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<span class="mu-i">Spider-Rat-Man, of eutomologically dubious provenance, slips inside the Slicerats warehouse. This is a well built place, bearing all the hallmarks of Cestipheron's quiet craftsmanship. Meant to recieve grains or feedstock or other large bulk supplies, the simple warehouse holds something else as Spider-Rat-Man's eyes scan across the shelves and corners.
Crates.
Rows upon rows of crates, each stamped with a sigil of a distant, foreign-place. Vanadia.
The air inside here is... fuzzy, somehow, coarse, it tickles the back of the throat as if it violent potential is held in abeance by the observation of protocol. What could these crates hold? Every slice-rat working here has been drawn outside by Waxworms thunderous self-flagellation via concussive alchemical grenado, and so, no quick way to understand what project they were engaged in.
But the doors are unbarred and the place is quiet. The sound of the skirmish outside barely intrudes past the threshold.
Tools. There are tools are. And there, on the table in the other room, a long object in a state of half disassembly, something that almost looks like the renowed pathfinder rifle of the Legion scout core but isn't... quite. Cruder, somehow, more bulky. A small pouch rests nearby, an ocean of tiny grey powdery pellets spilled across the table. </span>
[ WORLD PHASE ]
