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ForScience
ForScience
Posts: 63

2 days ago
(co-written with The Atumian Sputum)


The Advanced Gant-Aligned Spectrometer, Florence feels, is coming along nicely. A normal spectrometer wouldn’t do for studying gant. She tried, and bright spots of afterglow had clouded her vision for days afterward. She wasn’t even aware that that could happen. So, in order to continue her studies on light refraction, a special type of spectrometer will be necessary.


The design isn’t very different from a normal optical spectrometer’s, though it does make use of certain exotic components found only in the Neath. It’s also going to be about four meters tall, dwarfing the diminutive scientist. A precarious network of ladders and scaffolding has been erected in the lab to aid in its construction; in lieu of any other commitments, she’s been at work for almost two days. Florence has the curious ability to subside on seemingly nothing but very strong coffee for days on end with no ill effects. Her colleagues are used to her unique work ethic, and would surely direct anybody trying to find her in her office to her laboratory in the Institute of the Neathbow.

Of course, being tiny and built like a bundle of sticks, Florence isn’t actually doing the building. Mostly she just hangs around in the scaffolding and directs her assistant, Murphy.


“Just there, Murphy.”


The sturdier part of the two rolls his ladder over to the raw skeleton of what will one day be the collimator, hefting up the crescent-shaped piece of metal and setting it against the framework forming part of the outer hull. He begins to screw it in.


“Thank you, Murphy.”


“You know nothing makes me happier, Ms. Garrison,” the part-time guard, part-time lab assistant replies, voice accented with his homeland of Ireland.


Florence frowns as she studies her recently hired help. Though the response was obviously sarcastic - and many of Murphy’s responses are, she’s learned - she does note that the young Irishman rarely looks anything close to happy. He’s new to the Neath, still carrying the complexion of one who has seen sunlight and not the deathly pallor of the Neath’s residents, and though he does seem amazed, every now and then, the fascinations of the Bazaar’s city rarely seem to inspire any joy in him. Perhaps he’s just good at hiding it, or perhaps just bad at showing it - it’s hard to imagine that bony Gaelic face contorting itself into a smile.


Or perhaps just better not to, she notes with a wince, as she pictures the rather unpleasant image.


Oh well. At least he’s got rather ruddy, if terribly hollow, cheeks - they say that’s a sign of health and happiness.


Rain begins to fall. Murphy’s eyes look up from his work, looking across the web of scaffolding at the window. “You don’t mind, do you, boss?” he asks, casting a glance at Florence.


“Of course not. We can take a break for now,” the scientist replies, smiling kindly. The assistant slides down the ladder. He moves quickly across to his coat, which rests on a stool, fishing a book out from the pocket.


“Thanks, boss. I’ll see you soo-”


He pauses, looking back over his shoulder at Florence as he readies himself to go. The scientist looks nervously back, hands clasped together, trying to decide a way to get down from her rather precarious perch in the scaffolding.


"I’m sorry, Murph-”


“Christ,” he grumbles, hurrying over to the ladder, “Like the world’s ugliest kitten.”


The scientist gasps, indignant. “Well, it’s not like you’re one to judge!”


“Second time this week.”


“Forget it! I’m perfectly capable of getting down on my own!”


"And then we’ll both be off to win beauty pageants. Just wait a moment, Ms. Garrison.”


“... Thank you, Murphy.”


“Aye.”

--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless yet melancholy scientist who would like nothing better than to unravel the deepest mysteries of the Neath.

http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/rainbowsprinkles- The Pathetic Seeker. She tries her best, really! It's just that she isn't good at anything. She can't even destroy herself properly.
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John Moose
John Moose
Posts: 177

2 days ago
"No, I fear I'm not quite as wealthy as to have a carriage of my own. I'm quite happy to walk and get a bit more used to moving about with the cane, if you sirs don't mind going at my pace. Unless you have something we could use, or prefer hailing a cab? In any case, let us meet back here in, say, an hour. That should be ample time for all to have breakfast and get ready to move."

--
Gone. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/John Moose
A doctor with aspirations beyond his station, as well as an apiary enthusiast http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Noah Rache
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phryne
phryne
Posts: 744

2 days ago
The Investigation—Part 1: The Safehouse

(co-written with Drake Dynamo. This is the first part of a small serial!)

Navigating the few remaining snares and booby traps around the Shed of Wonders poses no problem for Lady Orosenn. Soon, she and Emma Dynamo are threading a path through the outskirts of Bugsby’s Marshes towards Watchmaker's Hill. There is not much communication between the two at this point—the tall monster-hunter seems deeply in thought. Emma reads her companion’s countenance well enough by now to recognize when it’s better to leave her alone.

Lady Orosenn is still painfully aware of how ill-prepared she had stumbled into Seven Devils square just two days ago, trudging along with her head in the clouds like a lovestruck maiden. Never before had she let herself down like that, let alone the rest of the group. This would simply not do. She is determined to prove to herself during the coming two days that she is perfectly able to work efficiently and successfully, even—and especially—with Emma at her side.

Cabs can be hard to come by in Watchmaker's Hill, but being the first of the party to leave, they find one soon enough. Lady Orosenn directs the driver towards Wolfstack Docks, hinting to him that he might make good business today if he returned to the Hill soon.

During the ride, she finally addresses her lover. “There will be no alley-snooping, and no skulking in the corners of pubs to overhear conversations, nor following around every beggar we see. We’re looking for very particular information, and we need it fast. No point in trusting to chance. I promise to you, I will find the Shade’s lair within 48 hours.”

“If you insist on doing it that way. It’s markedly less fun when you don’t get to come home dirty and covered in other people’s garbage,” Emma remarks.

Timmel raises her eyebrows. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. It appears our tastes run in different directions there.”

“Oh, my dear, the most fun part is getting cleaned off at the end,” Emma says with a smile. “But, I suppose this works too.”

Leaving the cab at the outskirts of the Docks, between warehouses and factories, Timmel Orosenn wends her way through a web of narrow, dirty lanes with intimate familiarity. The further they go, the shadier the people they meet, the more dilapidated and oppressive their surroundings—when suddenly, after squeezing through a gap between two apparently abandoned warehouses—they happen upon a row of neat, clean houses in good repair. Surrounded on all sides by grey industrial buildings, nobody would expect their existence here. Grinning, Orosenn turns towards Emma.

“Welcome to Covert Lane. This is where I go when I don’t want to be found. The apartments in these houses are rented to gentlepersons with a desire for privacy, and the means to pay for it. You might guess the identity of the cheery landlord and protector of this place; no need to mention his name. Safest place in London, if you know the rules. You come snooping around here, looking like you don’t belong—you disappear. You start asking questions of the people staying here—you disappear, no matter if you’re a constable, neddy man, private detective or whatever. You start a fight, or make any kind of trouble—you disappear. I keep a top-story apartment over there.” She points to the last building in the row.

“Hm, a penthouse, eh? Living large, I see. Hunting fabulous beasts must pay well,” Emma notes.
Lady Orosenn smiles. “It does over time. I’ve been doing this job for a while. I’m quite a bit older than I look, you know.”
“So am I, love. It appears we’ve got that in common,” Emma says. She cracks her knuckles. “So who are we going to meet?”
“Those who see all, but are rarely seen themselves,” Timmel answers mysteriously. “But first, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.” They enter the building.

Apparently, these apartments even come with servants. Before going upstairs, Lady Orosenn converses at length with an unusually clean-looking and well-fed urchin girl they find lounging in the kitchen, and who soon dashes off with a list of errands. “I haven’t had anything at Stormrider’s place except coffee. We’ll have a nice lunch brought up in about an hour. Later, we’ll meet with some… well-informed people.” She winks at Emma.

“So, what’s your stake in all this, Timmel? Aside from the exceptional pay, that is,” Emma inquires, taking a seat on Lady Orosenn’s plush sofa.

Timmel sits down next to her and considers her answer for a time. “Basically, I’m learning how to work with a team. Haven’t done that very often, you know. But my survival will probably depend on it in the future. You see, I’ve travelled almost everywhere one can go in the Neath. You could say… that I’m looking for new, larger hunting-grounds. Have you ever heard of the High Wilderness?”

“I’m familiar with the Wilderness, to a degree. My brother probably knows more, of course. He’s always looking into the Correspondence, and the Avid Horizon and such. I prefer the mysteries of the Neath, though,” Emma replies.

“I’ve seen one or two people go through the gate at Avid Horizon. Stark mad, probably, but some of them have apparently come back—or sent messages. The big companies—you know which ones I mean—are all working on something. Ships to explore a sea more sunless.” She hesitates. “I’ve entered into a contract. Whenever they’re ready, I’ll go with them. Just imagine: they say there are dragons out there, and who knows what else. Dragonslayer, now that’s a title I wouldn't mind carrying.” For a while, she stares into the void, lost in a reverie. When she snaps out of it, she looks at Emma and says, “Yes, call me ambitious. But you see, I know I’ll get bored down here one day. And people do such stupid things when they’re bored.”

“To each their own. But I hear those dragons eat time. At least, that’s what the rumours are. They say there’s one in the roof, but he’s dead. I’d be careful if I were you. Wouldn’t want to see you gobbled up,” Emma says with a chuckle.

“With the cider, I’ll stand a much better chance of surviving,” Orosenn says earnestly.

“If you go out to the High Wilderness, I won’t be with you to give you Cider all the time. But, that’s a ways off, I hope. Your place is very nice, by the way. Charming,” Emma comments.

“Your brother promised me a small bottle of Cider. That’ll suffice for a few emergencies. It’s all the payment I’m interested in, really. I don’t care about the rostygold. And if you think this is nice, you should see my townhouse, where I keep my collection of trophies on display.” She waves expansively at the room around her. “This is just a hideout. I guess I’m used to a degree of comfort. I was born the daughter of a queen, after all. But that’s a story for another time.”

“I should very much like to hear it one day. What shall we do until lunch arrives?” Emma asks, with a rumble of her stomach.

“Distract ourselves as well as we can, I guess,” is Lady Orosenn’s prompt answer.

“I can think of the perfect appetizer,” Emma grins.

(to be continued...)
edited by phryne on 4/23/2017

--
Eva May Canning, a Scarlet SaintLady Orosenn, a Monster-HunterPhryne Amarantyne, changed...
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Shadowcthuhlu
Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1398

1 days ago
"Of course I would come along Noah. Someone has to make sure you don't fall prey to roving bands of vicious urchins or angry-drunk poets. If we a chance, can we stop by the docks? I wanted to ask some of the old zailors if they've run into anything similar to the shade. As for getting a round, I do actually own a landau - it's safer then walking together as a big group.

So, Lord Gazter are you coming along? I doubt Gideon isn't going to let you hang around his private laboratory for too long."

--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Dirae~Erinyes
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Lord Gazter
Lord Gazter
Posts: 574

1 days ago
Lord Gazter is sitting down in one of the room’s curiously limited number of chairs, while wiping one of the lenses of his spectacles with a handkerchief. He raises the spectacles up to eye level and inspects the glass for any cracks, while quietly listening to Noah’s plan. The spectacles don’t appear to have been damaged from his fall at least as far as Lord Gazter can tell. He replaces his spectacles and returns the handkerchief to its pocket.

“Where in Spite would these contacts of yours be located?” Lord Gazter asks Noah as he leans back in his chair, and looks up at Noah. “And what path would we be taking through spite?”

--
Lord Gazter: a genial and charming gentleman of noble birth.

Victoria Crow: a spirited la.. young woman and an expert troublemaker.
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Drake Dynamo
Drake Dynamo
Posts: 371

1 days ago
Drake snaps his fingers, and the Cardsharp Monkey scrambles out of the shadows, carrying the large decanter of Hesperidean Cider with him. It swings by the coffee machine, grabs a mug, and pours some Cider into it. He brings the cup to Henchard, who gratefully takes a large gulp.

"Mr. Henchard, do you have any party you'd particularly like to accompany? I suppose you could accompany my group to the University, or Doctor Rache's group Spite-wards. Really, it's up to you," Drake says.

--
Drake Dynamo -Correspondent, Hesperidean Cider Drinker & Matchmaker
Emma Dynamo- Pulled from the past, ready to make a splash
The Antioch - The Coffee God (I do not check this account often)
Mr. Mauvais - A skulduggerous fellow, chopped up for the time being (Only active during seasonal events)

If you need to discuss RP matters, I can typically be found on the IRC in #Argo.
Interested in hunting the Shade with us? Check out our google doc!
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suinicide
suinicide
Posts: 1789

13 hours ago
The University. Henchard remembers his brother. Always experimenting, pen to paper, taking notes on what this or that did. His strained eyes watching bugs crawl and fight in the mud, fingers twitching notes into life. He remembers his sister, convinced the truth had already been discovered, her long nights by flickering candles, her endless array of books. The Shadow of the Wind. The Gospel of Eve. The Book of Sand.

He remembers his brother's tattered skin as they stumbled towards each other, flaps of skin thrashing in the harsh wind. His eyes asking, not for help, but for Henchard to remember what went wrong. And to improve.

He remembers the weight of his sister’s hand against his chest. Lighter than air, pale as death. He remembers the cold well, the sense of betrayal. The scent of secrets crawling on the inside of his skin. He remembers abandoning her.

From what little he had seen of the university, it was a beacon for people like them. This place was bad enough, dull steel running to mystery machines, loud noises echoing from unknown sources. Perhaps this was what his brother would have made. Perhaps Henchard had no desire to find out how it would go wrong.

“I’ll leave the university to you,” he said, “I have no intention of interrupting a meeting with an old friend. I wish you luck."
edited by suinicide on 4/26/2017

--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime
A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence.
RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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