Month: October 2015

The Lelina Horror, Part Two

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ADELLA (II)

The Ninth of Eighth Month, 280th Year of the Triumvirate

“Veronica!” Doctor Barnaby Joplin Oates says, greeting us at the door of the university. A wide smile comes over Doctor Trenum’s face. I’ve seen her smile on several occasions (she’s a very smiley person), but this one stands out to me.

“Doctor Oates, it’s been too long,” she says, and the two of them hug. I get the feeling that Doctor Oates and Doctor Trenum know each other. The hug goes on for a few beats longer than a hug between two old acquaintances normally would. When it ends, Veronica turns to me.

“Adella, this is Doctor Barnaby Oates. He’s an old teacher, friend, and mentor…really, more like a father. If it wasn’t for him, I doubt I ever would have finished my doctorate.”

“Oh, hush now, Veronica. I have every faith that you could have overcome any obstacle in your path. I just helped you do it faster.”

Doctor Trenum smiles again and Doctor Oates turns to me.

“You must be Adella Chatelaine.”

“Yes, Doctor. Pleased to meet you.”

We shake and he says, “I must say I am very pleased to have the interest of such a fine publication as the Gazette. Interest in historical pursuits has sadly fallen out of favor among the public in recent times, I’m afraid.”

“I assure you Doctor, that it hasn’t fallen out of favor with me.”

“Very good! Right. This way, please.” Doctor Oates gestures to the door. “I have some very exciting things to show the both of you.”

We follow Doctor Oates to the Archaeology Department, where several artifacts from Lelina are being kept. He goes over them one by one. Most are unremarkable; stone and clay works that are common to the area. There is one piece, however, that catches both Doctor Trenum’s and my attention.

A damaged device composed of a series of gears encased in a metal shell sits on a nearby table, contained in a metal case with a thick observation window on top. Doctor Oates informs us that it was taken from the actual Lelina site.

“We’ve never seen anything like it,” Oates says. “A piece of machinery not so very different from our own, only much older. About 5,000 years, based on our observations, which makes it contemporary with the site.”

“What’s with the case?” Doctor Trenum says, studying it. “Two inches of solid lead? Some sort of containment?”

“That’s something better experienced than explained,” Doctor Oates says. “Here, put your hand over the observation window.”

Doctor Trenum does so, but not for very long before she grimaces and pulls her hand away. I ask her what she felt.

“I can’t say,” she said. “It was fleeting…I’m already forgetting what it felt like, exactly. It was most unpleasant. Something less physical, more like an emotion, in the pit of my stomach and the back of my mind; a deep sorrow. Melancholy. Were I not a scientist, I would recommend staying away from it. But we have never found any answers by avoiding discomfort. Go ahead, Adella, if you wish.”

I stick my hand over the window. I don’t feel anything. I look at the Doctors, who observe me keenly, like some sort of experiment. I close my eyes, focusing on the cool metal box against my hand.

“Feel anything yet?” Doctor Trenum asks.

“No,” I say.

“You don’t feel something like the distant brush of cold fingers from across ageless aeons against the back of your neck?”

“What? No…”

That’s when I hear a snort. I open my eyes to see Doctor Trenum’s face glowing a bright red. My confusion sets her off into reels of laughter. Doctor Oates only smiles. I fear I have just been the victim of a prank.

“Ah, the old ‘Mysterious Doodad’ trick,” Doctor Trenum says in between fits of laughter. “Gets them every time, right Barnaby?”

I pull my hand away from the metal case, not sure how to react. The joke isn’t very funny, and quite frankly I am disappointed that Doctor Trenum would do something so adolescent in nature. I ask if there truly is a reason for the case, or if that is just part of the prank, as well.

“Oh, no,” says Doctor Oates. “The case is necessary. That thing in there was throwing off some sort of magnetic wave that completely screwed with our instrumentation. After it arrived, we had to re-wind all of the clocks in the university. A real chore, that was, and no mistake.”

I ask if there is anything else we should know about the artifact. He tells me that it is part of a larger item, still located at the Lelina site. A large device full of gears and pipes, that gives off the same magnetic waves, strong enough to throw off a compass from miles away. He theorizes this has something to do with tales of travelers getting lost in the area.

But that, he tells me, is not the biggest discovery at the site.

Doctor Oates walks over to a projector and asks Doctor Trenum to dim the lights. On the wall appears a photograph overlooking what I assume are the Lelina ruins. Doctor Oates pulls out a telescoping baton and points to a shadowy region on the map.

“This,” he says, “Is an entry way, sealed by an iron door. Five feet thick, and rusted shut.”

The only thing I see in the area he is pointing to are sepia toned shadows amongst more sepia toned shadows that vaguely form the shape of a structure. I just nod, expecting him to make his point in time.

“This door is water and air tight,” Oates continues. “So while the outside surface of the door is heavily rusted, it is likely anything located within the underground structure is largely intact.”

Doctor Trenum steps forward, and says, “Making this potentially the most complete example of Pre-Rift culture we have on record.”

“Precisely,” Doctor Oates says, collapsing his baton and sticking it in his pocket. “If we ever expect to have a complete understanding of civilization in the Newlands prior to the Alchemical Rift, or find the answers to the apparent connection to sites around the world, this is our best opportunity to date.”

“Too bad we cannot open it,” Doctor Trenum says. I ask for clarification on that point. While the door is quite thick, I do not see why it cannot be cut through with a torch.

“As Doctor Oates says, it is air tight,” Doctor Trenum says. “The second we open it up, we risk damaging any artifacts inside. If we keep it closed, we are in the dark. We open it up, we are still in the dark.”

“We are working on ways around that, of course,” Oates says, “But all of those ways are theoretical at the moment; we having nothing working. In the meantime, there are still plenty items of note at the site. Most important of which is the device this thing came off of.”

Oates indicates the box.

“I have prepared a kit for you and your team, Doctor Trenum,” he says. “Said team will meet you tomorrow, on the boat. They are a bright bunch, starving for the opportunity.”

One look at Doctor Trenum’s face is enough to show she is not thrilled, but she does not protest. She’s turned back to the picture, and is running her finger over the faint, grainy outline of some sort of symbol.

“What does the inscription say?” She asks.

Doctor Oates shakes his head. “I’ve no idea. The picture isn’t very good, and the locals who took the photograph made no note of it. They probably thought it was a graffiti.”

“I can just make out one symbol,” Doctor Trenum says. “It’s similar to symbols I’ve seen at sites in Pharassus.”

“Any idea what it means?” I ask.

“Not a clue,” Adella said. “It’s a dead language, with no sort of codex available to help us translate. It just looks familiar, is all.”

I crane my head and squint my eyes. “Sort of looks like a couple of snakes, one white, one black, and the white one is eating the black one’s tail.”

The two doctors look at each other, then up at the picture. They shoulder me out of the way.

“Hmmm,” Doctor Oates says. “Yes, two snakes, one eating the other?”

“Possibly,” Doctor Trenum replies. “Or maybe, one snake shedding its skin? A symbol for change?”

“Rebirth?”

“Yes…rebirth after a sort of death, the sloughing of dead skin.”

They continue on in this manner for quite some time, mumbling back and forth and exchanging theories. I’m starting to feel abandoned when Doctor Trenum backs away from the picture.

“I suppose we’ll find out more once I’m on site,” she says, and turns to me.

“Come on, Adella.” She puts a friendly arm around my neck. “Let us go have some fun, before we meet up with the dead weight. Farewell, Barnaby!”

“You too, dear girl. Be safe. I look forward to hearing about what you find.”

After leaving the University, Doctor Trenum and I go out for drinks. I remember feeling a little hesitant after the cruel joke the doctors had pulled, but I convinced myself I was being maybe just a little uptight about the whole thing. Still, I would be wary in the future, now that Doctor Trenum had revealed a penchant for mischief.

Her idea was to have some fun before meeting the rest of her team, a notion that was quickly forgotten when we found that said team already occupied the restaurant we chose. Only one of their number was absent, apparently preferring the company of the citizens in the lower quarter. I can’t say I blamed him.

Coming along for the ride with us are Doctor Archibald Rothery, an expert in New Crowndon anthropology, as far as one can be an expert in such; Professor Martine Babin, curator of the museum in Val Coursais and leader in the field of archaeological conservation; and Professor Babin’s two interns, Nico Pate and Meriam Caillot. Watching the two interns, I have the distinct feeling that Meriam is truly there for the science, while Nico is there mainly for Meriam.

The final, and absent, member of our team is Matthias Bricklebrand Mackay, who the others often refer to as “Brick”. Whether the nickname is out of love or derision, I am not completely sure. It appears to be interchangeable, and Mr. Mackay shows no sign of preference in any case. He is our guide, tracker, and general provider of security on this journey. He has a team of four other men with him; I am told that all of them are men of the utmost integrity. They are also men of utmost discretion, as I have not been able to get a single one to speak with me.

After entering the restaurant and seeing them there, Doctor Trenum is quick to suggest that we slowly back away and leave, but it is too late. Doctor Rothery sees us and invites us over. By the way he greets Doctor Trenum, it is apparent that their fondness for each other is heavily weighted on Rothery’s part; Doctor Trenum is visibly uncomfortable when he hugs her. He seems completely oblivious to this fact, which only makes it more painful to watch.

The others seem entirely pleasant; Professor Babin is preoccupied with a book, but warm enough to my inquiries. Nico and Meriam are likewise preoccupied with each other, piping in at times when discussing certain matters of interest. Nico is charming, but I sense a bit of envy on his part towards Meriam’s interest in archaeology. At least he never goes so far as to put her down for it—at least not that I’ve seen thus far.

Our conversation never much sways toward the subject of our assignment, I’m afraid. I figure that has to do with the fact that we will all be neck deep in ruins and artifacts before long. For the most part, I am enjoying the company of my new companions. Doctor Rothery comes on a bit strong at times, both professionally and personally. He is a hugger, that one, something I have never been nor do I think I will ever be, particularly with strangers. I have expressed my boundaries with him and so far he has respected them without withdrawing completely. Otherwise, I find him entirely pleasant to be around.

It is not until the next morning that I meet Mister Mackay, and our conversation is brief once he learns that I am a member of the press. Hopefully his demeanor is short lived. Based on some of the tales I’ve heard from the others, I’m sure he would be a fascinating interview.

He has chartered the steam boat we are to use to travel to Lelina, and we are currently making final preparations to leave.

The Lelina Horror, Part Two

The Lelina Horror, Part One

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ADELLA  (I)

7th of Eighth Month, 280th Year of the Triumvirate

Halfway through the long western leg of our airship journey to the Imperial Colonies, Doctor Veronica Trenum asks me if I have ever heard the theory of how the Newlands came into being. I tell her that I haven’t, and she smiles a little half smile. I expect the world renowned archaeologist to regale me with a bit of history, or a creation myth of some sort. What I get instead is more a taste of folk whimsy.

“They say it’s a shit the Man took when he laid down in the ocean to die.”

The answer takes me aback for a few seconds; most every story Doctor Trenum tells me does at first. She’s a fount of obscure references, tales, and cultural anecdotes. As usual, after the initial shock wears off, I laugh. Usually, this is where Doctor Trenum herself would join me, but she does not. She instead gives me an impatient, sideways glare. I stop laughing. She’s deadly serious.

As it turns out, that really is the grand mythic explanation that the colonists have for the place. That when the Man laid down, died, and formed the Old Continent, he defecated, forming the Newlands. I find it a bit crass, personally, but after having spent a week here, I can see the disillusion that might bear such cynicism.

We land in New Crowndon, and it is very much like what I’d imagine the ports of Old Crowndon must have looked like two hundred years ago, at the beginning of our own industrialization. Ramshackle buildings dot the harbor, thrown up in haste to serve necessity. A few sit in a perpetual state of half renovation, the abandoned properties of shipping companies that tried to expand too quickly and ran out of money in the process.
Beyond the harbor are the city’s old quarters, the town that sprung up around the first settlers’ landing. The buildings were sturdy once, but fifty years of life along the coast without proper maintenance have taken their toll.

Most of the streets here are still mud. Gnats, mosquitos, and a dozen other unholy winged annoyances buzz around putrid green puddles of stagnate water. The imprints of horse shoes litter the edges of the main thoroughfare, indicative of the fact that most people here still ride horse back. Rare is the occasion that one sees the unbroken track of a wheel, and when one does, it’s typically evidence of a carriage rather than an auto.

Rustic inhabitants, with hard eyes peering out of bagged, purple sockets spend their days toiling at work or haunting the local taverns. The men are almost uniformly unshaven, their hands thick fingered and calloused from hard days spent in lumber mills or building yards. Most everyone smokes incessantly, a sweet smelling herb that grows in the forests nearby, I’m told.

The women are hardly different from the men. Many perform the same tasks of lumbering and building, but with the added burdens of child rearing and housekeeping (the first woman I saw stood on a roof, ripping up old thatching with mud stained fingers and replacing it with fresh straw). Not that child rearing lasts very long in a place like this; most of the children I saw worked alongside their parents.

My first impression, walking through the streets to our hotel, was that these men and women were without humor, but such isn’t the case. At night, when the sounds of falling hammers and saws cutting through timber die down, laughter and song fills the air, along with the smell of deer meat and pork smoked to perfection and spiced with local flavor. The disillusionment lifts, and I once again struggle with the idea of this place being an ancient deity’s dying feculence. Most laugh when I ask about it. A few just stare blankly at the dregs in their cups.

The revelry is short, and the people begin to retire at midnight. There is hard work in the morning, and the days are hot this time of year.

Sleep doesn’t come easy to me that first night. My brain is still buzzing from the excitement of coming to this new place, meeting these new people. I just lay in bed with my eyes closed, writing internally.
—
I get up early and go downstairs. It’s deserted, but coffee has already been made. I pour a cup and throw a couple of coins into a jar set next to the pot. It’s a bit strong, the kind of strong meant more to sober people up and set them off to work than for enjoyment.

I spend an hour composing my thoughts while the sun comes up and the streets outside come to life. Just after dawn, Dr. Trenum comes down, along with two men and two other women. They joke and laugh, and Dr. Trenum sees them out.

“Are you going to write about that?” she asks me. I tell her only if she wants me to. She shakes her head.

“That disappoints me. I would expect you to tell the truth. I want you to tell the truth. Anyone who cannot deal with it…they are not worth our time.”

So, I write about it, only describing what I see. I’ll let the readers make their assumptions.
We eat a breakfast of eggs and sausage, very bare bones. Utilitarian, like the coffee. Doctor Trenum and I trade stories we heard the night before.

Settlements in the northwest are dealing with an outbreak of plague. In the south west, Doctor Argyle Von Grimm and his gang have taken over a new town. Refugees from their last conquest have started flooding east, towards Lelina, our destination.

I doubt they will receive a warm welcome. Many people displaced by Von Grimm’s reign of terror have made their way to New Crowndon. They are relegated to a hastily constructed camp constructed on the city’s outskirts and not permitted to enter without official chaperones.

After breakfast, we leave the inn and hire a carriage to take us to the main city. A pack of laughing, red faced children trail our wagon, waving as we leave toward the University of New Crowndon to meet with Doctor Trenum’s peers. It is from here that we will set off to the southern territories, taking a steam boat along the Miskaton river.

Groups of Colonial Marshals stand guard on street corners and balconies along the way. They’ve been called in to help with the refugees, but word is they are also on the lookout for the Waystation Bravo fugitives, Klaudhopper and Villanova. Last night we heard rumors that they have slipped the net, however, and already made it farther inland.

We reach the outskirts of the old quarter. The lumber mills, wood buildings and mud streets give way to brick and cobbles. The people change, as well. They are prettier, softer, but colder. I see no children playing. No scents hang on the air. This is a place for business and learning, but not living. Returning to a more developed part of the city should be a return to the familiar, but the whole thing is off putting. Something feels off here. I suppose I’ve just become accustomed to traveling.

We pull onto the main thoroughfare, and directly ahead of us I can see the University. It is here that we will begin to tease out the answers to one of the greatest archaeological mysteries of our time.

***

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hello! Today marks the first installment in an ongoing story that will detail the mystery of what happened to the Gazette reporter, Adella Chatelaine. It’s my attempt at a horror story, just in time for Halloween. I wanted to do this last year, but time got away from me.

Some readers might have a feeling of deja vu…this first week of installments first appeared as Gazette entries last year. I felt they were pertinent to the story, and its been awhile so I figured it wouldn’t hurt for a recap. Also, it will buy me some time to work on the remainder of the story.

The entries aren’t unchanged, however. They’ve been revised and updated where necessary. This is still very much a work in progress (they always are!) so feel free to let me know where I can improve.

Enjoy!

The Lelina Horror, Part One

Blackwood Gazette #200- Adella Chatelaine, 13 Others Found Alive In Wilderness Around Point Hammond

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By Maurice Merchant, Editor in Chief

8/10- It is with a great sense of both personal and professional relief that I am able to announce the nearly year-long search for a member of the Gazette family has come to an end. Adella Chatelaine, who traveled to the colony of Lelina along with the famed archaeologist Veronica Trenum and several other acclaimed New Crowndon academics to study a recently discovered ruin in the swamp has been found, alive and relatively well, after mysteriously disappearing last year.

Details of the events leading up to her rescue are scarce at the moment, but we have been told that Miss Chatelaine, along with several others, were found trapped within the decaying remains of a large building in the woods 60 miles south of Point Hammond. Not much is known about the abandoned structure, or how Miss Chatelaine and the others came to be there.

We have no word on what happened to the rest of Miss Chatelaine’s team, though none of them were found. Miss Chatelaine herself is said to be, understandably, shaken by the experience, and local law enforcement has restricted the amount of information released to the public until a proper investigation can be made.

Pixie Sinclaire, however, is less beholden to such things.

“I’m still trying to parse out everything I saw,” Miss Sinclaire wrote in a brief statement to me. “Still trying to process it…much of it defies any attempt at rationalization, as if the thoughts themselves are alive and fighting my efforts to interpret the events in a natural, earthly way. It may just be the exhaustion, the low that comes after a rush of adrenaline and the chilliness of the horrors I saw muddling my mind, interfering with my ability to think. Perhaps, with time, I will be able to explain things better. It could also be that I have no right to attempt to explain what I saw; the best source for answers will be those, Adella among them, who lived in that nightmare for who knows how long.

“I would advise not pressing the matter on them, however, until they are ready to speak. If you truly consider Adella your friend, do not force her to relive any events that may have transpired until she is ready and willing to divulge that information herself. In fact, perhaps in just this one case, some questions are best left unanswered.

“We should simply take solace in the fact that our mutual friend, and those others found with her, have…survived (I balk at using the word ‘alive’ and hate myself for it, but I fear it may be the wrong word to use). Our only desire now should be helping them find peace.”

***

CLIFFHANGER!!!

Today marks my first feeble attempt at introducing some horror elements into the Gazette, and the larger Blackwood Empire story line, just in time for the Halloween season. It’s also going to be the last Gazette this year. With any luck, however, the answers that Pixie suggests are best kept hidden may start coming next week. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at a good old Gothic style or Lovecraftian horror story, an itch that’s only gotten worse since I’m now waist deep watching that show Penny Dreadful, so that’s what I’ll be working on the next few weeks.

The idea I’m going with is that Adella didn’t stop writing after her last fateful missive to the Gazette…she kept on, but that writing never got sent. The narrative will consist of her lost articles, leap-frogging with journals kept by Pixie Sinclaire in her search for the missing expedition. Hopefully I’ll be pleased enough with the early results to post them.

Blackwood Gazette #200- Adella Chatelaine, 13 Others Found Alive In Wilderness Around Point Hammond

Blackwood Gazette #199- “Leviathan” Prison Ship Leaves Port Under Cover of Night; To Where? No One Knows

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By Chester Seaton, News

7/10- We’ve known for some time that the privately funded, Inter-Imperial maximum security prison ship codenamed “Leviathan” was nearing completion, but no one knew when it would be ready. We now have an answer, and apparently that answer was ‘yesterday’.

Reports out of the shipyards along the Toring coast claim that the massive superstructure, composed of three converted Crowndonian Naval Warships, left its mooring at some point during the early morning hours yesterday. The port authority was given no word when it left, nor were they given a bearing.

“We expected this,” the head of Toring Port Authority told us. “About a week or so ago, we were told to keep the lanes in front of dock 75 clear for the next week. That’s where the ship was located. It’s been a pain trying to divert every ship coming in, and the amount of security we’ve had to deal with for the past three years has been a major hassle, so I have to say I’m glad it’s gone.”

There were other indications that the ship might be setting off soon, as well.

“The last three months, we’ve been seeing all these black and yellow wagons coming through town,” said one resident, who lives nearby. “I’d imagine now they were prisoners being brought in for their new digs. I’d say the thought of criminals bad enough to be incarcerated on a monster like that living nearby for that long without us being told would bother me, but hey, this is Toring Port, after all. Half the people living here should probably be on that ship.”

As for where the ship might be headed?

“Where? No one knows,” said the PA Head. “But I suppose that’s the purpose of a water-borne prison; it can be anywhere, at any time. Finding it is a pain, and getting to it is a pain, and I’d imagine getting off of it might be a pain as well.”

***

This isn’t the end of the line for the notorious prison ship know only as ‘Where, No One Knows’. You can read all about it in the first full length ‘Blackwood Empire’ Novel, now available in paperback and Kindle formats! Just click the image below for a tale of Pixie Sinclaire and other major Blackwood characters, including Roderick La Pierre, Klaus Klaudhopper, and Sir Rigel Rinkenbach, making life extremely difficult for the status quo:

Book cover, concept art

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blackwood Gazette #199- “Leviathan” Prison Ship Leaves Port Under Cover of Night; To Where? No One Knows

Blackwood Gazette #198- Mysterious Group Absconds with Sir Rigel Rinkenbach in Broad Daylight

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By Basilio Mura, Nor Easter Correspondent

6/10- Sir Rigel Rinkenbach, who has certainly had a difficult year, has apparently been kidnapped, Nor Eastern officials say.

Sir Rinkenbach was leaving the hospital where Empress Marcellette Bastian is making her recovery after being shot during the recent Arms Summit in the Divide. As he stepped out onto the walk, several unmarked motor carriages screeched onto the street in front of the hospital, and a group of unidentified men poured out.

The men, said to be wearing dark blue uniforms similar to those worn by the men who attacked the Summit, as well as the town of Point Hammond, and armed with revolvers, engaged the members of the Royal Guard appointed to protect Rinkenbach. While one of the guardsmen attempted to pull Rinkenbach into the hospital, he was shot in the back. The unidentified men then grabbed Rinkenbach, stuffed him into one of the carriages, and drove off.

The city guard attempted to give pursuit, but their own motor carriages were unable to keep pace with the attackers. This event only further re-enforces evidence that whoever this unidentified group is, they possess technology more advanced than anything currently employed by the governments of the Triumvirate.

Already, rumors and conspiracy theories are running amok through the political and scientific communities. Some have suggested the kidnapping, as well as the attack on the Summit, were orchestrated by Rinkenbach himself as a way of escaping the Nor Eastern government’s constant vigilance.

Others have pointed out that, as reported in the Gazette, the attackers attempted to assassinate Rinkenbach at the summit, while they merely kidnapped him outside the hospital, leading to all sorts of wild speculation. However, we have no way of knowing just what this group’s goals are, or what their methods in bringing those goals to fruition may be.

Nor Eastern officials are working with the Triumvirate authorities, as well as the individual militaries and law enforcement agencies of Crowndon and Monteddor to locate Sir Rigel Rinkenbach and the men responsible for his abduction.

Blackwood Gazette #198- Mysterious Group Absconds with Sir Rigel Rinkenbach in Broad Daylight

Blackwood Gazette #197- Mysterious Message Sent to Arms Summit About Impending Attack; Marcellete Bastian takes a bullet for Rigel Rinkenbach; Attacking Fleet Repelled by Alejandro Julianos and…Captain La Pierre?

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By Chester Seaton, News

2/10- The world went a little…crazy, this weekend. As the leaders of Crowndon, Nor Easter, Monteddor, and Sarnwain gathered at a secluded location in the Divide, a large fleet of unknown vessels gathered in the canyons below. The objective of this fleet remains a mystery, but if their actions are anything to go by, it was to eradicate the current power structure of the Imperial Triumvirate in one fell swoop.

Luckily, just a few short moments before the enemy fleet of airships rose up around the desert mesa where the summit was being held, security officials received a mysterious wire said to originate from the colonies. The wire warned of the attack, giving Alejandro Julianos, whose own forces were providing security, time to form a defensive perimeter.

Julianos’ ships engaged the unmarked enemy ships, which are said to have been unlike anything the world has yet seen; kept aloft not by balloons, but by complex rotor systems and armored with metal plating. Julianos did an admirable job of keep the ships at bay, despite being outnumbered, outgunned, and possessing what is, as of this weekend, severely outdated technology.

Perhaps it was this advantage on the side of the attackers that enabled them to put several boots on the ground, who stormed the central chamber of the summit building. Once again, Julianos’ ground forces put up a brave defense, cutting down all but one of the invaders.

The would-be assassin burst into the meeting chamber, where all the delegates save for one threw themselves to the ground. The assassin’s target? Presumably, it was one Rigel Rinkenbach, in attendance with Empress Marcellete Bastian. Seeing that the attacker had Rinkenbach in his sights, the Empress bravely threw herself in front of the shot, taking the bullet meant for Rinkenbach and saving the inventor’s life. The Empress is alive, but in critical condition.

Before the assassin could prepare another shot, Julianos’ soldiers entered the room and incapacitated the man. They tried to take him alive, but the attacker bit into a suicide pill.

Meanwhile, four ships remained in the skies above, the others having been destroyed or rendered inert. The attackers outnumbered Julianos’ flagship, Panther’s Reign, three to one.

The Reign seemed to be on its last legs as one of the aggressors prepared for a killing blow, when a shot from a newly arrived fifth ship struck one of the enemy ship’s rotors. The attack left the rotor-ship listing. Julianos’ crew regained their bearing, loaded up their cannon, and opened fire. As the rotor ship drifted, in flames, to the desert floor, a lookout on Julianos’ ship got a good look at the mysterious third party.

“When the ship went down and the smoke and fire faded out, I couldn’t believe what I saw out there, on the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun…but none other than the Pernicious Platitude, and at its helm, the pirate captain La Pierre.”

La Pierre began to circle the enemy formation, drawing their fire as the Reign reloaded. The Platitude then joined formation with the Reign, and engaged the remaining attackers. Witnesses on the ground described the situation as “completely bat-shit.”

Once the remaining attackers had gone down, the Reign turned to engage the Platitude. However, we are told that Julianos ordered his gun crews to hold their fire. The Platitude then descended into the canyons below, and has not been seen since.

The Triumvirate leadership owes their survival to the mysterious communique they received just before the attack, though no one seems to know who sent it. It ends simply, “PS”. Why a missive would end with notation of a post-script, yet not actually include one, has baffled many. But Rigel Rinkenbach has a theory.

“It isn’t so very hard to understand,” Rinkenbach told us. “PS doesn’t mean post-script! They’re initials, for Pixie Sinclaire! She must have uncovered the plot and, sensing that I was in danger, sent a message! She does still love me! I knew it!”

The Triumvirate authority has stated that they will launch a full scale investigation into these events, starting of course with the identity of the mysterious attackers, though the working theory is that the enemy force is the fountainhead of all the strange weapons that have been found on battlefields around the globe. It’s hard to say what, if anything, was accomplished by the summit, but many doubt the results will be what was hoped for.

***

Man, that’s pretty much the most insane headline I’ve ever written for the Gazette…

Today’s story marks a fairly important turning point for the Blackwood Empire, and the Gazette. It’s kind of the culmination of everything that’s been going on for the last few months, and sets the stage for what I’m calling “Volume II”.

I’ve decided that, after #200, I’ll be taking a bit of a break from the Gazette for a while to revise what I’ve already written and plan out what comes next. I think it’s also time for me to focus on some more long-form work for awhile.

Thanks for reading!

Blackwood Gazette #197- Mysterious Message Sent to Arms Summit About Impending Attack; Marcellete Bastian takes a bullet for Rigel Rinkenbach; Attacking Fleet Repelled by Alejandro Julianos and…Captain La Pierre?