Bolton Woltwork
[…Approximately 24 hours earlier]
Deep in the heart of New Dwarden, between Quadrants One and Two, lies the notorious Whistletop Alley; a vibrant hub where distinctions of status, sex, and species fade into the wonder of the thickening crowds. By day, the alley hums with the activity of vendors from both near and far, offering exotic goods and lively entertainment to families and travelers alike. But as the sun sets, a remarkable transformation unfolds, and Whistletop Alley reveals its true character, unburdened by the revealing rays of sunlight.
As the sun sets, grills ignite, entertainers put on elaborate costumes, and musicians add the final touches to their instruments. In these moments, the alley transforms into a distinct realm where the air is thick with temptations from all corners of the mind. As quickly as entertainment takes center stage, precious rings momentarily disappear, bills are forgotten, and estranged relationships light anew, earning Whistletop Alley its local moniker—the "Blown Whistle District."
Stepping into the alley, one is greeted with meandering wide smiles and tantalizing scents wafting through the air, drawing them further into the labyrinth of stalls that populate the streets from end to end. The hypnotizing aroma of grilled and barbecued spiced meats dances carefree in the breeze, mesmerizing even the most stubborn passersby. Yet, this is only the beginning of the sensory feast that awaits. Once trapped by the large portions of food and drink, melodic hums of music and captivating dramatic performances dazzle long into the morning. From dusk until dawn, the alley comes alive with energy as audiences are swept away by the captivating spectacle unfolding before their eyes, each moment brimming with anticipation and excitement.
Whistletop Alley's unique architecture adds to its allure, with charming, quaint buildings crafted meticulously from orange brick, cobblestone, local woods, and iron, creating a contrasting scenic backdrop from the often congested Quadrants around it. And though other streets boast similar beauty, Whistletop Alley stands out as the largest and most vibrant, stretching from the outskirts of New Dwarden to its very core.
Whistletop Alley exudes an irresistible allure, whether you look at its tall rooftops, gaping sewer grates, or winding offshoot alleys. It seems purposefully crafted for adventurous souls seeking excitement. Its charming streets whisper tales of hidden treasures and secret passages, drawing crafty and nimble explorers to uncover its mysteries, one nook and cranny at a time.
Tonight, however, Whistletop Alley held an even greater allure. Amidst the lively, fire-lit atmosphere of a summer night, a sudden commotion shattered the tranquility, drawing all eyes upward to the rooftops. "By the dog neath’ it's tail! It’s that damn… bleedin’-…" exclaimed a spook vendor, his voice trailing off in shock. Another onlooker gasped, adding to the surrounding vendors' sudden surprise, recognizing the agile silhouette as none other than the infamous Whistletop Burglar. Whispers of disbelief spread through the crowd, and the atmosphere crackled with excitement and apprehension. Some drank to the sight of the man seemingly floating above the rooftops, while others bowed their heads in fear. Nevertheless, the sudden appearance of the “Whistletop Burglar” captivated all who dared to look upward.
Amidst the metallic labyrinth of winding pipes, giant oscillating cogs, and pistoning contraptions that formed the canopy above Whistletop Alley, a young man named Bolton Woltwork, mischief twinkling in his eyes, moved through the sky with a strange kind of grace. Each of his movements seemed to echo a rigid dance as if choreographed by an erratic puppeteer. No matter how hard people searched, most onlookers could only catch a glimpse of the wispy plume of hot white steam and smoke that trailed behind him.
“They’ve taken a shinin’ to me?” wondered Bolton aloud. “Already? I haven’t even gotten to doing a flip with my new… Air Shoes? I’ll work on the name, I promise!” shouted Bolton to the lively crowd, his voice drowning in the bustle.
Noticing the crowd's fascination, Bolton paused, briefly perching himself atop a sturdy red tent, considering whether to stir up further commotion in the already lively night.
"Impure thief! Freak of a half-breed!" shouted a group of men from below.
Tall and sturdy, Bolton stood out against the dark sky, his figure sharply outlined against the night. Clad in a brown bowler hat, dark overcoat, golden suspenders, white shirt, and brown boots, he resembled the tradesmen of old. Despite his familiar attire, Bolton's presence stirred fear and doubt among the onlookers, who hurled accusations of "Thief," "Demon," and "Burglar" at him in an unending chorus.
A storm of drunken insults and threats arose from the angry crowd below, but Bolton simply tilted his head in mock confusion. The moonlight reflected off his goggles as he scanned the crowd with keen anticipation, daring anyone to meet his gaze.
"I hope everyone here is having a wonderful night! See, it’s my first night in town since… well, too long," Bolton called out to a crowd too loud to hear him. "Might have to raise me an octave or two," he thought, coughing loudly before speaking again. "Can any of you drunkards tell me where I might find the original Akiyoma Airship?" he called from his elevated perch, his voice carrying over the bustling square. “You know…the-?"
"In the same direction as a prison cell!" retorted a toothless old man from below. "New Dwarden’s no place for bottom-dwelling feed! Thief!"
"...airship," Bolton continued, reluctant to finish his sentence.
"The Clinkers will fill the streets here soon! You won’t be able to get away with picking someone else's nose!" threatened another man below.
“What’s this, then? Did that thief swipe your front teeth along with your sense of humor?” Bolton quipped, his voice dripping with mockery. But his smile quickly faded as the crowd’s murmurs grew louder, their annoyance cutting through his bravado.
"Shoulda waited on the midnight grog to loosen their tongues. Well, anger isn’t going to summon my informant or rescue these frogs," Bolton sighed to himself, wiping a loose bit of dripping food from his shoulder, hurled from the crowd below. With a swift movement, he disappeared in a puff of hot white smoke. The metallic glint and clink of his gloves and heels filled the night air with mystery and wonder, punctuating the scene with puffing sounds and hissing steam before he vanished into the shadows.
Bolton watched as the crowd seamlessly redirected their focus to the next spectacle: an approaching float in the shape of a giant frog smoking an even more colossal pipe. Almost offended by the crowd’s ability to brush him off so quickly, he couldn't help but be drawn to the sight of the frog. As he soared above the thickening crowds, his thoughts began to drift. Memories of his family and their time together surfaced uncontested. He daydreamed about a life that felt long past, his eyes momentarily losing focus on the bustling scene below. Glancing back at the float, he observed the procession of musicians harmonizing around it as they traversed the rain-kissed amber roads below.
"I hear parades are more fun when you're not welcome," muttered the young man under his breath, his lips reluctantly curling into a smile. "We’re very unwelcome. And now, we've got Primarian Clinkers to worry about," mumbled Bolton to himself, directing his gaze towards metallic beings weaving their way through the crowd effortlessly.
In the warm lantern glow, towering Clinkers stalked the alley like mechanical scarecrows, their angular faces and rotating cogs casting eerie shadows. Bolton watched them from his stone perch, his eyes narrowing as they prowled on mechanical stilts. Colorful smoke billowed from their gaping mouths, adding to their unsettling presence. Their yellow, crosshatched eyes scanned the crowd with an almost human intensity, searching for anything out of place.
Among the hundreds of Clinkers, one shifted its gaze to Bolton with snapping precision. Unlike the rest, this one’s metallic body was littered with confetti and random paint. Whether by chance or not, the Clinker’s head tilted jarringly before it suddenly lifted itself high into the sky on its metallic stilts, responding as if to a threat. Its eyes flashed red as it carefully poked its leg through the crowd below, making its way toward Bolton.
After an audible gasp, Bolton wasted no time and immediately turned in the other direction, making his way deeper into Whistletop Alley. Once again, he whisked himself away into the darkness of the night, leaving thoughts of any Clinkers far behind him.
Bolton navigated Whistletop Alley's nooks and crannies, ducking under low-hanging banners and dodging bustling crowds. He reached Akiyoma Square, five miles from the guarded Primarian Royale. Amid the lamplight glow stood the revered Akiyoma—a sky-scraping airship replica, a testament to New Dwarden's ingenuity. Without hesitation, Bolton boarded the monument, scaling its towering mast with practiced ease. From his high perch, he scanned the cityscape and the imposing iron gates of the Primarian Royale looming at the alley's end.
Bolton surveyed the sprawling city, pride swelling in his chest. His emerald-green eyes shimmered with the fireworks painting the night sky. He glanced at the city, reminded of New Dwarden’s ingenuity. As he adjusted his stance, the thirteen Quadrants stretched out around him, each a world of its own
"How has it only been five years?" Bolton mumbled under his breath, his gaze fixed on the vibrant cityscape. He daydreamed of a life that felt long past, his eyes glued to the intricate machinery, colossal cogs, and towering structures of Quadrants One and Two. Quadrant One, with its buildings fashioned like giant flutes, caught his attention. These structures harmonized with the wind, producing melodies that drifted through the air like ghostly whispers. Meanwhile, Quadrant Two was filled with shorter, stockier buildings, each shaped according to the enterprise they housed.
Bolton’s eyes often wandered upwards, not only scouting escape routes but also marveling at the uniquely porous buildings of Quadrant One. Creatures dubbed Ignorpa—New Dwarden’s resident giant lizards—lounged under the buildings' lips and extending balconies, their bright colors and tufts of fur visible from miles away. When his gaze shifted to Quadrant Two, he fantasized about entering a busy chicken drumstick-shaped restaurant, its alluring scents tempting him. He watched as crowds of people, smiling, hugging, and dancing, moved in and out of the restaurant like well-organized traffic.
One view in particular captured Bolton’s attention for longer than he realized: a woman with short black hair, wearing an elegant black skirt and top. Her nose had a subtle shade of red, and her eyes were large, accentuated with makeup. He watched as she laughed with her friends, similarly dressed, before disappearing into the crowd. For reasons unknown to Bolton, a feeling of longing and guilt washed over him, his eyes softening as he observed their bond. "In a world where metal and flesh mix like midnight mead, the heart keeps us human. But sometimes, I wonder if even that can rust.", he thought.
Before Bolton's thoughts could wander further, a gentle rustle and tug of his wavy hair snapped his attention back to the present moment. The bustling scene below faded as he looked up at the magnificent Primarian Royale. This serpentine building housed New Dwarden's political elite, with King Woltwork reigning from its highest peak.
Bolton admired the Primarian Royale’s lifelike grace as it wound around Corazco, New Dwarden’s largest mountain. Structures jutted from the mountainside, each representing their respective Master of their Quadrant. While Bolton couldn't discern all thirteen, he noted the prominence of the "Owl" just below the King and the "Bear" at the mountain's base. The height of each structure symbolized its occupant's political stature. Only the King’s figure remained immovable, perpetually perched atop Corazco like a grandfather clock, commonly dubbed the “King’s Clock.”
Prominent structures jutted from the mountainside, each representing a Master Of The Quadrant. While Bolton couldn't discern all thirteen, he noted the prominence of the "Owl" just below the King and the "Bear" at the mountain's base. The height of each structure symbolized its occupant's political stature. Only the King’s figure remained immovable, perpetually perched atop Corazco like a grandfather clock, commonly dubbed the “King’s Clock.”
Bolton stretched his arms toward the top of Mount Corazco, his voice brimming with excitement and anticipation. "Vermolly! Before you say anything, you’re always reminding me of what’s important, and it’s much appreciated."
A sudden shuffling could be heard from under Bolton’s brown bowler hat, causing him to wince in pain between each movement.
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“Ow! Now, before we willingly… Dammit! Relax... break one of the king’s most sacred rules," he winced, a painful grin spreading across his face. "You can-" His youthful voice broke the stillness, accompanied by bursts of fireworks overhead, prompting a swift reply from Vermolly.
A gentle, croaky voice emerged from beneath the brim of Bolton's brown bowler hat. "You can stand to be more patient! And by the powers of earth and sea," Vermolly gasped, "may Yerro bless me with a touch of cool air. Unlike a frog, I cannot endure this warmth for long." Amidst the crackling excitement, a small webbed green hand emerged from beneath the hat, lifting it slightly to reveal eight additional pairs of luminous yellow eyes blinking rapidly. Each eye boasted uniquely colorful slit irises surrounded by mesmerizing rotating patterns.
Among the nine creatures nestled within Bolton’s hat, Vermolly, a pocket-sized Alchemian, crawled out and dangled proudly in front of Bolton's face. Her webbed fingers easily gripped the rim of his fur-felt bowler hat.
“I’m afraid the Greisha ceremony is something you are compelled to respect,” Vermolly added with a smirk. “We Alchemians abide by less divisive customs.”
Vermolly often reminded Bolton that Alchemians are a species of frog-like creatures, a mix of salamander and bullfrog. They possess human characteristics such as standing on two legs, speaking various languages, and their famous alchemy—concoctions brewed from their often corrosive throat fluids. More importantly to Bolton, they are easy to carry, a convenient trait if one should befriend you.
“Spend one day in my thoughts, Vermolly. I’d be willing to bet the average Alchemian wouldn’t know an ocean from pond water, let alone be attuned to the entire human race,” laughed Bolton.
“Let’s hear it, ‘pond water’. Did she remind you of her?” Vermolly prodded. She reached her tiny hands toward Bolton’s nose and tapped it playfully until she crinkled it. Bolton was ready to sneeze before gently swatting her small, sticky hands away.
“Who?” Bolton responded coyly, his cheeks reddening.
“I don’t need to tap into an Alchemian collective to see that she did,” Vermolly replied, lightly teasing Bolton. “I could feel your heart rate gush from the top of your head. Your cheeks are still warm.”
“It wasn’t going to work out,” Bolton muttered defeatedly.
“What’s not?” Vermolly prodded. She perched on Bolton’s right shoulder, observing the world seemingly spin around Bolton as he gestured animatedly.
“I’m…so…. SO OUT HERE,” replied Bolton, splaying his hands outwards toward the city. “And she’s so in there,” he continued, pointing to his heart. “I know it sounds stupid but that's all I got. It would be like having a wolf kiss a hare.”
“Why limit yourself to two schools of thought?” wondered Vermolly aloud. “...and I take it you’re the tough wolf?” she asked, playfully pushing against Bolton’s cheek.
“Sure ain’t the hare,” replied Bolton confidently yet playfully. “She’s scared of the world. I’m not. I want to whisk her away. She doesn’t want to go,” he continued softly, his voice trailing off. “When we’re together, it’s like our eyes burn bright together. But adventure appears to only call for me…”
“Maybe she isn’t ready. Matters of the soul are like seeds. If we focus on growth, who knows what you both might become? Friends, best friends, lovers—it doesn’t matter when the future is unknown. The best thing we can do is love all the same. Pursue your ambitions and let growth come to you,” Vermolly consoled, gently removing her hand from Bolton’s cheek. “She’ll come if it’s her path. Otherwise, look forward, like you humans usually do.”
“You know…I was hesitant to leave the shop today. To come out here and risk it all over a fancy letter,” Bolton said softly. “How did that ol’ guy even know where I was?”
“Sounds like you regret snatching the letter from his satchel,” Vermolly accused. “Coulda been useful having him around.”
Vermolly watched as Bolton’s gaze meandered toward the restaurant, watching it longingly. She positioned herself in front of him, her large eyes meeting his.
“The letter. The king is ‘risking it all’ just meeting with you. Soul Rot is what waits beyond breaching the Greisha Ceremony,” Vermolly explained in an understanding tone. “Likely to be of the utmost importance. At least, one would hope.”
“Don’t trust royalty. Unless it’s my brother himself, I’m not dealin’ with them. Everything feels wrong. My brother and I aren’t ever to communicate again—that’s the condition of that stupid ceremony. As far as I know, the letter still counts,” Bolton explained, his voice tinged with anxiety.
“And your older sister?” wondered Vermolly.
“Amelia? Last I heard, she went toward Quadrant Seven. Five years ago.” Bolton replied, his hand pointing behind him. “She and I were close.”
“Were?” Inquired Vermolly.
“I got nothin’ against her. She just disappeared ya know? Straight into the crowd and…that’s the last I saw her.” Lamented Bolton, looking toward a pocket watch hanging from his jacket pocket. “She was good to me.”
Bolton opened his golden pocket watch with a satisfying crack, revealing a blue gem embedded within. On the opposite side was a small black-and-white picture of three children under the former King Woltwork and Queen Woltwork. Vermolly observed the photo with a fond smile. Alchemian. Vermolly examined each child individually.
Amelia smiled with missing teeth, flashing a peace sign as she cuddled next to her mother. Michael—the current king—stood regal and unsmiling beside his father. Bolton, meanwhile, lifted his dress shirt to reveal a toy airplane underneath, his shirt stained with food that had escaped his parents' notice.
“You don’t change, do you?” Vermolly observed.
“Neither does my brother. He’s never been one to take risks. I can’t help but be curious about what this is about,” Bolton pondered, perching his chin on his hand as he dangled his feet over the crow’s nest.
“So, let’s meet this sewer boy mentioned in that other letter and get back to our humble garage?” Vermolly suggested. “Our humble beginnings.”
“It was more like a note on a crumpled napkin, but we shouldn’t waste more time,” Bolton agreed with a quick smirk. “The signal’s about to go off anyway.” His eyes shone with confidence as he surveyed the ship.
With renewed determination, Bolton stood up, looking skyward. He fixed his suspenders and gently scooped Vermolly onto his palm, tucking her back under his cap. Ready to explore the Akiyoma, Bolton set off with a confident stride, the anticipation of new adventures rejuvenating his steps.
A surge of excitement coursed through Bolton at the thought of taking the helm of an airship rather than just tinkering with its components. With practiced ease, he descended the side of the monument using a sturdy rope attached to a large anchor. Before he could further explore the airship, a peculiar sensation came from his front pocket where his pocket watch sat. Grabbing the watch, he watched it vibrate with a blue gleam emanating from within. "That’s never happened," he muttered, shaking off the distraction. “What did you do, Michael?” Bolton opened his pocket watch to reveal a strong blue light from the embedded gem before putting it away in a panic. “Something to address…later,” he thought nervously.
“This whole thing’s one big attraction now,” mumbled Bolton in disbelief. “Better get moving if I’m going to make it,” he said, glancing toward the highlighted exit sign near the ship’s mast.
As Bolton crossed the slanted deck, he admired the ship's large, intricately carved helm. Some images depicted Alchemians like Vermolly surfing the stars, while others featured Gale Whales soaring among the clouds—creatures said to hold a city on their backs while remaining light as a feather. The helm's centerpiece bore a bold motto: "The Akiyoma Airship! First to brave distant horizons unscathed! First to return without a loss or mishap! First to shield New Dwarden from its adversaries!"
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As Bolton traversed the grand, seemingly endless metallic corridors of The Akiyoma, he found himself lost in the ship's storied past. With each step towards the ship’s tilted hull, he passed countless plaques and trophies, each a testament to the ship’s history and New Dwarden’s advancements in airship technology. These sights stirred memories of tales told by his late mother and father—grandiose stories of the formidable Akiyoma IV, battle-ready airships embarking on perilous missions, fending off sky pirates and other dangers in daring escapes. Each glossy plaque reminded him of a time when he was destined to protect New Dwarden’s skies as King of New Dwarden and Commander of the Akiyoma fleet. Each passing plaque was reminiscent of a different story told to him and his siblings when he was young.
Among the many stories told to Bolton and his siblings, one always stood out. As a child, every morning upon waking up, he would rush to brush his teeth and quickly lean against the nearest window. He didn’t always stay inside the Primarian Royale, but when he did, it was a prime opportunity to observe the children playing 'soldier' in Whistletop Alley below. They depicted New Dwarden’s military with large cogs on their backs and makeshift metallic outfits, battling other local kids dressed in cloaks who threw tiny smoke bombs to represent the notorious pirates known as the 'Whistlin’ Death' and their often smoky trails left behind.
Deep down, Bolton had always wanted to join the other kids, but as a royal child, he could only watch them live out their adventures or play with his often stricter older brother, Michael. 'Older by seconds but each second years,' Bolton often thought. After being scolded on multiple occasions for trying to pretend spar with Michael, he instead eagerly awaited the nights when his father or mother had time to tell him the legendary stories New Dwarden had to offer; although to Bolton, his favorites were the ones particular to the sky.
Between all the stories and adventures, Michael was always quick to remind Bolton and Amelia that only 'miscreants' and 'vermin' would adopt a life in the sky. Unless they flew under the banner of New Dwarden, they had no place in the clouds. This sentiment resonated well with their father and most of those around them. He often spoke of the “Whistlin’ Death” pirates, who flew crude, square boarding vessels that whistled through the parting clouds like bombs, landing on any unfortunate ships below.
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Yet even Michael wasn’t immune to the sheer adventure emanating from these tales. Before any scoldings and corrections, Bolton, Amelia, and Michael would often sneak into the royal library, located close to their room on the 13th floor of the Primarian Royale. There, they would scour the shelves for tales and stories, accounts, and even logs of dangerous creatures, criminals, treasures, and, of course, stories of pirates, which they would re-enact deep into the night. Bolton smiled at the thought. Sometimes, Michael would pull his blanket off in the middle of the night to scare Amelia, who slept next door, pretending to be a “Whistlin’ Death Pirate.” Their night escapades came to an abrupt end when the King and Queen installed a robotic bodyguard known as an Arc Soldier in the Primarian Royale. Bolton called them Wind-up Soldiers due to the constant ticking sound from their metallic chests and the slowly rotating wheel that rose from their backs.
Upon finally arriving at the base of the ship, Bolton couldn't help but smile at the enormous, gaping squared windows. Just like in the stories, the windows were made of a light, durable metal, ready to swing open with equally enormous triangular cannons poised just behind them, ready for battle at any second. 'These cannons were said to rotate upon firing, each shot stronger than the last,' read the plaque below the complex machinery holding them upwards. To Bolton, a detail far too exciting to skip.
Regretfully, he kept moving. As he descended the candle-lit stairs—normally meant for tour guides and tourists—he came upon wide arched doors of wood and metal. Like the doorway, the inside of the ship appeared carefully crafted, light enough to fly but strong enough to withstand damage. It was a delicate balance of a wordsmith’s grace, a blacksmith’s beauty, and their combined grit.
“The Akiyoma standard,” mumbled Bolton aloud.
The ship had a crosshatched roof, while the floor was thin, light metal. The walls were made of beautiful, sturdy wood, a brilliant brown with just the right amount of gloss. Through the archway was the largest chamber of the airship, where its giant wings were attached to a cylindrical engine. The wings spanned twice the ship's length, sprouting from thin slits in the ship's walls. Gears, tubes, levers, and pulleys generously made up the inside of this chamber, giving it a metallic sheen in the lantern light.
After venturing deeper into the engine room, Bolton noticed a giant, gaping wound in the ship's walls. It hadn't been repaired, left as a display of the battle scar the ship had suffered before it was decommissioned—a wound from the notorious Whistlin' Death pirates. The cracked wood and metal bore scorch marks, and the hole size was large enough for a Clinker to easily step through, even when its stilt-like legs were extended.
This was an eerie reminder of the dangers lurking outside and perhaps even within the walls of the Akiyoma. The plaque beside the ship’s wound noted, ‘After incapacitating their targets, the pirates would capture their prey using the first successfully stolen Akiyoma known to New Dwarden—an injured ship taken during a decommissioning ceremony on [illegible due to being scratched out]. Belonging to fleet Alpha 3-213, the enemy Akiyoma was modified to wield a giant screeching claw that would descend from the blackened clouds, capturing the vessel below with terrifying efficiency, leaving only a booming echo in its wake. This ship survived. Praise be to New Dwarden’s superior engineering. Airships have since been significantly fortified to prevent such crimes.’
“The exit’s to the right—move now, Bolton, or we’ll miss our only shot at reaching your brother,” Vermolly urged from beneath his cap, her voice tense with urgency.
“This moment would’ve been far more magical if I wasn’t in such a hurry,” lamented Bolton aloud before turning to his right. “Shame. There’s so much to learn, even from this hole in the wall.”
“And more when we take care of business,” Vermolly reminded, tipping Bolton’s hat upward so she could be heard clearly.
After exhausting two loose lanterns and making a quick trip to the Akiyoma’s notorious latrine, Bolton finally reached the bottom of the hull. There, he encountered one more wooden door, an exit for tourists finishing their visit early. Although this Akiyoma had been repurposed as a display, the door itself bore a large, angular bronze bust. The intricate bust provided context on the ship's original builders and proclaimed it a gift to New Dwarden, following its near destruction five years ago. It depicted a giant slamming a hammer down on a warm blue forge. Its blue sparks were carved in marvelous detail, and the giant's expression was firm and unwavering in his focus.
Bolton carefully examined the door, recalling several famous giants who had served New Dwarden faithfully, at least according to his father. However, none by the name of Hios.
Nevertheless, he pressed on and opened the door, following a stairway that stretched under a giant brass chain leading to a beautifully decorated golden triangular anchor, pressed firmly on the orange-bricked floor.
“This thing’s a giant. Like a village in the sky,” Bolton observed, looking up at the enormous ship from under the hull. “Tourist be damned, this airship belongs in the sky.”
Vermolly crawled from under Bolton’s cap, noticing his gaze meandering into contemplation, his eyes flickering between confidence and a curious kind of sadness. He stared longingly at the towering mast of the Akiyoma peeking above him, likely pondering his repeated dream of being an airship pilot. Drawing closer, Vermolly perched delicately atop the bridge of his nose, her webbed feet barely making a sound.
"Remember what ol’ Dani Alton used to say," she began softly. "Being an airship pilot isn't just about gazing skyward. It's about understanding what keeps you anchored to the earth below. A steadfast will forms the foundation for a resilient crew."
“Are we on about this again?” Laughed Bolton, his eyes crossed looking toward Vermolly. “He took that from a Primarian Arc recruitin’ pamphlet.”
“And?” Said Vermolly playfully.
“And…dreams keep the ship afloat; hard work lifts it off. I remember, blah blah blah” Bolton mimicked, now refocused.
“Your emotions lack subtlety,” Vermolly admitted.
“Subtlety doesn’t run in the family,” Bolton agreed lightheartedly.
“An airship’s pilot should be chosen by merit, not by family. Rules be damned,” Vermolly comforted, her croaking voice a soothing melody amidst the quiet night. “We’ll build one eventually. Start small.”
Bolton chuckled, “Should I mark you down as my loyal Alchemian airship engineer?”
“Oh, blessed no. No. Quadrant Thirteen is our home now,” Vermolly admitted, swaying carefree from one side of Bolton’s hat to the other. “No airship’s for my immediate future.”
"Do Alchemians usually frequent airships anyway?" Bolton wondered, carefully handling Vermolly from arm to arm.
"Perhaps when someone of a more responsible background pilots it?" Vermolly teased.
"Like another Alchemian?" Bolton suggested.
Vermolly recoiled with mock horror. "By earth and sea, no! Too arrogant. They generally can’t see beyond their flat snouts. I'm far superior," she declared, her gentle laughter filling the air. “Besides, I’m far smaller than the average Alchemian. Can’t repair anything larger than your average cog.”
Vermolly leaned over Bolton’s curled finger, hanging from his nail and gazing up at the fireworks lighting up the sky. Hearing a larger, more sizzling firework, she suddenly a particular detail from the note Bolton received before his quest into the deeper Quadrants. The note instructed him to approach a specially designed sewer hole when the fireworks exploded at midnight. The first firework would be a purple dazzle, the second a green array with a purple center, and the last a large star-shaped explosion signaling the start of the late-night festivities in Whistletop Alley and Bolton’s chance to enter the Primarian Royale
“Signal should be soon, Bolton. Head up, pend your thoughts,” Vermolly said, rushing up Bolton’s arm onto his makeshift leather helmet. “I’d say we have five minutes until the second signal.”
"Quickly off-topic, Vermolly,” Bolton wondered, looking up over his head. “You say I’m reckless, but you’ve never talked about your time aboard the..."
“I’m not so gullible to know you won’t go venturing off to the people who wronged me. An airship is not difficult to find. Even for a Quadrant Thirteen bumpkin,” Vermolly replied sternly.
“It’s only been two years with you, and you know me that well?” Bolton laughed suddenly.
“As I’ve said, you’re not subtle,” Vermolly laughed back. “Now let’s get those Gale Frogs outta your helmet. The second firework will explode soon.” Refocused, Vermolly tilted Bolton’s helmet, revealing the frogs underneath. “Now hurry and unclip your chin strap, get these lil’ guys out.”
Bolton quickly agreed and unclipped his chinstrap, then removed his helmet. Nine Gale Frogs—each adorned with unique, striking patterns—aligned themselves into a haphazard formation, croaking louder and louder until they naturally formed a circle.
“Ah, well, once they stop pulling your hair, it’s difficult to remember they’re there,” Bolton said with some embarrassment. “Right now, Vermolly, think you can do that Alchemian bubble thing? Just shove ’em in a bubble and wave ’em farewell. I know these guys belong in the air.”
Vermolly's expression fell. "Still not quite at full strength. Can’t make any bubbles at the moment. More like, not… even close, to be honest," she confessed, her voice softening while examining the nine colorful tiny frogs.
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“You’re curious, aren’t you? If I’ve healed?” Vermolly challenged, inflating her throat pouch to reveal a scar. “I haven’t,” she said, her voice disappointed.
Bolton nodded slightly. Vermolly inflated her throat pouch, slightly hovering over Bolton’s hands. She struggled to maintain the pouch's inflation, slowly falling into a sudden plummet.
"I'm not a New Dwardian Iron Medic, but at least I can save a life," Bolton said as he caught Vermolly mid-fall. “Could’ve done better, though,” he admitted with guilt. He examined her throat pouch with a halfhearted, pain-filled smile, recalling the day he had rescued Vermolly. "Not so different from working on machines and doing surgery," he remarked sarcastically, meeting Vermolly's pouted expression.
"Wouldn't be here if you didn't try. Plus, my pouch works well enough to help you run your makeshift shop," Vermolly said, comforting Bolton.
"Last I checked, we both run that. Don’t you dare give me more responsibility than I need," Bolton affirmed gently, cradling Vermolly on his shoulder.
Suddenly, the Gale Frogs sprang to life on Bolton’s head, their slimy feet shuffling before they began croaking rhythmically. At the same time, the second firework exploded, sending sparks of green raining throughout Whistletop Alley, giving it a mysterious green allure.
"Ah, well... looks like you can speak frog," Vermolly remarked. “They seem to be reacting to the wind conditions.”
“Which are?” Bolton wondered.
“Good enough,” Vermolly replied.
“So not the firework?” Bolton inquired sarcastically.
“Fraid’ not,” Vermolly joked back. “Look at ’em, they appear to be croaking in the direction of the howling gales.”
With a sense of order and urgency, the Gale Frogs seemingly instinctively made their descent down Bolton's form. They gripped his wavy hair like nimble climbers, then sprang from his ears to his shoulders before leaping into the swirling winds that enveloped the surrounding buildings.
“Observe how they shoot air from between their webbed appendages even as they walk. Remind you of something?” Vermolly said, following closely behind the last Gale Frog in line.
Bolton nodded, continuing to watch the Gale Frogs closely. They approached the edge of his extended arm, jumping one by one into the wind with great confidence. In the air, their pouches inflated as they blew reflective bubbles, suspending them in a mesmerizing swirling dance.
“The Airshoes? That’s where you got the idea?” Bolton suddenly realized, grabbing the harness hidden under his jacket. His shoes, originally designed for use in a bog, were repurposed for bursts of air. His gloves, made of leather and metal, could release powerful blasts of air from compartments attached to his legs. His jacket, in turn, acted like a parachute.
“I’m certain we agreed on calling them Vapor Jets. You’ve been using them for about a month now,” Vermolly replied, perched on Bolton’s finger. “You’ve done well to navigate with them so efficiently. However, I’ve yet to perfect them. They cannot carry much fuel, likely just enough for a handful of escapes.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” chuckled Bolton. “You don’t seem to let me.”
“I’ve been around you long enough to know that it doesn’t take an airship to have your thoughts in the clouds,” Vermolly said, placing her eyes in front of Bolton’s.
“Tell me this, Vermolly…” Bolton gently placed Vermolly on the brim of his hat. “How do these little critters know where they’re going?”
“Their instinct overpowers their fear. There are things in life more powerful than immediate danger. More important. Perhaps you can learn from the Gale Frogs,” Vermolly replied.
"They eventually find their way back to the sewers, which in turn leads to their pond and far from the clamor of exotic animal vendors."
Vermolly reclined on the brim of Bolton's helmet, her legs swinging gently as she observed the Gale Frogs vanishing into the night. With a gentle hand, Bolton guided her back beneath his hat. But not before she took one last glance toward the skyline, then nestled comfortably once more.
“Let’s get movin’, Vermolly. Truth be told, it scares me that I know nothing of what the rest of this day looks like, but then again, it’s also far more exciting. Maybe that’s what the lil’ guys feel?” Bolton mused aloud. “Anyway, there goes the third firework,” he mumbled, carefully hiding in the shadows of the Akiyoma.
"Now, where was I supposed to meet this… sewer fellow?" he pondered, refocusing on his task. Tapping his lips thoughtfully, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a crumpled note with instructions for the rendezvous: a hidden sewer entrance near the revered Akiyoma Statue, depicted in a crude sketch featuring an Alchemian perched atop a towering Giant.
"Dear Bolton,
Hurd you've been a sniffin' around for a way through the tunnels. That! Ain’t! EASY! Also, some scary ol’ guy has been sniffin’ all over Quadrant Thirteen for ya too. Says he’s from the capital and “doesn’t have much time!” or somethin. Don’ nobody have time! Any which way, everyone's got a bleedin' interest in gettin' through 'em tunnels lately! What's lurkin' down there, that's got folks so far wedged in their own streaker? Well, ya done me a solid fixin' up me motor when it was on its last legs and didn't blab to the local scrappers, so I reckon it's time to repay the favor. Don’t get caught. (Flip the note, I ranna outta space)
Got me, cousin, Occilo. Runs a cheeky li’ operation down under. Underneath Quadrants One, Two, and Eight, that is. Pay him a visit near that Akiyoma Airship replica. Meet him ova’ the sewa’ hole with the fancy drawin’s of the frog people and Giants. Ya’ think they might want to take their ol’ stomping grounds back someday? Anyway, the lad might sort you out proper. Or he might just end up gettin' you snuffed out. There's a reason he's down there, and I'm up here.
Oh and next time you're around for a fixin’, please do that. I may or may not have crashed into your garage door again.
With regards,
Selton Fox
PS: Bout’ Midnight. I’m told a purple firework -colorblind ya know-, greenlight and purple light, and Big Star Finish. Bout’ 2 minutes between each. That’s always been the signal.
“The man signed his name yet doesn’t want to be caught? Colorblind too…” chuckled Bolton, crumpling the note and sliding it back into his coat pocket, his mind already focused on the task.
Guided by whispers from his informant, Bolton set off to locate the elusive Occilo, a man renowned for his mastery of the intricate sewer networks beneath New Dwarden. He combed the monument's base, scanning for any sign of the manhole. Carefully, he crouched and stuck to the shadows under the Akiyoma until he spotted one that matched the description in the letter. The manhole lay just beneath the ship's hull, to the left of its informational plaque.
Before setting out on foot, Bolton paused for a moment of respite, casting a cautious glance around him from the shelter of the monument's shadow. An eerie emptiness filled the typically bustling Akiyoma Square, a stark departure from its usual lively ambiance. The square lay deserted tonight, its tables and podiums left unattended in anticipation of an upcoming gathering. Despite the stillness, Bolton remained vigilant, his gaze flickering warily towards the circular windows of the surrounding buildings. He noticed the occasional Clinker patrolling, blinking their long beams of light in his direction, and the occasional drunk passerby, but none ventured toward the center of Akiyoma Square.
"I don’t mean to interrupt your mission, Bolton, but the closer you get to the Primarian Royale, the less likely you'll be to dodge those Clinkers unscathed," cautioned Vermolly from beneath his hat, her voice soft yet urgent. “Try staying in the shadows whenever possible.”
“My brother’s robots have their flaws. They can’t be everywhere, Vermolly. Besides, I have full faith in your… Vap-va,” replied Bolton, his voice also soft and quiet.
“Come now. It’s the moniker you came up with,” teased Vermolly.
"Vaporjet Harness," echoed both Bolton and Vermolly in unison. "Alright, alright," chuckled Bolton. "You built it, so you’ve got more of a duty to remember it," he added playfully, his eyes twinkling beneath the brim of his large brown bowler hat.
“Well, I agree the Clinkers can’t be everywhere, but unless humans have some skill I’m unaware of, neither can you. More so, an over-reliance on the—” Vermolly began before Bolton interrupted.
“The Vapor Jet Harness!” Bolton interjected.
"Yes!" Vermolly replied happily. "An over-reliance is dangerous. The invention itself is not optimized. We'll see where this passionate spirit gets you once we’re back at the shop. For now, steer clear of the Clinkers so we may have the chance to begin breakin’ rules," snarked Vermolly under her breath.
"We're not getting’ caught. Probably," whispered Bolton playfully. "Besides, Primarian Royale or not, my brother nor New Dwarden can argue with a bright glowing blue gem," he trailed off with uncertainty.
"Let us hope that is a suitable defense in court," replied Vermolly, her voice disappearing into the sound of loud star-shaped fireworks above.
Before Bolton could utter another word, a large, looming shadow fell over them. Moments earlier, he had sensed a change in the air, a faint rustling noise that made his heart race. He turned, his breath catching as he saw a towering figure emerge from the darkness of the Akiyoma, jumping down from the ship’s mast. A humanoid creature that wore a patchwork of dark armor, adorned with mechanical enhancements that hissed and rattled with each step. Its eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity while his chest pounded with the sound of powerful pistons.
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The humanoid creature advanced, and a swarm of Clinkers flooded the square, their cold, metallic bodies blocking every exit. The once-quiet space erupted into a cacophony of grinding gears and clanking metal, drowning out the distant fireworks. Bolton’s heart raced as he realized there were too many to count—an overwhelming wall of machinery closing in on him.
Before Bolton could react, the Clinkers screeched in unison, moving as one towards him. They halted abruptly, their eyes—glowing with an unnatural light—shifting from Bolton to the humanoid figure looming just behind him.
Of all the Clinker’s, one Clinker caught Bolton's eye. It stood at the forefront, eerily adorned with confetti and paint, much like the one he had encountered before. Upon seeing it, instinct took over, and Bolton began frantically searching the ground for the sewer mentioned in the letter, nearly forcing himself to forget the presence of the terrifying creature behind him.
"Bolton! Escape!" Vermolly's frantic voice yelped from within his cap, snapping his attention to the sewer hole a short distance to his right.
Vermolly released two spurts of gas, carefully concealing the area around Bolton but making sure he wasn’t caught within it—one grayish cloud meant for concealment, the other green, designed to confuse and disorient anyone unlucky enough to breathe it in. However, this also meant that the humanoid figure behind him remained unaffected by the gas, as it was too far away to be impacted.
Two sewer holes were visible around Akiyoma Square. One bore an industrial stamp, a carving of a bear roaring into an anvil, symbolizing Quadrant Two’s leader. The other sewer hole, just within reach, glistened under the moonlight—its metallic design matching the description in the letter.
Escape was all Bolton could think about. He twisted a couple of levers on his belt, clicked a button on his shoes, and launched himself toward the glistening sewer hole using his Vapor Jet Harness, clenching his teeth at the thought of the ‘thing’ just behind him.
But before he could gain any ground, Bolton was yanked out of his dash by an iron grip around his ankle, slamming him to the ground and jarring his jaw painfully. A sharp pain shot through his legs as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened.
"This…is wrong…something’s wrong—" Bolton’s heart pounded as he turned his gaze upwards, meeting the deafening sounds of the Clinkers and then the ominous sight of two large, glowing red eyes like smoldering brimstone looking down at him.
"I am Quadrant Leader Two, Enton, The Bear," the figure declared, stepping closer, his voice cold and dripping with malice. "You will know my name. You will remember it, and you will leave New Dwarden. This is your only warning."
“I remember you... what you were! What happened to you? I... I can’t just leave—I won’t!” Bolton stammered, his voice wavering under the crushing weight of fear that radiated from the shadowy figure.
“Understood.” Enton’s voice rumbled, a chilling void of emotion.
Without warning, a loud whirring sound erupted from Enton’s right side, sending a jolt of terror through Bolton. Instinctively, he scurried away the sound, his mind racing. Desperately, Bolton tried to shield Vermolly and escape with a burst from his Vapor Jet Harness, but it was too late. The whirring abruptly ceased, and Bolton felt a cold, metallic grip latch onto his back, crushing the air from his lungs and yanking him with terrifying force. The impact sent him crashing to the ground once more, his cap flying off in the process.
Bolton’s mind spun from the blow, his thoughts a jumbled mess of pain and confusion. Despite the chaos, his eyes fixated on the sewer hole, gleaming faintly just a few feet away—a distant beacon of escape. But before he could move, a sickening crunch reverberated through the air. Time seemed to slow as Bolton turned his head, dread pooling in his stomach. There, he saw it: Enton’s massive foot retracting from the flattened remains of his cap—of Vermolly.
“No…” Bolton’s voice was drowned out by the fireworks exploding overhead.
He reached for the crushed cap, but it was too late. Vermolly lay motionless, her tiny form mangled and lifeless, the vibrant spirit that had guided him through countless storms snuffed out in an instant. Pain radiated through Bolton as he lay on the cold ground, his gaze fixed on her broken body. A wave of despair crashed over him, quickly overtaken by a surge of viciously raw fury. Vermolly wasn’t just a companion—she was his anchor in this chaotic world, a voice of guidance and reason. And now she was gone, leaving him adrift in a sea of guilt and rage. The tears that threatened to fall simply didn’t, giving birth to seething vengeance.
“This... this is enough! What happened to you!?” Bolton’s voice cracked with anguish, his breath ragged, his fury shaking the platform beneath him. Rage and sorrow surged through him as he faced the Enton, whose gaze remained cold and unfeeling.
“An alchemian aligned herself with a pirate. That is her fate. There are no more warnings,” Enton said, his tone as icy as ever.
With almost no effort, Enton flipped Bolton over with his large arms, and hoisted him up, bringing their faces inches apart.
Before Bolton was a human being unlike any he had ever seen. Enton was massive, his shoulders broad, his muscles unnaturally chiseled. He wore only a pair of overalls hanging loosely from his sides, exposing a glass-like window in his chest that revealed his heart, glowing with the same eerie light as his eyes. Dark metallic patches of armor were embedded across his body, and pistons jutted from his back, reminiscent of the crank mechanisms common among New Dwarden soldiers. Despite his mostly human appearance, Bolton felt as if he were staring into the maw of a human furnace.
Bolton’s mind raced, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to grasp the horror before him. “Why!? You’re supposed to protect us! That’s what Quadrant Leaders do!” he shouted, his voice breaking with desperation. “You’re Yerro’s will—my brother’s will! How could you—?”
Enton’s expression hardened. “A heart. None will be taken. Look at what I’ve done and understand: mine will not be taken—nor my brethren’s. This is a threat, and I will deliver. To you. To Amelia. To the King.”
Bolton’s world splintered, his heart torn between viscous rage and a call for vengeance. The truth cut deeper than he could have imagined. Anguish burned in his eyes as he glared at the figure before him, his teeth grinding until the taste of blood filled his mouth.
“I will ki—” Bolton’s words were cut short by a swift, metallic palm striking his face, knocking him out cold.
“You will do nothing,” Enton replied, his voice chillingly calm, before the sound of Bolton’s vapor jet harness being crushed echoed through the square.
Bolton’s body went limp, his consciousness fading as tears welled in his eyes. He stared at Vermolly’s remains, his vision blurring as darkness consumed him.
Suddenly, another shadow emerged from the nearby sewer hole. It was a creature cloaked in the darkness of the night, its eyes boiling with a fiery orange glow and its mouth filled with pulsating, swollen red tissue, saliva dripping from its gaping jaws. In an instant, the creature’s tongue shot out like a striking serpent, wrapping around Bolton’s waist and yanking him out of Enton’s grasp, dragging him swiftly toward the sewer.
Bolton watched in stunned disbelief as the creature’s tongue pulled him in. He was too weak to resist, too terrified to move. Enton reeled from a sudden, unknown blow that struck the side of his cheek. As Bolton was dragged away, he caught sight of a figure crouched on the Akiyoma anchor, holding a smoking weapon and wearing a sinister, playful smile. Smoke curled from Enton’s face where the blow had landed.
Like the creature lurking in the sewer, the figure was obscured by the night. They appeared to be dressed in a long, flowing robe, possibly trimmed with fur and wore goggles that reflected the moonlight with an orange tinge. Their grin was unnaturally wide. After firing what seemed to be a hand cannon-like weapon at Enton, the figure leaped over Enton’s head, diving headfirst into the sewer and landing gracefully above the creature. As darkness closed in and the creature’s mouth enveloped him, Bolton heard a voice in the distance: “Who’s your favorite cousin!?”