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Aboard the Flotilla | |
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Category | Story Event |
Type | Story |
Data ID | 281128 |
Aboard the Flotilla is a Sunless Skies Story Event.
Story description[]
Here, among abandoned boats on the Quiet Sea, the similarly abandoned and forgotten of Albion have made their homes. The cults share this space; for warmth and for shelter. Some boats are covered, others converted into makeshift anchorages, refectories and cells. Hopeful acolytes flock to one ecstatic figure or another, raving about this doctrine or that. Your new friends are one cult among three. The Sanctified, the loose collection of souls who follow the Jolly Anchorite are communal, fraternal, jovial. The Supralapsarians, who follow the Illuminating Archivist, do everything by their Book (when they can agree upon the interpretation). The Displeased, who follow the Careful Masquerader, treat distrust as a virtue and betrayal as a sacrament. A woman is lying on a wheel that sits atop a pole that rises over the flotilla. She does not speak, but only watches the Gate.
Trigger conditions[]
An Offering Made ≥ 1
Area: Limbo
Frequency: Always (100%)
Interactions[]
Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes | |||||
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Ask the Illuminated Archivist to come to Langley Hall
He is handsome, stubborn, and his memories are not as they should be. He might be Lord Langley's lost lover.
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The Illuminated Archivist glowers at you. "And you thought I was mad." He traces a pattern under his right collarbone: a collision (or perhaps a collusion) of suns. Finally, he speaks again. "All right. I may as well see what has gotten you so excited that you believe this rot – if only so I can learn how I failed you as a teacher." He gathers his things and gets ready to board your locomotive.
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Ask the Illuminated Archivist to come to Langley Hall
He is handsome, stubborn, and his memories are not as they should be. He might be Lord Langley's lost love.
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The Illuminated Archivist shakes his head. "There's no such place in London. And I know everywhere in London. Have you been at the Prisoner's Honey?" He eyes you curiously, with more than a hint of displeasure.
"No, I won't go meeting any phantom lords you've conjured. My place is here, in London, and always has been– and as my student, you should know that." He stalks away, closing the matter entirely.
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Speak to the Silent Mystic
Her wheel is accessible by a flimsy rope ladder, rising up through the mists. She is rarely disturbed by the other acolytes, though they watch her intently.
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Speak with the Displeased on behalf of the Worlebury parson
He sensed a kinship between the Displeased and They Who Must Grieve. Now that the Displeased tolerate you, you may offer the parson's leaflets without the acolytes recoiling.
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Not all the Displeased accept your vellum offerings. Those that do withdraw to cold corners to consider the parson's words.
You do not know whether he promised betrayal, or suffering, or merely comradeship with a being that holds their virtues in greater sum than any human could. But a few gather their meagre possessions and make ready to leave, eagerly anticipating greater disappointments. These acolytes relish abandoning their colleagues and extinguishing the few sparks of sentiment that still smoulder in broken hearts. They'll see you again, at the church of They Who Must Grieve.
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Inquire about the name of the lost saints
Through your friendship with the Sanctified, you have learned of one who betrayed them. Through your friendship with the Displeased, you have identified her.
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Failed event | ||||||
Displeased
She surveys you coldly. Her hair and robes are stiff from a recent dive into the mists. "I laboured long to pull those secrets from reluctant tongues. Why would I give them up to you?"
In the following hours, you note the Displeased are keeping more distance from you, if that was even possible.
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Successful event | ||||||||
Lost saints
The woman is a pariah among the acolytes. The Displeased trust her even less than their fellows; the Supralapsarians revile her; and to the Sanctified she is anathema: they do not speak her name.
Her voice is scratchy from lack of use. She rasps her secrets to you, pleased to have someone listen. "Both traitor saints." She smiles, as though pronouncing a great revelation. Later; you discover one of your crew murdered, while you were docked at the Horizon. They are absent a tongue.
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Attend a last rite
As the other cultists are departing, your friends among the Supralapsarians bid you join them. They promise a reward.
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A tea rite
You are brought to a warm under-deck, which might once have been a hold. A fire roars in a hearth, and the ceiling is painted with false-stars. The Illuminated Archivist smiles to greet you and pours you tea, which you are instructed to serve to the Silent Mystic.
"I have been pleased by the observances of this cult," she says to you, "Perhaps there is something in it. Now that the king is gone, we must find a means to go on, mustn't we." She sighs, and passes the cup back. "This is yours. Go back to the stars, Captain. Seek the truth."
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Attend a last rite
As the other cultists are departing, your acquaintances among the Displeased bid you join them. They warn you not to hope for a reward.
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An unhappiness of poetry
You are brought to an abandoned cabin, mired in floes of ice and adrift from the rest of the flotilla. The Careful Masquerader nods her head as she enters and bids you take a seat amid a circle of chairs.
In the centre is the Silent Mystic, tied to a chair. "The Displeased have followed the observances well," she explains, "So I have agreed to submit to one of their rites." She waves a hand. "Do go on dear. Tell me what manner of fool now rules in my old halls." It is poetry of the Celestial school, beloved of Her Majesty's court. It is sublime and dreadful. Once the reading is over, the Masquerader insists you take the slim volume of poetry. "It will not bring you joy," she insists. |
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Attend a last rite
As the other cultists are departing, your friends among the Sanctified bid you join them. They promise a reward.
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The donation of hours
You are brought to the cabin of some long gone captain. It is stuffed full of pewter goblets, faded newspapers, tattered finery and plundered jewellrey.
"The hoard of the lost," the Jolly Anchorite roars as he sees you. "Come, the Mytic has honoured us with her presence, having been taken with our rites and mysteries. Tonight she drinks with us!" A chorus of cheers goes up from the gathered Sanctified. The Silent Mystic looks up from her cup with a red-stained grin. The evening is long, and held entranced by the Mystic's long, incoherent stories of the fall of kings. When at last she is done, she gives you a donation of hours. "Stolen when I fled," she tells you, before turning away. |
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Make an offering for more time on the flotilla
There is more you wish to do here, among the cults of the Avid Horizon.
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Leave to remain
Your offering is brought to the Silent Mystic atop her wheel. She breaks off a piece of your specimen and chews thoughtfully. "Yes. Succour," she rasps. "Let them stay."
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Game note: This will reset your progress with the Cults and restart the Hours counter.
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Where will you lay your head at night?
Every acolyte has a favoured spot in the flotilla to take their kip. The politics of one's sleeping arrangements are complicated here.
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Exalted status
Because you were selected by one of the leaders of the mystics to uncover their sacred mysteries, you may sleep where you like.
Everyone is eager to see what you choose. There isn't much to do here.
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A cozy berth near an open hearth
Wine and candles, shared warmth and traded stories. You are strengthened by community.
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A member of the Sanctified invites you to join them. Their berth is small; like a coffin covered in blankets. The evening passes in clouds of smoke, so that all of your clothes reek of the bonfire. You wake a good deal more familiar with some of your fellow acolytes than you had been before.
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Game note: Your choices here will affect the dispositions of the cults towards you. | |||
A crow's nest
A lonely eyrie, far above the mists. You are strengthened by solitude.
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After a brief moment of awkwardness when one of the Displeased climbs into the nest, sees you, and then immediately descends into the mists again, you spend a chilly and undisturbed evening alone.
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Whatever others are doing
Where they sleep, you sleep. You are strengthened by tradition.
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"When Londoners sleep, they do so regardless of their surroundings. Noise shall not disturb them nor light rouse them. A Londoner can sleep through damnation. They keep to their regular hours, for they have adapted to the endless darkness beneath the earth." The words wash over you as you lay down to sleep.
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Sing
On rising, there is singing. For some, a morning chorus; for others, a lament. Lungs swell.
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Voices, raised together
The Flotilla's dwellings are made of broken boats and battered carpentry. Mists, luminous and sinuous, snake through the gaps. Voices carry on the breeze. Each could be just beside you or on stood on a distant deck. Here there are no echoes, and the sky swallows all songs.
All sing nonetheless. What do you sing of?
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Of the place you left behind
Your home, on the other side of the horizon.
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Your voice joins the others in chorus. You chant from a hymnal, of Old London: a place gaslit and hidden, deep and dark and marvellous.
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Game note: Your choices here will affect the dispositions of the cults towards you. | |||
Of loss
There is much to sing of.
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Your voice is raw and hoarse. You're not sure there's a tune, but there is an abundance of feeling. Private torments carry on the wind, harmonising with your own.
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Of life
The riot and revel of it.
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There is stamping. There is roaring. There is chanting. Chests are pounded and throats bellow. You sing of consumption, of having, of being, of sharing and being shared.
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Give a confession
At this hour, the acolytes purge themselves of their sins. Confessions are to be given and to be received. You are expected to take part.
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Admissions
The acolyte smiles as you kneel in front of her. A bowl of saltwater is between you. You do not speak to each other, but to the water, which will drown your secrets. Your eyes meet in the bowl. Her smile widens in encouragement.
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Confess an error of yearning
You long for things to be as they were.
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The acolyte nods encouragingly. She speaks a few words from the Book. "I, too, long for all manner of things." Her eyes widen as though she misspoke. "I mean that I wish to see sunlight and starlight again, but we have fallen and such things are denied to us."
She leans in to whisper her own confession to the bowl. |
Game note: Your choices here will affect the dispositions of the cults towards you. | |||
Confess an error of despair
What hope is there left to you?
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The acolyte takes your hand in hers. Her skin is wrinkled and soft. "There was despair when they came to that place. But it was in error, for there the saints thrived. Look at us now without them. We follow their path. One day we too shall be free of it."
She leans in to whisper her own confession to the bowl. | |||||||
Confess an error of sentiment
Sometimes your heart grows heavy.
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The acolyte frowns. "Your heart betrays you. It teaches you a lesson. Listen to it. Our innermost selves are the worst traitors of us all. Against that betrayal, there is only one defence: self-denial. Once you enter the cycle of betrayal and betrayal in turn, you will begin to understand."
She leans in to whisper her own confession to the bowl. | |||||||
What will you do with the confession you've heard?
This is the hour in which the acolytes decide what to do with their confessions.
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The decision
The Supralapsarians have elaborate rituals surrounding confessions. The other acolytes have mimicked their example, and use this hour to keep or betray the confessions they recently heard. Whatever you do here may already have been done to you.
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Betray it
A secret given only has power if used.
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You locate the person most invested in hearing the confession, and reveal it. They react strongly. Gossip and recrimination ignites across the flotilla. Faces redden, arguments break out. No one seems to remember that you were the source.
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Game note: Your choices here will affect the dispositions of the cults towards you. | |||
Don a mask; an pre-celestial tradition
The hour of confessions requires it.
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You follow other acolytes in choosing a flimsy wooden mask: bat, fox, cat, or bear. It denotes that you carry a confession and are available to hear others. You promenade about the decks, clutching candles as you go.
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Keep it
A secret kept has value; a secret shared is no longer a secret.
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You store it in the portion of your mind where all secret and buried things go. When you see the acolyte again, she will remember that you have kept her trust. You will smile at each other, bonded in that knowledge.
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Dine at the feast
At the end of the day, the acolytes gather for a feast. If you were cynical, you might suggest this was the only reason the sects banded together.
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Feasting with your peers
Makeshift tables are laid with the fruits of the Quiet Sea. Some acolytes have spent their days on the waves, fishing (for whatever blind, writhing things count as fish, here). Others forage for preserved food from the forgotten ships. Still others range farther, among engine wrecks and refuse of the Bureau. Wisely rationed, there is enough for one such feast every week or so.
How will you dine?
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With traditional decorum
There are standards to maintain.
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You will not eat until you have located the appropriate cutlery. You pass to the left and take from the right. You won't use the tablecloth as a napkin. The Supralapsarians look on admiringly, while the Sanctified get juices all over their clothes.
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Game note: Your choices here will affect the dispositions of the cults towards you. | |||
With gusto!
A feast is no time for restraint.
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A fork in each hand, you abandon yourself to your appetites. The tablecloth runs with wine and juices, as do your clothes and your chin. You eat as if famished. Religion is hungry work. The Sanctified look on admiringly.
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With restraint
You will master your desires.
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All around you, Supralapsarians and Sanctified gorge themselves on hard biscuits and eel-flesh, stuffing their mouths with stolen wine and plundered meats. You will not partake. Your stomach growls, betrayed.
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Dine with the cultist who dines alone
This acolyte sits apart from the other Displeased. The woman carves a slab of meat the size of a piglet.
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Waste not, want not
The woman passes you a fork with a thin strip of flesh impaled on the prongs. She uses a small brazier to heat each morsel.
The heat never quite reaches the centre. It has a chill that won't shift, and a saltiness that suggests it was stored in the sea. She passes you piece after piece – but your jaw aches with chewing long before you can be satisfied.
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Speak with the Jolly Anchorite
He approached you to initiate you into his following. Has he more mysteries for you to uncover?
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Speak with the Careful Masquerader
The apparent leader of the Displeased, she invited you here to learn of the mysteries of her sect. Has she more for you?
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Speak with the Illuminated Archivist
The sickly leader of the Supralapsarians, he inducted you into the first of their mysteries. Might he be willing to divulge more?
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Leave the Flotilla
You have tarried here enough.
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Away
You leave the flotilla, emerging back onto the ice and silence of the Quiet Sea. A few acolytes watch you leave; perhaps someone waves. And then the winds drown all sound, and the flotilla is behind you. Perhaps you'll return.
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Game note: You may not be able to return for some time. You will lose all of your Embraced qualities, but your Initiate status will not be changed.
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Abandon your journey altogether
You are sick of cultists. Divest yourself.
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Everyone leaves in the end
The acolytes are unsurprised to see you go. They watch as you depart the flotilla.
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Game note: Should you wish to return, leave another offering on the Quiet Sea. Game note: Unless you have been fully initiated, this will abandon all Initiate progress with your chosen cult.
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Links[]
Links In[]
On the Quiet Sea,
A Conversation with a Careful Masquerader,
A Conversation with a Jolly Anchorite,
A Conversation with an Illuminated Archivist,
The Silent Mystic,
The Jolly Anchorite,
The Careful Masquerader,
The Illuminated Archivist,
A Close Reading of the Text
Links Out[]
On the Quiet Sea,
The Silent Mystic,
The Jolly Anchorite,
The Careful Masquerader,
The Illuminated Archivist
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