The Ogresuns rushed through the battleground streets of 2nd House, weaving
between streets, allies, canal bridges, and piazas. Avoiding the areas of the
worst fighting, sometimes making their route much longer. They made it to the
Nebularch Court but diverted a little to loot a nearby stronghouse.
+++
“Don’t step on da glyphs!” Wyrdtoof screeched, flailing his staff as the
pavement rippled like water, engraved spirals glowing beneath their boots.
“They’re thinkin’! You step on ‘em while they’re thinkin’ and they’ll bite yer
future clean off!”
Kap’n Salty Ogbad didn’t pause. He stomped across the marble plaza, both
pistols barking, scattering a clutch of Wolfram Arkanauts and some unfortunate
git in silver armour and blue robes who had been chanting. Somewhere above,
the celestite orbs rotated slowly - shifting alignment.
All around, the battle for Nebularch Court raged - Union hammers clashed
against Wolfram gunwagons, while the March’s beasts slithered between domed
manors, their claws dripping gore. Salty didn’t care, not really.
He had eyes only for the vault beneath the western dome, where Wyrdtoof
claimed a stash of glimmerings was locked away - enchanted trinkets that could
let them rewrite the outcome of one moment.
“You said dis place was a vault, Wyrdtoof,” Salty shouted, parrying a blade of
burning script. “All I see is sparklin’ rocks an’ lads arguin’ over
philosophy!”
“It’s a prophecy-bank!” Wyrdtoof hissed. “All da value’s in possibilities.
They deposits possible futures!”
An explosion blasted a hole in the vault door.
“Well, my future’s looting it.”
He stormed in. The others followed. Outside, stars aligned. A moment later,
they unaligned.
A death-knight from Wolfram roared skyward - falling in a sudden vortex of
celestial gravity. Crystals screamed. A gondola sank. And somewhere deep
beneath the Nebularch Court, the vaults’ layout… shifted.
The Ogresuns were inside and, whatever came next, they’d already made a
withdrawal.
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