EPISODE 7: AN END TO ENDINGS

THE NETH

​

We hear DOGGED's dying breath once more; rising in pain, as faintly MOREL shouts the order to fire-

​

-it's almost like he's killing her himself.

​

The horrible sound rises, and rises-

 

TIMMER’S TENT, INT, DAY

 

-which then becomes TIMMER, sitting bolt upright as they wake from a horrible dream. 

 

TIMMER:

(Choking in horror, gasping it out)

Dogged-

 

Their breathing subsides. They remember where they are.

 

They sigh, then roll out of bed.

 

TIMMER pads across the tent floor to their desk, settles, and opens up a book.

​

ARKHETARIAS:

(From the entry)

Good morning, Timmer.

 

TIMMER almost falls off their stool with a gasp.

 

TIMMER:

(Trying to regain their composure)

Good…good morning, Fann Arkhetarias.

(Pause)

What are you, um…what are you doing in my tent?

 

ARKHETARIAS watches them for a moment.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

It’s already a breath past the second dawn. The column is drawn up and almost ready to depart. Capo Celis has taken care of everything. 

(Perhaps a little pointedly)

We’re only waiting for you.

 

TIMMER:

(Guiltily)

I was, ah - just packing up myself.

 

Timmer gets to their feet and begin hurriedly packing, shoving books into their trunk.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Naturally. 

 

Am I disturbing you if I stay?

 

TIMMER:

Er - no. No, of course not. 

(Hopefully)

Always grateful for a second pair of hands.

 

ARKHETARIAS instead sits on the chest, clearing her throat as she does so.

 

TIMMER:

(Distractedly)

Uh, you shouldn’t sit on the -

(Explaining themselves)

- there’s a dead body in the yearningfrost trunk.

 

ARKHETARIAS does not move. 

 

TIMMER:

Bothers some people?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Unbothered)

Who was he? 

 

TIMMER:

(Distractedly)

Uh, Finick. Soldier with the company, a wayman. Died after a fight in a drown a few days back. 

 

He gave permission for his body to be kept and used, to help others in the company who might - might need it in time.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Very noble.

 

TIMMER:

Yes. Yes, he was a good man.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Bluntly but calmly)

Would you have done the same to your sister?

 

Used her body, for the sake of the company?

 

This is a pressing question, and a complicated one. TIMMER continues to pack.

 

TIMMER:

Ah-

 

Well, I never got the chance to ask her. And the Big Man knows where Fader’s…

(Taking a breath)

I don’t know. Honestly. I don’t know how easy it would have been for me, but then in my profession you need to be even-handed. Flesh is just flesh, bodies are bodies.

(Reflecting on it)

She’d have insisted, probably. It’s just what she’s like, but Fader always-

(With a wince of emotion)

I - listen, I’d rather talk about something else. If that’s all right with you.

 

Silence for a moment.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Smoothly changing the subject)

So Finick. How are you going to use him?

 

TIMMER pauses and considers the question before returning to packing.

 

TIMMER:

That depends. Anything can happen in our line of work. I don’t have a complete set of flesh-psalters, so I’m limited in what I can accomplish.

 

Someone might lose a limb, he’ll come in useful for that. Internal organ replacement, that’s a lot harder, um. I don’t have the harmonies and I don’t have the tools for that. Skin grafts. Eyes are interesting, because eyes have a habit of seeing the wrong thing-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Could he read?

 

TIMMER:

I’m honestly not sure.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

If he could read, you might consider converting his head into a dictaseph. 

(Pitching the idea)

You’re working with your hands, you’re busy - you simply put the book in front of him and tell him, “Finick, read me the passage upon such-and-such, please. Finick, remind me what Trosser says about heart valves.” They replace his nose with a long steel needle, and he turns the pages himself.

(A little pointedly)

Less clutter. Fewer books to pack.

 

I’ve seen many such instances in Catalfac. A clever invention.

 

TIMMER:

Yes, well, I’m not sure how my fader would feel about that.

(Trying to end the conversation)

Excuse me.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

If it helps you save the lives of his men, why should your fader not be pleased with you?

 

Would Dogged have supported you in this decision?

 

TIMMER, still packing, is starting to feel a little pressed and agitated.

 

TIMMER:

Look, do you always talk like this?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Staring back)

Like what?

 

TIMMER:

(Weakly)

A lot of very searching questions. First thing in the morning.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I’m sorry. Scorrans are known for being direct. We’re a plain-spoken people.

 

TIMMER:

Yes, I’d heard that. 

(With finality)

Well, I should really finish packing.

 

ARKHETARIAS is not moving, however.

 

TIMMER:

…what?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(A little pressing)

You sound agitated. I think you should talk about your sister. 

 

TIMMER:

(Really starting to hate this conversation)

That’s really not- no, I don’t think so.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Talk about your fader, then.

 

TIMMER:

(Evasively)

Oh. If I start on him, I’ll never stop. 

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I thought it was customary in Cyshane, before the signing of a chance, for both parties to reveal themselves to one another.

 

TIMMER:

(A little vulnerable in their robe and misinterpreting)

To-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

To talk of ourselves, in honesty and with care. Is this not the custom?

 

TIMMER:

(Still packing)

It is. We’ve already signed the chance, though.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Well, then there’s no time to lose.

 

TIMMER:

Later, perhaps. Excuse me.

 

ARKHETARIAS doesn’t move. She’s obstinately keen on getting TIMMER to open up.

 

TIMMER:

(Meaning ‘...so please leave)

I’m just going to get dressed. If you don’t mind.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

There’s no problem. Scorrans don’t find living bodies offensive.

 

TIMMER:

Yes. Well…excuse me.

 

TIMMER ducks behind the divider to dress, pulling a screen door across.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Calling out)

Have you always been such a cunning avoidant, I wonder?

 

You seem already intent on bustling past your grief towards the next task, and then the next.

(Silence)

You don’t want to answer me?

 

TIMMER:

(Getting dressed)

You said we were in a hurry to depart. I’m hurrying.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I said everyone was waiting. 

 

Let them wait. They’re your men, aren’t they? They can wait all day.

 

TIMMER:

(Still dressing)

Your Long King won’t like that.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

He’s waited longer than anyone. 

 

TIMMER:

Yes, but we need to be on the road, and we need to find a safe berth by first dusk. Which means there’s no time for, for idle chatter-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(More firmly)

There will never be enough time, not before the Big Man falls cold and still amongst the stars.

 

You are furious at your fader, Timmer. And who could blame you?

 

You have lost your sister and her body has been stolen from you-

 

TIMMER:

(Suddenly, harshly)

Stop. Just - please stop.

 

ARKHETARIAS stops.

 

TIMMER:

(Regaining control, attempting unconvincingly to sound pragmatic)

Listen. Um. Fann Arkhetarias.

 

There’s really no need for you to be so concerned about how I’m feeling. Dogged and Fader and I have always lived a particular kind of life, an errant existence, one founded on chance and risk and loss.

 

Death is just another working part of that life, and a common part at that. We keep up the pace when we lose somebody, yes - whoever they are. We have to.

 

Survival is pragmatic, it needs to be pragmatic, and the road goes on. 

(Perhaps trying to be a little insulting)

Someone like you…someone like you probably doesn’t have any notion of that.

 

ARKHETARIAS doesn’t answer that.

 

TIMMER:

(Trying to be offhand and bright)

And besides. Just look at your employer. With the right funds and the right tools, you can always bring back the people you love.

 

No more endings, an end to endings. The Kindly Ancestors have put paid to grief, once and for all.

 

TIMMER slips into their boots and stands upright with a grunt.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Bully for them. 

 

So your sister’s death is not so much death at all as a minor inconvenience, that’s what you’re saying. One that can be overcome once you have the funds and once you have her body.

 

TIMMER:

I wouldn’t put it quite like-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

When will that be?

 

TIMMER has had enough. They slide the screen door back.

 

TIMMER:

(Very coldly indeed)

You’ll have to excuse me, Fann Arkhetarias. The column is waiting for me.

 

TENT, EXT, DAY

 

ARKHETARIAS follows TIMMER out into camp. Nobody is waiting for TIMMER; everyone is getting on with their own business. A wagon passes by.

 

TIMMER:

(Calling out, trying to sound commanding)

Jittering! Jittering, can we get a couple of the men to help with my trunk, please?

 

JITTERING does not seem to hear.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Calling after TIMMER)

Bury a dark thought to be rid of it and it will always come crawling back out of its grave to find you.

 

Isn’t that the great lesson of your nation, Timmer?

 

TIMMER stops. Pauses for a long moment.

 

And then turns and gets up into ARKHETARIAS’ face. They’re about as furious as TIMMER can get, which isn’t very intimidating.

 

TIMMER:

Listen, ahm…did your Long King ask you to come and put my feet to the fire like this?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I don’t think I understand.

​

TIMMER:

Snoop around my tent while I slept? Hm? Am I being tested?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

That’s not the case, I can assure you-

 

TIMMER:

Because I’m sure to you, Fann Arkhetarias, my family seems very comical. Absurd creatures, really. Rustic clowns.

 

Squabbling and flailing, brawling and bickering, never in control of anything and least of all ourselves. We’re not…poised and courtly. We don’t dress well and we don’t talk well, either-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Laughing, like this was a chat-up line)

You think I talk well?

 

TIMMER:

(Ignoring that)

And so I understand you’re needling at me, you’re picking at the wound, trying to provoke me.

 

Provoke some…some kind of reaction as if I simply must acknowledge to you now that my fader is mad and my sister is dead. 

 

Do you think I’m half-a-wheeze from madness myself? Are you - are you prodding and picking at me because you want to see if I’ll rip off my clothes, go skipping out into the storm, and then you’ll be lacking a catigern and both of his children?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I’m only trying to help you.

 

TIMMER reacts to this for a second - and then draws themselves up.

 

TIMMER:

Well, you’re not. You’re not helping me, you’re vexing me. Do you understand? 

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Vexing?

 

TIMMER:

Yes. You’re vexing me, and I want you to leave me alone. All right?

 

We might softly hear approaching armoured footsteps.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Calmly, without changing tone)

The Long King is about to clap his hand on your shoulder.

 

TIMMER:

(Not taking in the words)

What?

 

A firm armoured hand lands on TIMMER’s shoulder from behind. They flinch and gasp.

 

LONG KING:

Wesap hala.

 

TIMMER: 

(Starting)

Man alive!

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Calmly)

Not at all. Cadog Borr, Long King of Old Temaine, greets you, Catigern-interim Timmer Morel.

(With calm urgency, almost out of the corner of her mouth)

Don’t bow to him - you’re a soldier. Salute him, the old Shanic way. One wrist locked over the other, up to your chest and down to the ground.

 

TIMMER:

(Out of the corner of the mouth)

In modern times that has some negative connotations with, uh-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Do it anyway.

 

TIMMER salutes.

 

TIMMER:

(Saluting the LONG KING, a little awkwardly and slowly)

Good morning, Highness. I hope you’re happy with what you’ve seen so far today. The company is eager to begin the patewards journey.

 

Silence for a moment. ARKHETARIAS doesn't bother translating this flimflam.

 

LONG KING:

(To ARKHETARIAS)

Arkhetarias. Sprecac ascunge.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(To TIMMER)

The Long King wishes to ask - how should you be known to him?

(Pause)

I have told him this is a modern greeting, popular amongst the young. 

 

TIMMER does a double take.

 

TIMMER:

Uh. As Timmer Morel, and as neither wayman nor woman.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(To the LONG KING)

Timmer Morel axit, ec unbunde.

 

LONG KING:

Ah. Behabbe.

(I understand.)

Eade-mor pereppe ‘woman’.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(To the LONG KING)

Eade-nact hehpre treowth. 

 

LONG KING:

(Thoughtfully)

Beshabbe, beshabbe.

 

TIMMER:

What was that part?

 

ARKHETARIAS hesitates for a second.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

He said ‘woman is easier, surely?’

(Pause)

I told him that for many living today, it is not a question of ease but honesty.

 

He is pretending to understand.

 

TIMMER:

(Amused)

Tell him he’s already doing better than my fader.

 

ARKHETARIAS chuckles back. 

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(To the LONG KING)

Lacnestre wundret smeagung ‘modern’-ca.

(The doctor marvels at your modern thinking.)

(To TIMMER)

Is there an answer you would have preferred me to give?

 

TIMMER:

(With a little dry self-deprecation)

I think I’d have said that nothing’s ever come to me particularly easy.

 

ARKHETARIAS smiles softly.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

How could it, when you are half-a-wheeze at all times from ripping off your clothes and skipping out into the storm?

(To the LONG KING)

Lacnestre panshiget par gretingwurden arfaestan.

​

LONG KING:

Sprecac e ‘balloon’.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Willa ec acumendlicnesse.

(To TIMMER)

The Long King wishes to know if you will be taking him up on his invitation this morning.

 

TIMMER:

I, ah - What invitation is that?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Smoothly)

The reason I came to see you in your tent, of course.

 

The Long King wishes to ride with the column today, to inspect his honour guard and for the pleasure of time spent again amongst fellow soldiers.

 

I will be riding overhead in the King’s corpse-balloon with two of your company scouts, looking for tonight’s safe berth. The Long King wished me to invite you to accompany me onboard as his honoured guest.

(Poking fun)

But since I have been so vexing this morning, I shall tell him-

 

TIMMER:

(Soft, annoyed)

Stop it. Of course I want to ride in the fucking balloon.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Amused)

Of course you do.

(To the Long King)

Lacnestre likhit gese.

 

The LONG KING claps a hand on TIMMER’s shoulder.

 

LONG KING:

‘Good!’ Feorweg sicor.

 

He turns and stomps away, chuckling under his breath.

 

TIMMER:

(Quietly)

Is the company going to be safe with him, do you think?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Drily)

All the safer for lacking a shared language. He has expressed an interest in firing one of your rifles. Let us hope the casualties can be kept to a minimum.

 

The balloon is tethered on the other side of the hill. Shall we go?

 

TIMMER turns to go.

 

TIMMER:

(Having a final thought)

Which scouts did you choose, by the way?

 

FOREST, EXT, DAY

 

Hard cut to INKBLOT, FOAL, ARKHETARIAS and TIMMER, all of whom are riding through the woods as the newly-formed scouting party. INKBLOT is happily chattering away.

 

INKBLOT:

-truly can’t express my gratitude at the opportunity. My goodness me, when we were in such dire straits after the last chance, I hardly thought we should find ourselves today marching in the employ of ancient royalty, flying in corpse-gas balloons, attending history’s greatest wedding! Things are looking up and swell for the company at last, and no mistake.

(Kindly and condescendingly)

Foal, my dear young friend, we shall have to very rapidly educate you in matters of courtly etiquette, and the proper manners.

 

FOAL:

(Patiently putting up with it)

Is that right, Inkblot?

 

INKBLOT:

Fear not, Foal, fear not. I shall make of you a radiant guest, a witty debutante, and a master diplomat.

 

FOAL:

Grateful for the help, Blot.

 

INKBLOT:

(Musing to himself)

I suppose the most interesting question is whether we should understand Lady Arkhetarias primarily as a Scorran or as an effective extension of her master. Place or time?

 

Scorrans are very courtly, that’s well known. Obsessed with ritual, games within games. Old Shanic Kings - well, there’s a great deal of history still to be uncovered about those ancient empires in their variety, but as I understand it, for them respect was demonstrated through martial display, shows of strength.

 

FOAL:

(Deadpan)

So I can’t pick my nose in front of ‘em either way.

 

Silence.

 

INKBLOT:

(Indignant)

Pick…pick your-

 

FOAL:

Noisy farting off the table too, probably.

 

INKBLOT:

(Realising he’s being mocked)

An immaturity that’s unworthy of you, I think, Foal.

 

FOAL:

(Mock-innocently)

Can I shit on the floor in front of ‘em, though, Blot? Please, teach me the ways of the court. Educate me. Make a proper gentleman out of this rough cloth. Is it uncouth to poo?

 

INKBLOT:

That’s enough, that’s enough. I’m sorry I tried to help-

 

Ahead, TIMMER and ARKHETARIAS are riding in silence.

 

TIMMER clears their throat. They’re trying to make polite amends for this morning. They are, alas, rizzless.

 

TIMMER:

Fann Arkhetarias.

 

Your scent. It’s very…

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Yes?

 

TIMMER:

(Not finding the words)

Strong.

 

ARKHETARIAS is unoffended.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Scorrans favour strong aromatics. We like to spend our days in a daze of fog, listening to the beating heart of the world beneath our feet. We’re very decadent that way.

 

TIMMER:

(Politely)

You talk a lot about the nature of Scorrans.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Deadpan joking)

Yes, we’re a self-obsessed people. Forever commenting upon ourselves. Everyone knows that about Scorrans.

 

TIMMER has cottoned onto the performance that’s taking place here.

 

TIMMER:

It’s a kind of game for you, isn’t it? The way you talk?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Deadpan, amused)

Of course it is. Scorrans love games. Didn’t you know?

 

TIMMER audibly smiles. They ride on. 

 

…and then INKBLOT hurries on up and inserts himself into the conversation.

 

INKBLOT:

Hullo! Um, I just wanted to seize the moment - claim the grave, as it were - to say that I truly can’t thank you enough, Lady Arkhetarias, for the honour of your invitation. 

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Sharpshot Foal recommended you.

 

INKBLOT:

(Taken back for a moment, since he’s currently annoyed at FOAL)

Then I shall thank Foal as well. And his Endless Highness, the Long King! 

 

Ah, Lady Arkhetarias, while I certainly lack your gift for languages, I have been practicing the particular vernacular of Old Shanic that his Endless Highness speaks - it’s a little rough and pidgin, isn’t it? A time of intermingling and immigration, some Cysh influence beginning to creep its way into the language, carelessness over conjunctions and verb endings-

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Very calmly)

Half of it’s halfway to gibberish, much of it is the wrong word for the wrong occasion. His entire life is bound up in his speaking, you must remember. Disconnected child-talk and the halting mumbles of his final years. The half-remembered language of the invaders and the traders.

 

He is navigating a lifetime of perilous linguistic change.

 

INKBLOT:

(A little deflated)

Well, that makes it rather more difficult to communicate with him.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Infinitely.

 

INKBLOT:

(Getting back to the point)

Anyway. Well, if you’d be so inclined - I would be greatly honoured to interview his Highness for posterity. To make a published record of his comments, a kind of memoir of the years when he reigned and lived.

(A little needily)

This would not be for my own benefit and profit, but purely for history’s cause. His people’s stories are largely lost. Even his own legacy is reduced to, to a footnote in Sidaris’ Volumes of Abandonment-

 

FOAL, riding behind, attempts to distract INKBLOT to draw him back out of the conversation.

 

FOAL:

(Calling out)

Blot, you see that old tower on the hill? That’s Baruudi-built, isn’t it?

 

INKBLOT immediately takes the bait.

 

INKBLOT:

(Scoffing softly and contemptuously to TIMMER and ARKHETARIAS)

Baruudi? Not a clue, poor fool.

(Taking the bait and hurrying back, calling to FOAL)

That’s Proto-Meshic, Foal! You see the columns? Hard to miss, once you know what you’re looking for!

 

Now, a Baruudi tower, it’d be fungular in design, as if staring up at the Big Man’s head from below, casting his vast shadow over all the earth-

 

TIMMER and ARKHETARIAS ride on.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

He’s a curious one.

 

TIMMER:

He shouldn’t be here at all, really. He’s an innocent. He doesn’t belong amongst these people.

 

ARKHETARIAS watches them for a moment.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Do you belong here?

 

TIMMER almost stops in their tracks. Of course they don’t, now that DOGGED is gone.

 

From behind, INKBLOT calls out excitedly-

 

INKBLOT:

(Calling out)

Ah! Hooooie! I see the balloon! Timmer, do you see it?

 

BALLOON, EXT, DAY

 

We listen for a moment to the winds. 

 

-and then the Long King’s hot-air balloon hoves into view.

 

We can hear the corpses making up the balloon itself, horribly wheezing in harmony as they propel it. The roar of an engine-fire. It’s a bizarre bio-mechanical sound.

 

During this scene, the characters often raise their voices to be heard above the sound of the wind.

 

ARKHETARIAS and TIMMER are leaning over the edge together. INKBLOT is hanging around next to them.

 

INKBLOT:

(Yelling, a little nervously)

It’s really a, a miracle of invention, you know!

 

Necro-aeronautical engineering! What a marvel! And all it takes is twenty-odd corpses and a sufficient supply of water-mutter!

(With growing nervousness)

I’m going to join Foal on the perch! 

 

He departs.

 

TIMMER:

The faces make him nervous.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

They make me a little nervous too. Not you, though, doctor?

 

TIMMER:

Ah. They’re only bodies. Just like us, only creatively repurposed. Ritual engines. Action and reaction.

(Getting quietly into the flow of a deeply-felt argument)

Nature, now - nature is what makes me nervous. Nature ages and withers us. Flesh carcinogenises, teeth and nails drop out. Even the Big Man’s heart will some day pop.

 

Why should an unnatural change frighten us more, and is it even fair to call it unnatural?

 

We see dead bodies converted into mill-wheels and ambulatory sedans and instinctively, we feel repulsion. We seal flesh and bone away in wooden boxes and litter the hills with stone monuments and we call that right and proper. We infuse stone with yearning so it cracks, or sing a song to dead wood so it remembers it used to grow tall. 

 

So what is the taboo about bodies?

 

Shouldn’t we see it as a wonderful thing, to remain part of the clockwork of progress after we die? To become something more than just fertiliser? 

 

Isn’t that something we should aspire to?

(Losing faith a little)

That’s what I believe, anyway.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I’m glad to see you so passionate.

 

TIMMER:

But you don’t agree?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

Translation is the craft of quiet sceptics. We learn to hold everything at a distance.

 

TIMMER:

I had no idea you were such a cunning avoidant, Fann Arkhetarias.

 

Silence between them for a moment. Then FOAL whistles-

 

FOAL:

(Calling out)

Napewards ho!

 

ARKHETARIAS and TIMMER look down.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

What is that? A farm?

 

TIMMER:

The edge of an estate, it looks like. Beautiful wheat-fields.

(Pointing)

Do you see those? Reaper-engines. Uses every part of the body. The hands cut the wheat, the wheat falls into the dimbox mouths, they gnaw away the ears from the stalk. The legs drive them on.

 

Must be someone very wealthy living there.

 

ARKHETARIAS glances at TIMMER.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

You really do find it beautiful, don’t you?

 

TIMMER:

Yes, I really do. Don’t often get a chance to say it.

(Calling out)

Foal! What do you think of that estate for a company berth, then?

 

FOAL chews their lip and looks down over the rim of the basket. They’re a little uneasy.

 

FOAL:

(Calling back)

You’re the man in charge.

 

TIMMER:

Well, the man in charge is asking for your opinion! 

 

There’s a well in the courtyard. Outbuildings. High stone walls. What do you think?

 

FOAL considers.

 

FOAL:

High walls are good, unless you need to leave in a hurry.

 

The other thing you ought to note, Timmer, is this - no-one’s looked up at us from the fields. 

 

That’s nothing but dead labour below, dimboxes. Not even one breathing man to supervise ‘em.

 

TIMMER:

So what does that mean?

 

FOAL:

Could be it’s all necro-automatic and we find there’s no-one home to greet us. 

 

Could be we get a cold welcome from a cold lord who starts screaming at us in Middle Shanic because he thinks we’re invaders from five hundred years back.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

(Supportively, for TIMMER’s benefit.)

Thankfully you have an interpreter.

 

INKBLOT:

(Unhelpfully chiming in)

If the cold lord is speaking Middle Shanic, it’d be more like seven hundred years!

 

FOAL:

(Shrugging)

It’s your decision, Timmer. I’m just letting you know my thoughts.

 

TIMMER thinks for a moment.

 

TIMMER:

We’ve got plenty of light left, plenty of fuel. If we don’t receive a warm welcome, we move on. 

(Looking around for approval)

Right?

 

ARKHETARIAS:

I’ll take us into land.

(Yelling up to the corpse-balloon)

Hist! Ragnos aki!

 

A sudden hiss and change in the winds as the balloon begins to descend. Everything is suddenly a lot noisier.

 

INKBLOT:

(Yelling)

I don’t think I recognise that language!

 

ARKHETARIAS' reply is almost lost in the rising roar.

 

ARKHETARIAS:

It’s Scorran! 

​

​​​