5e - "On the Waterfront"

Turns out Scheiskaiser couldn't be a contender. The would-be goblin revolutionary's shattered, t-shirt-clad body lies at General Pogsely's feet, on top of the shipping container where he protested the dissent of his last end, in a pool of his own blood. His skin still looks abnormally red and scaled, an aftereffect of the drug he snorted prior to his death.

<you found one unopened packet of drug on SK>

His comrade Gobsmite is prostrate in the corner, alternately begging forgiveness, muttered minor calming prayers from the Great Treasure of Heaven, and shitting himself in fear. Or gratitude. It blends together with goblins.

Slightly below you is a crowd of around 100 armed goblins. Beyond them perhaps five times as many displaced goblin families, more lost-looking than belligerent. They fill the entire south end of the Stagger docks.

Several non-goblin figures move through the crowd. !Sister Chastity Absence, a None of the That Which Is Not, Dr. Vistula Roth-Resk, a Tiefling drawn here by plague rumors -- she's approaching the container you're standing on-- and Cousin Myra, an unemployed sapper and munitions expert distantly related to Lizzy. She stares incendiary devices into Pogsley.

The half dozen Cuckolds scattered around the docks begin to form up into a unit. Several nearby goblins begin hurling refuse in their general direction. The mostly human merchants trying to buy goods directly off the scant ships in the harbor pull back, their class warfare-senses tingling.

Dozens of beady, glassy, partially-transmogrified goblin eyes turn to you. It is your moment. The proletariat is assembled. You probably just nipped a counter-revolution in the bud.

Now what?

(note: on the to-do list: find god-pigs (2), find pig-pope, explore Dragonborn science city before the Governor finds all the good stuff, warn deva & Boss Lady Fixer the Governor has sent Magistrate(s) into the science city, get money Artichoke stole back, etc.)

OOC:

To be clear, the crowd isn't hostile at this point. Mostly confused. The agitprop sermon they were listening to was interrupted by two people famous in pro-goblin/pro-labor circles who jumped in and put down the sermonizers. It's likely those toward the rear didn't hear what was said and don't have a clear idea what transpired. Some of those closer to the makeshift stage are denouncing the dead and tearing off their recently purchased Scheisskaiser shirts. At least 5 are tackling the goblin manning his merch table.

The situation is, as they say, fluid.

Vox briefly removes his hat, wiping the sweat from his expansive brow.  Fussily setting it back into place, adjusting it just so, he then shakes his head. "This," he predicts, "Is going to get far, far worse before it gets even a little better.  The moment, I daresay, must be seized."

He glances at Pogsley, a curious mixture of dread and nausea briefly manifesting in his expression as he admits to himself who needs to do the seizing...and how long it has likely been since the hands doing the seizing were last washed.

That this is both a metaphoric and an actual truth makes Vox's stomach churn with just a little more vigor.  Revolutions are indeed like sausages, he reflects, On so very many levels.

Behind the bureaucrat, there is a sound.  A moist, organic sort of sound, like something carving its way out of a behemoth's stomach.  Vox shudders; he hasn't heard that particular sound in a very long time, but its not the sort of thing one forgets.  He had, in any case, been expecting to hear it for some time now.  On his shoulder, Dexter begins to dance a sort of jig, flicking between forms as it takes each step.  One moment a hand, the next a rat, then a scowling little man, then a crow, and then a hand once more.  With a sigh, Vox pivots on his heel, turning to face the wound that has opened in the air behind him.

A sharp little blade -- a letter opener, is it? -- moves through a complex curve, completes a final cut.  There is a gust of air, smelling of paper, ink, and dust, that scatters forms across the wooden surface.  "You are late." It's less a voice than a prolonged rustling sound, one that perhaps aspires to be proper wheeze.

Vox responds with a bow.  "Yes, well," he says helplessly, "Circumstances beyond my control, Senior Secretary.  There were, ah...circumstances?  That were...beyond my control?  You understand, I'm certain...."

"No.  I do not.  You were instructed to have your paperwork on my desk at the moment of your return to Port.  In triplicate.  You signed, you initialed, you acknowledged.  This failure will be noted on your quarterly review, Vox Cadaveris."

Vox goes pale, even by his already high standards of pallor.  "Circumstances?" he repeats weakly.  A hand is extended from the hole in the air, cracked white skin dripping with ink and with portent.

"Your paperwork awaits."

"Of course it does," Vox agrees, his shoulders slumping.  "One form to rule them all..."

"One form to fine them..."

"One form to file them all...."

"And with the red tape binds them," concludes the hooded figure.  "Come, Vox Cadaveris.  We would have your report."

Vox nods.  "Gentlemen" he says, not turning, "Pogsley.  I...I may be some time. Do try not to screw this up, would you?"  Dexter gestures its agreement to this sentiment, needing only a single digit with which to do so, as it and its master vanish through the rapidly healing portal.

It is likely to be some time before Lizzy discovers the gold ring in his pocket, with the rolled-up note thrust through it:

OOC:

One word: bravo!

Wait, two more: Hugo Award.


Will Vox's replacement show up soon? Seems an appropriate time...