Amelia’s hand lingered on the table, her knuckles pale as she steadied herself. The words of her brother’s letter still swirled in her mind like an unwelcome storm.
“Doesn’t feel real,” she muttered, breaking the silence.
Rick, who had been quietly adjusting a few knobs on the wall panel, glanced over his shoulder. “Nothing feels real after somethin’ like that. Trust me, Crowny. Ain’t the first time the world’s cracked open under my boots.”
“But Soul Rot? And this—this quest for Gigarock? My brother sending letters like he’s already a ghost…” She trailed off, her voice wavering.
Rick adjusted his red glasses, masking whatever emotion flickered across his face. “The King’s got his reasons, just like we’ve got ours. Ain’t no use in fixating on what’s already written. What matters now is the ink we’re about to spill.”
Amelia gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Is that supposed to be comforting? Because I’ve been holding this pen for years, and the page just keeps getting messier.”
Rick chuckled, low and gravelly. “Messy pages tell the best stories. Neat ones usually don’t get read.”
Before she could respond, Rick cleared the table in a few swift motions, his mechanical arms moving with a precision that seemed at odds with the randomness of the task. As the clinking plates and shuffling tools settled, Rick began tapping out a rhythm on the metallic surface.
Amelia’s gaze lingered on the table, her fingers tracing the grooves in the worn surface. The weight of her brother’s words loomed heavy over her. She broke the silence, her voice quiet but resolute. “Is Roy really your son? Does Soul Rot have a cure?”
Rick paused, his mechanical arms stilling mid-motion as if the question had struck a hidden nerve. He adjusted his red circular glasses, the flickering lantern light reflecting off the lenses and obscuring his eyes. “Crowny, you’re chasin’ shadows with questions like that.” His voice softened, but the edges of his tone carried something unspoken, something raw.
Amelia pressed on, her voice trembling. “You’re asking me to trust you, to believe in this... this impossible mission. But how am I supposed to trust anything when everything feels like it’s falling apart? When even my brother—” She stopped herself, her breath hitching.
Rick turned to face her fully, leaning on the table with his mechanical arms, the faint hum of his limbs filling the silence. “Stop. No more about my son. Just look at him.” He gestured toward Roy, who was busy at the controls, his movements fluid and purposeful. “He’s alive. I’m alive. Your brother is alive. And so are you. Gamblin’ don’t give ya’ better odds.”
His voice was firm, but there was a tenderness beneath the gruff exterior, a vulnerability that he rarely let slip through. He straightened, his gaze locking with hers. “You think I don’t feel it too? The weight of all this? The choices I’ve made? But Roy’s proof. Proof that even in the worst damn circumstances, we can still take a swing at the impossible.”
Amelia’s shoulders sagged, her hand gripping the edge of the table as if trying to anchor herself. “And what happens if we swing and miss?”
Rick’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Then we try again. Or someone else does. But either way, Crowny, we don’t stop swingin’.”
An awkward pause hung in the air, broken only by the steady tapping of Rick’s fingers. Then, without warning, a whistle escaped his lips, soft and lilting, intertwining with the rhythm.
“Listen for now,” Rick urged, his eyes softening as he glanced at Amelia.
The melody caught Roy’s attention across the platform. The mechanical boy paused his work and, almost instinctively, began to hum and whistle along. The sounds of the Pappy Long Legs—its whirring gears and hissing steam—seemed to shift in response. The cacophony softened, transforming into a harmonious backdrop. The clatter of its mechanics fell in time with the beat, creating the illusion that the ship itself was joining the song.
Amelia tilted her head, her frown easing. “Is it just me, or is this ship... humming?”
Rick grinned, his whistling pausing for just a moment. “That’s the old girl for you. She’s alive in her own way. Been waiting for a tune to remind her.”
Amelia blinked, watching the way the gears turned in time with the beat, the hissing steam releasing in soft, measured bursts that mimicked a sigh of relief. The ship seemed to exhale with them, the weight of their worries momentarily lifted. For the first time since stepping aboard, she felt the Pappy Long Legs wasn’t just carrying them—it was guiding them.
She turned back to Rick, her voice quieter now, tinged with nostalgia. "My mother used to say something before every lullaby, every song. It was her way of showing gratitude, like she believed even sleep deserved respect."
Rick adjusted his glasses, his expression softening. "The Queen was wise. Nothing silly about that at all," he nodded, his voice steady as he firmly shook Amelia’s hand.
"Nothing at all," Amelia agreed, her voice soft yet resolute.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
With a quiet breath, she closed her eyes, letting the memory wash over her. “Went like this,” she recited, her tone shifting to one of gentle reverence:
Dear Amelia:
Deep in the night, you twist and you turn
Hush now and sleep, for peace will return
Work through the night, rest through the day
In dreams, find comfort, lead worries astray
For gears and cogs, cost fingers a day
Awake forever, I’m here to stay
"I always hum the tune before every song, prance, or dance," Amelia admitted, her voice soft with nostalgia. A chuckle escaped her, though it was tinged with a quiet melancholy.
“Unconventional indeed, Crowny!” Rick cheered, his tone brightening as if her admission had lifted some of the tension in the air.
"And with that, everything will magically fall into place, I assume?" Amelia quipped, arching an eyebrow at Rick.
Rick let out a hearty laugh. “Smell the flowers that come after the storm! We simply must embrace all of the signs given to us. Each and every scent! Whether it’s bitter like Quadrant Three’s Barley Beer or sweet as Whistletop’s Candy! That’s the philosophy this New Dwarden has given us,” he explained earnestly, his gaze thoughtful yet oddly optimistic.
Amelia smirked, shaking her head. "Alright! I’ll bite. Best show you this Yardrat’s secret skill," she remarked, her voice infused with determination as she stood, ready to match their energy. Her movements, hesitant at first, became more fluid as the rhythm of the Pappy Long Legs filled the room, almost daring her to join in.
Of gears o' brass and steam we dwell,
Where toil and hustle our feet never fell,
A world of wonders, shinin’ and bright,
But change creeps in wi' each comin' night.
(Chorus)
Oooooooh, winds of change, they’ve blown so strong,
In this steam world below all the fog,
Wi' every cog n’ every gear,
Our future's path been never so clear.
Ooooo airships glide o'er skies o' gold,
Tales o' change are often told,
For progress marches to ever-unfold,
Through the clockwork mist, our destinies mold.
(Chorus)
Oooooooh, winds of change, they’ve blown so strong,
In this steam world below all the fog,
Wi' every cog n’ every gear,
Our future's path been never so clear.
"No need to rush a spark into the rain!" Rick called out, his voice tinged with urgency and playful energy as he glanced at Amelia. "Pappy's already scraping the clouds! We’ll hit top speeds soon enough."
Amelia stepped closer, redirecting the tea cup Rick had just lifted. "Before we go, and everything gets worse, there’s something you need to hear," she said firmly.
Rick arched an eyebrow, surprised at her boldness. "And what might that be, Crowny?"
"My day started normal," Amelia began, her voice sharpening. "I didn’t just stumble into that sewer like a blind mouse chasing scraps. There was this... blinding blue light from my locket. It grew, then shrank, and before I could make sense of it, the Little Creek badges showed up, cuffing me on the spot! They were terrified—calling me a demon. Scared me too. So, I ran."
Rick’s expression darkened, his gaze steady but troubled. "And then?"
"They chased me into the sewer under the Loshlit Tavern," she continued, her tone faltering. "I thought they had me cornered, but then… this thing appeared. It wasn’t natural—like an animal and machine fused together. Rage poured off it, Rick, like it lived just to destroy. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to see it again."
Rick nodded slowly, his mechanical arms lowering slightly. "Don’t dwell on it, Amelia. Let’s get far away from here before that beast has another chance to sniff ya out."
Amelia hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. "How far is this city?"
"Far enough," Rick replied as he approached the helm. The gear-shaped steering wheel gleamed in the rising sunlight, perched on a podium of polished wood and golden pipes. His mechanical limbs moved in harmony, pulling levers, twisting knobs, and spinning the wheel with practiced precision.
Amelia smirked, crossing her arms. "About time I see the world from above."
Rick grinned, calling over his shoulder. "Like a fish finally getting a look at the land he’s been livin’ under! Now grab a rail or find Roy for a room downstairs—don’t much care which!"
She chuckled softly, the crisp air carrying the scent of steam and oil, mingling with the faint sweetness of the sky’s untouched altitude. She leaned against the railing, gazing at the vibrant hues of dawn spreading across the horizon. The warmth of the sun felt closer than ever, its light brushing her face as the wind rushed past.
"Roy!" Rick bellowed, his voice cutting through the hum of the ship’s engines. "Man the controls! We’re heading out! Away from these thirteen bygone quadrants and toward Veranus across the Longhill Plains! Beyond the lands of New Dwarden—toward machines and mischief!"
The Pappy Long Legs thrummed beneath her feet, its steady vibration resonating like a pulse through the deck. Below, fields and scattered towns stretched endlessly, their shadows elongating as the ship climbed higher. Amelia touched her locket, its dim blue glow pulsing faintly in time with the engines.
Rick turned from the controls, his tone softening. "Veranus ain’t the safest city, but it’s where we’ll get some answers. And your Crowny brother requested it."
Amelia nodded, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. Her thoughts wandered to her brothers—Bolton and Michael. Were they safe, or had New Dwarden’s politics consumed them both?
The ship groaned softly, a creak of its wood and a hiss of its steam blending into the hum of its engines. The Pappy Long Legs felt alive—its rhythmic song shifting as though it were responding to their burdens.
Rick’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "Amelia, you’ve got a choice. Stand here worryin’, or grab hold of this adventure we’ve been tossed into. Your brothers would want you to keep swingin’, no matter what’s out there."
Amelia clenched her fists, then released them, exhaling slowly. The ship climbed higher into the clouds, the wind whipping around her. The orange-hued dawn painted the horizon in brilliant shades of hope and uncertainty.
The locket pulsed again against her chest, the rhythm faint but steady. With one last glance toward the rising sun, Amelia smiled faintly, her resolve hardening as the Pappy Long Legs carried her into the unknown.