Discussion in 'Clockwork Empires General' started by Unforked, Jul 11, 2016.
Okay, @DaCrAzYmOfO, you have the colony.
Woah, I haven't been keeping up with this lol, I'll read up on the story so far tonight and play tomorrow. Hopefully what I draft isn't another monstrosity like the last time lol
Oi sorry guys I was offered some OT, I won't be able to complete this this time.
Which means @TheD3rp is up, right?
Edit: I may not actually be able to make this one, I've been busy with some other games I recently picked up and haven't been able to make much room for Clockwork Empires.
Okay @OddProphet, you want to go? It may be time to wrap this up soon, since once Beta 54 hits the colony is doomed.
Sure thing. I'll whip up a post after work.
****** 24 HOUR WARNING *****
Quick, blow up the colony!
Post incoming once I whip it up.
Again I arrive by airship to this cogforsaken heath. But this time it is not to plant the seeds of Science, but to monitor the tree closely, and prune if necessary. But looking at the state of the colony, I will be relegated to maintenance and staffing concerns.
My first item on the agenda is the rationalization of the upkeep procedures in the colony. Some madman decided that stasis was more valuable than progress, and as such ordered over one hundred sets of crude upkeep trunks. My suspicion is that this was an artistic statement made by certain Luddite factions dedicated to halting forward progress. These people will be Found.
The next item on my agenda is assessing the emotional state of the colony's leadership. Strong, stalwart leadership will keep the plebes stable and working -
Well. I've seen this emotional spectrum once before. Absent the light of the Cog and the pride of the Empire, desperate subjects of the Crown may embrace other degenerate pursuits. I need to take drastic action now, before the infection can spread! But first, a Plan B...
Sulphurous tonics have a variety of ill effects. The smell can impact morale. The throat can constrict with improper dosage, causing death by asphyxiation. It can wither the mouth and dull the nostrils. But there is no cure worse than the disease of physiological heterodoxy.
Next on the agenda was rationalizing our food output. While we had plenty of raw corn, the source of the colonists' fear and anger were exacerbated by poor nutrition. Making the most of every resource would be essential.
The Thing is still in the cornfield. The farmers' eyes are drawn to it constantly, with an unhealthy admixture of fear and wonder, like a child staring at a bear. They neither acknowledge nor touch the Thing, but the corn is carefully planted around it.
Two more fresh faces find their way out of the wilderness. I put on my bravest face and handed them their assignments. One went immediately to the local regiment. If the situation is as grave as I believe it to be we will need every weapon we can get. The other, before trundling off to find a repair trunk with his new group of maintenance technicians, had the audacity to shake my hand. I was so befuddled by this sudden impropriety that the note in his hand nearly fell out of mine.
“They come for flesh and minds. Take from the rich and give to the desperate, or watch the desperate eat the rich.”
Some colonists looked askance at the dubious source of their materials...
As they fell on top of their gormless heads. Let's hope their concussions induce forgetfulness.
We have issues now.
Judging by the nature of the foul cultist's rituals, I believe her to be in league with the Fishmen. I take exception to these gill-breathing brigands spiriting off my hard-working colonists off to Atlantis or Rapture or Dagon's Crab Shack or wherever the fuck fishmen go to party. Plan B is still in effect, but I still have time to address the problem. I will speak with the Vicar tomorrow. Brutish she may be, but perhaps her skull is hard enough to resist the fishmen's watery compulsions.
Day 34, cont.
Deep in the night, I examine our diplomatic dispatches. I have found that our research has been devoted incongruously to patching up our relations with the Grossherzoginnentum von Stahlmark! We have neither the time nor the inclination to bridge the gap between two distant nations when Eldritch Behavior is underfoot! I immediately burn the offending documents and leave the requisite forms for the immediate request of a Steam Knight. The standing desk creaks perceptibly under the weight of the first few volumes, but Solderton is a Scholarly sort – he'll manage.
On my way back from the Foreign Office I check on the chapel. The chairs are askew, the window caked with grime, and the altar coated in dust and devoid of the necessary daily essays that a good Chaplain is responsible for penning when on mission. I immediately order the Chapel repaired, cleaned, and supplied with pens, ink, and paper. I can only hope that I am not too late.
I was awoken at dawn by a frazzled-looking woman with her hands full of papers. I took them from her and examined them in the candle-light as she muttered about her suspicions about other colonists. Her suspicions were almost certainly borne from the petty jealousies that the lower classes tend to develop when improperly employed, but the documents displayed the real answers. I saw charcoal scratchings of men: faces bulged with fleshy gills, kneeling before a vast obelisk. Later sketches showed close-ups of the central obelisk: oddly-proportioned men hunt whales their own size, and in nearly every drawing a massive head appears just above or below the scene: almost human, but disgustingly piscine.
The most troubling thing is that I have no idea who to trust. Could good Tailington already be a part of the Cult? Would her position of Vicar protect Drucilla from their influence? Or was the failure to maintain the chapel somehow her doing? In the end, I suppose that letting Drucilla manage these affairs would put less mental strain on our innocent population. She will handle the investigation.
Short-sighted, blood-hungry hyenas. They have no inkling of the situation they are entering. The fishmen are at our doorstep, and they decide to rob us of our glass bottles and bedspreads? And where the hell is Tailington?
Of course. The cult reached the military men, who in turn encouraged the bandits by their dazed stares and lax discipline. The look of a man consumed by the Unnatural often marks the cultist as an easy kill: a mistake that has cost many brigands their lives.
Unsurprisingly, our militia is largely absent during the attack, leaving the colony to defend itself with shovel and pick. I remained in the laboratory to guard my notes, as well as the all-too-small supply of Sulphur Tonic.
As the colony's desperate furor drove the brigands off, it did not escape my notice that Tailington's men lagged behind the mob. No longer leading the charge as they should be, they are content to hang back and let the population exhaust itself: all the better for the Fishmen to take them, I suppose. What I would give for a Steam Knight!
Solderton takes the opportunity to hand me his report about Stahlmark. After he regains consciousness, perhaps he will remember who is supposed to supply us with armed soldiers and weaponry.
The assault and the blood is getting to Drucilla, I'm afraid. The Chaplain is hollow-eyed and jumpy. The sub-Chaplains are no longer allowed inside the chapel, but instead hold “blessed clubs” and wait outside the entrance to bless passersby and then move them along.
Yet still she works. I can only hope her work will not be too affected by the scrum with the bandits.
As I was setting down to bed, I heard burbling screams. As I reached the walls of the chapel to check on Cogsen, the smell of oily blood hit my nose. Bruised colonists walk away from the melee, leaving a couple of fishy corpses on the ground. I can only salute them for their bravery as they pass.
They do not look at me.
The chanting is audible from the chemical shop now. Their numbers grow. I dare not station guards near the chapel: Cogsen's paranoia may be the only thing standing between us and the fishmen. I must follow them myself, and ascertain how close they are to summoning the piscine horde.
This group is different – smaller, more fervent, but absent the supplications of the fish-cult: their motions put me more in mind of the machinery in my laboratories back in the Home Counties: forceful, but measured. I can only hope this means that they are some sub-set or splinter faction rather than a different cult entirely.
Either way, this colony is out of time. I whisper prayers to Cog and Queen on my way back to the chapel. The sub-chaplains still trust me enough to open the door. Drucilla is behind the altar – only one candle lights her desk. Through the gloom, I can see wild, desperate hope in her eyes: she has discovered a counter-ritual to drive back the impending hordes. I give her my blessing, and withdraw. She calls to her sub-chaplains, who rush inside and bar the door. Manic chanting emerges from the building, oddly comforting despite its frantic pace. It somehow makes my skin itch and my throat run dry.
I am handed another dispatch by Solderton. At this point I do not know whether to laugh, cry, or beat him into unconsciousness for the second time in as many days. I simply muttered “good work” and handed the thick binder of new Revolutionary Edicts back to Solderton and go back to the laboratory. From behind a chalkboard I withdraw a flaregun. I fire it into the air precisely at noon. The Recovery Ship is close enough for it to pick me up within a few hours, should Drucilla's ritual fail.
With my bag packed and slung over my shoulder, I examine Solderton's paperwork one last time. He has dragged his feet criminally – the two volumes he has filled out only barely prove us subjects of the Empire, much less proving us in any danger. It is too late to rely on soldiery: Our hopes rest on Drucilla's ritual, and on my hope that the threats that face us are strictly piscine in origin.
I was wrong.
In the distance, the screams mix with gunfire. As the Recovery Ship veers towards the roof of the laboratory, a vast and terrible stone edifices rises and sprouts tentacles made from living minerals. Baleful green eyes cast their light in every direction. Its featureless face puts me in mind of a vast, terrible Sculptor awakening in a field of clay. In the distance I can see Tailington and his men. I allow myself some laughter, loud and happy. Let those traitorous cultists be the first to die. My hand grips the escape ladder, and I begin to float away.
My final moments in the colony are spent staring at the Being disposing of its population.
Day 36, cont.
As I see It ruthlessly dispose of the traitorous redcoats..
I begin to admire the Work. I Understand the Work.
My grip on the ladder loosens.
I will rejoin the flesh below. And the flesh will be Bettered. Made Compleat.
I knew it! That Inger Harelip lady was up to no good from the start!
That was the perfect way to end. Closure with Quag'garoth.
Thanks for playing everyone! We had a pretty spectacular run I think, and you all are truly creative players and writers.
I'm going to take a break from hosting duties, but if someone wants start a new one in a different thread, feel free to change up the rules/guidelines as you see fit.
It was fun. I had no idea when playing that a cult ritual would be so imminent.
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