wanderingwolf

Any Interest in Pathfinder 2e Revised?

Hey all!

After checking out some running games, I didn't see any running Pathfinder 2e games. Is there any interest in a Pathfinder 2e RP here?

The Player Core 1, GM Core, Monster Core, and Player Core 2 have all been released in the wake of Wizards of the Coast's change in license, and they're free online at Archives of Nethys:

Example:
Player Core 1: 2e.aonprd.com/Rules.aspx?ID=1995&NoRe… (really the only one you need to start playing as a player)

Since it's free (and legally so), it might be a nice starting point for anyone interested in trying a TTRPG here.

I'm looking at GMing in a few different places, an in person game, a possible Virtual Table Top game (I'm thinking Foundry), and I was curious if there was any interest here.

Kind regards,
Wolf

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Hey gang, just checking in. We usually have a hiatus (voluntary or no) throughout the summer, and 2024 has been no different. I'm going to be getting a jump start on a JP with Gunther (Yes, Gunther's back and playing a different character!) to introduce his new character to the crew soon. We'll have him put up the Character sheet in the customary place and mosey on forward with this episode sooner than you can spit.

Hope all are well, and looking forward to writing with you!

Wolf

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Making Your Mark

OOC: JP from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

The postmaster stall was, as it ever is, both a reminder of Alliance reach and incompetence. “What happened to Willie?” Cal asked an unfamiliar face. “Willie?” the short, stocky man replied. Cal nodded, “Yeah, big fella, always eatin’ somethin’, never gained an ounce.” Willie’s half-pint stand-in tilted his head in recognition, “Promoted closer to the core, left half a dozen ticks ago,” he punctuated the news with a hawk but no spit. “‘Promoted,’ eh? Wouldn’t exactly call the core a promotion,” he cogitated, and added to Abby, “Younger me thought so, though seein’ it first hand left much to be desired.”

“Uh huh,” Abby said kinda absent soundin’. She seen plenty ‘o’ postmaster offices; this one weren’t no different. They all come in tha same colors, leastways years of hand prints an’ dust kinda wore ever’thin’ down tah that universal drab. They’s a packagin’ station for them as didn’t think tah box what they’s shippin’. Ident card applications an’ capture on demand. Collectable postage certs…looked like tha latest was “Unification War Memorial Sites.” Poster screen rolled through each purty picture. Serenity Valley, Du Khang, Three Sisters…places once turnt upside down by war…now made gardens sproutin’ placards an’ statues of heroic Alliance soldiers, each place decked out with guided tours an’ gift shops. Made Beautiful…To Honor Their Memories the poster claimed.

Abby come out with a quiet snort. ’Cept fer what they don’t show yah, the girl conjured of all tha fake shiny. She’d been tah New Kasmir…seen tha ragged, unmarked ground what held the mass graves. She walked ‘em all, ever’ one she could find, ponderin’ which ‘o’ them grisly fields mighta held ‘er parents.

By and by, the girl’s ruminations set her eye upon her fav’rite part, ‘Wanted’ posters what flipped an’ scrolled over a broad piece ‘o’ wall. Captures changed ever’ few ticks tah display a passel’ ‘o’ hard cases an’ what coin may come fer their capture. She read, lookin’ over names an’ crimes. Sometimes, Abby might see one ‘o’ them gunfighters was ranked in The Book. Last was ole Charlie Two Horses, a tribal who give up his teepee fer licker, women, an’ tha fast payoff of a hired gun. He’s Number Twelve fastest draw…leastways til he bought his bullet squarin’ up with Jean Ann Cuthbert nigh on four years back.

She’s just gonna turn back tah see Cap’n’s dealin’s when a face caught ‘er eye. Then another. She looked ‘em over. The one she called ‘Big ‘Un’ stared back, same dead eyes she recollected from each time she’s forced tah deal. “Pistool…pistool…” Abby muttered afore dismissin’ that thing he called her in whatever lingo them grifters used. “Eight counts ‘o’ conspiracy tah defraud,” her lips moved as she read. “Four counts ‘o’ grand larceny.” Not much money on ‘is head; he wouldn’t have tah sweat tha serious bounty hunters. His sister, Green Haired Girl, held ‘er prim smile, but Abby conjured she looked tired ‘round tha eyes. She had ‘er own raft ‘o’ charges, some like ‘er brother, and some what read ‘Cortex Fraud’ and ‘Data Larceny.’ Alliance offered a smidge more coin fer her, but still not enough to set a real tracker on their trail. Only one missin’ was Little. She looked about. His face was nowheres among all them Wanted folk. Down inside ‘er, Abby felt sorta good he’s not under scrutiny. She once held that “them grifters would save a drownin’ man, rescuin’ what’s in ‘is pockets first.” Though she saw no need tah change that opinion on tha pair, Little had turnt out tah be a decent sort. She wished ‘im well, then gravitated back tah Cap’n an’ his pallaver with tha postmaster.

By the time Abby rolled eyes around, Strand had concluded discussion with Little Moriah’s latest, albeit abbreviated, postmaster, Mason Gouch. “So who’s on Purple’s Most Wanted these days? Is it Yuri? Bet even his mug shot is a portrait.” M. Gouch sourly disappeared before Abby sidled up, Cal reclining as he awaited his parcels, back to the PM and eyes on the rest of Little Moriah. Honest folk among them, surely, but the kind grabbing attention hereabouts were the sort that made him feel for his wallet. No salt of the Earth-That-Was accounted for, himself notwithstanding. Speaking of, Cal thought, better disobey the doctor’s orders… His fingers fished for his silver cigarette case, the thought of Yuri winking in a mug shot curled his lip.

“Nobody worth goin’ out our way for,” Abby replied as she watched the postmaster through an open door…little fella…ruttin’ about inside a room stacked with boxes an’ crates. “Pshaw,” she give a snort at mention ‘o’ Yuri on a ‘Wanted’ poster. “No way he’d end up on nobody’s wall,” she chuckled. “Ain’t even got a crime name. Aw, yew know,” she said to put paid tah tha question growin’ in Cap’n’s eyes, “a crime name…like a nickname, but sumpin’ ties yah to yer gang or whatcha done. All them bikers had names,” the girl explained. “They’s Root, Cottonmouth, Nips, Mouse. One fella they called ‘Cheese Dick,’ an’ afore yah ask, I got no idea,” she giggled. “But Yuri? Short ‘o’ ‘Purty Boy,’ I got nothin’. Ask Edina.”

“Cheese Dick, huh? I’m gonna hafta noodle on that one. ‘Sides, I’d rather not ask Edina her pet name for ol’ Chisel Chin.” He lit the cigarette, still leaned against the postmaster window. “What’d they call you? Them bikers. What’s your crime name, hmm?” His tone was curious as he pulled long and deep, exhale aimed skyward.

“Payback,” the girl piped up. “Earned it fair enough, I conjure, but if Ah git muh pick, I’s right tickled with a name Hook gimme after we had a little target shootin’ contest. Abby Oakley.” Mem’ry brought a smile with it. Then another, from ‘er time with Lorraine, who’d called ‘er ‘Cornflakes.’ Irritated ‘er a might to start, but as their friendship grew it wound up layin’ easy on ‘er brow. “But doncha fret none, Cap’n,” she added. “Ah’m just as good with ‘Abigail’ or ‘kid.’

The Captain nodded as he heard both names, then paused to consider which he fancied. Just then, the stocky Postmaster returned with four small bundles tied up with brown paper and twine. Each was about as big as his palm as he stacked them on top of one another and cleared his throat. “Strand, here are your parcels, C.O.D.” He slid a receipt across the barred counter to which Cal quickly counted out the amount and slid it back. “Aye, here we go,” Cal murmured, pawing the four packages as he opened them up right away.

As Cal tore into the first, Abby would notice that most of the contents of the brown paper parcel were packaging materials and glittery notes of some sort. Cal set the notes aside as he delved into the heart of the package and retrieved something with a look on his face that put him somewhere akin to a kid in a candy store, cigarette perched in his cheek. “It’s ‘Hank Aaron outfield Milwaukee Braves’” he read from the card itself, fingers tracing the words as he went. “Wouldja look at that, kid, Hank Aaron! Just look at that fella!” An excited Cal brandished the card for Abby to see, holding it out to her to take if she wanted a closer look.

If she’s bein’ truthful, Abby couldn’t figger out exactly what she’s lookin’ at. Pitcher of a fella wearin’ a blue an’ red cap with letter M on it. He’s clean shaved. His skin was darker’n she ‘membered Hook. She could read what Cap’n blurted out from mem’ry…but it din’ really spell out jest what she’s sposed tah know or think.

Only two things she conjured. Thing one? This pitcher was old…crazy old. Old enough she’s kinda skeert…scared, she corrected ‘erself… touchin’ it. Thing two was Cap’n. In the years she been flyin’ China Doll, she never saw Cal Strand so spun up. Like a lil’ boy, the deckhand mused, a lil’ boy who found himself a real treasure. And here he was, holdin’ his prize out tah her, like a mama dog willin’ tah let her pup be handled.

After wipin’ ‘er hands on ‘er shirt, Abby held ‘em out. “One-nine-six-four…Topps,” she read aloud, puzzlement in her eyes. Then it come, all sudden like. “That tha year?” Abby’s jaw dropped as she looked at Cap’n. “Nineteen sixty-four? This was made…five hunnerd,” she gasped. “Five hunnerd sixty years ago?”

A pleased looking Cal replied off-handedly, “That’s right, this here’s a bit of history. Way I see it, baseball–that’s the name of the sport–had all the right ideas. Big wooden bat? Check. Field like a diamond you run ‘round? Check. And them striped uniforms weren’t bad neither. This here sport was world famous, on Earth-That-Was. Teams from every country, all competing against each other.” Cal righted his cigarette and took a puff. “You ever held somethin’ that old ‘afore?” He drew a breath, as if savoring the very air around the object. “There’s something deep that comes in through the fingers when you hold it. Like the millions that musta held this card through the years left a mark, each one.” Strand shook his head, it was the closest thing to spiritual he felt, he thought to himself; bits of cardboard connecting past generations in a line through time.

“A bit ‘o’ history,” she repeated. As Cal talked about this…base-ball, Abby laid one palm over t’other, fingertips touchin’. In that gentle cage she turned the card over, avoidin’ the pinch of fingers upon it. Hank Aaron, it told in bold letters over faded orange. She conjured where it said his height an’ weight, but Bats: Right and Throws: Right puzzled her a bit. Below lay column after column of numbers what left her without a clue as to their meanin’. But they’s one part caught both eye and imagination.

BORN: FEBRUARY 5, 1934

“You ever held somethin’ that old ‘afore?”

“Don’t believe Ah ever seen nothin’ this old…ever!” she confessed. She seen plenty of things designed old…replicas, they called ‘em. Her daddy’s Colt, now worn on ‘er hip, was called “Navy.” Looked the part ‘cept fer tha target scan an’auto reloader give it twice capacity of its’ cylinder. Also, her long rifle, tha Mosin Nagant. Looked right close tah ones she read was used by Ruska tah bring down them nazis. Simple an’ keen enough tah knock a gnat off a bull’s swishin’ tail, she loved it…but it weren’t tha actual thing.

”There’s something deep that comes in through the fingers when you hold it. Like the millions that musta held this card through the years left a mark, each one.”

Abby ruminated on that. Hank Aaron, thirty years on when this was made. She wondered what he might think about all them folk, knowin’ his name, lookin’ at his likeness, from century tah century. “Yer right,” she said in a wonderment. “First time I ever conjured what ‘permanent’ can truly be.” Her outstretched hand offered the ‘base-ball’ card back tah it’s new owner. “Funny how such a thing can getcha thinkin’.”

“That it is, kid.” She had a look about her that said she still had one foot miles off in thought. It reminded him of hisself the first time he’d stumbled on the collection of the late ‘Strand,’ his predecessor. A trove of plastic covered cards resided under the foot of his bunk in the captain’s quarters when he inherited it. Strand the former had had a keen eye for basket-ball and something called hockey, but the handful of baseball cards he’d squirreled were enough to hook a younger Cal Boone.

There were three more packages from the postmaster, just like the first, but Cal tucked the bundles neatly into his breast pocket. “Permanence in this ‘Verse is a pipe dream, that’s certain, but makin’ your mark? Now that’s plum possible. For instance, the Sister might say Buddha’s permanent, but to my eyes, he ain’t no different than any fella on these cards. Permanent don’t matter to nobody, less there’s a body still around who cares.” Wisdom thoroughly dispensed, Cal took one last gander at Hank Aaron before trading his likeness for a cigarette from his silver case.

Cal stepped away from the postmaster’s window to look out on the throng in the heart of Little Moriah. Pulling on his cigarette, “Well that’s me sorted here; I got to wander on to the barber, then to catch up with Yuri. Suspect he’s pullin’ down the reqs right now.” Strand asked, “You got business ‘fore we head out?”

Making your mark. Something else to think about. Abby never conjured great things to come of her life. She weren’t no Hank Aaron, nor a Buddha, after all…just a deckhand tryna make her way in a life what seemed to grow as complicated as you might wish. Mr. Eleanor pointed out she could change that path if she wanted. Thomas also had thoughts on the matter. One could lock ‘er feet dirtside, while t’other offered a strong chance of joinin’ them grifters on a postmaster’s wall. But Cal showed ‘er somethin’ she understood right now. ...A body still around who cares… Mayhaps, if you just make your mark with one, like Cal did with her, and she might do with another…mayhaps that was all the ‘permanent’ a person needed. “Nah,” she give a toss of ‘er hair as they made for the corridor. “Edina handed me part ‘o’ the shoppin’ list. Thought I might take care ‘o’ that afore headin’ back.”

“Shiny,” the Captain said, “Well, get your ya-ya’s out while you can, hear? We’re pent up for a spell while we haul out to the job.” Cal’s eyes scanned for look-y-lou’s as he nodded to the deckhand. “Ku?”

Sup, its ya boi POOHEAD189

Congratulations Poohead. Looks like you've been doing the job for a while anyway! Thanks for keeping the site nice!

Art by Wanderingwolf

Here's a sketch from today done in Blender:

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Oryoki at Little Moriah

Skyplex Little Moriah

To Lyen, a skyplex was a fascinating hub of commerce and beautiful sights and smells. On Santo, the idea of a skyplex had been completely foreign. Now, the nun had been to her share of skyplexes in her journeys since leaving the temple, but each time it felt, to her, like a marvel; a complete culture in and of itself. Though her Order was cast to the corners of the 'Verse, she usually happened to find a practitioner with which to commune and exchange blessings. This thought gave heart to her step as she exited her home of the China Doll, coiffed in her orange kasaya robe, her hair neatly braided in a long tail behind her.

Immediately, Little Moriah made itself known through the sizzling smell of kebabs, melted synth cheeses, and spices both familiar and unknown. The man behind a cart flagged her down, wafting the smell of his fare in her direction, "Finest meats in Little Moriah! No better prices from here to the rim!" The nun politely raised a hand in greeting, but continued on her sojourn toward the heart of Moriah. The station was roomy, with about ten foot high ceilings through the thoroughfare, clad in what had once been shining aluminum or steel--now scuffed and plastered over with flyers, posters, and wanted signs. She wandered up to a particularly covered alcove and perused the offerings. "Wanted: Castor Callum, $10,000.00, Alliance deserter and miscreant" and "Real canines, $4,000.00 OBO, healthy and ready to breed" along with "Synthflute lessons, cyberkeys, and drumpads, only $100.00 an hour!" She grasped a tearaway for lessons between a slender forefinger and thumb, pocketing the paper in the pouch that hung at her hip.

'Synthflute,' she thought, 'that might be a fun way to pass the time on this long leg ahead.' The tearaway had all the relevant details, indicating a music shop at the heart of Little Moriah: "Thames Court." The Order of the Interverse supplied their sojourning Sisters with a stipend each month, to an account wired through Londinium. Alliance credits would reach most of the civilized skyplexes and terraformed worlds without issue, simply through her ident card. For those occasions where Alliance credits wouldn't do, the Captain had provided a tidy sum in cash as a part of her limited work aboard the China Doll.

Continuing from the corridor, Lyen watched the way open up from the outer circle of docking stations to the skyplex proper. Here, all sorts of shops and services had been set up, from money lending to old-timey portraits. The portrait booth had costumes from eras on Earth-That-Was. Their display consisted of boas and sequins, top hats and canes with a large sign which said, "Travel back in time to the 19-20's! Paper portraits for your travels!" She considered asking Edina and Abby if they'd be interested in a portrait before they left. The sheer size of this place was staggering; countless alleys and doors led to a spiderweb of connected passages to travel the whole length of the skyplex.

Through to the next ring, Lyen finally laid her almond eyes on the purpose of her trip: the Interverse shrine. A single monk sat on a mat out front of the shrine, clothed in the same color kasaya robe she wore, his eyes closed in meditation. "Amituofo, brother," Lyen said in greeting to the monk, who opened his eyes and inclined his head to see her bow, hands clasped in the prayer pose.

The man was stocky, with a heavy, but kempt, salt-and-pepper beard covering his lips and chin. His eyes were a stone blue, and the lines on his face rested high on his eyes, above pronounced cheek bones. His shaved head shone in the fluorescent lights of the cooridor. He returned the gesture and rose from his position, "Sis-tear, I welcome ye. May the In-ter-verse guide yer pahth." He gestured for her to follow him into the shrine through the decorated, wooden archway, which had been crafted onto the nondescript steel opening to an inner room. She acquiesced, following him.

The shrine was humble, but ornately covered in carved wood; most were room partitions and dividers stacked against he cold, hard steel of the Little Moriah's meager rooms. An astounding amount of plants were present here, too, so much so that the air took on a heavy, moist texture as Lyen breathed in the fresh scent of wet soil. The space was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide, but somehow it felt expansive with wooden statues of Buddha leading the viewer toward the far end of the room where the shrine opened up to depict the largest statue of the Enlightened one, with the flames from myriad candles dancing, and offering bowls waiting to be filled. About halfway, an alcove had been constructed and coyly hidden behind some flowering bushes which offered the sound of a crackling fire.

"Please, take som' tea wit meh, and we c'n speak of yer journey," he said in a strong accent of what Lyen recognized to be Northern Scotland on Earth-That-Was; the experience was pleasing to her ear, and she replied, "Of course Brother, it would be my pleasure." The monk nodded, and indicated a small plastic chair and table covered in an elaborate table cloth indicating the symbolic pillars of their faith.

The cozy spot was warmed by a furnace on which the monk set a kettle to boil. It was customary for traveling Sisters and Brothers to carry a donation to shrines on the farthest reaches of the 'Verse. Lyen had packed her coin purse just for this express purpose. The stipend her temple on Santo supplied her was more than sufficient for her needs. Today, she carried this month's allowance in full.  The monk straightened at the table, from attending to the kettle. Lyen asked, "Brother, do you have a bowl? I wish to practice oryoki."

"Aye," the monk replied, he craned toward the furnace and produced a cloth-wrapped bowl and a bell, setting them on the table cloth between them. He unwrapped the bowl with measured gestures, the cloth unfolding into a diamond shape which he then tucked on each side to resemble the lotus' petal. Utensils were also present in his bundle, as the Brother must have participated in oryoki for each meal, even alone here on Little Moriah. Today, however, he would gladly receive any gift from the Interverse which would meet the physical needs of the shrine. 

Oryoki is the practice of 'just enough.' It traditionally refers to meals, being an intricate ceremony of bowls for rice and soup. As a practice, though, it branches farther than the body's physical needs. We are oryoki ourselves. Everything should be appreciated as the container of the Buddha. Lyen reached for her coin purse and fished out the credits she had set aside for this purpose. She began chanting rhythmic phrases memorized while taking meals on Santo, and her cohort joined in her chant, lifting the bell. To Ly, the sound of the bell was most appealing, having none aboard the China Doll. Its clear, low sound filled the modest shrine as their voices joined it. Then, her slender hands placed the coin in the Brother's bowl. At oryoki's conclusion, the monk bowed to her, and she reciprocated, her long, flowing braid falling to her side. 

There was a palpable magic to the inclusion of common practice, even across these great distances. The 'Verse was as wide as the Interverse is deep. It is all around us, Ly thought, and it is inside all of us, connecting us. The practice of giving and participating in oryoki, filled her with strength. As she quit the shrine and the Brother, Lyen followed her feet to the center of Little Moriah's busy trade, almond eyes filled with care for each gaze that matched her own.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Sacrifice at Moriah

In the Black on the way to Skyplex “Little Moriah”

JP from @Wanderingwolf and [@little-bill]

There is a calm in open space–in nothing but the winking stars light years away that lulled the captain. Out in the black there was space to think, to plot a course, but Cal wasn’t considering bearings for the China Doll. Just like the Doll floating in the dead of space, Cal felt the same floating feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t like it.

Hands folded at the back of his neck, boots resting on the console from the Captain’s chair, Strand considered his only viable anchor: the job ahead of them. Yuri had done a bang-up job with his requisitions, from the report Cal had carefully scrutinized. He was every bit the best first mate the Doll had ever seen. Yuri’s sense of no-nonsense felt like an extension of his own, he thought, nodding. Where they had differed on the pilot Cal had plucked from prison was an open issue, but Strand knew his mate would come around.

Speaking of, Boone had lumbered off for a break, saying something about Edina’s fare being mana from heaven. It had given the Captain time to drift and think. Which turned to stewing.

Cal asked the empty bridge, “Sam, you there?”

“Always, Cal,” the AI’s tone was comforting and chiding at the same time. “What can I do for you?”

“Take a gander at Little Moriah, for me? I wanna know about any surprises that might spring up–cause any delays.”

“What kind of delays are you worried about?” Came that lilting, Bostonian accent in response.

“Old friends, new enemies, a postmaster with a grudge, Alliance presence. That sort, shiny?”

“I’ll need some time to check all the variables,” Sam’s voice betrayed a digital cadence through the matter-of-fact response emanating from the bulkhead com.

Cal scratched the back of his neck, “Fine.”

The stars were blinking in a pinkish, red nebula out the viewport. “Feels like the calm before the storm,” he muttered to himself, hearing Boone approaching the bridge.

“Ahoy, cap’n.” Boone said, holding a small bundle of cookies with the bottom half of his shirt the way a child might carry more treats than they can hold. For all his stomping and looming, sometimes even Cal could briefly forget the massive pilot had just spent the better half of his life in a cell. The cookies themselves were pucks of powdered protein bars and malt-flavored syrup, but Boone seemed to think they were ambrosia the way he tucked them away. By now, Boone no longer wore the gray prison uniform he had arrived in – that had been ceremoniously jettisoned into the black weeks ago – but instead, a previous passenger’s polo shirt that had been left behind after being stretched and dyed pink in the laundry, and an old extra-large boilersuit that had been untouched in the back of the China Doll’s cargo bay for years.

“You want a cookie?” He asked, extending his shirt-basket towards the captain.

The Captain turned his head to regard the gigantic pilot; the blank expression on his face holding as his eyes darted from Boone’s eyes to his shirt and back again. A quick jerk of his head was all the response he offered. The man certainly had his quirks, as Cal and crew had begun to learn. A little bit of hoarding, a dash of disregard for his presentation–save that orientation toward the color pink–even a bit of humor which struck a strange chord, given the face of the comedian.

Strand abandoned his posture and set to scanning his console. In the display, the radar ping of Little Moriah rapidly gained size out on the edge of the screen, but nothing showed out the eyes of the China Doll. Cal turned a few knobs to dial in measurements before relaying to his pilot, “Looks like Little Moriah’s within range at one A.U. You ready to bring her in?” His glance and arched eyebrow said something akin to: ‘Put down the cookies and pick up the yoke’ but he let the question stand.

In contrast to Cal’s tone, a lilting, feminine voice echoed from the comm in Boone’s bulkhead, “We’re in range of comms with Little Moriah’s docking control, Boone. Have you hailed a station’s traffic controller in your simulations?” Her question sounded inquisitive with no subtext to indicate anything other than a genuine question.

Boone chuckled softly, a hint of nerves underlying his usual jolliness. "Of course, dear! If there’s one thing they made sure we knew at prison, it was protocol," he responded, nodding to his invisible copilot. His fingers danced over the console, years of simulated flight having etched basic control inputs such as engine checks and hailing frequencies into muscle memory – and for a man of Boone’s size, this left a great deal of room for such memories.

As he guided the China Doll closer towards Little Moriah, a shiver of nerves went down his spine like electricity. For all his expertise in flying the old Firefly, he had only needed to go through the motions of piloting aboard the China Doll until now, he realized. A virtual stationmaster only had so many responses, and a failure to respond correctly had only ever meant a restart – the crew had been in the black for too long to consider any kind of “restart” on a new pilot’s behalf, and that was if they had enough fuel to turn around and dock elsewhere, which was far from the case. The station was only breaking into view, and already, it loomed over Boone’s mind.

“Mr. Cal, are you familiar with Moriah’s significance in the good book?” Boone asked, fixing his eyes on the skyplex in the distance.

“Can’t say that I am,” the Captain had his eyes glued to the console and bulkhead looking busy, shoulders tensing. Pursing his lips, Strand gave in, “But I reckon you’re gonna tell me anyhow…”

“It’s a mountain on Earth-that-was where God tested Abraham’s faith, by having him bring his only child Isaac and telling him to sacrifice him.” Boone said matter-of-factly, his eyes fixing on the skyplex, “Abraham got as far as tying him down and raising the knife before God brought him a ram to sacrifice instead, to reward him for following even the commands he didn’t want to carry out. For not withholding anything from Him.”

Strand took a beat before replying, “Off your only son, huh? That’s a funny way to test a body. What happened to ‘God is good’?”
From the comm speaker to Strand’s left, “Religion, from my research, has little to do with logic and more to do with faith, Cal. Faith can be defined as belief in something for which there is no proof.” Her lilting accent dipped before continuing, “The parable Boone shared is designed to be uncomfortable and impossible to grasp so as to highlight the imperative for faith.”
“From that yarn I don’t cotton proof of a ‘good’ God.” Cal cocked his head and added, “Ram in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe.” The Captain tipped his head back to take in the view of the skyplex, finally visible out the nose of the Doll. When he looked out into the deep of space, Cal didn’t see a benevolent or malevolent creator, testing folk and vetting them to be ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ He saw gray. The Black had a way of bleeding into all the corners of the ‘Verse. From where he sat, that just left shades of gray.

Boone gave a weak shrug, placing the hailing communicator in his beefy hand. “He’s full of mysteries, cap’n. I think the mystery is part of the point in that tale, that he doesn’t ask any questions…” Boone trailed off, still staring at the incoming skyplex. “Let’s hope the stationmaster here follows suit.”

"Little Moriah Skyplex, this is the shipping vessel China Doll requesting permission to board," Boone hailed, his voice steady despite the anticipation coursing through him. “Do you copy, Little Moriah? This is the shipping vessel China Doll, requesting permission to board, over.”
There was a long pause of crackling static before a stern, no-nonsense voice responded. "This is Stationmaster Dao. Maintain course and speed for vessel scan. State your business and submit your docking code for verification. Over."
Boone glanced at Cal, who nodded in reassurance before he replied, "Stationmaster Dao, we're here for a routine resupply, and then we’ll be on our way. Transmitting docking code now, over."
After a tense more few moments, the crackling silence was broken up once again by the stationmaster.
"State the nature of your cargo, China Doll.”

"The nature of our cargo?" Boone paused, squinting in disbelief. This was a question no simulated stationmaster had ever asked of him, and one he had no answer for but to stammer. Before Boone could utter a word, Cal smoothly stepped in, his voice projecting the confidence befitting a captain.

“Moriah, we’re laden with passengers, dry goods, and cattle; sending you the B.O.L. now.” Cal pressed a few buttons on the console with a glance at Boone. Placing one palm on the mute signal and making a show of wiping his chin with the other, he added to Boone, “Less questions this way. Less inspections, too, if they reckon we’re full of cow la shi.” He straightened, removing his palm from the console, and after a few moments the station master continued.

“Permission granted, China Doll. Proceed to docking bay three-zero-niner. Any deviation from your assigned path will result in immediate action," Stationmaster Dao's voice crackled over the comm. “Over and out.”
Boone acknowledged the instructions with a curt "Understood, Little Moriah. Proceeding to docking bay three-zero-niner, over and out." Boone clicked the hailing communicator and clipped it back into place on the console.“Thanks for that, Mr. Cal. Always time for an old dog like me to learn a new trick.”
“We got a few tricks to teach here on the Doll.” Cal lifted the comm at his left and held down the button, “Elias, we’re comin’ in to dock.” He let the button go, as an aside to Boone, “That’s so engineering can start down-cyclin’ and divert power to positional thrust.” He set the comm down and added, “Elias ain’t chatty, counta his condition, but his ears work fine, and he appreciates the heads up from the bridge.”

The Captain rose from his chair, sliding arms into his duster. “Now feel free to make the announcement on the shipwide comm that we’re dockin’. I’m off to make sure Yuri’s got our list all buttoned up, shiny?” He didn’t wait for the pilot’s response as he exited the bridge, taking the stairs two-at-a-time.

Boone gave a salutatory nod, taking up the comm one last time.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!" Boone’s voice concluded over the intercom as he leaned back in his small seat, a sense of satisfaction evident in his expression. With a contented sigh, he allowed himself a moment to relax, feeling the gentle hum of the ship beneath him. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a nice ram on this Moriah too, he thought to himself.

wsg

Welcome to RPG! I'm sure you'll find someone out there to write with you. You can feel free to head over to the interest checker threads and post up some of the things/ideas you like and see if anyone jives and reaches out.

Hey

Hey welcome to RPG! Hope you find a group or a writer in the genre you like!

Art by Wanderingwolf

This prompt was 'fruit.'