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“An archive of things that never happened”. An in-character forum for fanfiction and roleplaying. Beware - spoilers abound!

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

Shadowcthuhlu
Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1397

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: 711

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: 671

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: 671

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: 671

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.)


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edited by Passionario on 2/20/2017

--
If you are not the flame, you're the fuel.
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Passionario
Passionario
Posts: 671

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: 1090

3/20/2017
Serves you right :P
+1 link
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