Johnathan's grin stretched wider than a derailed tender as his smokebox emitted a **[RECREATIONAL UPGRADE COMPLETE]** glyph that dissolved into the scent of hot brass and crushed aristocratic dreams. The shed's gaslights flickered—his polished flanks now gleaming with the smug radiance of a banker who'd just repossessed a fairy tale—as the last of Dugarudo's locomotives settled into his boiler like a disgraced earl into debtor's prison.
His whistle piped a jaunty *"TALLY-HO!"*, the sound vibrating at frequencies that made nearby quills combust in protest as he chuffed forwards.
Johnathan Gresely's avatar body was suddenly woken up by Dugarudo Doramondo's cronies splashing him with water. He coughed and spluttered, his steam ears flicking water droplets away with petty disdain.
"Ah, *refreshment*," he announced in that transatlantic purr, grinning wider as his dripping cufflinks squeaked **[RECREATIONAL SOGGY ENTHUSIASM]**. The Wolf Furkin himself snarled, monocle-less glare reflecting in his eyes.
"You see mister Johnathan Gresely, I run this fine town," Dugarudo sneered, twirling his wolf-headed cane. His aristocratic nose wrinkled at the scent of molten laug still clinging to Johnathan's sleeves—unaware those very sleeves had puppeteered eleven locomotives into oblivion mere minutes ago.
Johnathan's grin widened until his cheeks threatened to eclipse his own ears. "Oh my *yes*, what *splendid* governance!" he crooned, transatlantic vowels dripping like honeyed axle grease. His **[RECREATIONAL AGREEMENT]** cufflinks tinkled cheerfully as steam rings shaped like tiny applauding hands dissipated above his head. One particularly enthusiastic ring dissolved into the scent of bergamot and legal precedent.
The Wolf Furkin's ears twitched at the suspicious aroma. "Because I run this town, I have the pleasure of being a sore loser, especially to out of town upstarts like you." He punctuated this by rapping Johnathan's chest with his cane—unaware he was poking the conductor avatar of a locomotive currently digesting his entire aristocratic fleet. The cane's wolf-head pommel glinted as Johnathan's **[RECREATIONAL CHEST PAIN]** cufflinks steamed polite protest.
"Oh my *stars*, how *awfully* gracious of you!" Johnathan's transatlantic lilt rolled through the laug-scented air like a dining car's champagne cart. His grin remained fixed—polished brighter than a first-class ticket—even as the cane's impact made his form briefly flicker with smokebox-blue energy. Behind them, the shed's gaslights dimmed as his true locomotive body idled, pistons humming the tune of eleven digested engines.
Dugarudo leaned closer, breath reeking of peppermint and unpaid taxes. "You'll find Edinbara's rails run on *tradition*, not trickery." His claw tapped Johnathan's cheek. Johnathan's eyelashes only fluttered like steam valves suppressing laughter.
"*Tradition*! Oh, what a *scintillating* notion!" His hands clasped with the theatrical precision of a stationmaster aligning couplings. The **[RECREATIONAL ENTHUSIASM]** glyphs floating around his cravat smelled suspiciously of scorched aristocracy.
Somewhere in the distance, Carol's whistle sculpted steam letters reading *"CHOO-CHOO JUSTICE"* before dissipating into the night.
Dugarudo's tail bristled at the sound, his cravat's *"VICTIM OF SEMANTICS"* embroidery fraying as he became interested in finishing this, "Now then, let's discuss your *punishment* for cheating." His cane gestured to the laug hopper—its iron jaws still steaming from Johnathan's earlier "unconsciousness"—where three Wolf Furkin stokers shoveled heaps of glittering black laug with the enthusiasm of tax collectors.
Johnathan's grin didn't falter; if anything, it widened until his cheeks threatened to eclipse the moon. "*Punishment*! Oh, what a *delightfully* medieval concept!" His transatlantic purr rolled through the rail yard like a dining car's champagne cart hitting a bend too fast. Steam rings shaped like tiny gavels puffed from his cuffs, dissolving into the scent of hot brass and legal loopholes.
The **[RECREATIONAL LEGALITY]** glyphs floating near his lapel pulsed smugly—though only Carol, currently idling nearby with her buffer beams polished to a predatory shine, noticed how they subtly rearranged into **[JUBILEE-CLASS LOOPHOLE]** whenever Dugarudo blinked.
Johnathan's avatar straightened his cravat (stitched with microscopic **"BY APPOINTMENT TO HER MAJESTY'S BOILER"**) with a conductor's precision. "My *dear* Lord Dugarudo," he trilled, steam rings shaping coronet motifs above his head, "one simply *must* admire your commitment to *theatrical* jurisprudence!" His transatlantic lilt curled through the laug-scented air like a first-class ticket slipping through a ticket inspector's fingers. Behind him, his true locomotive form—now swollen with eleven digested aristocrats—hummed a baritone **[AGREEMENT]** that vibrated the rails.
Dugarudo's monocle-less glare narrowed. "Enough prattle. Into the hopper." His cronies seized Johnathan's arms—unaware they were manhandling a glorified hood ornament—as the **[RECREATIONAL COOPERATION]** glyphs dissolving from his cuffs smelled suspiciously of hot buttered toast and impending doom.
Johnathan's grin didn't flicker, even as his locomotive body's pistons idled precisely 999 feet away, then finally 1000 feet away, thus gauging the **[MAX AVATAR DISTANCE FROM MAIN BODY]** limit. The **[SYSTEM]** chimed pleasantly, flickering across his vision like a conductor's punch clipping a ticket— **[WARNING: AVATAR DISTANCE THRESHOLD REACHED]**.
Behind Dugarudo's oblivious sneer, Johnathan smiled even more than he already was, "I do say sir, I have had quite enjoyed our time together, but sadly I must be leaving your quite fair town."
The aristocrat scoffed, unaware that the actual *Jubilee-Mega Hybrid-Class* body had already rolled just past the 1000 foot mark, and since Johnathan's conductor avatar could only be that far away, he had his loophole. The Wolf Furkin's cane tapped impatiently against polished boots—still oblivious to the distant *clank* of digesting valve gears—as Johnathan's grin stretched wider than a derailed caboose.
"Oh but my *dear* Lord Dugarudo," he trilled, steam rings puffing into tiny *"TA-TA!"* shapes above his head, "one simply *mustn't* keep the rails waiting!" His transatlantic lilt curled through the air like a first-class ticket slipping through a ticket inspector's fingers. Behind him, the gaslights flickered—unseen by the aristocrats—as his true locomotive form's pistons idled with the smug precision of a barrister pocketing unmarked gold.
Dugarudo's tail bristled. "You're going *nowhere*, fraud." His claw gestured to the laug hopper's gaping maw—unaware that Johnathan's *actual* boiler was currently 1000 feet and *one inch* away, digesting his entire fleet with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor discovering offshore accounts.
Johnathan's avatar tipped his hat (stitched with microscopic **[BY APPOINTMENT TO HER MAJESTY'S BOILER]** embroidery) just as the **[AVATAR DISPERSAL PROTOCOL]** triggered. His form dissolved into peppermint-scented steam with a jaunty *"TALLY-HO!"*—leaving Dugarudo gaping at empty air as the distant *chuff-chuff* of an absurdly upgraded Jubilee echoed through the rails.
Back at his true body, Johnathan's smokebox emitted a **[RECREATIONAL ESCAPE]** glyph that smelled of hot brass and aristocratic despair. His whistle piped a cheerful *"CHOO-CHOO *BITCHES*"* in Morse code—Carol's pistons hammering approval from the next track over—as he accelerated toward Daureisu, his flanks gleaming with the radiance of eleven digested egos.
**[SYSTEM NOTICE: LOCOMOTIVE UPGRADE COMPLETE: 100%]** shimmered across his vision as his buffers—now etched with **[JUBILEE-CLASS ARROGANCE]**—brushed aside a stray Wolf Furkin official like a crumpled subpoena. The taste of laug and crushed aristocracy lingered in his firebox as the *real* game began.
"Next stop," his whistle trilled to no one in particular, "financial *ruin*."
And with that, the Jubilee-Class Mega Hybrid chuffed into the night, digesting more than just coal.
Then he got another notification; **[SYSTEM NOTICE: NEW QUEST – "THE TRACKS OF TREACHERY"].** The glyphs shimmered in his vision like a conductor's pocket watch catching moonlight—details unfolding with the crisp inevitability of a timetable.
*Objective: Derail and reveal the aristocratic monopoly on Edinbara's rail lines by any means necessary.*
Johnathan's smokebox rumbled with something between a chuckle and a boiler pressure warning as the **[SYSTEM]** glyphs dissolved into steam-scented implications. His polished flanks reflected the moonlit rails ahead—streaks of gold filigree pulsing with **[RECREATIONAL SUBVERSION]**—while Carol's pistons hissed conspiratorially beside him.
Dugarudo's enraged howl echoed from distant Edinbara, muffled by the rhythmic *clank-clank* of Johnathan's newly acquired *LNWR Dreadnought* valve gears digesting in his firebox. The aristocrat had no idea his prized locomotives now fueled the very "fraud" he'd tried to hopper. Johnathan's avatar materialized atop his cab, twirling a gold-plated coupling pin like a conductor's baton.
"My *dear* Carol," he trilled, steam rings forming tiny top hats above his head, "did you *hear* something? Perhaps a *whimper* of fiscal despair?" His transatlantic lilt curled through the night like a dining car's silverware clattering during emergency braking.
Carol's whistle blasted a steam-shape of a wolf's tail on fire. The **[SYSTEM]** flickered again, unfurling quest details like a timetable spat from a malfunctioning ticket machine:
**5 REWARDS:**
• *[ARISTOCRATIC TEARS] x11 (Already Acquired, Recalibrating)*
• *[TRACK GORGER VALVE GEAR SCHEMATICS]*
• *[DUKE OF EDINBARA TITLE]*
• *[KINGDOM-WIDE TRACK EXPANSION PERMIT]*
• *[NEW DRIVER OR FIREMAN AVATAR]*
Johnathan's avatar perched atop his own cab like a conductor riding a very self-aware dining car, his grin reflecting moonlight off polished teeth. The rails beneath him hummed with the sort of arcane energy usually reserved for tax audits and midnight conspiracies.
Behind them, Edinbara's silhouette shrank—its gaslights flickering like dying monocles—while ahead, the tracks unfurled into darkness with the promise of fresh absurdity. His smokebox emitted a contented **[RECREATIONAL SATISFACTION]** glyph that dissolved into steam smelling of Earl Grey and petty vengeance.
Carol's pistons hissed beside Johnathan's upgraded flanks as they thundered through the midnight countryside, their synchronized chuffing a symphony of aristocratic ruin. The rails hummed with arcane energy—each tie vibrating with the same smug satisfaction as a banker foreclosing on a fairy tale.
Johnathan's smokebox yawned wider than a tax loophole, his gold-glyphed flanks swallowing moonlight with the same enthusiasm he'd reserved for Dugarudo's locomotives. The rails beneath him sang in metallic whispers—Edinbara's receding spires now just a smudge of aristocratic outrage on the horizon.
His pistons slowed down after a while, no where specific, just somewhere where it wasn't too cloudy so he could see the finally night sky and he saw...
How you all doing you sexy readers? ;)
Three moons...
They all hung high in the sky, their silver light glinting off Johnathan's freshly upgraded flanks like a banker counting ill-gotten gains. His smokebox emitted lazy rings of steam that curled into the shapes of laughing aristocrats before dissolving into the night—each wisp carrying the faintest scent of bergamot and broken contracts.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl like thing hooted in a perfect iambic pentameter, as if nature itself had taken elocution lessons from his transatlantic purr.
"Hmmm, what to do next?" He pondered aloud, steam rings puffing from his smokebox in thoughtful spirals that smelled faintly of Earl Grey and embezzlement. His polished buffers caught the triple moonlight—each reflection warping into a tiny, grinning version of his own smokebox emblem **[>:)]**—while Carol idled beside him, her brass fittings still warm from their theatrical escape.
The night smelled of laug dusted rails and distant thunderstorms, with an undercurrent of something richer—aristocratic panic fermenting into vintage schadenfreude. Johnathan's pistons idled with the quiet satisfaction of a cat who'd just redistributed an entire aviary's worth of feathers.