“We’re getting close.”

Cyran glanced up from the leather-bound journal perched in his lap, shutting the thick tome before the surly fisherman seated in the other bench could catch a glimpse of his contents. Merely out of habit- the sailor was clearly far less interested in the strange elven man he’d picked up at port who spoke in a manner that was perhaps a touch too proper than he was in the massive ship breaking through a thick layer of fog in the distance. Truth be told, Cyran would have been able to spot the vessel even without the fisherman’s warning. Even from nearly half a mile away, it was obvious that the ship was larger than any seafaring vehicle that Cyran had ever seen in his life. It glided through the calm waters with an effortless serenity, as if forcing the ocean to bend around its path rather than the other way around. Even in the dead of the night, where the waters were calm and the wind barely stirred, its gentle, rhythmic pace never once halted, as if its business was too important to pay any attention to the weather.

“That’s the Nin Hloth?” The name felt foreign on Cyran’s tongue- syllables he was not used to forming.

He already knew the answer before the sailor responded with a terse, “Aye. Ain’t no other ship on the Luna Sea that matches the likes of it.”

Even though Cyran had been given a description of the ship’s appearance before setting off from the coast, and had some idea what to expect, he was still privately inclined to agree that spoken word alone did not do it justice. Its construction was immaculate- armed to the teeth with canons that would blow the dinghy Cyran and his navigator were currently in out of the water if they got close. The Nin Hloth was a vessel designed to guard its secrets under layers of heavy wood and steel, an impenetrable fortress that no mere mortal of flesh and bone could hope to break.

And yet.

A frown tugged at Cyran’s lips as he reached up to pull his hood over his face, preparing himself for the monumental task ahead. The decision to follow the paper trail left behind by PlatinumCorp had not been a light one to make, but in the wake of his attack against the supply caravan, one where he’d been left with more questions than answers and a growing concern for the company’s shady dealings, he’d been left with no choice but to track down their mysterious leader. Vigilante justice was not his style- he tried to distance himself from matters that did not concern him- but Cyran had seen firsthand the damage that the expansion into the Arid Mesa had wrought on Frostgale and its people. PlatinumCorp needed to be stopped, and if Cyran was the only one willing to take on the task, then he was content with that.

The Nin Hloth may have been an untouchable legend, but the Specter was the ghost that ventured where no man could reach.

With a great heave, the sailor pulled his paddle out of the water, setting it aside as the boat rolled to a stubborn stop without any more force to propel it forward. “I ain’t getting any closer than this.” He warned, brows furrowed, as if challenging Cyran to question him. “It’s a death wish to try and break into that thing. If the canons don’t get you, the crew will.”

Cyran nodded, barely giving the man’s grave warning a second thought. It was all information he already knew- weeks of careful information gathering and planning had been waged before he’d set off on this venture. The leader of PlatinumCorp was careful, moreso than Cyran had expected. Paper trails led to more false leads, dead ends, and classified information that grunt workers and engineers were not privy to. It seemed the only one who was fully aware of the ship’s design and layout was the mysterious leader themselves. But Cyran was as prepared as he could be, and armed with the knowledge that what awaited him on this ship was a crew of artificial constructs similar to the automatons he’d fought in Frostgale all those months ago now, along with their captain, Cyran's actual target.

There was little point in dallying, he supposed- if this was as far as his navigator would take him, then Cyran would just have to make the rest of the journey himself. He pulled himself to his feet, unbothered by the boat’s unsteady rocking in the water from the movement. His journal was bound, locked, and tucked away inside his bag for safekeeping before he turned to his navigator with a small bow.

“Then this is where we part ways, for now.”

A look of bewilderment passed over the sailor’s face as he puzzled over Cyran’s departing words. “Now hold on just a moment… how do you plan on getting aboard? You seriously can’t mean to swim all the way there in these freezing waters!”

Cyran let out a small laugh, finding amusement in a joke that the sailor didn’t quite understand. “Oh, don’t worry. If I'm being honest, I don’t actually know how to swim.”

“What-?”

Any further interjections were cut off by the brush of a hand against his forehead- the feather-light contact his last impression of the elven man as the memories of their entire encounter, from their meeting on the docks, payment exchanged, their venture out to the sea in the dead of night, flew out of his head like smoke.^[1]

When the sailor opened his eyes, he sat alone in his boat, in the middle of an ocean for reasons he could not quite remember, and a stabbing headache in the absence those memories had left behind. If he had bothered to turn his attention to the sky, he might have noticed the darkened figure in the distance, growing steadily smaller as it approached a distant ship, before passing under the shadow of a cloud and disappearing from sight entirely.^[2,3]

A few moments later, Cyran gently touched down on the Nin Hloth’s deck, shadows wrapped around him like a protective garment and hiding him from any wandering eyes. He had complete freedom to pull out Spell Slicer and Cold Steel, taking in his surroundings. 

Getting onto the ship itself had been the easy part. Now all that was left for him to do was to navigate this labyrinth and find the captain’s quarters, where he had some unfinished business with PlatinumCorp’s CEO.

She would not be able to hide from him for long.

---

1. Fade from Memory
2. Bat Wings (post 1/3)
3. Dark Form

Bringing Pets
Yeux (vampire bat)

Cold and silent. The wind, though soft, carries a vengeful chill that promises only to worsen as the night draws on. The waves and breeze are quiet - unnaturally so, as if the elements fear to speak up in the vessel's presence. Under Cyran's feet, the ship is impossibly steady, as much so as land; but the three towering masts, looming like judges, fill the role of disorientation. Already, it is clear that this ship tolerates no audacity: no waves rock its hull, no wind goes against it, no sound breaks its tyrannical silence. And it will surely welcome no trespass.

In its expansiveness, the ship's deck is like an open field. Pristine, iron lanterns rattle on their hung chains, but the deck is largely enshadowed. Indeed, it'd cost a small fortune just to properly illuminate it at night. What is eerie is that those lanterns' glow isn't the warm orange known to hearths and campfires, but an eerie and supernatural azure. Their radiance is foreboding, uncomfortable... not that Cyran needs more reason to keep to the darkness.

And of course, if there were any doubt that this is the ship of Platinum Corp, those doubts are nullified by the sight of those tin automatons marching back and forth in clockwork patrol. The grinding and hissing of their eldritch mechanisms are the only sounds that disturb the night. Adding the red glow of their lens-like eyes, it's a simple task to detect them. There are perhaps a dozen on the upper deck, but they're spread sparsely. In fact, barring some unseen trap or trickery, it seems the only obstacle here is to choose an entrance.

A single door, carved into the side of the bridge, is the most obvious path into the ship. But there are also wooden gratings set into the deck itself, leading to the deck immediately below. The gratings are heavy (enough that assistance in lifting them would be preferred), but not unbearably so. But doing so unnoticed may prove to be a challenge.

Beside one of these gratings, eye-catching in its oddity, is the first confirmation of the rumours regarding the Nin Hloth's eccentric design. Set into one of the masts, at about head-height, is something resembling the bell of a horn, forged of brass. It attaches to a pipe that runs down, to the unknown domains below the deck. And it isn't the only one; in fact, there are several dotting the upper deck. They have no immediately apparent purpose... that is until a voice suddenly resounds from within them, carrying the device's metal tang. It's a feminine voice, one that rings with all the impatience and authority of a military leader.

"All units, we're transitioning to night patrols. You know where you have to be; get to it."

The constructs that patrol the deck suddenly alter their routes. Fortunately, none of their changes are so unpredictable as to threaten Cyran. But far more strangely, and far more unnervingly, a mist begins to creep over the vessel^[1]. It comes from nowhere, completely unprovoked. There's no care to hide that magic is afoot.

In time, the fog hangs as a heavy cloud that envelops the entirety of the Nin Hloth. Of course, Cyran was already unseen, but being unable to see the patrolling constructs may be problematic. But only if Cyran lingers outside...

---

1. Ally of the Sea

Bringing Minions
Rook-13 (Warlord)

Perfect.

That was the only way Cyran could describe the sight that greeted him as he landed - the Nin Hloth had all the necessary components of a ship, though one that had all of its defects augmented with steel, until the shell that had covered the skeleton was nearly unrecognizable. Cyran could not help the feeling of lingering unease that settled in his bones as he crept through the shadows cast by blue lantern flames, taking in his surroundings. He’d been on ships before. Those places felt like a home.

Cyran could not even rightfully call this sterile atmosphere a graveyard, not when he doubted anything living had ever laid its bones here.

In its perfection, it had been sucked out of any warmth and life it might have once held. Familiar humanoid shapes of tin and steel, PlatinumCorp bots, marched in neat little rows, never once deviating from their set path. Not until a voice- one that ought to have been familiar to him, were he not distracted by the military authority in her tone and the odd, metallic quality of her voice- cut through the silence, everywhere and nowhere at once, issuing a command that the bots seemed to understand. All at once, their directions changed, scattering to all corners of the deck. The sudden change in patrol pattern, far faster than anything he’d ever seen in his life, threw him for a loop. None of them had gotten close to him- not yet- but he knew better than to dally.

A slow assassin was a dead one. Cyran might walk life with one foot in the grave, but he had no intention of fully crossing over. Not yet.

As he made his way across the floor with purposeful, quiet strides, a heavy mist began to roll across the ground, almost as if the ship somehow knew it was combatting an unknown intruder. Perhaps the trap would have worked on any lesser burglar, but Cyran simply reached up to remove the floral patch covering the right side of his face, revealing the ugly, blackened eye that hid underneath.^[1] The physical reminder of a wound that had never healed properly, that Cyran had been touched by something not quite right. The eye itself had never healed, but Cyran’s vision had, keen enough to see through the fog and make his way across the floor without risk of running into any of the bots on patrol.

He gave a wide berth to the bots, visible from the glow of unblinking, red eyes like lighthouse beams cutting through the dark. He noticed the grates, of course, but removing them would bring a lot of unnecessary attention to himself. The other obvious point of entry was the door, which would be far easier for him to sneak inside through, but with no idea what was on the inside, he had no idea which was safer.

Cyran brought a hand up to nudge the sleeping figure in his hood- the sleeping bat stirred, poking his head out from his hiding place, making his displeasure at being roused known. Cyran would have to make it up to Yeux later, probably with a plethora of animal blood. Yeux was a bit of a princess in that regard, but maybe that was his own fault. Cyran couldn’t resist spoiling him, after all.

“Pellinta saaden [look below].” Cyran murmured the quiet command in elvish, which Yeux understood as his signal to get up and fly where Cyran had pointed. In one swift motion, the bat slipped through the grates, surveying the room below.

A few moments later, he returned, perching on Cyran’s shoulder, conveying with simple gestures what it had seen-

One hundred feet across, thirty feet high.

Cargo.

Not much dark. Bad.

Big construct. Loud.

With the patrol still lingering around, an ever-present reminder that he did not have ample time to think over a decision. The path below was risky, with little place for Cyran to hide, and a construction that he could not take out without considerable risk to himself… or causing a commotion.

The door it would have to be, then.

There was only one problem with that- the patrol route that the bots were taking blocked Cyran from reaching the door. No matter how long he waited, observing their patrol routes, there was no moment that he could simply slip through the cracks and make his way to the door. A confrontation was inevitable.

He would just have to make this quick and silent.

Cyran had fought these constructs once before- the silver, almost carapace-like armor of the artificial beings were intimidating at first, but he’d learned rather quickly then that they fell just like any other being. Cyran watched and waited, taking in their patterns as best he could. They moved between one another like they were forming a lattice pattern with the expert precision of a seamstress threading the needle. There was only one moment, a few seconds in this clockwork dance, where the patrol was sparse- only three guards between him and the door. Cyran wouldn’t waste that opportunity.

With quick footsteps, as if initiating a dance on his own, Cyran tapped his heels together, triggering the hidden blades in his boots before gliding forward, cutting through the mist.^[2] The first guard was taken out with a quick slice to the legs with Cold Steel- ice crawled from the cuts from the limbs in spiderlike patterns as the limbs locked up, and the automaton fell to its knees, suddenly unable to walk.^[3] The second was hit in the back with Spell Slicer, tearing a nasty, deep gash through the metal.^[4,5]

Not fast enough- the third snuck up behind him while he was busy with the second, nearly managing to make contact with Cyran before he ducked low, kicking upwards with a leg and slicing a ribbon from torso to neck. The automaton didn’t even have a chance to sound any alarm.

Cyran let out a breath- that was too close of a call for him. By now, the shadows protecting him had dropped, leaving him visible to any other bots that would be making their way back in this direction soon. Cyran straightened, making a mad dash for the door. The mist was still obscuring most everything from sight, so he could only hope it would buy him a little more time before the bodies he left behind were discovered, but he couldn’t afford to stick around here. As silently as he could, Cyran threw open the door, shutting it behind him, leaving the deck behind in favor of whatever strange creations awaited him in the maze inside.

---

1. All Eye
2. Ice Skates
3. Ice Rune Enchantment
4, 5. Magic Blocker, Back Stab

Beyond the heavy, ironwood door, the labyrinthine halls of the Nin Hloth sprawl in patterns that somehow bend the mind despite being as organized as a pedant's letter. The dark oaken walls are dotted with strange, little scratchings - clearly made with intent - portraying some language not known to any tome or tongue; and brown-coloured pipes run along the corners of the ceiling, following some arcane logic. The planks are so evenly spaced, so mathematically placed that it seems more the work of a machine than a man. Much of the lighting comes only from open windows, offering much leeway for the assassin to navigate without the woe of detection. Unfortunately, navigation is an obstacle of its own; to explore every corner of this ship would take several days, and Cyran has no clear destination. Where could that voice have originated from?

An ominous wind whistles down the hall. There's something dreadfully unwelcoming about this place. The pipes, the halls and even the crew form a duteous machine with a singular mission. And Cyran is but an interference...

Well, there is one place that Cyran is at least aware of: the cargo hold. He only knows of it through Yeux's descriptions, but it sounds to be a plausible route - a difficult one, but ease is a long-abandoned prospect for this mission. Perhaps there's something there, some indication... A map, maybe? Wishful thinking, but there's little else.

In only a few minutes, Cyran stands at the door that Yeux would assure him leads into the cargo hold. The door itself is mostly indistinguishable from the others that Cyran's seen, though it bears just slightly distinct markings. The sounds that make through the door are an indication of the business beyond: the telltale hissing of the constructs' patrols, the unintelligible clicking of mechanical language, etc. But one sound is distinct: a CLANK, booming, not unlike one that Cyran heard as he stood by the grate on the top deck. It seems high time to learn its source; and so, the door is opened as carefully and quietly as can me manipulated...

The cargo hold, filled with containers that are organized with mathematical precision, stretches a hundred feet across and nearly thirty feet high - just as Yeux said. Shadows quickly become a precious commodity as most corners bask in the eerie glow of ghostly lanterns.

Prominent among the cargo are collections of something strangely familiar: Blixt™. They bear the logos, and the sizzling liquid within certainly matches the description. There's always six bottles per crate, and the crates are segregated by flavour.

Constructs march down wide, crate-lined aisles like the guards of Solarian's own palace, carrying loveless polearms with loveless duty.

It's certainly a greater challenge than the deck above. But impossible? That remains to be seen.

CLANK! Another repeat of the loud, mechanical disturbance draws attention to the starboard side, where a peculiar sight awaits. There is a large metal platform, like a dais, standing atop four legs and carrying thousands of pounds of cargo atop itself. But the oddity lies in the fact that the legs are moving. Much like a turtle (and just as quickly), the platform is strolling along as if it has somewhere to be. Its movements carry the same hisssss that the constructs' do, but - of course - far louder and more intimidating. The unperturbedness of the constructs indicates that this is no unordinary event, though they do give the peculiar machine a wide berth. Perhaps is wise; its massive foot could easily crush a man that has the misfortune to fall beneath it. This, it would seem, is the construct Yeux spoke of. Strange... but unhelpful. And so the search continues, in hopes of any indication, any hint of where the captain may be...

There. It's eye catching sheerly due to how natural it is in comparison to everything else here: the movement of a living person. Long, flaxen hair glows in the azure light, adorning the head of a rather diminutive person. Not quite a halfling; the huge ears and angular features tell that this is a rare gnome. They're seen so infrequently that many don't even put stock in their existence. But here one is. Unfortunately, she doesn't remain for long; after a fleeting exchange with one of the constructs, she makes off through a door at the opposing end of the room.

A lead at last. Now, the challenge of following it. 

The sprawling interior of the Nin Hloth was just as purposeful and eerie as its exterior, Cyran soon learned. But it offered respite from the patrolling bots, and he could not afford to waste time admiring its architecture… or being unnerved by its silence. Other ships he’d been on were filled with the sounds of the raucous laughter of the crew, the creaking sounds of moving cargo, or the clanging of steel and gunmetal from battle. Not the pipe-organ’s howl of the wind through the blessedly-empty halls, a facsimile of hallowed ground where this altar had been meticulously built plank by plank in worship of an unknown deity.

This place, too, he brushed through, not too keen on spending another moment in awe of this strange, foreign construction. He had a feeling that he would find most everything here confusing and strange, but even that was by design, if he had to hazard a guess. Obviously, PlatinumCorp’s leader was a meticulous woman, and one who did not fancy visitors, at that, Rather than allow himself to be lulled into its trappings, Cyran needed to figure out a way to the origin of that mysterious voice.

With no clear goal in mind- at least, not yet- Cyran made his way in the direction of the cargo room that Yeux had spotted. It was the only room he had any sense of what lay inside, and as risky as it was, any information was good information right now as he desperately tried to gather his bearings. He made his way down the walkway, until he came across a door just barely different from its neighbors, marked with a language he could not understand that promised something important inside.

A small chirp from Yeux confirmed his suspicions- this was indeed the cargo hold his companion had seen earlier. He did not have to strain his ears to make out the sounds of movement inside, low, harsh, and mechanical. Idle chatter in a language he could not understand. The CLANK and CREAK of metal told Cyran there would be more of PlatinumCorp’s metal monstrosities in there with the cargo, too. The big construct Yeux had mentioned? Perhaps. He would not know until he saw it with his own eyes… well, eye now, he supposed.

With gentle ministrations, mindful of the ship’s old bones, Cyran opened the door just a crack, peering inside. What greeted him was exactly the sight that Yeux had described, but with more sights and sounds than the animal could possibly convey. Crates stacked floor to ceiling, guarded by an army that marched with the same pinpoint precision as the bots above deck, set to their task as if they guarded the elixir of the gods. Cyran tilted his head, confused.

Drinks?

Was that what all the fuss was about?

Perhaps seeing The Blixt^TM packed in every available space might have inspired more shock or awe in anyone else, but Cyran didn’t care much for keeping up with modern trends. If the drink was popular, it was not one he’d ever heard of. But clearly, it was successful if it was in this high demand… he wondered how many people knew of the true shady business dealings of what must have been a seemingly benign beverage business. That Platinumcorp would sacrifice human lives for a dime, that they truly held no care for people in their pursuit of coin and power.

And why would they? When your business was built on the backs of artificial men, how would you know to recognize the value of real human ones?

Inquiries for later, when he confronted her. Cyran had plenty of questions for PlatinumCorp’s CEO once he found her… assuming he could even navigate his way through this maze to find her quarters. His first hurdle was finding a way past this great, hulking beast of burden ambling its way through the hold, carrying even more of this Blixt on its back as it walked around with legs that could easily crush Cyran if he got close.

Before he could figure out a way to solve this particular puzzle, slight movement at the end of the room caught Cyran’s attention- a real person, so short in stature that Cyran almost missed her dashing through the door on the other side of the hold, closing it gently behind her. The captain? No- she held none of the authority that Cyran would expect of the leader of PlatinumCorp. But she was the first person Cyran had seen.

He needed to get to that room.

The lack of darkness here was making that task rather difficult, though. The light was not strong enough that Cyran still couldn’t call the shadows to his aid, but not enough that he could smother this entire room in a blanket of darkness. A frown tugged at his lips. If he couldn’t simply walk through…

It seemed a little misdirection was in order.

Cyran raised his hand- even with the scant shadows in this room, he could still manage enough to call upon the conspiracy.^[1] From the flickering darkness, spectral birds peeled from below the eerie lanterns, and the ravens took flight, immediately causing chaos. Feathers and talons flew every which direction as ravens scratched at glass eyes, scrabbled at metal, and knocked over crates of Blixt, crashing glass and brightly colored beverage all over the floor. The bots immediately reacted to the commotion, giving Cyran a chance to make a mad dash through the middle of the room…

Or so the bots thought, if they were capable of complex thought at all.^[2]

As the automatons were distracted with the fake, hooded Specter dashing across the floor, and the ravens that were still causing problems, Cyran extended his senses outwards, searching for any kind of shadow in the hold, and place where he could take comfort in the respite of darkness, no matter how small. He eventually found it on top of the strange, flat-backed turtle construct, a small shadow cast where a couple of boxes cast out the light. He closed his eyes, reaching out for that darkness… and when he opened them, his scenery had shifted, hidden safely on top of the robotic giant.^[3]

Crouched low, Cyran crept his way towards the edge of the robot, getting a better look at the opposite wall, where his goal lay in sight. Cyran glanced down at the ground below- a single bot lingered behind the giant, moving platform, one who had somehow missed the rest of the pandemonium and hadn’t yet moved from its position.

Without hesitation, Cyran dropped off the side of the platform, landing on the bot with all the fluid, silent grace of a cat, knives in his boots embedding in the bot’s head as it caved in, crushing it and cutting it in one single move.^[4,5] Using his momentum from the fall, Cyran rolled until he’d tumbled into an upright position once more, immediately gliding for the door as fast as he could, eager to leave the cargo room- and the sheer amount of noise he’d caused- behind.

He had a gnome to catch.

---

1. Raven Swarm
2. Shadow Clone
3. Shadow Walk
4,5. Cat's Grace, Ice Skates

Heartless automatons march through aisles of clandestine storage. They walk, they watch, they keep the ship safe. Unified in purpose, they are a machine - an efficient one. In the eyes of this ship's mysterious captain, everything is exactly as it should be.

Until it isn't. Strange how that works.

In five seconds, the warehouse's industrial silence isn't just broken, but slain and left in an unmarked grave as a conspiracy of ravens infests the room! The bots, while less prone to panic than humanoid equivalents, are no more immune to being caught off-guard. They raise their weapons to bat away the spectral birds; it's a hopeless task, but it preoccupies them to the point of obsession, or maybe just some equivalent of annoyance. Whatever it is, it has the room swiftly devolving into pandemonium. The situation only becomes more hectic as an apparent intruder dashes through the room, giving the constructs something at which to aim their crossbows (and, needless to say, fire).

Yet, strangely, that tortoise-miming behemoth of a construct has no reaction whatsoever. It doesn't shake in annoyance or cry in distress. It doesn't even falter in its sluggish crawl as the ravens perch atop its back and legs. If it even comprehends the chaos around it, there's no indication. It's no more responsive than a rock. An unfeeling object, giving only the autonomy it needs to fulfill its task...

Is it even more alive than the daggers Cyran wears? A question for less-dire circumstances.

In record time, Cyran is at the room's other end, ready to chase down the gnome and whatever information she has. But not before one of the bots endeavours its way through the swarm and toward a brass instrument - identical to the one Cyran had seen topside - and then groaning into the bell with an oaken voice.

"All units, alert: there is an intruder in the Cargo Hold."

---

Beyond the opposing door is more of the same: the same maze-like confusion in a different place. But here, the lifeless hall is occupied not only by Cyran and Yeux, but by a far-more-obvious gnome that seems far more familiar with the layout. She's a strange sight, with raggedy clothes of bright green. But by far her strangest apparel are her glasses, whose lenses are opaque swirls.

The gnome isn't deaf to the sounds that now permeate the room she just left. She's stopped in her tracks and turned around. The befuddled expression she wears on a fair face glows like a beacon in the dreary, bleak corridor. But Cyran has, fortunately, already found himself a shadow, virtually invisible to the eye.

...He should be, at least. The darkness holds him like a protective mother, shielding him from sight. So then why is the gnome looking directly where he is? And why does she look so frightened?

Suddenly, she makes a break down the hallway, in the opposite direction! Somehow, she saw Cyran, veiled as he was! And she's surprisingly quick on such short strides, swiftly reaching the hall's end and then practically flying down a set of stairs! The reckless abandon of her strides is telling; she has no clue where she's going, but she's going there as fast as her little legs can carry her.

That won't do. In a company as lock-and-key secretive as Platinum Corp, a living employee (a rarity by most reports) can't be allowed to get away. And so feet thump rapidly, intently on the floorboards as a chase leads to the lower level of the Nin Hloth.

The ship is on high alert. This much as clear. The halls, where patrols had been charitably scarce, are now crawling with small groups of the metal security. Some of them even carry lanterns, lending to more than one close call with an unpleasant encounter, but the darkness remains just pervasive enough for Cyran's methods. Even at times when the terrified gnome would stop and literally point at Cyran, he could elude them with some magic and an abundance of cunning.

Still, these encounters do slow him down, and the gnome remains just out of reach... until she flings open a door and ducks into the room beyond. Could she have just cornered herself? Wishful thinking. But, either way, Cyran will have to follow. And so, coming to the open frame, he looks inside to see something strange - even in a ship of oddity.

This room isn't unlike the labs that Cyran has seen belonging to alchemists. There're certainly enough bizarre baubles and flasks of dubious content lining the counters for this to be the case. Only, the implements are so peculiar that they border on disturbing: mechanisms of countless gears, bottles of liquid that crackle with lightning, arcane circles drawn haphazardly on cluttered surfaces, and a strange box-device that continuously hums a one-note tune; all ominously basking in the azure glow of a hanging lantern, as if in waiting. Were this an ordinary ship, it'd be outright stupid to have so many loose items laying about, but the Nin Hloth's supernatural steadiness allows for a more haphazard approach to storage (it would seem).

But the gnome is nowhere in sight. Still, there are no other exits from this room, not even a window. Unless she's privy to teleportation magic that she neglected to use during the chase... she's hiding. Unfortunately for her, Cyran knows a thing or two about hiding.

Among the most prevalent, but familiar items in this room stands in one of the corners. Attached to an iron frame by its arms and legs is a partially-constructed Blixtbot™. That crimson light is absent from its eyes, indicating its lifelessness. By now, Cyran has seen more than a few of these things deconstructed, so the sight itself isn't all that peculiar. What do evoke curiosity are the papers sat on a counter beside the nascent bot. Drawn upon them are diagrams, scribbled notes and other texts, all written in Gnomish. Of course, this makes them mostly indecipherable, and the diagrams are so complicated (and so poorly drawn) that they are similarly useless. But one of them is eye-catchingly comprehensible; illustrated is a bottle of Blixt™ (labelled thusly), with an arrow drawn from it to a hidden compartment in the bot's chest. Additional, smaller drawings indicate that the liquid would be drained from the bottle and into the bot's body; and a particularly lackadaisical sketch shows that this process is supposed to make the bot happy in some way.

The meaning is clear: apparently, through whatever mechanical process, the bots are capable of 'drinking.'

Perhaps they even need to drink in order to continue functioning? That would explain why there was so much excess Blixt™ in the caravan.

Another question for another time. Cyran's lead is somewhere in this room, and the whimpering that can be heard from one of the counter-cabinets is a decently obvious hint.

Right as Cyran reached out for the door handle, seeking refuge in the room on the other side of the cargo hold, there was that strange, familiar booming sound that filled the room - the voice itself, different than it had been before, but its sudden intrusion made him flinch and nearly forced him to clap his hands over his ears in shock. The message it carried was even more troubling. He was under no illusion that the stunt he’d just pulled would go unnoticed, but he thought he’d have more time than this. Perhaps he’d let his guard slip because these creatures, more artificial than humanoid, didn’t seem capable of communication on the same level. But he’d not recognized their strange, chattering language for speech, and he’d forgotten that glass eyes were still capable of sight. And in those assumptions, he’d neglected that the Nin Hloth’s sentinels were just as capable, if not more than a regular crew, at reporting the presence of an intruder.

There was no point dwelling on it now. A single mistake could turn into an avalanche in the blink of an eye if he let it - it was a simple matter of keeping his cool and thinking through the problem. With that in mind, he slipped out into the next hallway, closing the door behind him.

Only to immediately attract the attention of his mark.

There was a brief moment, in the pandemonium, where she might have caught sight of him, if it weren’t for his quick thinking in putting out the lamps around him, providing enough natural shadow for him to find sanctuary in the darkness once more.^[1,2] He could not make out her expression under the thick-rimmed, round spectacles that occupied nearly half of her small face, but he could at the very least make out the anxiety that flitted over her features. For a moment, perhaps, he wondered if she was worried about the pandemonium he’d left behind in the cargo room, but as he crept along the side of the wall, her head did not stay locked on the door that he’d closed, but rather, followed his direction…

Almost as if she could see him.

Cyran froze, a deer in lantern-light, unable to bring himself to move.

That split-second of hesitation cost him the first move.

The gnome moved first, breaking into a dead sprint, deceptively fast given her short stature, but driven by only one motivation - getting the hell away from the killer lurking in the shadows.

Cyran swore under his breath, lamenting how quickly this entire operation had turned on its head. “Deshu siin [After her]!” He commanded, nudging Yeux once more and issuing the command that urged the vampire bat to spring into action, flying after his target, Cyran hot on their heels, gliding through the halls on his blades, following her through the twisting and turning halls both locked in a race for the gnome’s life - for her, to save it, and for Cyran, to end it before she could alert others to his presence. The sound of creaking metal and squeaking joints accompanied the woman’s frantic yells for help, the insistence that someone was after her, but to everyone else, Cyran was still a ghost, haunting only the poor, unfortunate woman who’d simply had the bad luck of being in the wrong place in the wrong time.

Oh, she tried her damnedest to lose Cyran through the swaths of armed guards, and the confusing hallways where she clearly possessed the home advantage, but Cyran would not be shaken so easily - she slowed him down, but she would not be able to stop the Specter entirely, not even as she was finally backed into a corner, throwing herself into an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar part of the ship that she’d led Cyran to in their wild goose chase, slamming the door behind her. In her panic, she did not even bother to lock it behind her.

Cautious that he’d been led into a trap, Cyran peeked open the door once more, still concealed by the shadows, only to find himself in the most confusing room he’d seen in the bowels of this vessel.

Every square inch of the large room was covered in odds and ends that he couldn’t even begin to make sense of… glass beakers and metallic contraptions that crackled with ozone that clung to the air and left a bad taste in his mouth. More blue-flamed lanterns cast an eerie, dim light over the silent laboratory, the sights and humming sounds overwhelming to the senses. A factory of horrifying wonders, feats of magic and science the likes of which Cyran could not make sense of. He was beginning to think that the strangeness of the Nin Hloth and its inhabitants did not simply stem from his age and lack of understanding of modern technology. The feats of science that existed in this room… they were far beyond anything that ought to rightfully exist.

He’d come for answers, but so far, Cyran had only been left with more questions.

As he crept silently through the laboratory, carefully avoiding knocking into anything, he could not spot the gnome, though he did take notice of the partially-constructed automaton. His shoulders stiffened for a brief moment, hands drifting towards Spell Slicer and Cold Steel, but quickly relaxed when he realized it was still only partially put-together, an exoskeleton of strange plates and tubing. For a moment, curiosity got the better of him, enough to guide Cyran closer to the bot for a better look. The bot itself was too complicated to hold his interest, but the parchment on the workbench beside it were promising. He picked them up, shuffling through the papers in an attempt to make sense of the diagrams.

All in gnomish - a language he didn’t recognize. But that did not mean they were entirely useless.

He rolled them up and placed them in his bag.

The sound of whimpering, faint over the near-constant hum that blanketed the laboratory, reminded Cyran that he was did not have all the time in the world to comb through the contents of this place. He turned his attention to the rest of the room, where one of the cabinet doors under a distant workbench stood ajar. If the gnome’s frightened, stifled cries wouldn’t have tipped him off, Yeux’s position where he was perched on top of the counter would have. Cyran made his way over, stopping right in front of the cabinet, casting no shadow over the cabinet while they still concealed him from sight.

And yet, the crying came to a halt.

She really could see him… somehow.

He supposed that made the veil of invisibility rather pointless.

Cyran shrugged off the cloak of darkness, removing any semblance of useless formality as he crouched down, gently opening the cabinet door. Spell Slicer was held firmly in the air, tip of the enchanted dagger pointed at her in an unspoken threat as he whispered, “I don’t want to have to hurt you. Just answer a few questions for me, and I’ll let you walk out of here. You don’t even have to remember this - come tomorrow morning, this will all be a bad dream. If you choose to cooperate.”

His voice held none of its usual warmth, the softness and gentleness he usually spoken with concealed behind layers of ice. And yet, there was no threat in his tone, either. He did not want to scare the gnome, but he spoke as it was only simple fact that she would surrender her secrets to him, or end up on the receiving end of his blade.

The being huddled in the cabinet is a piteous thing, trembling as she cowers with her hands obscuring her face. The fright has left her glasses half-dangling from her face, revealing a single hazel iris that's full of wavering fear.

Even as she steadies the chattering enough to speak, her speech is a stuttering mess, with nearly every word a struggle. "I-I-I-I d-d-don-don't kn-kn-know a-an-an-a-anything, M-Mr. A-As-Assass-Assassin..."

It's honestly somewhat difficult to tell whether she's lying or not, going on voice alone. As the stutter appears natural, few of those verbal cues even survive to be verbalized. But the look in her eyes nods heavily toward the former.

It was difficult for Cyran not to feel concern for the poor woman. He hadn’t meant to give her such a fright… but he could not allow sentimentality to get in the way of the job. Right now, he could not be the man who wanted to apologize for frightening her, or give her a handkerchief to wipe away her tears. He sighed, tilting his head as he tried to choose his next words carefully. The challenge would not be in parsing out the lies from truth in her voice, but figuring out how to coax information out of her without causing a nervous breakdown in the first place.

… Perhaps a gentler was in order here, after all.

He was a creature of old habits, he supposed.

Cyran gently pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat, offering it to her with slow, careful movements. Spell Slicer never once wavered in his other hand - kindness and cruelty in equal measure. “My business is not with you, little one. I simply wish to have a conversation with your employer. Can you tell me where she is?”

---

1. Remove Light
2. Dark Form

Not once did the gnome's hazel iris even glance at Cyran's unyielding pupils. And it's only with great apprehension that she pried her gaze from the tip of Cyran's dagger to look at the handkerchief. She studied it between rapid breaths, eye constantly darting back to that blade that could so quickly end her little existence. By the way her hands were tucked so closely to her chest, it was clear that accepting the handkerchief never once crossed her mind.

"U-U-Umm.... A c-c-c-conver-sa-sation...?"

Her breathing hastened in panic, and a slight rasp began to manifest within it.

"L-L-Like th-th-th-this one...? B-Because, um..." 'This one.' The one they were having at that very moment, presumably.

She tried to take a deep breath, though it was taken as several. She was gathering her courage.

"I-If y-y-y-you w-wanna have a c-c-c-convers-sation l-like th-this with Ms. V-Veliky, I-I-I don't think I-I-I should t-tell yo-you..."

She flinched in preparation for cold steel, covering her face from what she believed would be her end.

Any interjections Cyran might have had that he didn’t have any nefarious intentions the gnome seemed to think he did died on Cyran’s lips as he heard the name of her employer.

Veliky… the name sounded vaguely familiar. Someone he’d met before, he thought? He could not quite place where, months of activity preventing him from putting a face to the name. If he could not recall, it couldn’t be that important. Besides, he would not have to wait long to meet her.

As the gnome buried her face in her trembling hands she probably didn’t notice the frown on his face as he tucked the unused handkerchief away. The blade stayed firmly where it was. What to say now? It was obvious that the gentler approach wouldn’t work.

“Your… Mistress Veliky. I wonder what she could have done to earn your loyalty.” He murmured. His tone was not gentle, nor did it hold the promise of murder - not quite yet. “I’m not going to kill her. Not yet. Her disregard for human lives has angered a lot of people. Those people want answers. If I like what I hear… your mistress will be just fine. Given that you’ve jumped to her defense so readily, you should have nothing to worry about, right?”

Not moving from her tiny corner of the cabinet, the gnome pondered Cyran's words, though her own thoughts were obscured by the serrated haze of anxiety. She was wordless for so long, though not silent - her near-hyperventilating breath was the new white noise. But when she finally did answer, her tone was one of triumphant acquiescence (triumphant for Cyran; she sounded utterly defeated).

"U-U-Umm... I-I g-g-guess not... B-But...!"

For the first time, she lurched forward from her corner. Though she was quick to recoil as she drew disconcertingly close to Spell Slicer's razor point.

"Ms. V-V-Veliky can be... c-c-cold, sometimes." Finally readjusting her glasses to retake their perch behind her ears, she looked down in faint reminiscence. "Sh-Sh-e doesn't e-express h-h-herself very much, and sh-sh-she doesn't like criminals, and the stuff sh-she sells i-i-isn't very... healthy..."

She clutched her tiny hands together, as if for warmth. Her lip quivered as she searched desperately for the words to convey her thoughts.

"B-B-But I-I-I know she's a good person, d-deep down. Sh-She gave m-m-me a job, a place to live. And I-I-I'm not... th-th-the, um... th-the only o-one. There was th-th-this one girl, A-Astrid, that sh-she gave a whole mansion! So p-p-p-please... p-p-please g-give her a chance?"

Again, her breathing hastened as she gathered the will to speak, terrified of what consequences her words might cause.

"She's i-i-in th-the Blixt™ Hold, behind the Recharge Station on the second-lowest level." Her confession was a single, terrified breath. "Pl-Please, just- j-j-just go."

By the way she cradled her own head, it was clear that she already regretted her decision. But what was done, was done.

Cyran wasn’t sure what to make of that information. In the pursuit of this Veliky woman, he hadn’t been expecting to learn such conflicting facts about the mysterious CEO. At the very least, this gnome seemed convinced that there was something in her worth defending. But in the end, she’d given him a location… and a lot to think about.

“If she’s as generous as you say she is, then she will be just fine.” Cyran assured her in that same, toneless voice, one he could not imagine was very comforting. It was a far cry from the warmth he spoke with to his own loved ones. That man was far away at the present moment. “You are braver than you think, little one. I will take your words into consideration when I speak with her. Until then…”

A promise was a promise. With his free hand, Cyran reached out and brushed the back of his hand against the gnome’s cheek with hands that knew they had no right to comfort her after the fear he’d caused. But the single piece of contact was enough to remove any memory of him from their interaction, until he was nothing more than a shade lingering in the back of her mind that she would not be able to recall, no matter how hard she tried^[1].

And, after just a few moments, she finally lifted her head. There was nobody there.

"Huh?"

All the panic from before had vanished, and she was left wondering why she was hiding in a cabinet in a room that she wasn't in before.

She'd all but forgotten how gravely she'd just endangered her patroness.

---

Second-lowest deck, behind the Recharge Station, the Blixt™ Hold: three pieces of information that triangulated to paint a target. Cyran had to navigate down two levels to reach the place that the gnome had indicated. By now, those automatons were scouring the ship; no longer were they focused on the one room that Cyran had thrown into such mayhem, but were now feverishly hunting the perpetrator once they'd realized that the other was a mere duplicate.

But they were too late to stop him with a manhunt. By the time the halls were truly impassable, he already stood before the massive double-doors of the second-lowest level. While the other decks had been eldritch mazes of halls and rooms, the simple gateway that laid before him made an ominous oath: that whatever lay beyond them took up the entire width and nearly the entire length of the ship.

'Recharge Station...' two words with little meaning to Cyran, but which come together to spell his final trial. Soon enough, he'd be face-to-face with the woman behind it all: Veliky. Was she truly a malevolent being? Or did she, as Yoci believed, hold some warmth in her iron heart? It was time for Cyran to find out.

But who, truly, could've been ready for the sight that graced him when he opened those double-doors? The first stimulus to pierce his senses was a bright, blue radiance that spilled through the gap as if trying to escape. The second was an organ-rumbling hum that pervaded every corner of the room. The third was an ugly stench like fermented sugar. And the fourth came to him as a collective when he realized what he was looking at.

Constructs. *Hundreds* of them, gathered in a single massive chamber. They lined the walls like tools on a carpenter's shelf, propped in alien, cocoon-like structures that glowed like the Spring sky. These structures formed aisles with nearly fifty apiece, and nearly half of them were occupied by a Blixtbot™. And the Blixtbots™ weren't only humanoid: there were canines, felines, reptiles, arachnids, mollusks, equines, drakes! Cyran's only blessing was that none of these clockwork abominations were looking at him. In fact, many of their eyes lacked that distinctive glow. This absence usually indicated that they were either dead or yet to be alive, but neither of those seemed to be the case here. Could it be that they were sleeping? If so, then silence would be all the more critical in this venture.

Prospects were not good. Cyran could see his destination - another set of double doors - at the other end of the room, but there were a few hundred feet of distance, dozens of patrolling Blixtbots™ and nary a shadow between there and where Cyran was standing. And yet more foreboding was the uncharacteristically disorganized floor; where hundreds of strange, rubber tubes stretched and slithered and connected those structures together. What purpose did they serve? Cyran didn't know, but it was clear enough that, assuming those bots *were* sleeping, it'd be best not to disturb them.

One last stretch. And it looked like a hellish one.

---

1. Fade from Memory (Cyran)

The recharge station. Cyran just had to figure out where that was located, and he would finally be able to confront this Veliky that the gnome had been so steadfast about protecting. If he were being honest, her stubbornness surprised him. Even in tears, facing down what she believed was certain death, she still refused to budge, all for a woman that she claimed had some good in her… deep down. She hadn’t been lying, either. Was there more to this Veliky than Cyran thought? He supposed he was going to find out soon enough whether Veliky really was someone worth protecting, or if she’d managed to fool even her own loyal employees.

One small detail still bothered him, though. A name, given under duress but one he’d found familiar. If this Astrid really was the one he was thinking of, then that was a rather large coincidence. He tried to scour his memories, trying to figure out if the dwarven child had ever mentioned knowing Veliky. He could not remember, but if Veliky had truly given Astrid a house, then that only served to confuse Cyran more. What kind of game was she playing? An attempt to endear herself to others disguised as altruism? Or a touch of genuine care for others?

Suddenly, this mission had become far more complicated.

Even he understood that not everyone was wholly good or wholly evil… he would be a hypocrite if he didn’t. But the information he’d just received contradicted everything he’d heard of PlatinumCorp’s CEO up until now. The testimonials on paper all added up to a cold and uncaring woman, hellbent on pursuing notoriety and success. Her true intentions, as unknown as the woman herself. Some even speculated she was as machine as the strange metal beings she built.

But he hadn’t lied to the gnome. A promise was a promise, and if he saw goodness in Veliky, then he would let her live.

Of course, that first meant getting through this metallic jungle of slumbering beasts and tangled cords.

What was this room? The way that gnome had spoken about it implied it had some kind of function, one Cyran could not even begin to understand. Just as he thought he was beginning to understand these constructs and their habits - deceptively simple compared to human thought processes and patterns - he encountered something like this that only bewildered him even more. Was this some sort of storage room? Most of the bots were asleep, with a handful patrolling around the inactive creatures. And just as in the cargo hold, the room was so brightly lit that there was no natural shadow for him to seek comfort in.

Still peering around the door, not quite entering, Cyran’s eyes narrowed as he observed the movements of the patrolmen. Just like on the deck, they moved to a sort of rhythm that he could not hear or understand, chattering away in that indecipherable language when they intercepted one another. The ambient, scraping noise of moving joints, metal against the floor, and quiet communication were the only sounds in the chamber, every single movement maximized so that sweeping red eyes could see nearly every angle of the room, leaving for no blind spots.

If he could not hide, then he would simply have to find another way through…

It wouldn’t be difficult to blend in.

A shudder ran up Cyran’s spine at the thought that entered his mind, unbidden. He knew exactly what he could do to get across that room without raising any alarms, but truth be told, the ability scared him somewhat. The ability to… disconnect from his body until his form and spirit were shoved into the darkness in favor of taking on the visage was that of another’s. It was a handy trick, a necessary one. Still, the thought frightened him, that he could lose himself so easily. And would he be able to blend in as a construct? Their forms were human enough. If he concentrated, he could force his skin to take on that metallic sheen, turn his eyes the same eerie, piercing red. He could shove down his thoughts and personality until he was nothing more than an empty hole, devoid of thought and feeling save for the will to carry out orders.^[1]

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer Cyran. The Specter had disappeared in the shadow of the automatons it had taken the form of. Mimicking their perfect walk and fluid motions was simple once it had observed them a few moments more, just long enough to perfect an image of their patterns and insert itself into the rhythm proper.^[2] It did not feel any fear, no anxiety as it left the safety and traversed the floor of the recharging room, through the army of slumbering automatons and bots patrolling in perfect sync. It simply kept its eyes on the objective, the door at the very end of the hall.

Everything was going smoothly… up until the point its mockery of a patrol route made it cross paths with another bot.

Both construct and impostor froze in place as their routes were interrupted by one another. Not-Cyran stood perfectly still as the bot’s eyes bored into it, chattering away in that strange language from the strange orifice that must have been its mouth, and was struck with the odd thought that someone had gone through great lengths to make these things appear as human as possible, just enough that their design was uncanny to stare at. A human body… but eyes more insect than man, and seemed to grow the more impatient the longer it went without a response.

This was going to pose a problem.

For all it could change about its appearance, it could not take on the natural tongue these constructs seemed to speak. Too late to rectify the situation now - in its silence, the bot had already realized it did not belong here, nearly about to sound some sort of alarm, before not-Cyran reached out and brushed its hand against the bot’s arm.^[3]

The thing seemed to freeze up, eyes flickering for a brief moment. That disorientation was all it needed to smoothly slip by, continuing on the straight and narrow path to its destination.

That was close. Too close.

There were a few more close calls with similar bots, but it had no trouble disabling them and wiping their memories without any problem. Each time, their eyes would flicker and the chattering noise would halt, giving it just enough time to slip by. It seemed that whoever designed these things had not given them protection against mind-altering effects… which had proven a small miracle for the one, lone construct that had eventually broken from military-straight formation, making its way to the door.

By the time it opened the entrance to the Captain’s quarters, disguise dropping away, it was already too late to stop him.

It was time for his awaited appointment with Veliky.

---

1. One with the Cosmos (Astral Soul I)
2. Cat's Grace
3. Fade from Memory

After an agonizing trek, Cyran at last leaves the sky-blue glow behind him. The final obstacle, conquered. There's a sense of finality as the double doors open without so much as a sound, a sense that's strange given the room they open into: a dark, cramped storage hold that's filled to the low ceiling with sealed crates. Each said crate is marked with an insignia, but not that of Platinum Corp; instead, the insignia depicts a cog encircling a stylized bolt of lightning. But there's a distinct similarity, as both emblems possess identical depictions of that toothed gear.

The crates are a blessing when compared to the room before, providing amble nooks in which to find shelter from the room's only source of light: a single lantern^[1], burning with that same azure, resting on one of the crates. It shines brightly, oppressively; illuminating the forms of two Blixtbots™ - one with a trident and the other with a set of knives - facing away.

One of them begins to speak in that same, droning voice. "Mistress Veliky, report: there is an intruder aboard the ship. Their location is currently unknown."

But, lifeless and uncanny though the construct's speech may be, it's the voice that responds that's the most chilling. Feminine, commanding and wholly intolerant; it's the same voice that first echoed through the pipes when Cyran as at the top deck. And it carries the seem sense of unplaceable familiarity. "Yes, I'm aware. Now why don't you tell me something I don't know, like why the HELL they haven't been dealt with yet?!"

The voice comes from just in front of the bots, obscured behind their metallic forms. But, every now and again, a glimpse can be snatched of something moving there...

The same bot begins some response, but is immediately interrupted with indignance. "That was an order, not a question! Get out there and find the bastard!"

This time, the bots' only reciprocation is a simultaneous chirp, like that of a bird whistle. And without any protest, they turn and march out through those double doors, completely oblivious to the fact that they're leaving their mistress alone with a hunter.

Now she can be seen. But the sight is... unexpected. As the feared, reviled and mysterious mistress of Platinum Corp runs a hand through her golden hair and minces about on legs no larger than a toddler's, all of that familiarity and the memories they beckoned snap into place. Veliky; Cyran met her, once. Then, at the hot springs in Bleakfort, she was wearing just a towel and an expression of weariness. Now, she's wearing the fatigues of a military leader and an expression that says "This is not a night to mess with me." Of course, none of that changes just how minuscule she is; even if she leapt, she likely couldn't reach the lantern on the crate.

As Cyran watches from the unpenetrated darkness, the little tyrant lets out a sigh. Frustration drains from her face - not entirely, but somewhat. Remaining in place, posture straight as a post, she scans about the hold. Her ice-blue eyes, with the azure light flickering on the whites, pass right over Cyran. She's unaware, almost pitifully so.

Turning slightly away, she looks down into her hand, holding a paper covered in a lattice of text that can't quite be deciphered from where her watcher is hidden.

As that anger gradually fades, her eyes become more somber. They've trailed further down, to her wrist. And for several seconds, she just stares in silence, studying something unseen until she finally - and very slowly - lifts her sleeve. Beneath, of all things, is a bracelet^[2]. And it's no ordinary bracelet; but a hand-crafted thing of little, coloured beads of which some are carved in the shape of... hearts. One such affectionate bead, purple in tinge, stares back at her. And with her other hand; she gently, delicately moves her fingers across the beads, turning them on their string.

Her eyes are more distant, now. They still look down upon those little beads on the little string on her little wrist, but also past them, vacant. If there's a time to approach, now may be it. 

---

1. (Ghastly Lantern) Moonlight-01
2. Arcane Trinket

The hold that Cyran had found himself in was crammed with even more crates that took up every free bit of space, not one square inch wasted. Cyran crouched behind one of the boxes, idly running his hands along the insignia burned into the wood with a brand - not quite the one he remembered from the caravan, but still bearing the same odd symbols that Cyran recognized. The boxes, whose contents he could only speculate on, only held his attention for a brief moment before he heard the monotonous voice cut through the silence.

He peered around the corner, mindful of that blue lantern-light still flickering and casting a dim blue light on the two armed constructs facing a figure he could not see from this angle, informing them of the bad news in the toneless manner of someone commenting on the weather. It seemed that whoever had built these things had yet to learn how to give them emotions… or perhaps were clinical enough to neglect such things entirely.

Feelings are weakness. He could remember his father’s voice instructing him.

Apparently, such sentiment was not only shared with the merchants of Eclipse City, but any manner of businessmen. When people were too complex to deal with, it was simply easier for Veliky to remove them from the equation altogether, replace them with loyal drones that could not disappoint her with human follies. They were far less unnerving than Veliky’s own voice - the second humanoid that Cyran had encountered on the Nin Hloth, the familiarity in her tone still on the tip of his tongue. Her righteous anger as she berated her men did not faze him. But hearing the center of this whole operation, the brains that had built this empire of steel, somehow struck him at his core.

Her anger, at least, was expected. Cyran listened to her lash out before sending constructs along their way in search for a ghost they would never find.

Annoyed, the figure continued to pace the length of the floor, nervous tics and irritation all smothered behind a wall of ice, save the hand idly running through her hair that betrayed her anger. But her mannerisms were the least of Cyran’s concerns at the moment.

Oh, no.

A brief meeting that had happened so long ago, an encounter at the saunas of Bleakfort, drifted to mind - and before that, the Black harvest Ball. Cyran remembered Veliky. An otherwise stern woman, one who’d shown odd, small moments of vulnerability when speaking to Astrid Stormstone and when allowing her construct to swim with Charlotte… and how had he not put things together sooner? She was the only person he’d ever met who walked around with such artificial creatures as guards. The entire time, she had been right under his nose.

He felt foolish.

All of a sudden that image he’d built in his mind of a larger than life mogul shattered, replaced with someone who was rather… small, in the face of everything.

In his shock, he could not bring himself to move from his hiding place. Perhaps that was the only reason he was able to watch as her anger bled away into fatigue, fiddling with a hand-carved, beaded bracelet with the gentle administrations of someone afraid to break the precious treasure they held in their hands. A gift? Such sentimentality didn’t make sense for a woman of her standing. Nothing about this encounter made sense.

There were any manner of questions on the tip of Cyran’s tongue that he could have asked, demands that had been on his mind since he set out on this venture. And yet, there was only one now that he could think of - the deciding factor on how this conversation would go. He needed to know.

Nothing clutched tightly in his palm, a shimmering ice-dagger that Veliky would not be able to see until it was too late, Cyran emerged from his hiding place, shadows still clinging to him as he did.^[1]

“That bracelet… was it a gift?”

It was not the proper first demand an assassin ought to make of his would-be-victim, but Cyran had to know… if there was someone out there that treasured Veliky to give her such an item, and if she treasured them in turn.

As if on reflex, she pulled down her sleeve the instant she heard Cyran's voice. And as she turned to face him, her ice-blue glowed in the darkness, scrutinizing every detail she could see: his face, his clothes, his movements, every faintest whim of his body-language. There was no fear there, but a constant readiness veiled only thinly behind etiquette.

But her face did take a mask more bemused as she pieced his identity together. "You were at the springs in Bleakfort."

She crossed her arms, though her right fist remained clenched in an odd, meaningful way. Her gaze bordered on condescension.

"Cyran, formerly of Fenastra. Now a spy, a thief, a bounty hunter... and a hitman. Care to tell me who set you up to this, or will I have to figure that out myself?"

The sound of his voice prompted Veliky to immediately cover up that small piece of her heart worn on her wrist - any somberness on her face was immediately covered up as she scrutinized the intruder in her cabin. She did not scream for the constructs that had just left her room, and were likely still within audible distance.

Instead, she flipped the script on him, in a way Cyran hadn’t expected. He carefully tried to hide his flinch, school his expression into one of forced neutrality. “I see you’ve done your research.” He commented, tone mild, as if her attempt at gaining the upper hand in this conversation didn’t bother him at all. The dead neutrality in his tone was a far cry from the polite, reserved man she’d met briefly in the frozen pits of Frostgale. “You can try all you’d like, but you won’t find anything. No one set me up to this. I’m here for my own piece of mind, concerning some business practices of yours. I want to know more about your expansion in the Arid Mesa.”

He tilted his head, gesturing towards her wrist, still focused on his initial question that she seemed desperate to dodge. “Or you can tell me more about that trinket if that’s easier for you to answer.”

Her eyes narrowed to hateful slits, eying Cyran up and down.

"You were one of the mercs that hit my caravan, weren't you? Should've figured; you left so many different types of wounds that I thought they'd sent a damned death squad."

In a display of boldness that far outsizes her, she took an authoritative step forward.

"You interrogate everyone on their accessories? I don't see how that correlates. It's just a bracelet."

Just a bracelet. She was lying. For anyone else, it'd have been impossible to tell. But not him.^[2,3]

Cyran’s eyes widened momentarily at Veliky’s assertion, spoken so forcefully that it was unclear which one of them she was trying to convince. His grip tightened on the hilt of the invisible blade clutched in his hands, one that could oh so easily strike at Veliky while she was defenseless and put an end to this miserable charade-

But he could not.

There was tension in his shoulders as he took another step forward. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Veliky cared for someone, though she was loathe to admit it. That small, hand-carved trinket was proof as such.

“Yes, I was the one who trashed your caravan.” He left the others out of it - he would give Veliky no reason to hunt them down. “With just cause. The people of Frostgale were concerned about their people being taken advantage of, all for the sake of some mogul’s westward expansion. So they hired me. I was only tasked with taking care of your goods, but, well… I’m thorough. So if you value your life, you’d better be honest with me - moreso than you were only seconds ago.” His brows furrowed, some of the ice in his voice melting away into concern. Even here, he could not fully tuck away vestiges of fatherly care and concern that should have been squashed. This was an interrogation, not an intervention.

But perhaps some habits still could not be beaten out of him.

“… Then again, you’ve only lied to yourself thus far.”

---

1. Dagger (Pale Ice Enchantment)
2. Smooth Talking (Veliky)
3. Insight Rune (Cyran)

A little crack. So ephemeral was that moment that Cyran allowed empathy to show. But, though he holds a near-solid barrier over his true personality, the icy-cold judgement of her icy-cold eyes still shines through the fissures, like the sun's own glare. The threat, by all appearance, has had all the effect of a drop in the ocean.

...But it isn't perfect. She isn't like the sun - not uncompromising, not unbiased. For once Cyran has revealed far more than he perhaps should have, there's a gradual shift in her posture, a change in two aspects. At once, she lets in a long and congested sniff, and releases it without once releasing Cyran from her gaze. And by the time the last wisp of air has left her lungs, her body has relaxed by a degree near-imperceptible. It's difficult to tell why, exactly. It may be because she now underestimates Cyran, thinking that this display of compassion were a display of weakness. Or perhaps, somewhere within her, it truly did bring her comfort. Her eyes provide no elucidation. They only glow with that same cold, piercing and unwavering in the lanternlight that almost matches their tinge.

The other change is just as noteworthy, perhaps more. With that little piece of paper still clutched between her fingers, she slowly crosses her arms. And with one gloved finger tapping on the upper of her arm, she looks... arrogant. Condescending. Judgemental.

Guarded.

Her eyes dart between Cyran's features, with pinpoint accuracy. She makes it no secret that she's reading him. Such a secret would be a strange thing to keep in such circumstances, of course. And with little heedance for etiquette, she allows the silence to linger ominously long before she finally addresses his accusation, with a softly inquisitorial tone.

"What the hell are you talking about, sneak?" Her words come with an unspoken threat. Touchy.

His words, somehow, seemed to have forced a chink in her armor - as adept as Cyran was with the blade of a knife, delivering decisive strikes in vulnerable places, his perception was just as honed, sharp as any dagger tucked away in his arsenal. It did not take a keen eye to see that Veliky was rattled. Uncomfortable at the vulnerability, being seen where she tried to conceal feelings with layers of derision and snark. The moment Cyran’s tone shifted, her own body language went on alert, immediately interpreting softness as weakness. Attempting to cover up her lie.

And Cyran was struck with an odd thought.

Had Miss Veliky even known she was lying to herself?

Matters of the subconscious were not ones he was familiar with. Cyran shifted his weight, assessing his options. To dig deeper, or leave the matter alone for now?

“Like I said before. There are a lot of people who want you dead for what you’ve done… but there are also a lot of people who care about you. So which is it? Are you as cold and unfeeling as the general public seems to think you are, or is there something more to it all? I want you to tell me about you. What drives you, why you do what you do.”

Think carefully, the words seemed to imply. Your life depends on your answer. And yet the dread that's laced within seems to wash around her, like a river around a stone. Her resistance to coercion seems almost supernatural.

Or perhaps that bracelet isn't her only secret. It isn't as if fear is being sedated, but neither is it simply ignored. She has some reason not to be frightened. Is it the same reason that her response carries a subtly mocking tone?

"So that's the deal? You're deciding whether you want to kill me or not?"

...She can be somewhat aggravating, it seems. Little reinforces this more than the roll of her eyes.

"Should've guessed. You're just like every other vigilante, thinking that you have any right to decide who lives or dies based on some tiny scrap of the picture. You hear one little rumour and think it's a reason to commit corporate sabotage and cause several thousand silvers in property damage. You see one sentence in a book and think the thing needs to be fucking burned!"

That curse came as a surprise - a sudden show of fury in what had been a calm, collected façade. And through that little crack, it seems emotion will continue to spill through, as there's a twitch in her brow and real anger in her voice. She paces, as if to simply channel this anger. In all but a second, she's transformed into a little ball of heat that repels the frost of Cyran's stare.

"'What drives me'?! What drives me is people like you, striking out without knowing a damned thing, thinking that a bit of skill with a blade means that you've got what it takes to decide how things should be run. The Mesa expedition was supposed to help everyone. Territory-trade could've been the foundation of treaties between the elves - treaties of the peace that people like you claim to fight for!" There's a shimmer there, in her eye. It doesn't take magic to know that this is real hatred. "Were working conditions poor? Yeah, they were shit. In case you haven't noticed, we aren't exactly living in an era of luxury. And if some people need to be overworked to preserve the peace of an entire kingdom, then fine. That's the sort of sacrifice that people like you don't know how to make."

Her voice, rife with the heat of anger, fills the hold, bouncing between the crate-towers and bellowing with such force that the glass bottles almost keen. Her words are... worrying, in many ways. And not one of them was a lie: a fact of which it's difficult to tell whether it worsens or lessens the disturbance. But one thing is certain: this woman is not the cold, heartless machine that the stories had painted her as. No; beneath the rime is a swirling blaze.

But is flame all that lies within? Even in the reflection of her ice-blue eyes, memories of that evening in Bleakfort can be glimpsed. How she lazed in the water, how the steam rose around an expression of bliss. And, though its memory has long since faded from her own muscles, they haven't from Cyran's mind: she smiled, on that night. And that wasn't a lie.

But neither is this ire. She stops with a stamp of her foot, like a soldier halting in march, and glares with the regal bearing of an ancient lord.

"You want to know what I want? I want to make Charon a better place, just like you do. The only difference is that I know how." Suddenly, viscerally, she raises her sleeve to reveal that little bracelet. Its beads tremble at the force. "And this? Yeah, it was a fucking gift - a gift from someone who didn't even know me. We hardly even spoke. She just caught a glimpse of me and decided to leave it behind. She didn't really give a shit. And neither do I^[1]."

There it is. It took a bit for it to return, but that same little inkling reemerges. What she said last was a lie, but of the same sort as before. She isn't lying to Cyran. It's herself she's trying to convince. And it's almost working.

Then again, maybe magic wasn't necessary to discern this lie. While her every word was indiscernible from truth, one thing remained consistent: she never once uncrossed her arms. She kept them tucked close to her chest, through it all.

And now she's just standing there, with her face contorted into a hateful glower. Her breathing is hastened, and her heart can be heard from even here. What next?

---

1. Smooth Talking

It seemed his question was all it took to unleash the floodgates, petulance disguised as righteous anger. Even as she looked up at him, arms crossed and drawn in on herself, her harsh tone did more than enough to talk down to Cyran, each word building in a crescendo of delusional truth until it was punctuated with one last harsh lie. Her lecture lapsed into silence, leaving Veliky to glower at him, demanding. Waiting. Perhaps she expected him to meet her energy, to lash out in retaliation, to meet her provocation that burned with the passion of the executioner’s pyre with the cold steel of the guillotine. She wanted him to condemn her the way she had him.

But Cyran was far too old to rise to the challenge and lose his cool.

Her words, though spoken with pointed venom, weren’t entirely inaccurate, he supposed. The title of vigilante was an ill-fitting suit on a contract killer, one that did not flatter him. He never pretended to be what he was not - taking care of himself and those closest to him came first, with no room for altruism or good deeds. It was awfully hypocritical for him to speak of lofty ideals of Justice when he was merely the weapon used to carry out heinous acts behind closed doors. But then again… he hadn’t expected her to spout such ideals, either.

The utilitarian approach to progress, hm?

Cyran’s brows furrowed. As worrying as her words were, he could feel the conviction in them. Belief that she stood above all others on a throne of twisted steel - that Veliky alone could wield Justice with an iron fist and forge peace amongst the elves with trading centers and financial unions, no matter how many common lives it would take to achieve her goals. Her ambition, in a strange sort of way, reminded him of Zarius. The two couldn’t have been from more different worlds, but now more than ever, Cyran feared that the fire that drove her would only burn her up in the end. Wax wings could only bring one so close to the sun before they, too, melted.

“Peace between elves is a foreign concept.” He muttered after a long moment’s pause. “And grudges run too deep-seated for there to ever be true unity. You remember what happened at the Black Harvest Ball, yes?” That had been where they first met, technically, though he doubted that Veliky remembered. “I admire your drive. Truly, I do.”

He remembered getting to know her better in the warm respite of Bleakfort’s hot springs. Seeing her relaxed… the self-imposed weight of the world off her shoulders, if only for a brief second, before leaving to deal with yet another crisis.

He remembered enjoying her company.

Cyran sighed, shifting once more - with a flick of his wrist the knife disappeared. He had disarmed himself, for now, a show of good faith that would probably go unrecognized by the woman who had no idea how close the blade had come within striking distance. It would offer her no comfort.

And yet, it felt like he’d already made his decision.

Cyran took another step forward, but to Veliky’s own surprise, rather than with the cool anger that had marred his expression only moments ago, he only looked tired now.

He smiled at her.

“I think you misunderstand me. My interests merely lie in making sure that the common people are not harmed by the actions of those in power. I’m sure you know what happens when you use up all your resources.” Spoken like a warning - for her own sake, this time.

“And the people are of the opinion that you can easily be replaced by any other businesswoman.” Just as easily as any other cog in one of her machines. Cyran had initially believed them. But now even that was beginning to waver.

“You say you want to make a difference? I believe you. You care about people. You kept that bracelet,” Something that supposedly meant nothing to her, “And you gave Astrid a house. I believe you are good, Veliky. But I hope you can be better.”

For a moment, it seemed that his words would only raise her anger to a boil. The muscles in her reddening face tensed, and she opened her mouth to speak, albeit through clenched teeth.

...But she wouldn't. The words caught in her throat, and she was left speechless as realization crept beneath her skin. Indeed, she'd been caught in a lie. But the thinly-veiled dread was not like a charlatan caught in their scam, but more akin to a philosopher whose ideals had just been dealt a scathing critique. She was earnestly disturbed; for the first time, she averted her eyes from the intruder before her, now scouring her own thoughts for some answer.

Yes, she had kept the bracelet, hadn't she?

Cyran hadn’t expected, of all things, her silence. It felt odd to be on the receiving end of her thoughtfulness rather than her ire, as if she were truly considering his words. It was difficult to tell. Miss Veliky obviously worked hard to keep her emotions close to her chest, but they were there. Others had seen them. Cyran himself had seen them, though she tried her damnedest to prevent such a thing.

The only one who was blind to them was Veliky herself.

“You obviously have people out there who love you a great deal… they know you can truly do good for Charon, too, without endangering the people you’ve sworn to help. Don’t let them down.”

At those simple words, her eyes dart back to his face, his smile. The jerk of her head is so sudden, it's almost as if they'd startled her. That confusion, that doubt, remains in her eyes. Part of the anger does, too. She's unsettled. It's as if she's in battle, blood pumping and boiling as she struggles to maintain focus amidst the mayhem... the fear. She's losing ground. At least, she believes that she is.

Suddenly, as if to free herself from some delusion, she shakes her head and looks down with eyes closed tight. Her brow is furrowed to the point of pain, displaying a frustration beyond what any such cherubic features should be forced to endure. Silence - silence and seething.

Don't let them down. The words swirl in her thoughts that were already a maelstrom. Don't let them down. It multiplies. Little voices join the whispered chorus, one by one and then two by two. It's so loud. Don't let them down. Don't let them down. Don't let them down. Don't let them down. Don't let them down. Don't let them down. Don't let them down.

She raises her head and opens her eyes.

"They're wrong." Her answer comes flat and lifeless. She meets the Cyran's gaze, with the anger having faded from her eyes even as it remains in her skin. Her voice is quieter than before. "...If they think that I'm replaceable, they don't know a damn thing."

Little muscles twitch in her face: by her nostrils, under her eyes, at the corner of her lips, in her neck. A perfect façade, yet battling for unity with itself in the silent hold.

"We've had kings. The elves. Got their power by claiming divine heritage. We have the gods, who were just..." Looking to the side, she lets in a sharp breath. "just born with what they have. We have all these... fucking monsters, dominating because it's just what they are. But me?"

Into Cyran's eyes, she stares through the warmth, through the cold, through it all.

"I got here because I made the right decisions. I played smart. I played hard. And I won at every turn. Even when I lost, I gained because I knew how to lose right. You think someone could replace me?"

Her head shakes, swiftly and shallowly. She mouths a 'no' that doesn't quite find voice.

"I earned this. I deserve it."

...

Those were lies. Those last two. And not the sort from before, of which she had convinced herself. These were blatant. As much a mask as her own crumbling visage. Not an ounce of her believed them to be true.

Oh.

Oh, no.

In all his careful planning and preparation for this infiltration, Cyran had never expected this to happen. Never meant to find Mistress Veliky and find that the woman behind everything clung to a facade of greatness, her desire to build her vision of Charon. The insecurities she shoved down with a fervent desperation until they grew so mounting that not even she could believe the words coming out of her mouth.

I earned this.

Lie.

I deserve this.

Lie.

Not even Cyran’s keen sense for sifting through truths and falsehoods was needed to tell that Veliky didn’t even believe the words she clung to. What was he meant to do? He could no longer kill her as he’d set out to. How could he, when he looked into her eyes and saw the ice in her eyes cracking until she could no longer contain it all, and this act all began to fall apart at the seams?

But what was he supposed to do? If he stayed his blade here, others would send more assassins. Veliky was not replaceable, but Cyran was. He was simply another nameless, faceless assassin in a long line of killers, others who would not be so sympathetic. They would not see the goodness in Veliky and understand that there was something worth saving there. She was not entirely innocent, but no one was wholly good or evil. And whether her dreams were a delusion or not, she at least deserved the chance to try.

He closed his eyes, resigned.

“Okay.” He muttered, voice soft, but sure. “Don’t worry, Miss Veliky. I know you are not replaceable. I…” He pursed his lips. Deliberated what he should say, when the words felt shallow and insincere. It was not his place to attempt comfort when he was the one who had come here and forced such ugly feelings to the surface in the first place. “I think you can accomplish what you set out to do.” She just needed some… help, was all.

Perhaps Cyran could provide that.

He reached into his bag, pulling out a small, white cloak. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d prepared this - he had been so certain the night would end in blood that making something for Veliky felt ridiculous at the time. But now, he was glad he had. If he could not kill Veliky, and he was unsure of what the future held for her, then the least he could do was watch over her and prevent others from harming her, in turn.

“Here.” He placed the folded-up white cloth on the top of a nearby crate, the olive branch extended. “I’ve heard what I needed to from you. You’ve given me much to think about. In return, I leave you this.” He readjusted the fabric so that the symbol emblazoned in gold showed. The symbol of the Specter. By now he was well-known enough that his title and symbol were recognized through Charon, a warning sign for other assassins or criminals that dared get too close.

One that declared, Mine. Stay away.

It was up to Veliky if she accepted it or not.

“Just remember one thing. You are more than what you give to Charon. You do not bear the fate of the realm on your shoulders alone.” He hesitated. “I only ask you consider what I’ve said here today, too.”

He wasn’t sure if he would. Veliky was so firm in her convictions that Cyran’s words may as well have been striking an impenetrable fortress. But for some reason, something was telling him that he’d at the very least given her something to think about.

“I hope we’ll meet again. Perhaps next time, under better circumstances.” And he’d have the chance to get to know her better - simply as Veliky, not the CEO of PlatinumCorp. Until then, he could only leave her with his protection, and hope that would be enough. Those words held a finality to them, punctuated only with the sound of his boots against creaking wood as he turned and stepped away from the light of the pale-blue lantern, back in the darkness, where he belonged.

Veliky would not be able to follow him. Any bots sent in pursuit of him would only discover that he was already long gone, somewhere over the Luna Sea.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t erased her memory of the event, either. The Specter never let a target live, nor did he leave any trace of himself behind. And yet, perhaps a small part of Cyran wanted her to remember him. Time would tell if that had been a mistake - whether he’d earned Veliky’s hatred or not.

He would accept her judgement either way.