IFS ZEPHYR MIRACLE! SURVIVORS TELLS ALL!
Half-Orc Walks Away from Fiery Death!
Greetings, fellow Tarantians! It is I, Victor Wright, your faithful and vigilant editor, bringing you an exclusive story that only a paper of this breadth and quality could possibly do! Just yesterday, our humble offices were visited by none other than the sole survivor of the IFS Zephyr blimp tragedy (please see photograph, pg 2), and he deigned to share his account of the final minutes of that fateful voyage with me, which I now share with you! Be warned! This story is not for the faint of heart! 'Tis a tale so real and frightening, that I recommend it only to those with the most iron-like will and constitutions!
Upon questioning, the gentleman -- one Rayburn Cog, a half-orc who has conspired through great diligence and effort to attain a nearly human-like grace and intellect despite his base and polluted roots -- had this to say about his harrowing experience: "Well, me hear big boom! It shake whole flying-ship-boat! Me much scare! Me no see nothing! No nothing outside! No nothing in cabin! I hear sound! Rat tat tat tat tat! Very scary! It sound like gunz! Me go and hide and me hear vrrrroom! Noise! Like big engine! But there are two! They small! Very scary!"
As impossible as it sounds, it seems the Zephyr had been attacked by some other sort of flying craft! Upon landing, our hapless half-orc stumbled upon frightful evidence that the flying craft that had attacked them had been piloted by villainous Half-Ogres bearing strange symbols and marks. "Me find crash machine! It on fire, but me find medallion! Me then get attack many time as me head to home in Tarant, best city in world for orcs for me find work here! But me sad. No other nice people on blimp alive. Very sad."
So, dear friends of the city! What are we to make of this? What were these strange craft and these mysterious assassins? Why did they attack such a noble craft as the Zephyr? Flying bandits? Or something even more dark and insidious? Are we not safe even in our fair skies? We at the Tarantian urge you to contact your Senators and Representatives in the Industrial council and urge them to be Ever Watchful of the Enemies beyond the boarders of our marvelous city and our stupendous kingdom! For if these strange assassins and their flying machines ever come around here I, Victor Wright, am positive that we will give them a stiff Tarantian hello with our fists and our righteous anger!
As for our hapless, benighted half-orc? What will happen for Mr. Cog? Well, I suggest he find work in one of our many factories, where his kind can attain some service to their betters!
I closed the paper and pursed my lips. Virginia and Sally were both craning over my shoulders to read, while 'Magnus' was leaning around my side, taking what advantage of her smaller stature that she could. I casually folded the paper up, then walked over to the nearest rubbish bin that had not been vandalized by some ruffians -- as we were still in the poorer end of Tarant's warehouse district. I had spent the evening and morning with Esmeralda and emerged to find that my companions had made themselves as comfortable as they could within her home. Some awkward conversation over breakfast had led to us setting out with the sun still only barely peeking over the edges of the narrow roofs that dominated the Tarantian warehouse district.
And now we had seen what my interview with the Tarantian had wrought.
"Well, uh... "Virginia rubbed her shoulder. "At least he wasn't calling for war with Arland?"
"Quite right, old girl," I said, adjusting my tie to ensure it laid properly against my neck.
Then I promptly vandalized the rubbish bin.
Once I was finished, I stepped away from the dented metal bin, adjusted the collar of my suit jacket, brushed dust from my shoulders, sighed, and said: "Come. We have an address to investigate."
Said address being provided by a spiritual medium left me feeling somewhat uncertain, even if Esmeralda clearly had some kind of precognitive powers and magickal ability. And so, I made sure to hand my revolver to 'Magnus' while my own hands gripped by trusty repeating rifle as we came to the address provided: 57 Mulligan Bone Avenue. This entire street was nearly empty, with only a few mangy dogs laying about near the porch of an apartment building that was only occupied by the rats. It seemed the women of this neighborhood had gone off to work as servants, while the men were going to work in factories. The actual building numbered 57 was the smallest on the street -- a squat house that looked as if it was planned to be renovated into another apartment soon.
"Lets try talking," I said to my friends, then opened the door to find that the interior of the building was sparse and barren, save for a single large crate, and a single large half-ogre leaning against said crate, glaring about himself sullenly. I lifted my hand. "Ho, good ogre," I said, smiling slightly. "I don't suppose you know anything about a paint-"
The half-ogre, it seemed, knew quite a lot about a painting, for he immediately picked a cudgel from the ground and sprinted towards me. 'Magnus' and I laid down a remarkable amount of shot in the next three or so seconds. Most of them struck the half-ogre square in the chest, but it was the last fired by 'Magnus' up through the half-ogre's jaw and into their brain. The bullet didn't quite manage to blow through the skull, and so instead, it ricocheted around inside of the head. The end result was that the half-ogre hit the ground and skidded forward to come to a rest near my boots.
"Nice shot, Magnus," I said, grinning slightly at the young dwarfess. She looked a bit shocked herself.
"Well...yes," she said, twirling the revolver on her finger, then offering it to me. I holstered it, strode forward, then swept back the front of the crate to reveal the stolen painting. 'Magnus', Sally, Virginia and I all stood before the painting, taking a moment to admire it. Though admire might not quite be the right term. The image of the painting was that of a red robed figure striding across what at first appeared to be a silvery river. But the water was not in fact water. Nor was it metal. IT was interlocking, ghostly figures. They flowed together in some places, but they were clearly humanoid. They looked up beseechingly while the red robed figure strode forward. His face was concealed by a dark hood, and the painter had added a trick that made the hood seem deeper and darker than it could have been. It should have looked amateurish, like an artist trying to avoid needing to paint facial features. Instead, the effect was quite unsettling.
This figure was walking towards a silvery elven woman, who was dressed in a diaphanous gown that rippled in an unseen, possibly magick wind. Her face was turned aside, and a veil of black satin was draped over her eyes. She stood on the far side of the river of spectral forms and looked as if she was turning away from the red robed figure. In disgust? In horror? No. The painter had cast her features with the tormented expression of one suffering the greatest heartbreak.
We stood, looking at the painting. In the dimness of 57 Mulligan Bone Avenue, with the gunsmoke still in the air, mixing with the stink of freshly spilled blood, the painting took on an even more dark and ominous air. Sally broke the sound with a lugubrious snort followed by her plugging one nostril and blowing the other out on the floor.
"So, which --
hic-
iz Kerghan?" Sally asked. "And which is, uh, Persephone?"
"Well, as Persephone is a feminine name," I said. "I would wager that she's not the one in the red robes."
"She could-
hic --
be!" Sally said, then thumped her thick, gray knuckles on her own expansive chest. "I got a boy's name!"
"Sally?" Virginia asked. And with that, the eerie, somber mood of the portrait was shattered.
The Garringsburg residence was a fine mansion located rather near to an even finer mansion at the end of the road. Rapping on their front door while Sally held the painting underneath her arm, I glanced at Virginia, who smiled at me slightly. She seemed to be fairly confident in me. I sighed, then adjusted my shirt, then looked back at the door. The door opened and a maidservant opened it. She blinked, seeing two rather well dressed strangers on the front porch. I smiled at her and said: "Hello. May you tell Mrs. Garringsburg that we have retrieved her painting?" I grinned a bit wider. "Tell her it was found by one Rayburn Cog."
