Jonathon Worthington: Strangelight Investigator

Case #17: The Mystery of the Giggling Gobber (Chapter 2)

The coach that Orsch had procured for us was a peculiar one, and we were only able to afford it due to the well-timed delivery of yet another silk purse, this one containing more coin than we'd become accustomed to. Given the necessity for speed, Orsch reluctantly parted with nearly half the purse to hire the services of Landship Caravans to speed us away along the Twelve Day Road before the short line track carried back word to Ceryl of my refusal to meet with my suspicious colleagues yet again.

Despite the misleading name, we bounced along not in a seagoing vessel that used otherworldly magic to traverse the land, but rather a large coach with bad suspension pulled by a decommissioned warjack with a cracked cortex that was fit only for hauling duties. Yet the price was worth it, for our motive power suffered neither exhaustion nor thirst, and although it was missing an arm and smelt of burning oil the speed it had once possessed on the battlefield remained intact. Sadly the pace of our transportation also made the thin threadbare cushions in the seats all the more noticeable, and I spent most of the trip with Orsch holding me down so that I did not bounce up and crack my head against the roof of the coach.

It was with immense relief that I felt the coach begin to slow at midday. The half-completed tracks of a new section of the Caspian Railway's latest project lay to the south, cutting across the country in a more direct path than the road itself. While the ongoing hostilities between Cygnar and the rest of Immoren was a terrible bother to our investigations, what with regularly having to yield train space to military units and the rising costs of ammunition and supplies, the wars had fueled a much needed burst of industry to support it. With the vocal support of the royal court the railways were laying down track as fast as the iron could be shaped and shipped, striving to connect Ceryl with Bainsmarket and its own system of tracks. The Free Order of the Golden Crucible was keeping a hand in the contracts, and it was well known that they had already arranged for a short line to split off to a series of mines southwest of Demonhead Pass to support their current operations there. The refueling depots were already well under construction along the line in anticipation of the rail, and it was due to this fortuitous fact that we were able to count on an uninterrupted supply of fuel for our unconventional steed.

"By Morrow, I need this break!" I exclaimed, leaping out before the coach had come to a complete stop. I nearly twisted my ankle as reward for my foolishness, but after several hours trapped in a small box with the warjack's exhaust washing over us I was ready for a little fresh air. In the distance I could see that work was proceeding apace on the new bridge that was necessary for the tracks to span the Guilder's Run river, and I strained to make out the tiny black dots of the men laboring away on it. A coppery taste rose up like bile from my mouth, and I spat out a globule of blood into the settling dust of the road. Without warning my vision sharpened beyond anything I was used to, and I could pick out the rail workers five miles away in agonizing detail, from the discoloration of their teeth down to the dirty pores of their skin. I stumbled from the unexpected influx of the painfully clear sight, spitting more blood out as it rose up in the back of my throat, closing my eyes to try and block out the invasive details.

"That is disgusting and uncalled for, sir," Orsch reprimanded me from behind as he exited the coach. I dared to open my eyes slightly and realized that I could see the individual threads woven together that made up his coat, the coarse intertwined hairs on the back of his grey-skinned hands, and a thousand other inconsequential yet magnified details about his body and dress. His expression softened when he saw me stumbling around like a drunkard, dribbling blood down my chin. Placing a massive reassuring hand on my back to straighten me he produced a handkerchief to dab the blood away. The slight scent of Orsch's cologne on the cloth prompted a violent wave of nausea and my gorge rose.

"What ... what's wrong with me?" I managed to choke out before bending over double and gushing a brief crimson torrent onto my best shoes, watching each individual droplet as it splattered away, noting splatter trajectories as my shoes bore the brunt of my sickness.