Dulle Griet and the Antenorian Icebox
Sam Kabo Ashwell
based on painting bruegel cheese Demon fantasy female protagonist folklore character hell ice loot short speed IF treasure vehicle
Storing a war-engine inside Hell was a new tactic; you'll be able to penetrate deeper than ever before and still have a chance of getting out again. The job isn't without its risks, but at least you know the demons are out to get you.
%
He who eats fire, shits sparks; this line of work involves no small amount of risk, therefore. But compared to everyone else, demons are refreshingly easy. No suspicions are necessary; you know they're out to screw you over.

The war-engine cache was a new tactic, enabling you to penetrate deeper than you'd ever contemplated before and still make it out. And this seemed like the most secure site to hide the thing. If your minions weren't idiots of the first water, it would have been a good plan.

The ice of the Cocytean piedmont is pitted and rotten, riddled with moulins of befouled meltwater. For the most part the caves are unstable, but they don't tend to change too much over winter. This one is large enough to serve as temporary depot, but small and twisty enough to keep it hidden.

The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
You look at Quagga
Oh, now the sow pulls out the bung. You told that fool Mayken a dozen times that when she made the drop she should demonproof everything thoroughly, but what a mess. Not even a tarp thrown over it, for pity's sake. There's a sliver of a chance that it might still be functional, but de-imping the thing is going to be unpleasant.
About yourself
No longer young, not yet old. For a period of about two months when you were seventeen, you might have been considered handsome; you are almost six feet tall, with a great cow-catcher of a nose, enormous feet, washerwoman's hands, and precious few teeth. Not to mention the effects of soaking in brimstone fumes for a few hard weeks.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a bog-iron scramaseax
a demonoscope
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (closed)
an ornamental imp
an octavo of Shakespeare fanfiction
You read the fanfiction
A small single-run printing by one Wm. Shakspere, with the mysterious title D5-D6. Hette, non-Conne, wingefick. Neifile/Fiammetta/Panfilo, Elissa/Filostrato, Dioneo/Misia. Spoileres.
You read camus
The Cahiers of Camus, all but unobtainable in the mortal realm. Your usual reading-material extends about as far as grocery lists, but you know several buyers who will cheerfully gouge each others's eyes out for this. Disappointingly, it is bound in rather boring green canvas.
You look at the demonoscope
A small, crudely painted ikon of the Blessed Egdethbra of Wessex in the act of her martyrdom, a sordid little affair involving a backsliding Dane, a turnip field and an ironbound psalter. When waved at demon-infested things, the aforementioned proto-saint wiggles her toes and rolls her eyes wildly. (Demonoscopes are usually crafted with saints of better repute, preferably ones who actually existed, but these are usually overwhelmed by the demon-saturated environment of the Circles.)
Wave demonoscope at imp
The unfortunate saint wriggles a little bit, dislodging a turnip or two, but that's about background level for anywhere below circle four.
Wave demonoscope at Quagga
You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga. The doubtful blessed writhes and kicks, turnips flying in all directions. Not an all-out frothing fit, bethankit, which means that the most you reasonably have to deal with is a handful of imps or perhaps a lesser cluster. Making more controlled sweeps, you narrow the disturbances down to three areas: the aft right hip joint, the furnace and something up towards the pilot's end - have to get inside to narrow that down.
You examine the scramaseax
Cold-wrought bog-iron is a wretched material, but you'd carry a weapon made of soap if it could wound the dead. It's notched, pitted, holds an edge for about three seconds and has been twisted back into shape countless times; constant application of walrus blubber mitigates the rust somewhat, but considering what's in the air here the final outcome is not in doubt. Locating a replacement for when the dear old thing falls to bits is one of your more pressing concerns.
You look at the loot
Most of this is hell-forged treasure of the gaudiest sort: crowns, plate, jewelry, fist-sized diamonds. Horse droppings are not figs: it will all turn to dented tin and broken crockery when exposed to fresh air and sunlight, but until then it will serve as a cover for the good stuff, and as bribes for the more stupid gatekeepers.
Wave demonoscope at aft right hip joint
Ach. Yes. Definitely something hiding out in the hip joint; the silly bint's gibbering like a Barbary ape. If you're any judge, it's an agubulge, one of those inane little point-coolant things they use to stop body heat from eventually melting out the more populated regions. Knowing your luck the thing's carrying eggs, too.
You examine the imp
(the agubulge)
A mass of ice, at the centre of which is presumably a cold-imp. The things are mindless and relatively easy to deal with, on the whole, except that they breed. By means of microscopic eggs. The last time you stumbled into a swarm of them you had to take three saunas a day for two weeks and boil everything you owned; but hopefully any eggs will get killed off by engine heat if you can just get rid of this one and get things running.
You examine the ornamental imp
The smallest and most stupid demons come in innumerable shapes, most of them hideous; a few breeds, however, are rather attractive and are worn as ornaments by ladies of fashion. They don't breed true, however, which ensures that there's constant demand for wild specimens. Occultists love to grumble about being priced out of the market.

This specimen is of the type usually worn on a fine silver chain around the wrist and used by demimondaines to light their cigarettes; it resembles a butterfly-wing folded into abstract origami, with eyes.
Wave demonoscope at furnace
Yep, there's something nasty in there all right. Turnips everywhere.
You look at the furnace
Some of the hobbedehoys used for commercial freight have furnaces with external access - the fireman walking alongside, hanging off a ladder or balancing on a footman's plate, and sparing the pilot from blazing heat and clips on the ear from clumsy shovel-handling. Military models, though, invariably have the firebox opening onto the relative safety of the pilot's plate, so you'll need to climb aboard if you want to get at it.
You examine the aft right hip joint
Big mass of ice. Icicles. Probably an imp deep inside. Not going anywhere until it's dealt with.
You examine the aft left hip joint
An unmodified Blazing Host four-joint limb, in good condition apart from superficial scratches.
You look at the cage
A local product; within a few hours of your escape it will have become a chamberpot or a cracked jug, but it'll do until then. It presently houses an ornamental imp..
You examine the imp
(the agubulge)
A mass of ice, at the centre of which is presumably a cold-imp. The things are mindless and relatively easy to deal with, on the whole, except that they breed. By means of microscopic eggs. The last time you stumbled into a swarm of them you had to take three saunas a day for two weeks and boil everything you owned; but hopefully any eggs will get killed off by engine heat if you can just get rid of this one and get things running.
You examine the ornamental imp
The smallest and most stupid demons come in innumerable shapes, most of them hideous; a few breeds, however, are rather attractive and are worn as ornaments by ladies of fashion. They don't breed true, however, which ensures that there's constant demand for wild specimens. Occultists love to grumble about being priced out of the market.

This specimen is of the type usually worn on a fine silver chain around the wrist and used by demimondaines to light their cigarettes; it resembles a butterfly-wing folded into abstract origami, with eyes.
You look at the pilot's end
You can't see any such thing.

You can't see any such thing.
You examine Quagga
The basic chassis is one of the Blazing Host two-and-twos that have formed the backbone of the al-Andalus line for almost a century. It's really an infantry-breaker, working best at a killing trot; when they face the dashing thoroughbuilt machine-hunters favoured by cavalry snobs, they're generally swept off the field. But they handle difficult ground well, they don't break down much, and on the march - using those little auxiliary limbs under the pilot's plate - they burn about half the fuel of a thoroughbuilt.
Look around
The ice of the Cocytean piedmont is pitted and rotten, riddled with moulins of befouled meltwater. For the most part the caves are unstable, but they don't tend to change too much over winter. This one is large enough to serve as temporary depot, but small and twisty enough to keep it hidden.

The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
You kill the agubulge with the scramaseax
One swing of the seax fractures the ice into a spiderweb of cracks. A second dislodges some good-sized chunks, and soon you have most of the ice hacked away. Unfortunately, there's still some lodged up inside the joint - how did the little bastard squeeze into such a narrow space? Nesting, you muse darkly. At any rate, the seax is too blunt and misshapen to fit into such a narrow gap.
Burn camus
You lack a source of fire.
You open the cage
You open the spun silver birdcage.
You get imp
(the ornamental imp)
Taken.
Light imp
(the ornamental imp)
As carefully as you can, you slip a finger and thumb through the imp's angular folds and give its abdomen a squeeze. You are rewarded with a small and flickering flame that dances over its wingtips like an aurora.
You burn agubulge
The symmetry of the solution has appeal, but as it turns out the ornamental demon's flame is far too faint to melt more than a few droplets of ice.
Burn camus
Steeling yourself, you apply the imp to one page. Old paper burns wonderfully well, you discover, and the whole thing is soon aflame. You try not to think of the volume of merino socks and Kopi Luwak that could have purchased with the proceeds.
You burn agubulge
You wedge the blazing mass under the hip joint and hover anxiously nearby to prod it into more enthusiastic flames. After a few harrowing minutes, you hear a gurgling rodent squeal and the drip of meltwater is augmented by a pinkish ooze, washing away the last ashes of your former prize.
You look at the seax
Cold-wrought bog-iron is a wretched material, but you'd carry a weapon made of soap if it could wound the dead. It's notched, pitted, holds an edge for about three seconds and has been twisted back into shape countless times; constant application of walrus blubber mitigates the rust somewhat, but considering what's in the air here the final outcome is not in doubt. Locating a replacement for when the dear old thing falls to bits is one of your more pressing concerns.
Burn fanfiction
Steeling yourself, you apply the imp to one page. Old paper burns wonderfully well, you discover, and the whole thing is soon aflame. You try not to think of the volume of merino socks and Kopi Luwak that could have purchased with the proceeds.
You burn agubulge
You wedge the blazing mass under the hip joint and hover anxiously nearby to prod it into more enthusiastic flames. After a few harrowing minutes, you hear a gurgling rodent squeal and the drip of meltwater is augmented by a pinkish ooze, washing away the last ashes of your former prize.
%
He who eats fire, shits sparks; this line of work involves no small amount of risk, therefore. But compared to everyone else, demons are refreshingly easy. No suspicions are necessary; you know they're out to screw you over.

The war-engine cache was a new tactic, enabling you to penetrate deeper than you'd ever contemplated before and still make it out. And this seemed like the most secure site to hide the thing. If your minions weren't idiots of the first water, it would have been a good plan.

The ice of the Cocytean piedmont is pitted and rotten, riddled with moulins of befouled meltwater. For the most part the caves are unstable, but they don't tend to change too much over winter. This one is large enough to serve as temporary depot, but small and twisty enough to keep it hidden.

The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
Enter
Although the ideal crew of a 'gin of this class is three, the Quagga has been rigged to allow it to be crewed one-handed, though you'd break your back jumping between helm and firebox at anything faster than a trot. The cut-down controls - essentially just the gearshaft and helm - will not exactly allow you to fight any cavalry actions, but fortunately Hell is short on armour regiments.

With the engine at rest, the floor slants down rather towards the engine's front.

Beside the coal chute lies a fireman's shovel.
You examine the ice
It's not pretty ice. It's grey and looks kind of worm-eaten and has brown flecks in it. They missed a trick, though; it'd be much nastier if it ever thawed out.
You go outside
The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
Wave demonoscope at Quagga
You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga. The doubtful blessed writhes and kicks, turnips flying in all directions. Not an all-out frothing fit, bethankit, which means that the most you reasonably have to deal with is a handful of imps or perhaps a lesser cluster. Making more controlled sweeps, you narrow the disturbances down to three areas: the aft right hip joint, the furnace and something up towards the pilot's end - have to get inside to narrow that down.
You examine the aft right hip joint
Thick ice encrusts the hip joint, falling in dozens of narrow icicles most of the way down to the knee. Unless there's been a bizarrely specific leak in the water reservoir, this means that an agubulge, a frigid and mindless imp used to provide localised cooling, has taken up residence.
You hit the ice with the seax
Which do you mean, the agubulge or the ice cave wall?
Agubulge
One swing of the seax fractures the ice into a spiderweb of cracks. A second dislodges some good-sized chunks, and soon you have most of the ice hacked away. Unfortunately, there's still some lodged up inside the joint - how did the little bastard squeeze into such a narrow space? Nesting, you muse darkly. At any rate, the seax is too blunt and misshapen to fit into such a narrow gap.
You take ornamental imp
You open the spun silver birdcage.

Taken.
You squeeze it
As carefully as you can, you slip a finger and thumb through the imp's angular folds and give its abdomen a squeeze. You are rewarded with a small and flickering flame that dances over its wingtips like an aurora.
You look at the imp
The smallest and most stupid demons come in innumerable shapes, most of them hideous; a few breeds, however, are rather attractive and are worn as ornaments by ladies of fashion. They don't breed true, however, which ensures that there's constant demand for wild specimens. Occultists love to grumble about being priced out of the market.

This specimen is of the type usually worn on a fine silver chain around the wrist and used by demimondaines to light their cigarettes; it resembles a butterfly-wing folded into abstract origami, with eyes. A faint, bluish flame coruscates across its wingtips.
You squeeze it
A second squeeze and the imp's fire flutters out. You keep an eye on it for a second to make sure; more than one renowned beauty has gone up in flames after carelessly slipping one of these into a pocket.
You put it in the cage
You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga.

You put the demonoscope into the spun silver birdcage.
You put the imp in the cage
You put the ornamental imp into the spun silver birdcage.
You take the demonoscope
Taken.
You close the cage
You close the spun silver birdcage.
Wave demonoscope at Quagga
You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga.
Wave demonoscope at hip
Which do you mean, the aft right limb or the aft left limb?
Right
No reaction! It appears you've fixed it.
You get all
fireman's shovel: Taken.
ornamental imp: The spun silver birdcage isn't open.
ice cave wall: That's hardly portable.
helm: That's hardly portable.
coal chute: That's hardly portable.
firebox: That's hardly portable.
gearshaft: That's hardly portable.
You examine the chute
The hopper should contain enough coal for two days at a flat march, given that you're using the good black greasy stuff. You expect the route you're taking to take about three and a half and to be somewhat uphill, but you can refill with wood once you reach the Forest of the Suicides.
You look at the firebox
Essentially, this is just a big iron box through which a lot of piping runs; you set a big fire inside, the water in the pipes turns to steam, and then Technology happens and stompy iron feet crush all before them. A sturdy iron door seals off the firebox.
Wave demonoscope at firebox
A good deal of somewhat-uninspired wriggling indicates the presence of a small and rather pathetic imp.
You open the firebox
You tug mightily at the furnace door. It refuses to budge.
You hit the firebox with shovel
You give the door a couple of solid thumps, then slip the edge of the fireman's shovel between lid and rim and twist. With a satisfying crack, the frost-locked door gives a fraction of an inch; it should open now.
Wave demonoscope at chute
The unfortunate saint wriggles a little bit, dislodging a turnip or two, but that's about background level for anywhere below circle four.
You open the firebox
Ugh. There's another agubulge inside the firebox. This one hasn't been there too long, you think; there's not much of an ice-mass, just a lot of frost all over everything.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a fireman's shovel
a demonoscope
a bog-iron scramaseax
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (closed)
an ornamental imp (providing light)
You hit the agubulge with the seax
It's right at the back; you can't really reach that far, and you're aware of your narrative role too acutely to feel secure about crawling into ovens.
You hit the agubulge with the shovel
You lean in and give it a few solid stabs with the sharp end. There is a satisfying squashing sound.

After this, it's a simple matter to get a fire going with coal-chips. You bask in the heat, unfamiliar and welcome after your time in Cocytus.
You examine the helm
Old-fashioned pilots prefer the bewildering chaos of a Zebruggi lever array, but outside the more conservative Russian principalities nobody builds those any more; the most sensible of the various replacements is a sort of ship's wheel on a stick, with foot-pedals for detailed control.
Wave demonoscope at gearbox
Death and fire, there's one in the gearbox. Your best guess is an ithrogyca, an obnoxious little gluttony-demon designed to clean the adipose tissue off flesh. They happily gorge themselves on fats until they burst. This one must have gone in after the grease.
You examine the gearbox
A misbegotten and unruly lever that presides over the Blazing Host universally-reviled gearbox. The usual paces - reverse, neutral, shuffle, walk, march, trot, killing trot, canter - are all there, and at least you don't have to deal with the dandyish Parade March gear that's become obligatory on modern builds. But it jams constantly, has a tendency to slip straight into a canter if you change from march to walk too casually, and screams bloody murder if changed a little too early or late. Its saving grace is that, though bad, it takes a great deal of punishment to make it any worse.

The stick is currently in neutral. The slots for the other gear positions open up into darkness.
You look at the gearbox
You find nothing of interest.

A misbegotten and unruly lever that presides over the Blazing Host universally-reviled gearbox. The usual paces - reverse, neutral, shuffle, walk, march, trot, killing trot, canter - are all there, and at least you don't have to deal with the dandyish Parade March gear that's become obligatory on modern builds. But it jams constantly, has a tendency to slip straight into a canter if you change from march to walk too casually, and screams bloody murder if changed a little too early or late. Its saving grace is that, though bad, it takes a great deal of punishment to make it any worse.

The stick is currently in neutral. The slots for the other gear positions open up into darkness.
You cut the cheese
Cutting that up would achieve little.
You eat the cheese
That's plainly inedible.
Melt cheese
That really requires access to a source of steady heat.
Inventory
You are carrying:
an ornamental imp (providing light)
a fireman's shovel
a demonoscope
a bog-iron scramaseax
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (open but empty)
You open firebox
That's already open.
You put the cheese in the firebox
You put the wheel of artisanal Camberzola into the firebox.
Inventory
You are carrying:
an ornamental imp (providing light)
a fireman's shovel
a demonoscope
a bog-iron scramaseax
a pile of loot
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (open but empty)
You take the cheese
Taken.
You close the firebox
You close the firebox.
You open the firebox
Ugh. There's another agubulge inside the firebox. This one hasn't been there too long, you think; there's not much of an ice-mass, just a lot of frost all over everything.
Look around
The ice of the Cocytean piedmont is pitted and rotten, riddled with moulins of befouled meltwater. For the most part the caves are unstable, but they don't tend to change too much over winter. This one is large enough to serve as temporary depot, but small and twisty enough to keep it hidden.

The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
%
He who eats fire, shits sparks; this line of work involves no small amount of risk, therefore. But compared to everyone else, demons are refreshingly easy. No suspicions are necessary; you know they're out to screw you over.

The war-engine cache was a new tactic, enabling you to penetrate deeper than you'd ever contemplated before and still make it out. And this seemed like the most secure site to hide the thing. If your minions weren't idiots of the first water, it would have been a good plan.

The ice of the Cocytean piedmont is pitted and rotten, riddled with moulins of befouled meltwater. For the most part the caves are unstable, but they don't tend to change too much over winter. This one is large enough to serve as temporary depot, but small and twisty enough to keep it hidden.

The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
You look at Quagga
Oh, now the sow pulls out the bung. You told that fool Mayken a dozen times that when she made the drop she should demonproof everything thoroughly, but what a mess. Not even a tarp thrown over it, for pity's sake. There's a sliver of a chance that it might still be functional, but de-imping the thing is going to be unpleasant.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a bog-iron scramaseax
a demonoscope
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (closed)
an ornamental imp
an octavo of Shakespeare fanfiction
You examine the scramaseax
Cold-wrought bog-iron is a wretched material, but you'd carry a weapon made of soap if it could wound the dead. It's notched, pitted, holds an edge for about three seconds and has been twisted back into shape countless times; constant application of walrus blubber mitigates the rust somewhat, but considering what's in the air here the final outcome is not in doubt. Locating a replacement for when the dear old thing falls to bits is one of your more pressing concerns.
You examine the cheese
They say that everything good that comes from Hell was stolen from somewhere else. Though mostly true, there are caveats: a good blue cheese that matured in certain of the middle circles is a thing beyond words. You plan to keep this one for yourself.
You hit the firebox with the shovel
(first taking the fireman's shovel)
You give the door a couple of solid thumps, then slip the edge of the fireman's shovel between lid and rim and twist. With a satisfying crack, the frost-locked door gives a fraction of an inch; it should open now.
You open the firebox
Ugh. There's an agubulge - a minor ice imp - in there. It hasn't been there too long, you think; there's not much of an ice-mass, just a lot of frost all over everything.
You take the agubulge
That's fixed in place.
You hit the agubulge with the shovel
You lean in and give it a few solid stabs with the sharp end. There is a satisfying squashing sound.

After this, it's a simple matter to get a fire going with coal-chips. You bask in the heat, unfamiliar and welcome after your time in Cocytus.
Look around
Although the ideal crew of a 'gin of this class is three, the Quagga has been rigged to allow it to be crewed one-handed, though you'd break your back jumping between helm and firebox at anything faster than a trot. The cut-down controls - essentially just the gearshaft and helm - will not exactly allow you to fight any cavalry actions, but fortunately Hell is short on armour regiments.

With the engine at rest, the floor slants down rather towards the engine's front.
You go outside
The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
You look at the hip
Which do you mean, the aft right limb or the aft left limb?
Wave demonoscope at aft right hip joint
Lamentably, it's still there, if the blessed's reaction is anything to go by.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a fireman's shovel
a bog-iron scramaseax
a demonoscope
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (closed)
an ornamental imp
an octavo of Shakespeare fanfiction
You examine the aft right hip joint
Big mass of ice. Icicles. Probably an imp deep inside. Not going anywhere until it's dealt with.
You hit the agubulge with the shovel
You bash off the more fragile icicles and a few chips of ice, but your progress is rather limited.
You examine agubulge
A mass of ice, at the centre of which is presumably a cold-imp. The things are mindless and relatively easy to deal with, on the whole, except that they breed. By means of microscopic eggs. The last time you stumbled into a swarm of them you had to take three saunas a day for two weeks and boil everything you owned; but hopefully any eggs will get killed off by engine heat if you can just get rid of this one and get things running.
You open the birdcage
That's already open.
You get imp
(the ornamental imp)
Taken.
You look at the imp
(the ornamental imp)
The smallest and most stupid demons come in innumerable shapes, most of them hideous; a few breeds, however, are rather attractive and are worn as ornaments by ladies of fashion. They don't breed true, however, which ensures that there's constant demand for wild specimens. Occultists love to grumble about being priced out of the market.

This specimen is of the type usually worn on a fine silver chain around the wrist and used by demimondaines to light their cigarettes; it resembles a butterfly-wing folded into abstract origami, with eyes.
Light imp
(the ornamental imp)
As carefully as you can, you slip a finger and thumb through the imp's angular folds and give its abdomen a squeeze. You are rewarded with a small and flickering flame that dances over its wingtips like an aurora.
You burn agubulge
The symmetry of the solution has appeal, but as it turns out the ornamental demon's flame is far too faint to melt more than a few droplets of ice.
Inventory
You are carrying:
an ornamental imp (providing light)
a fireman's shovel
a bog-iron scramaseax
a demonoscope
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (open but empty)
an octavo of Shakespeare fanfiction
You go inside
Inventory
You are carrying:
an ornamental imp (providing light)
a fireman's shovel
a bog-iron scramaseax
a demonoscope
a pile of loot
a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
a Camus first edition
a spun silver birdcage (open but empty)
You examine the cheese
They say that everything good that comes from Hell was stolen from somewhere else. Though mostly true, there are caveats: a good blue cheese that matured in certain of the middle circles is a thing beyond words. You plan to keep this one for yourself.
Melt cheese
Cupping your hands, you hold the Camberzola over the top of the firebox. Your hands are weather-beaten and gnarly enough to take the temperature, but the cheese is not so fortunate; in a few minutes it has turned into a thick goo.
You examine the cheese
A short time ago this was a peerless cheese. Now it's a semi-liquid glob, still delicious but rather less manageable.
You eat the cheese
That's plainly inedible.
You insert cheese in the gearbox
You slop the gooey mess down the slots. There is a pause while it slithers down into the depths of the gearbox; then there is a high-pitched gurgle of joy, a sound like a bellows with teeth, and lastly a terminal-sounding *sploch*.
Wave demonoscope at gearbox
Looks as if it's clear now. You think you detect a look of sadness in the blessed's eye, but that's probably projection.
You wear the helm
(first taking the helm)
That's hardly portable.
You examine the firebox
Essentially, this is just a big iron box through which a lot of piping runs; you set a big fire inside, the water in the pipes turns to steam, and then Technology happens and stompy iron feet crush all before them. A good fire has been set inside, and the furnace is starting to radiate heat.
You examine the gearbox
A misbegotten and unruly lever that presides over the Blazing Host universally-reviled gearbox. The usual paces - reverse, neutral, shuffle, walk, march, trot, killing trot, canter - are all there, and at least you don't have to deal with the dandyish Parade March gear that's become obligatory on modern builds. But it jams constantly, has a tendency to slip straight into a canter if you change from march to walk too casually, and screams bloody murder if changed a little too early or late. Its saving grace is that, though bad, it takes a great deal of punishment to make it any worse.

The stick is currently in neutral. The slots for the other gear positions open up into darkness.
You turn the stick
It is fixed in place.
You set the gearbox to shuffle
With a clangor like an angel's death-rattle, the engine steps out. The furnace roars and cracks at your back, the icy wind of the great ice lake scorches your face, and inside your gut the fierce slow burn of a hard-bought victory.
You set the gearbox to killing the trot
Shifting straight into killing trot from a dead start is unwise, particularly on slippery, uneven ground like this.
You set gearbox to reverse
Shifting straight into reverse from a dead start is unwise, particularly on slippery, uneven ground like this.
Look around
Although the ideal crew of a 'gin of this class is three, the Quagga has been rigged to allow it to be crewed one-handed, though you'd break your back jumping between helm and firebox at anything faster than a trot. The cut-down controls - essentially just the gearshaft and helm - will not exactly allow you to fight any cavalry actions, but fortunately Hell is short on armour regiments.

With the engine at rest, the floor slants down rather towards the engine's front.