[b]Lucien![/b] The sight is awe-inspiring. Or dreadful. One of the two. There is another whirlpool, far, far below: the roaring of water tells you that much. The stairs themselves are deeply, deeply unsafe: slick, viciously sharp spurs of dark black rock, draped in mildewing carpet and pocked by chunks of broken masonry fallen from the ceiling. The good news is that it’s easily vast enough to fit the train larva(?) inside, if Coleman doesn’t mind a tight squeeze. The bad news is that it is also vast enough for that monster to follow behind you. The worst news is that anyone who tries running down here is just begging to have their skull split open. Slow and steady is the only way to go: but, again, that means you might as well walk back outside and rub yourself down in butter for the appetite of whatever that thing is. *** [b]Ailee![/b] You’ve already figured out how this conversation is going to go in your head. “Well, I never,” Professor Hamptonshire will say. “That’s quite unbecoming of a young lady,” he’ll add, his patronizing pride pricked. “I actually need your help,” he’ll say, “But I’ll do what I can with my silly clown tricks to distract the monster after I tell you the way out.” You have made the one fatal mistake of forgetting that he has been learning how to be a clown. And the clowns have lots and lots of things to say about the holy meaning of rage. Smack, goes his fist in your face. Crack, goes the bat over your head, while you stagger back. Crack, it goes again over your shoulders, shoving a nail somewhere tender. “SHUT UP,” he froths. “YOU PATHETIC LITTLE SHREW. I’VE FORGOTTEN MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW.” “...I have, haven’t I?” He turns melancholy again, and philosophically rams his oversized shoe into your solar plexus with a pathetic squeak. “No, man up, Hamptonshire. Sacrifices must be made. Now, forgive an old man,” he says, turning to Jackdaw: “I seem to have misplaced your name, young lady.” Take damage, and be aware that [i]can[/i] happen again. *** [b]Coleman![/b] Oh fuck, it’s a clown. Wait, no, it’s a seeker of the Grail. Still bad. Maybe even worse, if they’re overcompensating. Clowns are terrible passengers. They’ll laugh while beating you to death with a gaudily painted hammer if you piss them off, and once the bloodlust hits it starts spreading non-stop, until you’ve got an entire congregation ripping arms off train staff and honking their damn noses. The only reason to even give them a hand is that their Ringmaster, a monster of a holy roller (several thousand years old, doesn’t look a day over thirty-five), is both very generous with his friends and very, very vindictive with anybody who pisses him off. Remember the [i]Vladislav[/i]? Yeah. Exactly. Help them out, and they’ll be a pain, but if they don’t get themselves killed, the Ringmaster will remember. Kill them, and fail (seriously, clowns are like cockroaches) and that will be remembered, too. So if you mean to kill them, make damn sure they’re dead.