text: [Themes: Fantasy, female protagonist, hell, fantasy]
  
  > 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.
  
  > go outside
  The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
  
  > 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
  
  > examine the aft right hip joint
  Big mass of ice. Icicles. Probably an imp deep inside. Not going anywhere until it's dealt with.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > open the birdcage
  That's already open.
  
  > get imp
  (the ornamental imp)
  Taken.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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
  
  > 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)
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > eat the cheese
  That's plainly inedible.
  
  > 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.
  
  > wear the helm
  (first taking the helm)
  That's hardly portable.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > turn the stick
  It is fixed in place.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > set gearbox to reverse
  Shifting straight into reverse from a dead start is unwise, particularly on slippery, uneven ground like this.