Announcement Day
It was a soggy Summer day when the Heralds came to Centralia.
Driven by the will of the Goddess, the rain suddenly stopped, and a shaft of brilliant lavender light opened on Alphmoor Park. When it closed, a trio of Heralds, one holding a scroll, two holding the banner with crossed pen and sword against a 20-sided die that was Her insignia, were standing there, practically glowing with divine light.
Shale Highwind was at the Alphmoor Market when they arrived, perusing the various offerings from farmers across the continent.
“How much for one of those?” He pointed to a basket of fresh rolls, each braided into the shape of a short stalk of summer wheat. “One cog, two sprockets- Oop!” The baker looked up in surprise, then, as a crowd began to filter towards the other end of the massive park, he shrugged apologetically, putting up his CLOSED sign. “Sorry, pal, but uh. It’s announcement day.”
Shale frowned as the baker left, but dug the requisite change out of his pocket, dropping one brass coin and two smaller steel coins on the other side of the counter and snagging a roll, before following the crowd.
When he arrived, the Herald with the scroll had begun speaking. He leaned against a nearby tree, listening.
“…is pleased to announce the location of the stadium for the Great Rail Rally this year, taking place in one month and one week.” A brief pause. “Congratulations to the Feldspar Commonwealth, host of this year’s Rally. Expect visitation later today, Feldspar time. And to all nations participating this year, please make your teams ready for inspection and approval at Feldspar Stadium one week from now.”
Shale grunted and made his way out of the crowd, towards Martensite Street. Another Rally he’d have to watch on the crystalscreens. No way he could swing a job that’d put him in Feldspar on that kind of notice. Even with a week and a month of advance time, railguard jobs were long, often two-way, and usually thankless. “I need a drink.”
A few minutes later, he was at the Fool’s Tankard, the cheapest, rowdiest, and arguably still safest tavern in the Brewer’s Quarter of Middle Centralia.
“The usual, please, Marken.” Slate sat down heavily on one of the barstools. “The usual it is.” Marken Twyst, the proprietor and bartender of the Fool’s Tankard, pulled a mug of what he called ‘engine grease’: a thick, foamy, dark ale that had a kick like getting flattened by a streetcar. It was also the cheapest drink on his menu.
Shale took the proffered mug and downed half of it in one gulp, letting out a satisfied huff. “Yeah, good as always.”
“You’re still drinking that shit, Shale?” Shale jumped, turning his head to see the familiar face of Gwip Longtail. “Gwip! You fur-eared wad of metal shavings- you startled me!”
“You look in a sorry mood. What’s thrown a wrench into your gearbox?” Gwip tapped the bartop as he sat, signaling for a drink.
“Oh, you know. Still drifting. Means I’ll be watching the Rally on crystalscreen again. Would be nice to watch up close, participate in the festivities… maybe even play the game.” He groaned. “That’s a very distant dream, though. No crew, no locomotive, no equipment, no sponsors…” Shale took another swig of his drink.
A sudden, wide grin crawled onto Gwip’s face. “I dunno about the other things, but if you need a locomotive…”
Shale blinked, equal parts anxiety and exhilaration visible on his face.
It was gonna be a long day. →