High above the bustling city of Alkenstar, in a towering skyrise building, a grand art gala was unfolding. The hum of cultured chatter filled the air, mingling with the clink of crystal glasses and the soft strains of orchestral music. The room was bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers, casting long shadows that danced on the marble walls adorned with masterpieces of art.
The Outlaws, dressed in their finest attire, found themselves amidst this spectacle. Their hats of disguise and rings of discretion transformed their rugged adventuring gear into elegant evening wear, their weapons cleverly concealed.
The crowd was a veritable who’s who of Alkenstar high society. Vewslog, the cyclops leader of the Leadsmiths, stood out with his commanding presence. Irivine, a male socialite known for his charm, was in his element, engaging in small talk with anyone who crossed his path. Professor Hoop, a renowned scholar of magic and mechanical lore, was engrossed in a deep conversation with a group of academics. Helain Maudele, a dance instructor known for her grace, glided through the crowd, her every movement a dance in itself. And Powle Guthroy, the gnome with vibrant green hair, seemed genuinely interested in the art, his eyes reflecting the colors of the paintings he admired.
Servers weaved through the crowd, carrying trays laden with delicacies. The scent of roasted chicken wafted through the air, its aroma so enticing it became a topic of conversation amongst the guests. As much a work of art as any painting or sculpture, the food was a testament to the host’s attention to detail.
Christia Tombend, the host, moved through the crowd like a seasoned diplomat. Her laughter echoed through the room, a clear bell amidst the murmur of conversations. She stopped occasionally to admire a piece of art or exchange pleasantries with a guest, her demeanor gracious and welcoming.
Yet, beneath the veneer of sophistication, there was an undercurrent of tension. The Leadsmiths, hobgoblins awkwardly dressed in formal attire, lingered on the outskirts, clearly uncomfortable amidst the high society crowd. Vewslog’s single eye scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the disguised Outlaws. Despite their flawless disguises, he seemed suspicious, his instincts honed from years of dealing with subterfuge.
The Outlaws, for their part, played their roles perfectly, blending into the crowd as they kept their senses alert for any sign of trouble. Amidst the laughter and clinking glasses, their minds were focused on the task at hand. This was not just a gala, but a battlefield of wits and intrigue.
In the midst of the grand art gala, Vewslog, the cyclops leader of the Leadsmiths, leaned in to whisper something into Christia Tombend’s ear.
A spark of surprise lit up her face, and she turned towards the Outlaws, her voice ringing with excitement.
“My dear friends! Vewslog tells me we have esteemed connoisseurs of art amongst us this evening! I implore you, grace us with your expert insight on our gallery!”
A ripple of anticipation passed through the crowd as all eyes turned towards the Outlaws. Tychus H. Carver, the tiefling sorcerer known for his quick wit, stepped forward confidently. His gaze settled upon a sculpture resembling a jellyfish, its form captured in painstaking detail.
“The artist has remarkably encapsulated the essence of the sea creature,” Tychus began, his voice carrying an air of authority. “The symmetry, the fluidity of the lines, it’s as if the artist managed to freeze time at the exact moment a jellyfish would break free from its stone prison and float away.”
Dr. Qwyk, the goblin alchemist, interjected with a differing perspective, “No, no, no, it’s all wrong…” He gestured towards the sculpture, his face scrunched in disagreement. “The artist has confused simplicity for minimalism. The beauty of a jellyfish lies in its intricate details, not in broad strokes. This sculpture fails to capture the creature’s true complexity.”
The crowd was captivated, hanging onto their every word. Even Christia Tombend seemed enthralled by their critique, oblivious to the fact that they were not art critics. The Outlaws had once again managed to blend into their surroundings, expertly navigating the unexpected turn of events.
Among the gala attendees, Powle Guthroy, a gnome known for his vividly green hair and discerning taste in art, was notably captivated. “Ah, yes, I understand your perspective,” he said, nodding in agreement with the Outlaws’ art critique.
When Guthroy enquired about the identity of the insightful critic, Tychus, under the guise of “Mr. Revrack”, responded, “Merely a visitor from Geb.”
This revelation seemed to pique Guthroy’s interest. “Indeed? We’ve had quite a few visitors from Geb of late,” he shared, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “In fact, Loveless herself has been hosting several guests from there recently.”
As the evening wore on, the Outlaws continued their charade, engaged in an intellectual dance of wits and deception. They were there to gather information about Loveless’s dealings, and despite Vewslog’s attempt to unmask them, they had managed to turn the situation in their favor.
As the grandeur of the art gala continued, a pair of imposing Leadsmiths approached Christia Tombend. They murmured something to her, their voices barely audible over the soft hum of conversation in the room. Tombend’s face flushed with indignation as she loudly protested, “This is MY gala! I cannot believe you would have me leave my own party!”
Before the situation could escalate further, Miss Mercy, the kitsune bard known for her quick thinking, darted towards them. “Oh, Christia, long time no see! What have you been up to?” she exclaimed, her voice filled with feigned cheerfulness.
Tombend quickly caught onto Miss Mercy’s ploy and played along. She turned towards the Leadsmiths with a pleading look, “Can’t you see? I’m in the middle of a reunion here. You wouldn’t want to interrupt that, would you?”
The Leadsmiths exchanged a glance before reluctantly nodding, leaving Tombend to enjoy the rest of the party. As they walked away, Tombend gripped Miss Mercy’s hand, gratitude shining in her eyes. “Thank you, dear. These Leadsmiths, I hired them because the Shield Marshals proved incapable. But they listen more to that cyclops, Vewslog, than to me.”
Miss Mercy offered a sympathetic smile, “I understand having terrible help.” Her gaze flickered to Dr. Qwyk, the goblin alchemist notorious for his independent streak. He caught her gesture and scoffed, a touch of offense crossing his features.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Qwyk retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just because I don’t jump at your every command doesn’t mean I’m ‘terrible help’. Maybe I just have a mind of my own.”
In the midst of the ongoing conversations and swirling art critiques, Dr. Qwyk, seizing the opportunity from his feigned indignation, excused himself from the crowd.
He meandered through the maze of opulent rooms, pretending to search for a restroom. The goblin’s keen eyes darted around, taking in the details of each room he passed. In one guest bedroom, an antique musket caught his attention, its intricate engravings gleaming under the soft light.
His exploration was interrupted by a Leadsmith, who tried to prevent him from opening all the doors. Unfazed, Qwyk turned on the charm, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, I didn’t realize my desperate need for a restroom would be such an inconvenience. Perhaps you’d prefer I relieved myself right here?”
Caught off guard, the Leadsmith reluctantly stepped aside, mumbling about finding the chamber pot and giving Qwyk his “privacy.”
Elsewhere in the gala, Tychus, masquerading as Mr. Revrak from Geb, was engaged in a conversation with Powle Guthroy. The gnome shared how the wealthy residents of Alkenstar, including Tombend, were diverting their usual investments in art towards more “patriotic” endeavors. Loveless was apparently one such person, using the funds to conscript an army under her command.
At the same time, Dr. Cyrus Von Flensing, adopting the persona of “Reese,” found himself engrossed in conversation with the alluring dance instructor, Helain Maudele.
“Oh, Reese,” Helain began, her voice laced with a hint of frustration, “It’s disheartening to see how the focus has shifted from the arts to politics among Alkenstar’s elite.”
Cyrus, nodding in understanding, responded, “Has it affected your work significantly?”
Helain sighed, “Indeed, it has. Even Christia Tombend, who used to be one of my most ardent supporters, is now more interested in this new bill for mandatory conscription. It’s all anyone seems to talk about these days.”
“And I presume this bill comes with its own set of…financial implications?” Cyrus ventured, his tone casual but his gaze sharp.
“You’re not wrong there, Reese,” Helain replied, a frown marring her usually cheerful features. “Higher taxes are on the horizon, and that means less money for dance lessons and more into the war chest.”
Cyrus offered a sympathetic smile, his mind already processing this new information. But he didn’t want to end the conversation on a somber note. So, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper, “Well, Helain, perhaps we can find ways to keep the dance alive. For starters, may I compliment you on your…exquisite thighs?” His eyes then mischievously darted towards the chicken on the buffet table, eliciting a burst of laughter from Helain. Despite the political undercurrents of their conversation, the Outlaws knew how to keep the mood light and their targets unsuspecting.
Silas “Silver Bullet” Biskos, the mechanical-armed monk, found himself in conversation with Professor Hoop, a scholar of magic and mechanical lore.
The art gala around them buzzed with activity, but Biskos felt more at ease discussing gears and cogs than paintings and sculptures.
“This is outside my expertise,” Biskos admitted, gesturing towards the grandeur of the gala. “I much prefer gears and cogs.”
Professor Hoop’s face lit up at his comment, “Ah, a man after my own heart.” He extended his hand, “Professor Hoop.”
Biskos took the offered hand, giving him a glimpse of his mechanical arm. He decided to introduce himself under a pseudonym, “Applebright.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Applebright,” Professor Hoop responded cheerfully. His eyes lingered on Biskos’s mechanical arm, curiosity gleaming in his gaze.
“I’m more into kinetic work myself,” Biskos said, flexing his mechanical arm slightly.
The professor’s interest was piqued as he examined the arm, “Quite impressive, I must say. And so well maintained. Tech like that is enough to keep Alkenstar safe. But that damned Shield Marshal Loveless…she seems to want quantity over quality. Wants to place an army of Shield Marshals under her command. It’s absurd. Why conscript young people when we can build constructs?”
Biskos tried to hide his surprise at this revelation. He quickly turned the conversation towards the cyclops leader of the leadsmiths, Vewslog. “Speaking of constructs, have you seen the guns the cyclops has brought? Quite fascinating.”
“Yes, indeed,” Hoop replied, his eyes lighting up with interest. “I’m quite used to working with firearms.”
Without another word, the enthusiastic professor scurried off towards Vewslog, persistently requesting to see his guns. Vewslog looked annoyed at the interruption but allowed Hoop to examine his weaponry for several long minutes, casting an angry glance at Biskos.
Miss Mercy, under the guise of ‘Kaywinette’, found herself engaged in a conversation with Christia Tombend.
The wealthy socialite was passionate about her political stance, especially regarding the conscription bill proposed by Shield Marshal Loveless.
“I am giving Loveless one last chance on this conscription bill,” Tombend confessed, “But she needs to produce results.” Her gaze hardened, frustration evident in her tone. “The bill is not doing too well in parliament because of people like Professor Hoop.”
Mercy nodded, playing along as she carefully planted seeds of doubt. “Word on the street is Loveless is setting up those close to her,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Tombend’s eyes widened slightly, the implications of Mercy’s words hitting her. She had been robbed recently, and the thought that Loveless and her Shield Marshals could be involved was alarming.
Eager to change the topic, Tombend invited Mercy into her private library. The room was filled with nationalistic propaganda, flags of Alkenstar adorning the walls. Tombend launched into a lengthy discourse about the need for unity under one ruler and a standing army to defend against threats from Geb, Nex, and others. Mercy listened patiently, occasionally interjecting with comments to keep Tombend talking and to gain her trust.
Feigning interest in her wardrobe, Mercy managed to convince Tombend to show her her closet. Tombend, completely trusting the kitsune bard, led her to a room filled with exquisite gowns and accessories.
Once Tombend left Mercy alone in the closet, Mercy quickly got to work. She swiftly and efficiently emptied the closet, folding the clothes neatly before placing them into her bag. Before leaving, she planted a Gilded Gunner’s pistol in a conspicuous spot, setting the scene for a future accusation.
Mercy rejoined the gala, her demeanor calm and composed. Tombend was none the wiser, and Mercy had successfully added another layer to the Outlaws’ intricate plan. The power struggle in Alkenstar continued to unfold, with the Outlaws right at the heart of it, their actions shaping the future of the city.
As the Outlaws made their way out of Tombend’s gala, they found themselves in a luxuriously decorated elevator. The doors slid open to reveal a group of hobgoblin Leadsmiths attempting to enter.
Tychus was the first to react, his tiefling tail flicking in annoyance. “I suggest you wait for the next one,” he said, his voice dripping with insincere charm.
Mercy, standing beside him, chimed in with a more threatening tone. “Or else you’ll find yourselves in a world of hurt.”
Qwyk, the goblin alchemist, backed her up with a menacing grin on his face, his hand resting on the hilt of his gun.
The tension in the elevator was palpable. It was clear that the Leadsmiths were not here by coincidence. Their leader, Vewslog, had likely sent them to intercept the party. The cyclops’ gaze had been too knowing, his suspicion apparent despite their disguises.
Then, without warning, Silas “Silver Bullet” Biskos sprang into action. The human monk’s mechanical arm whirred as it swiftly struck the nearest Leadsmith, his movements fluid and precise. He then settled into a defensive stance, his body ready to react to any movement from his opponents.
Meanwhile, Dr. Cyrus Von Flensing readied his crossbow, affectionately named Bertha. His eyes narrowed as he aimed and fired, the bolt embedding itself in the Leadsmith that Biskos had hit. Without missing a beat, Cyrus reloaded and shot again, finishing off the injured hobgoblin.
A Leadsmith charged at Biskos, his club connecting with a sickening thud. Despite the blow, Biskos stood his ground, ready to retaliate. The rest of the Leadsmiths brandished their dwarven scatterguns and clubs, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent.
Tychus, his hands aglow with dark energy, swept a wave of enervation over the hobgoblin Leadsmiths. Some staggered more than others, their bodies sagging under the weight of the void’s persistent damage.
Before they could recover, Dr. Qwyk was on the move. With a swift motion, he lobbed a vial at the hobgoblins. A burst of green light erupted on impact, the signature glow of Lyzerium. The hobgoblins caught in the splash were soon wreathed in flames. Unfazed, Qwyk drew another vial and threw it, hitting another group of Leadsmiths.
In retaliation, a Leadsmith fired his dwarven scattergun at Qwyk. The shot veered off course but the scattered pellets grazed him, leaving tiny burns on his skin. Despite the onslaught, Qwyk remained steadfast, ready to fight back.
Mercy, amidst the chaos, filled the elevator with her voice, inspiring courage among her team. Her eyes glinting with mischief, she turned to one of the Leadsmiths, commanding, “Give me your gun.” To everyone’s surprise, the hobgoblin obeyed, presenting his club to Tychus.
Silas Biskos, having regained his footing after a failed grapple attempt, launched himself at another Leadsmith. His mechanical arm whirred as he struck, but his attacks missed their mark.
Then, with a flash of movement, Dr. Cyrus Von Flensing fired an enchanting arrow from Bertha. The arrow found its mark, taking down a Leadsmith. As the hobgoblin fell, Cyrus seemed to draw strength from his demise, the pain of the Leadsmith seemingly rejuvenating him.
Silas Biskos, quick on his feet, knocked down the Leadsmith who had just handed his club to Tychus. The hobgoblin tried to rise, but Silas swiftly landed a powerful strike, keeping him prone on the elevator floor.
Tychus, in response to the escalating situation, cast a spell that seemed to drain the vitality from one of the Leadsmiths, causing him to recoil in fear and pain. As a precautionary measure, Tychos then enveloped himself in a magical shield.
Dr. Qwyk, displaying his alchemical prowess, threw another vial, this one filled with a potent poison. The vial shattered on impact, its contents splashing over a Leadsmith with lethal effect. Without pause, Qwyk hurled a second vial, this time filled with the green, flaming Lyzerium. A third vial followed, another dose of the deadly poison, taking down another opponent.
A Leadsmith lunged at Biskos but failed to land a hit. Another managed to shove Tychos, trying to force his way onto the elevator. However, their efforts were futile as they continued to suffer from the persistent damage inflicted by Tychus’s enervation and Qwyk’s alchemical concoctions.
In the midst of the chaos, Mercy conjured a powerful spell, causing her star orb to explode in a burst of energy. The explosion swept through the group of Leadsmiths, leaving only two standing.
With a determined look in his eyes, Biskos launched himself at the remaining Leadsmiths. His mechanical arm whirred into action, delivering piston-like punches that took down the last of their adversaries.
As the elevator finally reached the ground floor, the Outlaws breathed a sigh of relief. Their respite was short-lived, however, as they noticed Vewslog, the cyclops leader of the Leadsmiths, watching them from a top window. The Outlaws had won the battle, but it was clear their troubles were far from over.
Gathered in the familiar confines of the Barrel and Bullets Saloon, their makeshift headquarters, the Outlaws found themselves in deep conversation. The recent chaos at the Art Gala and their encounter with Loveless had given them much to ponder.
Dr. Qwyk was the first to break the silence. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully before speaking, “Loveless is planning to organize an army under her direct command. That’s bad news for all of us. We need more information.”
Tychus H. Carver, leaning back in his chair with a contemplative look, added, “And we’ve got a lead. Dash, hiding out somewhere in the Mana Wastes. Captain Foruza gave us his name and location. It’s a start.”
The mention of the Mana Wastes elicited a shudder from Miss Mercy. “The Mana Wastes are no place for a kitsune, or anyone else for that matter,” she muttered. “But if it helps us get the upper hand on Loveless, I’m in.”
Silas Biskos, the usually quiet monk, nodded in agreement. “Information is power. If this Dash can give us what we need, then we should find him.”
“But before we go chasing after shadows in the wastes,” interjected Dr. Cyrus Von Flensing, “We have some unfinished business here in Alkenstar. Varnholz still has control of the Bards and the Bees Brothel. It’s time we did something about that.”
At this, Miss Mercy perked up. “You’re right, Cyrus. With Mugland out of the picture, we can finally reclaim my establishment. It’s long overdue.”
Cyrus gave her a reassuring nod, his thoughts drifting to Seraphina Sage – the beautiful half-elf herbalist who worked at the brothel. Helping Miss Mercy wasn’t just about righting a wrong; it was personal.
The Bards and the Bees Brothel had seen better days. Under Varnholz’s rule, it had turned into a sordid operation, run with the efficiency of an assembly line. The women who worked there were treated as commodities rather than people; their laughter was hollow, their smiles forced, their eyes devoid of joy. It was a stark contrast to the time when Miss Mercy ran the place, where respect and autonomy were key. The change had turned the once vibrant establishment into a grim, desolate place.
Camouflaged by their hats of disguise and armed with their wits, the Outlaws approached the brothel. Taking the lead, Miss Mercy stepped up to the two guards at the entrance, her voice carrying an edge of authority.
“We’re here on official inspection from Loveless,” she announced, holding their gaze with an intimidating stare.
The guards exchanged nervous glances before stepping aside, allowing the disguised ‘inspectors’ to enter.
Once inside, Dr. Cyrus Von Flensing took over. “Everyone out!” he ordered, his tone stern. “We’ve received reports of a highly contagious venereal disease spreading through this establishment, known as the Void’s Kiss. Any contact could be fatal.”
His words sent a ripple of terror through the patrons, who hastily made their exits. The girls, however, seemed lost, unsure of what to do or where to go. Cyrus reassured them, “Don’t worry, this place is about to come under new management. You’re free to go.”
With the patrons and most of the other guards gone, all that remained was Varnholz. The ensuing fight was swift but intense. Spells were cast, bullets flew, and fists landed with precision. Despite Varnholz’s desperate attempt to fight back, even resorting to some sort of combat drug to enhance his abilities, he was no match for the combined force of the Outlaws.
A well-placed, non-lethal shot from Dr. Qwyk’s dueling pistol finally brought Varnholz down. As he fell, the working girls emerged from their hiding spots, confusion etched on their faces.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked, “Why did you do this?”
In response, Miss Mercy removed her hat of disguise, revealing her familiar face. The girls’ confusion turned into elation as they swarmed around her, their voices a chorus of relief and joy.
“I KNEW you would come back for us!” they exclaimed, their smiles genuine for the first time in a long while. The Bards and the Bees Brothel was finally free once again.
With the Bards and The Bees brothel in the capable hands of Miss Mercy’s girls, the Outlaws turned their attention to a new objective, Dash. They set out for the Mana Wastes, their journey made easier by the clockwork cycles they’d acquired. The barren landscape stretched out before them, leading up to a circle of cold black sand known as the Dead Spot. It resembled a pool of dark ink spilled from the heavens, a stark contrast against the surrounding desert.
In the distance, a figure caught their eye. A young woman, with a tomboyish charm, tending to cattle. Her gaze locked onto theirs as they approached on their mechanical steeds. Tychus called out, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness, “We don’t want to fight, just want to talk.”
The girl, Dash, was hesitant but intrigued. “About what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“About Loveless,” Tychus replied, watching Dash’s reaction closely.
“I don’t know anything about Loveless,” Dash responded quickly, a little too quickly.
“Rhanygl says different,” Tychus countered, holding Dash’s gaze.
At the mention of Rhanygl, Dash’s demeanor changed. “Rhanygl? Come in, let’s talk in my tent,” she said, leading them towards her humble abode.
Within the confines of the tent, Qwyk wasted no time. “So where did you smuggle the supplies for them?” he asked, his piercing gaze fixed on Dash.
“We moved it to a guy with dark eyes, a necromancer named Parsus from Geb,” Dash admitted. “My friends went on with a shipment and the crew should be back with a herd.”
Cyrus, however, was skeptical. He knew all too well Loveless’s tendency to tie up loose ends, just like she tried to do with Rhanygl. But his words seemed to offend Dash. “My friends will make it back, you’ll see!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with a mix of defiance and fear.
As the sun began to set, three figures appeared in the distance. Riders on white horses. Dash’s face lit up. “See, I told you my friends were tougher than you think,” she said, a smug smile spreading across her face. But her triumph was short-lived. As the riders grew closer, Dash’s smile faded, replaced by a look of sheer terror. “Something is wrong, those aren’t my friends,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The riders pulled back their cowls, revealing clockwork skulls in place of human heads. Dash’s friends had been turned into Headless Rustlers, undead creatures, just as Cyrus had feared. The Rustlers wasted no time, firing their arquebuses at Biskos and Cyrus from atop their horses.
In response, Tychus cast a spell that caused one of the Rustlers to convulse in pain. Biskos charged forward, landing swift punches with his mechanical arm before raising it defensively. Suddenly, the unpredictable magic of the Mana Wastes kicked in. Leaves sprouted from one of the Rustlers, while Biskos and the other Rustlers became disoriented, their actions erratic.
In the midst of this chaotic skirmish, one of the disoriented rustlers turned against its own kind, delivering a fatal blow that sent the other creature crashing to the ground.
Qwyk attempted to seize the moment, firing his weapon at the remaining rustlers. But the disarray of battle threw off his aim, the bullet whistling harmlessly past its intended target.
Meanwhile, Miss Mercy strutted confidently towards the rustlers, her fiery hair catching the fading light. Her words, laced with charm and wit, seemed to have a strange effect on the creatures. One rustler stumbled back, visibly affected, while another shook its head, as if trying to shake off the enchanting aura of the kitsune bard.
Cyrus, his eyes cold and focused, leveled Bertha at the rustlers. His shot echoed through the wastes, finding its mark on one of the undead. The rustler staggered but remained standing, its empty gaze fixed on the dhampir.
Tychus, sensing the momentum shift in their favor, summoned a wave of agonizing despair that washed over the rustlers. The creatures writhed under the weight of the sorcerer’s spell, their forms flickering as they endured the mental torment. Amidst this, Tychus called an air repeater to his hand, finishing off one of the rustlers with a well-placed shot.
But the battle was far from over. The last rustler retaliated, firing its arquebus at Biskos. The human monk grunted as the bullet found its mark, but he remained steadfast. With a swift move, Biskos grappled the rustler, landing a critical hit that sent the creature’s horse reeling. The rustler retaliated with a longsword, cutting a deep gash across Biskos’s arm. Despite the injury, Biskos retaliated with a flurry of punches, his mechanical arm a blur of motion.
In response to the escalating situation, Qwyk fired his gun, landing a critical hit on one of the rustlers. Meanwhile, Mercy used her charm again, her words weaving a spell of confusion over the last rustler. Cyrus, seizing the opportunity, fired Bertha again, the crossbow bolt soaring through the air to pierce the rustler’s armor.
As the battle raged on, Tychus cast a healing spell on Biskos, his hands glowing with a soothing light. The wounds on Biskos’s arm slowly knit together, the pain subsiding under the sorcerer’s magic.
Suddenly, one of the rustlers did something unexpected – it removed its head and threw the clockwork skull at Cyrus, Mercy, and Biskos. Meanwhile, another rustler turned its attention to Qwyk, firing its arquebus at the goblin. Qwyk staggered under the impact, blood staining his clothes.
Despite the setback, the Outlaws continued their assault. Biskos launched himself at the rustler before him, grappling it with his mechanical arm. With a swift motion, he threw the creature off its horse. The rustler quickly scrambled to its feet, but its movements were sluggish, disoriented.
As the rustler tried to flee, Qwyk fired his gun, the bullet piercing the creature’s armor. It faltered, its form flickering as it neared death. Mercy, seizing the chance, uttered a final enchanting phrase, her voice ringing out in the emptiness of the wastes. Cyrus, his gaze steely, fired Bertha one last time. The crossbow bolt found its mark, ending the rustler’s existence with a finality that echoed in the deafening silence that followed.
As the dust settled, the Outlaws found themselves standing amidst the remains of their enemies. Among the debris, they found a journal belonging to one of the rustlers, Jessie. The entries confirmed much of what Dash had told them about Parsus and the grim fate that had befallen her friends. Parsus, it seemed, had indeed killed Dash’s friends, turning them into the monstrous Headless Rustlers. With this revelation, the Outlaws steeled themselves for the challenges that lay ahead. They had avenged Dash’s friends, but their journey was far from over.
Following their victorious yet costly battle, they learned that Pyronite, a potent explosive, had been delivered to the Gunworks. The Gunworks, an industrial fortress renowned for its production of firearms and artillery, was a formidable structure. Its most notable feature was the Maw of Rovagug, a massive cannon that could obliterate threats from up to 15 miles away. It was a deterrent to the creatures of the Mana Wastes, ensuring the city’s safety from their raids.
But now, with the delivery of Pyronite, the very symbol of Alkenstar’s defense was in grave danger. If the Maw were to be destroyed, Alkenstar would lose its main line of defense. This revelation, coupled with Anjelique Loveless’s attempts to convince Parliament to put a standing army under her command, painted a troubling picture. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and the picture it formed was one of impending disaster.
Their suspicions were further confirmed at the Last Stop Saloon. There, amidst the clinking of glasses and the smoky haze of cigars, sat Vewslog. The leader of the Leadsmiths, whose men had been working with Loveless, seemed unperturbed by the chaos brewing around him. His nonchalant demeanor only heightened the Outlaws’ sense of urgency. The plot was clear: Destroy the Maw, force Parliament to agree to Loveless’s demands, and seize control of Alkenstar.
