ask leave to enter."
There is no answer, the sound of hammer on steel continuing uninterrupted.
After a moment, you enter the Blacksmith.
[[enter]]Thinking of the way he closed his shop with you right on the threshold last night--the disrespect!--you decide to enter without asking, no matter what your advisors may have said.
He may be a peerless artisan, but it's still just a shop and he's still just an artisan. You're peerless. It's time to show him who the customer is. (set: $gold to $gold - 1)
[[enter]]Walking through the doorway is like stepping into another world, one that belongs to fire and the mountain. A soaring cavern stretches above you, a creeping thread of lava casting itself in a continual hungry trickle against the back wall of the room. Far above you, stars glitter and punch through the fabric of the universe. Bands of red and orange light lick at the walls, casting wild shadows against the floor. At a long, low table a set of tools waits, crudely twisted metal and keen, sharp stone. Primordial. Filled with the innate power of all things ancient and sacred.
You feel small and insignificant in this place.
An enormous man takes up most of the room. He stands with his back to you, facing the anvil. He wears a pristine apron, fine white leather tanned and stretched. It reminds you of the cows you saw in the field last night. The steady rhythm of working metal continues with every fall of his hammer arm. As you enter, he pauses, a handful of fury and brilliance in one massive hand, and casts a star into the firmament above. It streaks across the cavern sky, striking a place in the heavens.
"How you choose to enter this place is your choice, not mine," he says, without turning around. "Now speak."
[[answer him]]You were feeling a bit hungry anyway, and there's plenty of time left in the morning.
"No problem!" you say, smiling to yourself as you wonder what the innkeeper would say if he knew he had the Heir playing errand boy. You tuck the package under your arm, accept his thanks, and leave. (set: $package to 1)
[[head to the market]]You draw yourself to your full height and look down at the innkeep with piercing, haughty eyes. You've been practicing this look since you were old enough to have discovered mirrors, and it has thwarted more rich and powerful people than the innkeep will ever see.
Nothing has to be said; you simply look at him. In only a few moments, he is sweating and pale, mumbling profuse apologies for wasting your time. (set: $gold to $gold - 1) (set: $selfish to 3)
What unmitigated gall.
[[head to the market]]You walk out into a bright, shining day. Bright red and yellow flowers spill in a fall from every windowsill, their shade designed to matchthe coronation banners snapping overhead, contrasting perfectly with the neat wood and stone buildings. Bright white clouds scuttle against the snow-capped peaks. In the center of town, the clocktower rises, its face marking the passage of a new day.
You and Bug pass few people until you come to the market, tents in a rainbow of colors clustered around the base of the tower. The smell of spices wafts in the air.
[[look around]]The ringing crash of falling cutlery is your welcome as you settle down onto a stool in front of the counter. If it weren't for the incredible smell permeating the air, you wouldn't be sure you had the right place.
"What do you want?" a sharp-tongued woman scowls at you, bustling out from behind a curtain.
You slide the package across the counter towards her. "Your son at the inn sent this. He said you might have breakfast?" (set: $gold to $gold + 1)
Her face softens. "Ahh, he's a good boy. Devin, get out here! Look what our son sent over!"
Soon the best breakfast you've ever had in your life is spread out before you: eggs with rich yellow yolks, bacon, apples baked into small sugary puffs of dough.
The old couple refuses all money. Half an hour later, stomach full and heart thudding in your chest, you head for the Blacksmith.
[[head to the blacksmith]]The ringing crash of falling cutlery is your welcome as you settle down onto a stool in front of the counter.
"What do you want?" a sharp-tongued woman scowls at you, bustling out from behind a curtain.
"Breakfast, and make it fast. Eggs and bacon."
"Well aren't we someone important," she says. "I'll see what I have."
In a few minutes, a barely adequate breakfast is spread out in front of you: cold, thick eggs and two pieces of limp bacon.
"That'll be six coins." (set: $coins to $coins - 6)
The old woman seems impervious to your glare. You throw the coins down on the counter and stalk off, stomach grumbling, to find the Blacksmith.
[[head to the blacksmith]]Speak, he said. Just this.
[[speak carefully]]
(if: $gold is <0) [[demand an order]]Smoke and mirrors. Sophistry and illusion.
You turn your shaking voice into a thin, superior sneer.
"Forge my crown, Blacksmith."
The Blacksmith turns to look at you then, an echo of the fire inside the world curling and leaping from the depths of his eyes, and there is no mirth in his smile.
"There is no crown for you here, boy." He picks up his hammer again, working the metal in front of him.
[[what is the meaning of this]]"What kind of insolence is this?" you cry. "Your job is to make my crown, as you have for all those who have come before me. Now make it!"
Your advisors warned you that he was a retired god, but you assumed this was hyperbole, and anyway, shouldn't the Chosen Heir outrank some two-bit retired godling?
The Blacksmith turns and looks at you. No--through you, somehow. The weight of each choice you've made, every word spoken in kindness or arrogance, every hand extended or withheld, shudders through you and is revealed. You have the distinct feeling that you are being measured, your heart balanced on some eternal scale.
The Blacksmith purses his lips, shaking his head with the detached disappointmet of a master artisan.
"Ah," he says, and with one great stride he has crossed the cavern to you, the hammer rising and falling with a razor's precision.
It strikes gently, almost a caress, just at the center of your head, and you are no more.
In his hands, the Blacksmith holds a lump of something almost like metal. It smokes and pulses rhythmically with a sullen, angry light.
He turns it over in his hands. It is pitted and scarred, more carbon and slag than anything else.
He sighs. "Sometimes the ore just can't be worked no matter how well it's cast, eh, Hrylga?"
A creature with nightmare teeth and talons ghosts from the shadows on leathery, ripped wings to settle on the Blacksmith's shoulder. It rubs its soft grey fur affectionately against the rough wool of his beard and purrs.
He reaches up, offering the broken soul. "Don't get indigestion."
Hrylga snaps the soul in half, swallowing it with a twisted moue of distaste. The Blacksmith laughs at the look of disgust on Hrylga's face, a few rocks rattling loose and falling around him as the sound of his mirth shakes the cavern.
After a moment in quiet contemplation he moves towards the crucible, Hrylga flapping its wings lazily to keep balance on his shoulder as he walks, to where a barrel of raw material shines with potential like traveling starlight.
"Never mind. We'll start again."
THE ENDYou sense that your answer should be precise, formal, and filled with the appropriate gravitas.
You take a moment so that your voice doesn't shake when you do speak. "I am the Heir to Amberlin's Empire: to her green shores and dark oceans, her high, secretive mountains and vast desert plains. I have spent the last year seeking out each of its people and learning their language, their customs, their hopes and dreams and wants. I have learned the need for tradition and the march of progress. I have crossed the width and breath of the Empire looking for you, and in doing so I have learned many things."
"Oh?" the Blacksmith says, disinterestedly. "What for?"
Your mouth is dry. The room is hot as an inferno, but your mouth would be dry anyway.
"I am told you have forged a crown for each Heir before me who has ruled the Empire. That no one may rule without this blessing."
The Blacksmith turns and looks at you. No--through you, somehow. You have the distinct feeling that you are being measured, your heart balanced on some eternal scale. Fire ignites and fades in his eyes.
The weight of his regard is unbearable.
"You are misinformed," he rumbles. His voice is the quiet thunder of a distant earthquake. "Each had forged their own crown, as you already have."
You feel a weight settle against your forehead, the sensation of cold metal locking into place.
(if: $gold >12) [[wear a plain crown of cold iron]]
(if: $gold <5) [[wear a tarnished silver crown]]
(if: $gold <0) [[wear a crown of fine golden chains]]
(if: $gold >8) [[wear a crown of brittle steel]]The Blacksmith looks at you. Above him the sky shakes, the stars vibrating in their casings.
You have earned a plain crown, unadorned and heavy. Serviceable and humble, like your time as a leader will be.
After a long moment, a smile splits the darkness of his long, braided beard. There is mischief in his question.
"Why do you wish to rule, Heir?"
You think of your travels across a diverse landscape; a dozen disparate nation-states united by steel rails and progress. You know now how little you knew at the beginning of this year. And then of the last day: the brothers with their troubles; the creature you helped in the street; the calf, terrified in the dark.
"I don't," you say. "The people do. Someone has to know them." The Blacksmith nods in satisfaction.
The more you think of this strange town, a terrible certainty steals over you. The oracular books, the glowing innkeeper, the fire glowing in the calf's horns.
"It's a test," you say, not realizing you're speaking out loud. "This whole town. It's a test."
"A test?" the Blacksmith says in surprise, and you know, somehow, that nations rise and fall in that voice. "No. The choices you made here to help or hinder were only that, choices. Nothing more."
Ghosting from the shadows a creature flies in a cloud of stench on leathery, ripped wings, circles around the Blacksmith, and settles against his shoulders.
It is wearing your hat.
"You'll do, Heir. Go and Rule. Hrylga agrees, doesn't she?" He coos at the beast and rubs it under its mangy chin.
You are dismissed, feeling strangely like you've earned a boon you never knew enough to seek.
THE ENDThe Blacksmith looks at you. Above him the sky shakes, the stars vibrating in their casings.
Your crown is thin, nearly dust in places, stretched black and brittle against your brow. It looks like it would break at a strong breath.
After a long moment, he speaks. "You have promise. You have good instincts and a will to help others. Still, you do not pay attention, Heir. Too focused on what must be done now, and not what is in front of you to be helped."
You think of this strange town: the oracular books, the glowing innkeeper, the calf with his strange fire-lit horns, each and every oddity you noticed and discarded.
Every person you failed to help due to distraction, fear, or selfishness.
"It's a test," you say, not realizing you're speaking out loud. "This whole town. It's a test."
Ghosting from the shadows a creature flies on leathery, ripped wings, circling around the Blacksmith, and settles against his shoulders.
"If it was, you failed," the Blacksmith rumbles. Your Empire could fall to dust at a word from him. "You will have to do."
The stinking, mangy beast croaks and winds itself against his arm. The Blacksmith's eyes are full of banked fires as he dismisses you with little more than a glance.
"Go and rule, Heir. The world changes. Be sure that you do."
THE ENDYour advisors warned you that he was a retired god, but you assumed this was hyperbole, and anyway, shouldn't the Chosen Heir outrank some two-bit godling?
They didn't prepare you for this.
Whatever is on your head, it bites and weighs against your head, clanking as you try unsuccessfully to turn away, unbearably heavy.
The Blacksmith purses his lips, shaking his head with the detached disappointmet of a master artisan.
"Ah," he says, and with one great stride he has crossed the cavern to you, the hammer rising and falling with a razor's precision. "Your choices reveal your selfishness and greed. You are worth no crown at all."
It strikes gently, almost a caress, just at the center of your head, and you are no more.
In his hands, the Blacksmith holds a lump of something almost like metal. It smokes and pulses rhythmically with a sullen, angry light.
He turns it over in his hands. It is pitted and scarred, more carbon and slag than anything else.
He sighs. "Sometimes the ore just can't be worked no matter how well it's cast, eh, Hrylga?"
A creature with nightmare teeth and talons ghosts from the shadows on leathery, ripped wings to settle on the Blacksmith's shoulder. It rubs its soft grey fur affectionately against the soft black wool of his beard and purrs.
He reaches up, offering the broken soul to Hrylga. "Don't get indigestion. I'm not cleaning up your mess again."
Hrylga snaps the soul in half, excitement changing to disgust as it swallows. The Blacksmith laughs at the grimace on Hrylga's face, a few rocks rattling loose and falling around him as the sound of his mirth shakes the cavern. Above him the starry sky trembles like the surface of still water when a rock is cast in, ripples casting widening circles.
After a moment in quiet contemplation, he moves towards the crucible, Hrylga flapping its wings lazily as he walks, to where a barrel of unworked material shines with potential like traveling starlight.
"Never mind. We'll start again."
THE ENDThe Blacksmith looks at you. Above him the sky shakes, the stars vibrating in their casings.
Your crown is thin, nearly dust in places, stretched black and brittle against your brow. It looks like it would break at a strong breath.
After a long moment, he speaks. "You will do, but only just. You are too selfish, Heir. Too focused on what can be done for yourself and yourself alone. An Empire in the throes of advancement deserves more."
You think of this strange town: the oracular books, the glowing innkeeper, the calf, each and every oddity you noticed and discarded.
Every person you failed to help due to distraction, fear, or selfishness.
"It's a test," you say, not realizing you're speaking out loud. "This whole town. It's a test."
Ghosting from the shadows a creature flies on leathery, ripped wings, circling around the Blacksmith, and settles against his shoulders.
"If it was, you failed," the Blacksmith rumbles. Your Empire could fall to dust at a word from him. "You will have to do."
The stinking, mangy beast croaks and winds itself against his arm. The Blacksmith's eyes are full of banked fires as he dismisses you with little more than a glance.
"Go and rule, Heir. The world changes. Be sure that you do."
THE ENDThere's a commotion across the room, a few friends arguing over politics, and you turn your head to watch them work it out.
"Why do we need an Heir, anyway? Load of hogslard, if you ask me. What's he need a year to go gallivating around the countryside for? Waste of all our time, and the Empire in a state of flux, too."
The other man leans in, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, and speaks earnestly to his friend. "We need an Heir because someone's got to keep all the different parts of the Empire talking to each other, Lenny. That's all." He drains the head off his tankard of ale and sighs. "You want to try working with the treepeople on the northern border, the wizards of industry in Ketch, those fellows who live in the wastes of Bornia? Hear they have big flying machines, Lenny, that skim right over those dunes of theirs, but they'd just as well shoot you as deal with you. You want to keep in the trade business? That's why we need an heir. Couldn't pay me to do it. And how better to get to know them all than to spend a year running back and forth across him, eh?"
[[listen to coronation chatter]]
[[listen to talk about industry]]The disagreement between the tradinghouses and the fae enclave has been resolved. Steel magickers and earthcallers had finally been paid handsomely enough, and in enough quantity, for the major tradinghouses to complete the new coast-to-coast rail line, running cargo from Cisna's ocean port across the fertile plains of Ketch and down through Bornia to the southern gold coast, where the tracks make a wide berth around the cultural capital of the fae.
Everyone is predicting mechanicals and steam engines will be the way of the future, blended magic and steel, a mechanical in every house and a train part of every journey. You tune the argument out when they start wondering what their grandparents would have thought of this.
Personally, you have learned that progress stops for no one, and the argument is pointless. Better, instead, to focus on understanding the living spirit of the Empire.
[[listen to talk about the Heir]]
[[listen to coronation chatter]]