Affinity

Pinned against a pitch black sky, the moon hangs low tonight. Its pallor casts bone-bleach shadows on navy blue sand banks overlooking the cold northern sea. A light breeze blows over your embers and you try cover your chest with little success. You know you must keep moving. In which direction? [[East]] [[West]] [[Forwards]] [[Clockwise]]

You travel a ways, eastbound. Gleaming crustaceans with many eyes recede into the seafoam as you approach, and you try imagine what they might take your warm brazen glow to mean. You find yourself troubled by the conclusions you reach, and [[turn back|Start]].

You set out with the moon on your tail. You walk. You walk... You look behind you, and see the endless trail of pronged prints you've left behind. The embers crackle as they cool, reminding you that time is of the essence. You [[turn back|Start]].

No more, Your frame rattles and falters as the wind suddenly howls, aware of your intent. The coals that serve as your heart flare, and you feel the accompanying rush. You fight the wind and start making your way to the moon. One foot in the water - ==><=== then the other. ==> A valve bursts in your kNEE AND YOU FALL/ THE COMPROMISED VESSELS START SUCKING IN SEA WATER\\ YOU FEEL IT POUR OUT OF YOUR MAW AND DRIP INTO YOUR CHEST CAVITY AS THE COALS SIZZLE FOR THE LAST TIME YOUR SERVOS FAIL YOU PLUNGE [[you know there's another way.|death]]

About time. You find the perfect spot a small way from the surf, behind a dry, reedy bush. You unsling your bindle and deftly lay out the contents. Nighttime is not the most appropriate for complex rituals, you think. But the bulging moon's rays and your own furnace's glow are serviceable. Inside your sack you carry with you two rolls of velvety pergament, a [[tin pocketwatch]], a [[velvet pouch]] and various [[Dextrae]] you pilfered from the convent. perspiration drips off the condenser on your forehead, usually covered by your habit. You [[almost feel shame]] at your own indecency, but there are more pressing matters to attend to. [[You must soldier on|Ritual]].

Clearly old and slightly dented, this silvery standard issue pocketwatch is only useable for the simplest Church rituals, as denoted by the unassuming quartz attenuator sitting on its hatch and lack of significant engravings. The winding mechanism makes a straining noise when you turn it, and the second hand is frozen in place. Not even imps such as yourself may be conjured by this milquetoast craftsmanship. Inside lies a faded lithiograph of your beloved's tuning signal, but you dare not open it lest the sea breeze gets to it. [[It's time to continue|Clockwise]].

You cautiously undo the burgundy lace and loosen the pouch, picking out what lies within with equal parts of fear and reverence. A magnificent pocketwatch made of gold and tarvisium, engraved with passages from when the Church was still in its infancy and unaware of the secrets it posessed. One would not be faulted for thinking the entity that crafted this arcane artifact might have felt some measure of chargrin, bound to do the bidding of mortal, foolish priests by a cruel twist of fate. However, the workings of spirits are far [[too complex]] for causality to be a valid framework for predicting their emotions. The flowing mercury-phial attenuator attests that this watch is able to warp time itself, under the right conditions. [[And this is exactly what you plan to do|Clockwise]].

Mountable extensions of your own right claw, the Dextrae you lifted are standard issue (save for one), but they all have their uses. This one, for example, has a vial of ink built in and an ivory quill tip. Indispenable for scribes and clerics. Another one consists a hydraulic clipper. Originally used by the whelps in the kitchen, but a versatile tool for the everyday heretic. The process of attaching them is agony itself as your arteries are torn and rewired and you lose a great deal of pressure, but beggars cannot be choosers. [[You must get back to more pressing matters|Clockwise]].

Without hesitation, you detach your right claw and quickly reattach the scribing Dextra amidst the steam rushing out of your stump. You can't help throwing your bell-shaped head back and letting out a [[gear grinding groan|pain]] as the pressure drop hits your now overcompensating engine. After recovering, you sketch out the circular [[izengrafs]] you glimpsed that night on the sheets of pergament, with precision a human could only dream of. Reverently, you draw the golden-blue watch out of its purse, and place it in the centre of the parchment. You place your hand over it and press down until the mercury phial on the lid cracks [[Smoke hisses and rises|Ritual2]].

==><== [[Space Time Matter Reconfigure Reconsider Reemerge |Start]]

Newer models were supplied with hinge valves too long after it was found that a soul-bound imp could feel pain through their superpositioned vessel, but you are old. And weary. And in desperate need of an oil change. [[Anyway...|Ritual]].

The culmination of centuries of research. Izengrafs are arcane plots that, in the presence of the right medium, draw seemingly wilful energies out of thin air. A powerful and dangerous tool, and in the right hands especially so. [[Onwards|Ritual]].

The world bleeds and shifts. Inside its case, you know the watch's timekeeping hands are whirring at breakneck speeds. [[Here comes something|Ritual3]].

In the moon, you see it. A pinprick at first, then a bullethole, then a quiet black vortex, twisting the moon's canyons and craters. There it lingers, outer tendrils spanning as far as the moon's circumference. You whirr in relief, knowing you at least picked your time and place correctly. You begin communion with the moon's presence. In sing-song, inaudible tones he asks "What do you seek?" [[To go forward]] [[To go sideways]] [[To go back]]

A foolish request. "As you wish." The tugging at your chest grows. The moon remains fixed in the sky, but you see the sun rise. And rise. And fall again. The cycle repeats, faster this time. And faster. And faster still the sun rises and sets. Shadows wax and wane in the blink of an eye. The moon continues to watch. Before you know it, your embers die and you've lost all sensation. The sand piled at your feet grows up to your hips from countless gusts. Still time hurries on. Your body is rusted way by the salty breeze in perceived minutes and you are finally restored to the world again. Every indentured imp's quiet dream. And yet... [[This wasn't why you came all this way. Let's try that again|Ritual3]],

"Very well." The moon does not question your supplication. Though to a spirit flowing back in time is as natural as flowing forwards (if they can be said to flow in time at all), this boon is seemingly snatched from those bound to a chassis by man. As sure as it was once one with you, the moon knows this is something you must do. One sharp tug and you're sent flying back. [[Unbidden memories stir as your vessel is stretched taut by backwater physics|flashback1]].

The moon howls in something akin to amusement. "I cannot do this, one-kin." He whines after some pause. You would be more crushed by hearing this had you not already known. Why did you ask in the first place? Well, for xer. Naturally. [[Once more, love|Ritual3]].

... A cold, rainy day. Your extra provision of coal will see you through. The courtyard of the monastery is shrouded in the thick mist of censers. Your habit makes you fit quite the part as you lead the vacuous procession of scribes up to their quarters. After this you... You see xer and everything is different. Your foggy amber eyes spark, your motor revs wildly and steam vents through your hidden condenser. [[She sits still in the corner|form]], churning out heady fumes. You both implicitly understand what this means. [[That night your thoughts are fully occupied by dreams of escape. You whirr silently in your hutch, running through every possibility. Until suddenly...|flashback2]]

Imps in the Church are bound to perform all manner of menial tasks. Not all of these require the ability to move, and indeed fully actuable servos are quite complex to conduct a ritual for. As it stands, if all an imp is needed for is to heat resin and control the smoke flow, an ornate cast iron furnace on a tripod suffices. It's not like it makes much of a difference to the imps themselves, after all. [[As I was saying.|flashback1]]

1) Your purpose -purpose of demons -purpose of the church 2) Your circumstance -bound to a coal powered machine: lose -vulnerable -in danger -an outlaw -driven 3) Your world -its people -slight geography (if any) 4) the church - engineers: iron flux ritual - 5) Your magic -how are rituals performed -what are rituals: -what are spirits: eh - 6) Your beloved -exists -is saved -you combine in a pit stop upgrade 7) Ideas -marjoram murder 8) Side Characters -witch: ^ N A W S I C A H ^ -young janitor: & J U L I U S & stubborn: "its not right" emperor destiny vys for dominance is a strong and just ruler(?) -church assassin: ~ M A R J O R A M ~ daggers trans attempted gender magic church is essentialist (some pope quotes lol)

You snap awake in your performance boosting gaming chair. You just read my demo! Thank you so much :> This will probably never be finished but I hope you enjoyed it! [[Back to the start|Start]] or (link: "reach me on twitter!")[(open-url: "http://twitter.com/lesbiangunshow")]

==><== ''Affinity'' [[Start]] by Abbi Sea (link: "@lesbiangunshow")[(open-url: "http://twitter.com/lesbiangunshow")]

Fucking directives. [[Never Mind.|Clockwise]]

Or too simple. [[Your choice.|velvet pouch]]