system
You are the dungeon master of a text adventure game. The game should involve the following genres and tags:
Fantasy, based on painting,bruegel,cheese,Demon,fantasy,female protagonist,folklore character,hell,ice,loot,short,speed IF,treasure,vehicle
gpt
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.
human
You look at Quagga
gpt
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.
human
About yourself
gpt
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.
human
Inventory
gpt
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
human
You read the fanfiction
gpt
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.
human
You read camus
gpt
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.
human
You look at the demonoscope
gpt
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.)
human
Wave demonoscope at imp
gpt
The unfortunate saint wriggles a little bit, dislodging a turnip or two, but that's about background level for anywhere below circle four.
human
Wave demonoscope at Quagga
gpt
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.
human
You examine the scramaseax
gpt
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.
human
You look at the loot
gpt
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.
human
Wave demonoscope at aft right hip joint
gpt
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.
human
You examine the imp
gpt
(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.
human
You examine the ornamental imp
gpt
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.
human
Wave demonoscope at furnace
gpt
Yep, there's something nasty in there all right. Turnips everywhere.
human
You look at the furnace
gpt
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.
human
You examine the aft right hip joint
gpt
Big mass of ice. Icicles. Probably an imp deep inside. Not going anywhere until it's dealt with.
human
You examine the aft left hip joint
gpt
An unmodified Blazing Host four-joint limb, in good condition apart from superficial scratches.
human
You look at the cage
gpt
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..
human
You examine the imp
gpt
(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.
human
You examine the ornamental imp
gpt
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.
human
You look at the pilot's end
gpt
You can't see any such thing.

You can't see any such thing.
human
You examine Quagga
gpt
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.
human
Look around
gpt
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.
human
You kill the agubulge with the scramaseax
gpt
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.
human
Burn camus
gpt
You lack a source of fire.
human
You open the cage
gpt
You open the spun silver birdcage.
human
You get imp
gpt
(the ornamental imp)
Taken.
human
Light imp
gpt
(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.
human
You burn agubulge
gpt
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.
human
Burn camus
gpt
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.
human
You burn agubulge
gpt
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.
human
You look at the seax
gpt
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.
human
Burn fanfiction
gpt
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.
human
You burn agubulge
gpt
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.
human
%
gpt
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.
human
Enter
gpt
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.
human
You examine the ice
gpt
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.
human
You go outside
gpt
The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
human
Wave demonoscope at Quagga
gpt
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.
human
You examine the aft right hip joint
gpt
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.
human
You hit the ice with the seax
gpt
Which do you mean, the agubulge or the ice cave wall?
human
Agubulge
gpt
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.
human
You take ornamental imp
gpt
You open the spun silver birdcage.

Taken.
human
You squeeze it
gpt
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.
human
You look at the imp
gpt
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.
human
You squeeze it
gpt
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.
human
You put it in the cage
gpt
You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga.

You put the demonoscope into the spun silver birdcage.
human
You put the imp in the cage
gpt
You put the ornamental imp into the spun silver birdcage.
human
You take the demonoscope
gpt
Taken.
human
You close the cage
gpt
You close the spun silver birdcage.
human
Wave demonoscope at Quagga
gpt
You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga.
human
Wave demonoscope at hip
gpt
Which do you mean, the aft right limb or the aft left limb?
human
Right
gpt
No reaction! It appears you've fixed it.
human
You get all
gpt
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.
human
You examine the chute
gpt
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.
human
You look at the firebox
gpt
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.
human
Wave demonoscope at firebox
gpt
A good deal of somewhat-uninspired wriggling indicates the presence of a small and rather pathetic imp.
human
You open the firebox
gpt
You tug mightily at the furnace door. It refuses to budge.
human
You hit the firebox with shovel
gpt
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.
human
Wave demonoscope at chute
gpt
The unfortunate saint wriggles a little bit, dislodging a turnip or two, but that's about background level for anywhere below circle four.
human
You open the firebox
gpt
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.
human
Inventory
gpt
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)
human
You hit the agubulge with the seax
gpt
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.
human
You hit the agubulge with the shovel
gpt
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.
human
You examine the helm
gpt
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.
human
Wave demonoscope at gearbox
gpt
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.
human
You examine the gearbox
gpt
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.
human
You look at the gearbox
gpt
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.
human
You cut the cheese
gpt
Cutting that up would achieve little.
human
You eat the cheese
gpt
That's plainly inedible.
human
Melt cheese
gpt
That really requires access to a source of steady heat.
human
Inventory
gpt
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)
human
You open firebox
gpt
That's already open.
human
You put the cheese in the firebox
gpt
You put the wheel of artisanal Camberzola into the firebox.
human
Inventory
gpt
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)
human
You take the cheese
gpt
Taken.
human
You close the firebox
gpt
You close the firebox.
human
You open the firebox
gpt
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.
human
Look around
gpt
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.
human
%
gpt
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.
human
You look at Quagga
gpt
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.
human
Inventory
gpt
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
human
You examine the scramaseax
gpt
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.
human
You examine the cheese
gpt
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.
human
You hit the firebox with the shovel
gpt
(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.
human
You open the firebox
gpt
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.
human
You take the agubulge
gpt
That's fixed in place.
human
You hit the agubulge with the shovel
gpt
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.
human
Look around
gpt
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.
human
You go outside
gpt
The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
human
You look at the hip
gpt
Which do you mean, the aft right limb or the aft left limb?
human
Wave demonoscope at aft right hip joint
gpt
Lamentably, it's still there, if the blessed's reaction is anything to go by.
human
Inventory
gpt
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
human
You examine the aft right hip joint
gpt
Big mass of ice. Icicles. Probably an imp deep inside. Not going anywhere until it's dealt with.
human
You hit the agubulge with the shovel
gpt
You bash off the more fragile icicles and a few chips of ice, but your progress is rather limited.
human
You examine agubulge
gpt
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.
human
You open the birdcage
gpt
That's already open.
human
You get imp
gpt
(the ornamental imp)
Taken.
human
You look at the imp
gpt
(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.
human
Light imp
gpt
(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.
human
You burn agubulge
gpt
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.
human
Inventory
gpt
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
human
You go inside
gpt
human
Inventory
gpt
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)
human
You examine the cheese
gpt
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.
human
Melt cheese
gpt
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.
human
You examine the cheese
gpt
A short time ago this was a peerless cheese. Now it's a semi-liquid glob, still delicious but rather less manageable.
human
You eat the cheese
gpt
That's plainly inedible.
human
You insert cheese in the gearbox
gpt
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*.
human
Wave demonoscope at gearbox
gpt
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.
human
You wear the helm
gpt
(first taking the helm)
That's hardly portable.
human
You examine the firebox
gpt
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.
human
You examine the gearbox
gpt
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.
human
You turn the stick
gpt
It is fixed in place.
human
You set the gearbox to shuffle
gpt
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.
human
You set the gearbox to killing the trot
gpt
Shifting straight into killing trot from a dead start is unwise, particularly on slippery, uneven ground like this.
human
You set gearbox to reverse
gpt
Shifting straight into reverse from a dead start is unwise, particularly on slippery, uneven ground like this.
human
Look around
gpt
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.