My name is Svaelfyr Roslinsch.
A shudder passed through the smooth and featureless gray floor underfoot. Whines of failing steel rung muted through the hrothgar’s office, dampened by the numerous walls between it and the muggy night beyond.
I am writing this in hopes that you – whoever you might be – also wish to leave.
The whir of ceruleum-fuelled machinery overwhelmed the sound of rallying voices and the distant lock-step march of an army had broken into a scattered cacophony of boots against metal walkways, those now-unsynchronized gaits sounding like relentless hail on a thin roof.
Built into Vanguard Service Bay #2C is a syphoning system. When all bays in the C array are lined up for refuelling, a hidden toggle switch beneath the hoist system’s panel will divert some of the flow back towards tank 4, via a recirculation line.
Outside, gunfire filled the night. A shockwave rocked the workshop, and tools clattered off of a pegboard-style rack and onto the floor. The sterile strip lights above flickered and failed momentarily, then flared back to life as a backup generator engaged. Massive fans, encased in the upper sections of the workshop, spun to life to adequately ventilate the area.
That ceruleum can then be purged into portable tanks and stowed beneath the removable floorplates in this office. Do not skip over proper storage guidelines – it will only take one voidsent to undo all of your work.
The generator died down once more, though without any fanfare. The sound of spent munitions and controlled explosions from outside decrescendoed until it was little more than ambient noise. The workshop’s doors buckled, pierced and pried apart by a Vanguard’s cermet drill. A swathe of imperial soldiers flooded through, swords and firearms at the ready.
I am leaving a singular tank beneath the floors. The amount is small enough and so thoroughly isolated that voidsent attraction should be negligible. A trip from here to Werlyt will take you twelve of these tanks.
Stood at the back of the troupe, a lone imperial officer held aloft a list, barking orders through a helmet that made their voice sound tinny and inhuman. By their orders, anyone remaining in the workshop was a traitor, and would be put to the sword. The soldiers swarmed through the rooms, like scavengers hunting for carrion. They found little of note, beyond a small piece of personalized letterhead, folded into a small square, with a note to – evidently – whatever defector might find it next. The printed name was crossed out, though not so much as to render it illegible. Beneath, a replacement name was penned.
I am leaving with seven of them. We will be walking the rest of our journey. Wish us luck.
From the desk of S̶v̶a̶e̶l̶f̶y̶r̶ L̶u̶x̶ P̶r̶o̶c̶u̶r̶s̶u̶s̶
Svaelfyr Roslinsch
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