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A Love That Dares Not Remember Its Name Messages in this topic - RSS

Shadowcthuhlu
Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1409

7/29/2016
Be careful - some of us Great Game players may be called in

--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Dirae~Erinyes
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Vavakx Nonexus
Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 713

7/29/2016
Let's hope we all are just found on the other side of the Game and avoid getting chopped up.

--
Vavakx Nonexus, the Deranged Solicitor: Black-and-Gold. and a Particularly Fancy Dress.

Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. Someday.

Hear the Deranged Solicitor's story along with several others at The Tower of Mind and Law: Tales from 'Euphemia'
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Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 657

8/22/2016
Passionario wrote:
Story to follow.

Story can now be found here and here.

--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
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Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 657

2/13/2017
This winter, I've been looking for her everywhere: in the stalls at Mahogany Hall, among the watching crowds at Hangman's Arch, within the beating heart of Veilgarden and across the rooftops of the Flit. My elusive muse in lilac, refined by the Game's fire and reshaped to serve the Bazaar. (As you were, once.) Among all the insects and giants of the world, she was the only one I truly consider to be my equal. Her absence speaks like thunder, and as urchins and zailors can attest, the voice of thunder often drives men mad. (Even more so, in your case.)

In the end, I find her leaving the Panopticon through a side entrance, accompanied by her Burly Assistant. She must have been giving 'interviews' again, I think, and jealosy wraps around my shrivelled hollow heart like a fiery mirror-serpent. I call out her name. She turns around and looks me straight in the eye. Her own eyes are violet once again, and there is not a trace of recognition in them.

"There is no need to make arrangements," she says. "I have sufficient proof that you are not desired."

--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
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Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 657

2/18/2017
"That's not what you said last time, when we spoke of Love. Or, rather, shown it."

She does not laugh this time, but she does smile, and the sight of it sears my heart like a devil's claw: "Oh, there was always one, and sometimes more than one. And why not? Ah, but they all had a reputation, sir, while you are remarkably... obscure."

A whirlwind of rage sweeps through my skull, and not all of it is mine. (She left both of us behind!) I take a step forward and Millicent's beautiful features harden:

"Sir, I already have one pathetic obsessed man stalking me all over London. I have no need or desire for another."

I take another step and the Burly Assistant moves to block my path. His hand falls onto my shoulder, as heavy as Jasper's or Frank's - yet compared to the weight on my stained soul, it is as light as a feather. I ignore him, focusing the full force of my gaze on Millicent. She does not yet remember me (us!), but she will yet.

My lips part and out comes a question in a language long devoured:



No one hears it. No one answers. No one comes forth. No one places her tattooed fingers over the Burly Assistant's face, causing him to collapse on the pavement, his strong hands clawing soundlessly at his suddenly useless eyes. No one steps back gracefully into my head. (You're welcome.)


.
edited by Passionario on 2/20/2017

--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
+3 link
Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 657

3/20/2017
I realize that I have forgotten many things indeed. Some I've lost to irrigo, others to Lethean Tea and Bottled Oblivion, but most to the inexorable passage of time. And despite the boasts that I've made to my new protege, I have not been able to recover them all. I have forgotten the sense of kinship that I've felt every time I looked at Millicent, whose life has also been shaped by both the Game and the Bazaar. I have forgotten the burning jealousy towards the Courier that her violet eyes inspired in me.

And most importantly, I have forgotten just how inhumanly fast she could move.

A flicker of recognition graces her alluring face. A split-second later, she is next to me, standing on her tiptoes and reaching upwards. Then her lips are upon mine and they taste like sunlight and second chances. My hands entwine her in an embrace, while hers are pressed against my chest, tapping on it with skillful fingers.

(no no no no make it stop please make it stop no no no)

For a moment, I uneasily wonder if I am in the Chambers of the Heart again. The combination of exquisite joy and a quiet voice begging me to stop is a familiar territory to me, although one that I have not walked for some time, and certainly not with this particular partner. Yet I cannot be complacent, not after what I have lived through.

Even though every fibre of my being compels me to lose myself in this perfect moment, I manage to to extricate a sliver of my attention through sheer willpower and bloody-minded determination. From this hard-won vantage point of supreme paranoia, I survey the environment for telltale signs of false reality. The sights (insofar as my peripheral vision permits), the sounds, the sensations, the scents...

(No No No Make It Stop Please Make It Stop No No No)

The scents! Beneath Millicent's intoxicating perfume and London's customary pastiche of fragnances, I recognize a cloying undertone of rot and honey. It calls up images of red water, of a dark cave in a gleaming slope, of a charred man attended by a court of bees, and of a dark secret...

(NO NO NO MAKE IT STOP PLEASE MAKE HER STOP NO NO NO)

Realization finally descends upon me like a battlefield looter - too late to prevent my defeat, but just in time to ransack what remains of my hope. I recognize the pleading voice, which is now screaming like thunder, as my own. And I remember the dark secret that I've learned in that forsaken cave: the seven-times-seven rhythm that can shatter the icy gates of the horizon. The same rhythm that Millicent's implacable fingers are tapping on my chest. And I still cannot move.

Like a ramming lifeberg capsizing a doomed steamer, the final chord of the Seven-Fold Knock slams into my heart. All goes dark.

--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
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Kukapetal
Kukapetal
Posts: 1131

3/20/2017
Serves you right :P
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Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 657

13 hours ago
The emptiness around me is like the zee: cold, dark, timeless and ever-hungry. I cannot fight it, for I am fallen, shattered, dispersed, lost, adrift, unmade and gone. Only the Question remains, shining defiantly like a glim-beacon.



In response, a tidal tide of memories begins to roll in slowly yet inexorably to drown its light in an abyss of revelations.

The first wave brings sounds. The whinnying of horses outside our little house. The voice of my mother, wise and caring, yet tinged with an undercurrent of fear, telling me to hide. The hammering of fists and feet on the door. Cold and vicious voices of men: they have come to take archduke's bastard to Vienna. A brief scuffle. A single gunshot, its voice like thunder. Hours of silence that stretch like years. My own breath and heartbeat, so treacherously loud...

The second wave brings tastes. The sweet warmth of my bride's lips as we exchange rings and vows. The joyful savouriness of the feast at our daughter's seventh birthday. The heady crispness of London beer, still made of hops and barley rather than mushrooms, on the week after the Fall. The welcome bitterness of the Lethean Tea pouring down my throat as Poor Edward tells me that 'Scathewick' is no more - and that my new code name from that point on is 'Passionario'...

The third wave brings movements. The motions of the waltz that I dance with the Duke and his vengeful daughter, a deadly dilemma pulsating in my heart. The stealthy glide through a bedroom window, left carelessly open in the summer night's heat, as I retrieve the knife and crawl towards the sleeping figure. The frenzied struggle of a young woman's body in my grasp as I drag her ever closer towards the well's edge...

The fourth wave brings words. The secrets and revelations that I retrieve from the dead Duke's eye. The unsigned note that I deliver to a young tattoo artist in Ladybones Road, instructing her to come to the Paper Gate of the Bazaar at midnight. The crumpled scroll with my codename, the location on the Surface and names of my targets; now that my mission is complete, I toss it into the flames of the burning house behind me...

All around me, the waves become a raging maelstrom of images, voices, sensations and realizations. The tattoo artist's mind and soul enslaved by the worship of an inhuman uncaring being. The Waltzing Duke's features, so similar to the portrait above my mother's bed - and the resemblance to the image that I've seen in my own mirror once, back before I met the Face-Tailor. The day I returned home to find it burned to ashes, my whole family murdered, and the only clue being a scorched scrap of paper with the name 'Scathewick' on it...

Abruptly, I awaken in my lodgings. My bed is thoroughly drenched in blood. A quick survey indicates that the damage inflicted by the Seven-Fold Knock on my body can only be described as 'catastrophic', although 'irreversible' is also technically correct. Without the changes brought on by red honey, I would be permanently dead by now. Yet the wounds and agonies of the flesh are nothing compared to the pain of my mind and spirit.

The Masters. The Bazaar. The Game.

They have taken everyone and everything from me. They turned me into a killer of my loved ones. My whole life was built on violence and lies. For decades, they have coldly and systematically hollowed me out to the breaking point. And now, there is nothing left of me except a shadow waiting to die.

(Oh, dear candle, I wouldn't say that. A rag, a bone, a hank of hair is all we need and all you are. Granted, that's not a very kind thing to say, but it's true, isn't it?)

...Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. Even in my wretched state, I still have my illicit wealth, my troves of forbidden knowledge and plundered secrets, a lifetime's worth of tricks and skills that are as vile as they are cunning, just enough time left for one last desperate gambit... and above all, I have a new Question to be my beacon-flame in the endless night to come:



--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
+2 link
Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 657

13 hours ago

edited by Passionario on 5/29/2017

--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
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Kukapetal
Kukapetal
Posts: 1131

10 hours ago
This is so beautifully tragic
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