Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
2/8/2018
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The Everpresent Witness, carrying several wooden mirror-frames under their arm, is the first one to discover the Moulting Eidolon, garlanding their hair with colourful serpents. The Witness proves to be quite well-read, and quickly recognizes the Eidolon as a relative to the Lords, if not one of them. Soon, Amets is introduced to every single member of the wild gathering of Bohemian dream-voyeurs, honey-sippers and sleeping beauties that have dreamt themselves here from a nearby yacht.
They shake hands with the Insatiable Seamstress, who offers lukewarm opinions and occasionally helpful criticisms towards every single part of the Eidolon’s attire, from the boots and all the way up to the hat. As for the serpents, she says nothing, merely smiles. She might be assuming that they’re natural, or ritually important. The Eidolon does not care to dispel that impression.
They shake hands with the Transfixed Artiste, his hands unceasing during your discussion about the flora and fauna of the dreaming world. Some time after this conversation, he hands Amets a page ripped from his sketchbook, filled with detailed portraits of them, from various angles and various moments. He explains that he had spares.
They shake hands with the Covetous Tragedian, who has very peculiar opinions on the Celestial movement and the nature of death. It’s tiring, they confide, to have to preserve one’s mortal life where so very few care about it. Especially on such a tight budget. They cannot even play in their own tragedies: “The only believable death down here,” The Tragedian says, “is a real one.” The Eidolon can only suggest exploring other narratives: Poverty, debts, law-breaking, unreturned love, longing for the impossible.
They shake hands with the Nostalgic Ex-Wastrel, who occasionally wears a stuffed glove and often bemoans her own foolishness. She had a paramour, once, for whom she’d give her life up. Quite literally. The stub on her right hand where a thumb should be was all her doing. A bloody gift to her paramour and a sign of the Ex-Wastrel’s dedication to her. Alas, the paramour did not appreciate the gruesome item and broke off the romance. The Ex-Wastrel, now jaded, wants to be able to experience that all-consuming love again, and has been doing fine without the thumb. She’s learned to play a mean drum.
They shake hands with the Disjointed Card-Counter, who was taught gambling strategies on the Surface, and then imported them to the Neath. Under the current mayor’s rule, he was able to win himself noble titles and several estates. He did more than count cards, but his proficiency at poker made the title stick. People would gather to test their skills against him until they’ve spent their last penny. One of them even gave up the hand of his daughter in marriage. The Card-Counter’s family life is stable as a rock and as respectable as membership in the Parthenaeum (which he does have), but he feels lost in his own shoes. That’s why he’s here, drinking and dreaming away his fortunes.
Eventually, the conversation turns towards the Eidolon’s own history. What strange things they saw, what secret miracles performed, what wonders experienced? Amets, of course, has stories to spare.
Stories of the river where nightmares spawn, where a secret, marvellous flax grows, and images of the beautiful dawns, cheery noons and handsome evenings that flash in the linen woven from it.
Stories of the tree that takes root beside it, ripe with Hesperidean apples which are then made into the infamous Cider, and the snoring serpents that guard it.
Stories of the Fingerkings and their Conjunctions, who have always been and always will be, who cannot change ‘cept by consumption, who have found a strange kinship in wearing stolen flesh.
Stories of one such named the Orts, who trades memories for visions, reason for passion, whose clients are insane, but happy.
Stories of Parabola itself. The trees that are stone, the boulders that are wood. The Hanging Mountains, the monochrome beauty of the Castle of Forests.
By the time the Moulting Eidolon is finished talking, every last bohemian had already mentally agreed to give up a part of their life for the luxuries of the world behind mirrors. Every last bohemian agrees to the deal and makes their promise. Everybody but the Everpresent Witness, who only clutches their mirror-frames tighter.
“This has been a most educational meeting. Alas, I am too well-read. I know what would happen to me were I to accept this deal. Have a marvellous day.”
With that, the Witness stands up and heads out. Nobody stops them, each reveling in the possibilities of their new existence.
Amets leaves next, simply closing their eyes and letting themselves fall down unto a comfortable lounging-bed. When they open their eyes - silver and reflective like a mirror - they see bright colours of the yacht, hear the sounds of music and talking, smell the flagrance of a dozen different perfumes.
They start giggling, then laughing, then snorting. They don’t remember the names of the people they met in that dream. They barely remember who those people were. Yet, here they are. In the Insatiable Seamstress’ body. Their body now, really. The rest, too, are theirs.
They stand up. They have a world to explore, an identity to get comfortable in.
[spoiler]Feel free to use all the bohemians mentioned. They're minor characters at best and I don't intend to do anything beyond this yacht party with them, but they all have meddling-to-good concepts and backstories.[/spoiler]
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 2/8/2018
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
2/9/2018
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Madison glances at her pocket-watch, bored. She had thoroughly wandered the deck looking for entertainment, finding small scraps here and there: a small circle of casual poker players, with which she'd won 50 echoes and lost 40 of them; a sudden bout of fisticuffs, ending with the two men fleeing from a livid matron's brandished cane; a brief interlude with a group of shuffleboard players, until an overly aggressive move resulted in an escalating round of slapstick, and Madison was asked to leave. She was just about ready to call it a day when E.L. approached.
Immediately, Madison finds herself reminded of a childhood friend, mind whirring with a mischievous prank or plan. It would always start with a thought, followed by a slow descent to the heart of the matter. Her old friend took more detours, dancing around the point until the listeners themselves name it; Madison finds herself wondering how they're faring, wherever they might be, before pushing those thoughts away - there are more pressing matters at hand. Soon enough, E.L. voices her proposal - a wine heist?
"Hmm," Madison ponders, momentarily. The yacht certainly wouldn't notice a small disappearance - judging by how freely the wine is flowing she almost suspects this lot has enough to subdue the Royal Navy. By the time anyone might note a discrepancy the Inexplicable would be long gone, both in view and memory. Not too far off, a man empties the contents of his stomach over the railing, chasing down the aftertaste with yet more wine.
The proposition would be compelling sober. After a few? Madison could hardly resist. She grins, only the threat of attracting attention preventing her from offering a firm handshake. "Why not? Count me in."
--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Sara%20Hysaro
Please do not send SMEN, cat boxes, or Affluent Reporter requests. All other social actions are welcome.
Are you a Scarlet Saint? Send a message my way to be added to the list.
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
2/9/2018
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In one of the darkened corners of the main partyroom of the yacht, hardly distinguishable amongst the other lustful bohemians of similar intent filling the shadows, the Gruff Young Toff tries desperately to make love.
His white form, ivory coattails fluttering with effort and blond hair messy about his masculine face, obscures some other, slender figure - the legs of the latter, feminine and straight, stretch out between the Gruff Young Toff's own. Unlike the Toff's own legs, and all the legs of the wild young bohemians doing scandalous things about them, they are completely still. For all the world, it looks as if the Gruff Young Toff were indulging in a more sinister, macabre sort of love-making, found more often in the Tomb Colonies than in Veilgarden (though everything is found in Veilgarden, if one knows how to look).
Finally, with a cry of frustration, the Gruff Young Toff breaks away, slicking his messied hair back angrily.
"I say, Rory," he cries, "What the Devil's the matter with you today?! You're still as a board!"
The object of the Gruff Young Toff's efforts is now revealed to be Rory Sketch. Lithe and young, he is, undisputedly, best labelled as "a beauty." Golden locks, styled in an anastole, fall down about an androgynous face, long lashes, dark as the night, fluttering about eyes filled with an icy blue beauty. The elegant, gentle lines of his face combined with the carved fullness of his lips (not to mention the length of the aforementioned eyelashes, naturally drooping and curved away from the eye as if born perfected) come together with the slender body to create an appearance whose gender is decided entirely by the eye of the beholder. He is, as whispers about the room presumptuously declare, "Veilgarden's current beau," though terribly poor for the position, even by an artist's standards - rumor has it he has no boarding of his own, merely couchhopping ("or, rather, bedhopping," - a scandalous smirk on the face of the speaker, blushes on their listeners, tittering giggles all around) about Veilgarden. His current position as the Gruff Young Toff's lover was the only way he was even able to board the ship, the rich young aristocrat territorially latching an arm about the beauty the entire ride thus far, showing him off about the ballroom as the Toff's latest trophy.
The beauty sighs deeply, leaning forward and setting his delicate chin upon his hands.
"I'm in love, darling," he declares.
"Well, of course you are!" the Gruff Young Toff exclaims, "But I'm right here! Attempting to express that very love! Whatever have you to be so damnably mopey about?!"
Rory turns his eyes to the Gruff Young Toff. He reaches forward, setting his own small hands atop the Toff's large ones.
"Not with you, darling. With another. And besides, I simply can't be happy at a party when I'm in love, no matter who it may be for. Parties are a terrible place for love."
A slideshow of emotions plays across the Young Toff's face - bewilderment, then anger, then confusion, then back to anger again. He rips his hands from Rory's and the beauty looks up at him seemingly surprised, eyes wide.
"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?!" the Gruff Young Toff shouts, "With another?!"
"I'm sorry, darling."
"You damnable whore!" the Gruff Young Toff cries.
He swings his arm back for the inevitable strike, found on all his past lovers, before a hand appears on his wrist, clutching it in place. Both sets of eyes, Rory's and the Toff's, turn to look.
"Not so fast, you coward," the Dramatic Romantic hisses, standing tall and heroic, "If you're even think you're going to hit her, you'll have to go through me first."
"Right, then!" the Gruff Young Toff exclaims, and the two launch at each other.
Rory sighs, turning away and setting his head down in his hands once more as violence explodes behind him. His eyes fix on the floorboards where bohemians dance, but his gaze is somewhere else - sad and far off.
"An awful place for love," he mutters, rubbing his eyes, "An awful place for love."
He rises, folding his hands together behind his back. The formal stance, the dancer's poise, the elegance as he slowly walks across the room, deep in thought - gossip continues amongst the eternally gossiping bohemians that watch him continue out onto the deck, wondering wherever he learned the makings of an aristocrat with no money, no patron, no birth of high standing. He claimed to be born of that old mad dandy, Professor Sketch, but this was accepted as merely another tall tale of a bohemian. Whereas the currently famous Sir Thomas Sketch of the Royal Navy could not escape his last name, Rory Sketch could not prove it.
The young beau stopped as he reached the railing, gazing out at the glass surface of the zee. He romanticized about being on some far island, perhaps with the fighting monks, away from all this - from the gossip and the romance and the fine clothes and the love. He daydreamed about the Khanate, the glowing lamps of every color, the mystery, the spies. He recalled the tall tales of pirates, of adventurers, of fortune tellers and legends. He dreamed about the one he loved.
He sighed, leaning forward on the railing and waiting for a story to find him.
--
Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
2/10/2018
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Rory smiles gently.
"Of course, Ms. Dynamo. And I'm sure you have - I'm not terribly unique. You can find a Rory Sketch, or a close enough version, in any corner of London," he says, and takes her hand.
As the two move forward into the shifting pond of dancers and join in the ritual, Rory fulfills expectation. He is lightweight, graceful - as the singer belts out the last dregs of a fast rhythm, Rory glides with Emma to the cheery tune with a skill and ease that shows his natural hand at dancing by seeming so effortless and real even when the beauty's attitude is clearly melancholy. The song ends and a slow one begins - Emma leads as Rory elegantly follows her lead, moving to the flow of the music as if floating weightlessly down a river. His natural ease and comfortability in the throes of dance combined with his lack of showmanship, preferring to following the lead of his partner and reacting perfectly to their choices, show him as not a consummate dancer, but as a born one. He is without exceptional training or passion for the art, but with a birth-given gift for it.
"Your brother was just telling me about the death of my Papa," his gentle voice, the accent a curious and subtle mix of Dutch and Italian, says, slipping through the notes of the music, "A very thrilling tale. I'm not entirely sure I believe it, no offense to Mr. Dynamo - Papa was never the type of man to die. But your brother. He's very curious. He speaks highly of you, you know. He seems kind. And wealthy. Kind and wealthy. All the kind and wealthy people seem to have facial hair, have you ever noticed that? And all the unkind are clean shaven. It's a good thing I have no money of my own, for I could never grow a beard of any sort."
The soft-spoken ramble, like a continually dripping opiate on the ears, meaningless and gentle, comes to a stop. He pauses, fixing the odd eyes on Emma's own, and kisses her softly on the cheek.
"Some people try to pay for me to kiss them," he says afterwards, "Would you repay the gift with a love story? I'm in such a thirst for stories tonight. I've lived this one too many times before."
He gestures vaguely at the rest of the party as he says this last bit.
--
Straight outta Dahut.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
2/15/2018
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Gideon strikes a dramatic pose for the conclusion of his speech, spreading his arms wide in front of a small group of more eccentric party-goers. “Anyway, that about wraps up the story of the dastardly Canine Abstraction Society. Never did find that dog, but I learned some valuable lessons.”
They're hanging on his every word. The drooping eyelids, the shuffling feet, the loud insistence that they have to be elsewhere right this second – these are the hallmarks of a throng of rapt listeners.
“There he is, the man of the hour! Come over here, Squidley. You can fill them in on the rest of our tenure as London's finest detectives, driving about in a fine carriage to wherever evil rears its head and punching it right in the nose!”
Squidley flops bonelessly into a folding chair next to Gideon, gurgling like someone choking on a vol-au-vent. “Have you considered a throat lozenge, my Rubbery friend? One would almost think there was a blockage somewhere.”
It is at this very moment that Gideon notices that the noise is not coming from Squidley, but from an elderly gentleman in a pith helmet at the front of the crowd. The inventor snaps out of his grandiose speech in concern. “Are you all right there, sir?”
The man turns red, his eyes bulging. He holds a hand to his throat.
“Is anyone here a doctor? This man is choking!”
A few people nearby – those who were actually paying attention to the speech, possibly due to boredom – look around in alarm. Gideon's voice fails to carry above the sound of the crowd and the vigorous string quartet.
Oh, good grief. Gideon leaps down from the stage – a fearsome drop of almost two feet – and strides up to the choking man, the crowd stepping back to give them some space. Squidley's handicles wave in consternation.
His extensive medical training has prepared him for just such an occasion. He looks the gentleman firmly in the eye and thumps him on the back. With a sudden splutter, a half-chewed vol-au-vent goes flying across the varnished floor. Unbeknownst to Gideon, it will later go on to trip a dancing couple during a particularly ambitious twirl.
After he has regained the power of speech, the elderly gentleman addresses Gideon in the clipped tones of an upper-class officer. “Jolly good show, old chap! Life flashed before my eyes for a moment. Thought I was back in Crimea, run through with a bayonet by Johnny Foreigner!” He offers a hand to shake.
Gideon raises an eyebrow and accepts the handshake, wincing a little at the force applied by the older man. My God! It's like shaking hands with a vice.
“Sir Reginald Burlington-Smythe, at your service. I've not seen you aboard before – you must be with that old cargo ship. I was sure that a ship like that wouldn't accept our invitation, but it's jolly good that you did, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” says Gideon. It's hard to tell with someone who doesn't strictly have hands, but it looks like Squidley is giving him a thumbs-up from his seat. Sir Reginald purloins two glasses of brandy from a nearby table and hands one to Gideon.
“Oh, I don't wish to impose...” says the inventor.
“I insist. It's my party, after all. What's the point if you can't give drinks to whomever you please?”
Gideon takes the proffered glass. Feeling Reginald's eyes on him, he chances a sip and finds it surprisingly pleasant.
“I made sure to get the best brandy shipped down from the Surface. Frightfully expensive, but worth it! I'd skip the port, though. It's like drinking lukewarm p___ – if you'll pardon my French.”
He leads Gideon over to sit at an empty table and plonks his glass down on the surface. It sways gently with the movement of the ship, which Gideon has scarcely noticed after the initial seasickness.
With a grunt, Reginald manoeuvres himself into the opposite chair. “Never get old, my boy. It creeps up on you like a Cossack and bludgeons you until you're a quivering ball of aches and pains. But this is my retirement party, and I'm determined not to let it get the better of me before I'm thoroughly drunk.”
Gideon nods in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion. The man certainly likes the sound of his own voice!
“Quite a send-off you've arranged,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the crowds of Bohemian types.
“There's precious few of us left from the old days, more's the shame,” says Reginald, taking another sip of brandy. “At one point it was just us old duffers sitting around exchanging war stories, but my grandson – honey-mazed wastrel, but a decent lad – was determined to make it into a song and dance. I've decided I like it. Almost makes me feel young again, seeing all this twirling and snogging.”
He pulls a hip-flask from a pocket, refills his empty glass. “Care for another, my valiant saviour?”
Gideon makes reluctant noises, but slides his glass over anyway. “One more couldn't hurt, I suppose.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 2/15/2018
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 Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
 Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
2/17/2018
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The Insatiable Seamstress is caught unabashedly drinking Strangling Willow at the bar, alone.
"I never took you for the self-indulgent type."
A voice from a neighboring seat. Masculine. Unexpectedly Sober.
A brief silence. A smile that can be interpreted as either wry or melancholy.
"Work has been wearing me down lately. And I figure that, since I'm here, I might as well indulge myself a bit."
"I suppose I can see how the influx of engaged lovers asking for suits and dresses would tire one out."
A few dry coughs. A sip of surface wine.
"I might just know the right thing to cheer you up."
A raised eyebrow is all it takes for the Insatiable Seamstress to be taken to the pitch-black room where lounging aesthetes huddle with sealed boxes filled with a common, sacred substance. She is given one of the boxes by a burly gentleman near the entrance, who closes the door behind her.
With the door closed, the room is dark the way only the darkness behind one's eyelids is.
Somebody unlocks one of the seals.
Opens one of the boxes.
A brilliant flash lights up the room.
Somebody lets out a quiet moan.
Another box flashes open.
The Seamstress, in turn, opens her own package.
If thunder-gods wield lightning spears, the rays of sunlight are arrows.
Within that box hid Apollo's chariot, from which he shoot Icarus is his flight.
Or Ra's solar barque, which he rides through the waking and dreaming worlds every day.
The guardians of these sacred places draw their bows, let loose their arrows of purifying light.
The Insatiable Seamstress is impaled by luminosity.
An effulgent sensation rushes through her body.
The light is a secret electricity in her blood.
Blessed splendour singes, scalds and scourges her skin.
Is this what moths feel when they dive headfirst into blazing fire?
The Seamstress' breathing is heavy and slow.
She is content to just lay on the bombazine-covered floor.
Smiling.
She closes her eyes.
The Sun is there, patiently waiting.
This is the reason the Eidolon is on the expedition.
This light that has now carved itself into their memory.
There is no need to say that the experience was divine.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 2/17/2018
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
3/8/2018
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Rory pauses - the two dance in silence for a moment.
"That is a very good love story, Ms. Dynamo," he finally says, quiet voice a touch hard to hear over the sound of violins, "And as with any good love story, very sad. I find fast loves are very much like horse races - have you ever been to one? I had a good friend once who loved to take me to them. I never very much understood the attraction, but I liked the gaiety it brought about in people, and I made a very good acquaintance of a jockey who used to love to hear my poetry. But I find they are very much like fast loves because while the race is going, they are so passionate, so gay, and all of a sudden they come all skidding to a halt and one person is pronounced the victor. For all that passion and gaiety, everyone else is left sad, except the victor and those who were betting money on them - those people that shunned you, in this case. But there are always more horse races, if you choose to keep attending them. Personally, I feel I've been to too many. I cry far too much to be any good at race-loves."
The model seems lost in thought once more, looking out over Emma's shoulder.
"Though nothing seems to be very fast about the love I feel now, and still I cry. Everything is so slow and melancholy," he mutters.
Once more tears seem to well up in Rory's beautiful eyes. He glances at Emma and lets go of her abruptly.
"You must excuse me, Ms. Dynamo. It was ever so nice meeting you!" he says quickly, already turning away.
The young poet runs off before Emma can say another word, losing himself from her sight in the churning sea of revellers. He floats like this for a moment, head buried in his hands and drifting between dancers, til he emerges on the other end of the ballroom.
As his tears slow, he wipes his eyes. He glances over at the corner of the room in which lounge the honey dreamers, to all the world residing in some other realm entirely, and contemplates losing himself. But this is an awful place to lose oneself.
It is at moments like this that he misses Italy. The summers, the beaches, the blue skies, the marble walls, the palace halls.
He shakes his head - he's written too many poems about that, far too many. In his few short years on Earth, he'd exhausted Italy's potential for poetry. It was either wander beneath the sun, forgetting his past, or go down below, to dive deep into it. And don't all poets live forever in the past? Isn't that where beauties belong? So he'd gone below, son of the sun forsaking one father to find another, forsaking a sky for a cavern, forsaking those sunset parties on the beach with the other youths of Italy, dancing about the campfire to the gentle laps of the waves, for...
This.
He finds himself outside again, gazing at the Neath-stars once more.
He'll never find poetry on a pleasure yacht.
His eyes fall on the Inexplicable, floating in the water just beyond the yacht's railing.
Adventure.
Rory Sketch gathers his things and boards the Inexplicable, seeking sunlight, poetry, and answers to the many issues of love.
edited by The Atumian Sputum on 9/19/2018
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Straight outta Dahut.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/12/2018
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(Co-written with Drake Dynamo)
After an hour of conversation and brandy with Sir Reginald, Gideon has become rather merry. His cheeks are flushed, and he bursts into raucous laughter at every ribald joke from the older man. Reginald, though inured to the effects of alcohol through his years in the officers’ lounge, is beginning to slur his words.
When Drake Dynamo finds him in the billiards room of the Swallowtail, Gideon has abandoned all propriety. With unsteady hands he draws back the cue to strike a ball on the green velvet surface of the table, squints in concentration, loses his grip on the stick and promptly falls over, smacking his head on the wood-panelled wall.
Reginald watches from an armchair through twin eyeholes in a newspaper - the perfect disguise. “Jolly good shot, my boy!” he guffaws.
“I do say, I’ve never seen that technique before,” Drake remarks, entering the dim room. He lightly extracts a handkerchief from his coat pocket and rather daintily covers his face to avoid inhaling smoke. From the ashtray next to him, it is clear that Reginald has been going through cigars at nearly superhuman speed.
“It’s an experimental technique,” says Gideon, scrambling upright and brushing himself off. “This was merely a test run. Now we need to try it again with some more variables. Can you hold this cue ball one second while I get everything in order?”
While gathering the balls together on the table for another try, smoke curling about as his lanky frame disturbs the air currents, something occurs to him and he frowns deeply. “Say, Emma, you look different. Did you change clothes? There’s something… something I can’t put my finger on.”
Drake nods and approaches the table, setting the cue ball in place. “Well, Gideon, I believe you might be thinking of the wrong Dynamo,” Drake says, very deliberately rubbing his mustache.
Gideon’s brow creases further until the gears click into place in his head. “Why, naturally! How could I forget you? The long-lost Ernest Dynamo, in the flesh! I still remember that time we got mixed up in that Clay Man smuggling ring, you know. By golly, you gave that big Unfinished Man a seeing-to with your old one-two punch!” He mimes a punching motion, coming dangerously close to actually hitting Drake, then grabs a table leg to steady himself. “Did the doctors manage to fix your hand?”
Drake’s eyebrow raises further and further in incredulity throughout this account, to a point once thought humanly impossible. “As much I would love for you to regale me with tales of my younger brother’s exploits, I believe you might know me better as Drake Dynamo,” Drake says drily. “I was actually hoping to speak with you about joining your expedition.”
“Drake, of course, of course! Did Ernest leave, then? Never mind. Take a seat, please,” says Gideon, gesturing to a well-stuffed armchair. “Would you like some brandy? I’m sure Reginald won’t mind sharing. The more the merrier!”
A plaintive honk comes from beneath the billiards table, and Gideon sticks his head underneath. “Don’t worry, Squidley. I think your Rubbery biology might have taken to alcohol a bit too readily, so you’re experiencing the hangover before getting drunk. As long as you have a bit of a lie-down, you should be perfectly fine. Provided it doesn’t turn out to be toxic to your kind.”
Drake takes a step away from the table and, seeing the prone squid, gives him a friendly nod, before taking a seat in the armchair. “I’ll pass on the brandy, but I’d rather like us to discuss the logistics of your expedition. Where are you headed? As much as I love my wife, the married life has turned into quite a drag of late, and I need to take a break, if only to get the old brain working again,” Drake explains, tapping his forehead, and settling into the snug chair.
“Oh, we’re going all sorts of places, as I was just telling Reginald,” says Gideon. The old veteran puts down his newspaper and nods wisely. “They say you can smell the Chelonate before you even see it. Sounds perfectly ghastly, but we won’t be stopping over for long. I have a zubmarine to take us beneath the waves - top secret, you understand, very hush-hush.”
Gideon puts a finger to his lips and shushes everyone before continuing. “After we’ve been to the Gant Pole, we’re off to the Dawn Machine! Hopefully it won’t brainwash us all at once, so the survivors will have a fighting chance. After that, we’re off to the Surface. I have some unfinished business there. I know what you’re thinking - we’re all going to die horribly as soon as we step out into the sunlight - but I’ve thought of that too. I have a plan.”
Drake gets positively giddy as Gideon lists their destinations. “Oh that sounds terribly fun! I do hope you have room aboard for one such as myself. You never know when a Correspondent- and part-time university professor, I might add- will come in handy. I haven’t been to the Surface in ages!” Drake exclaims, practically leaping from his chair. “Oh please let me come, Gideon, please.” Drake’s last sentence has the quality of an excited young urchin.
Gideon beams. “How could I say no to that face? You’re like a little puppy, albeit a less hairy one. Of course you can come! I might have to throw an excess zailor overboard to make room, but it’ll be worth it to bring another man of science along, especially an old friend. You may not want any brandy, but we should make a toast anyway.” He hands Drake an empty glass and clinks it together with his own. “To business!”
“To business!” echoes Reginald from the other side of the room, raising his own glass. Squidley gurgles appreciatively.
“To science!” Drake enthusiastically declares, raising his empty cup.
***
Retreating from the bulkhead of the billiard room, the ghost of Mister Mauvais returns to the small rowboat where Jimmy Mariner waits, and re-enters his ear. Mariner sighs upon receiving the ghost’s update.
“Well, we’re in a pickle, aren’t we?”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/12/2018
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/24/2018
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co-written with Sara Hysaro and suinicide, and
featuring a special appearance by The Atumian Sputum!
For a few minutes, the two young women have their heads together at their place near the railing. After her extensive sneaking around the beautifully-named Swallowtail, E.L. already has the bare bones of a plan in her mind. Madison nods along, finally suggesting “Don't suppose you know of anyone who might pitch in? An extra set of hands would really make this, I bet.”
“You’re right, we could use an extra hand. And I think I know just the guy,” E.L. muses, looking around for someone she had spotted a few minutes earlier. “There he is.” Dragging Madison behind her over the deck, through a throng of dancers who’ve just come out for some fresh air, she whispers to her: “My mother thinks this one’s soulless. If that’s true, he should be easy enough to convince for joining in.”
Madison eyes him from afar—something in his demeanor does remind her of the various soulless patients her father treated. She nods, “Yeah, I can see what she means.”
“Why, Mr Henchard,” E.L. says when they reach him, just as if she was completely surprised to run into him. “You might be just the man to help us out here.”
“What do you want and how much are you paying,” Henchard says in a flat voice.
“This is not about paying,” E.L. chirrups on, unaware that the last person to say this was thrown overboard, “we’re helping ourselves here, all of us on board the Inexplicable. Let me explain…”
~~~~~~~
"Which officer was it, again?" Madison whispers, smoothing out her "uniform". The mischief fills her with a nervous energy, eyes bright and alert, suddenly so much more conscious of every unknown sound. A slight smile almost plays on her lips, until she forces herself back into character. Focus.
“The Highrolling Bo'sun, of course,” E.L. whispers back. “From what I’ve heard, no one would be surprised by him gambling away the ship’s whole stock of booze, but let’s not take it too far. A few crates of the good stuff will suit just fine.”
"Right, right," Madison responds, wondering how such a man could maintain his position. Perhaps he is just that good at his job. Or maybe this whole yacht is too drunk to care. Suddenly, she hears a noise, not too far off. Footsteps, perhaps? She reflexively relaxes, letting go of any nervous posture.
“Nervous?” E.L. asks behind her. “That’s fine. Remember, there’s our very scary Gunnery Officer right behind us, and we just want to get this job over with quickly. It’s not a problem if we look uncomfortable.”
"Heh, true." Madison hoists up a crate, the bottles offering a pleasant clinking. She imagines what she'd be thinking now, were this scenario real. What punishments might await the dawdling zailor? Beatings? Lashes? The door opens before she can imagine any other horrors.
"Ah, excellent! We could really use an extra set of hands." Madison directs the perplexed crewmen to the next best pile of crates, careful not to lose grip on her own. "Grab some of those, would you?"
E.L. nods along eagerly, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. “Yeah, we could really use your help. Our Gunnery Officer said he’d come oversee the delivery and you really don’t want to get caught dawdling by him.” She manages to look suitably terrified by the idea. When the Swallowtail’s zailors’ faces show nothing but confusion, she raises her eyebrows and looks over to her ‘Second Mate’ with big eyes: “Is it possible they don’t know?”
Heavy steps can be heard coming along the corridor now…
"Apparently so," Madison replies, eyebrows raised in ‘surprise’, too. She hurries to explain at the sound of footsteps, eager to get moving before the ‘Gunnery Officer’ arrives. She attempts the proper mix of panic and irritation. "It's the Highrolling Bo'sun. Staked this wine with the Disjointed Card-Counter, of all people. You can imagine how that turned out. Now, can we get a hand?"
One of the Swallowtail’s crewmen lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh no, not again.” Another shakes his head. “I’m telling you, one day we’ll wake up and he’s gambled away the whole damn ship.”
Deliberately heavy, clunky footsteps sound from behind the door. Even through the wood, muffled murmuring can be heard. The ‘Gunnery Officer’ is here.
One zailor, obedience rivaling a Clay Man, picks up one of the crates Madison gestured towards without any additional thought. Another, keen as a knife, scratches under his cap, trying to recall if he had ever seen these two before. The last, curious as a cat, opens the door.
Henchard rushes in with an inarticulate roar, giving the crewman a kick to the shin as he passes. “You two and you and you!” He points in the vague direction of basically everyone in the room. “Grab the d___ wine already!”
The suddenness of Henchard's appearance and his convincing performance gives Madison a genuine start. His volume drowns out the pained hiss of the assailed zailor, holding his shin in regret. The remaining crew rush into action now, grabbing crates without protest. Soon, all hands are occupied with clinking containers and the air is tinged with the haze of apprehension.
Henchard lets out a roar. “Get moving! Up to the deck! If one drop of this is late, I’m cutting your rations again!” At his cue, the group sets out, carrying the soon-to-be-loot away.
E.L., in her role as excited young deckhand, sprints in front of the zailors, crying “Make way! Make way!” without actually waiting for anyone to make way. “Dammit, we need a reason for moving the wine to our ship”, she thinks to herself. And, lo and behold, what does she see up on deck? A young dandy crossing over from the Swallowtail to the Inexplicable, and apparently taking his few belongings with him! A passenger swapping ships? “Gods of the Neath, exactly what we need!”
Waving back to the zailors groaning under their heavy load, she cries “This way! Come on!” and runs after the young man. “Now let’s just hope this lad’s not a complete idiot.”
Rory Sketch turns, looking over his shoulder at a young zailor lass rushing his way. Her eyes seem affixed to him and he raises his brows. He doesn’t recognize her from his days on the yacht, but then, the whole pleasure yacht experience had, at best, always been a phantasmagoria of blurred faces.
“Good afternoon,” he says, turning and offering a friendly smile to the unfamiliar countenance.
“Sir,” E.L. pants with a sketchy salute. “You’re the Disjointed Card-Counter, aren’t you? That famous gambler who’s just won that poker tournament aboard yon splendid vessel there? We’re delivering your wine, sir. Your prize.” All the time, she keeps on winking like a madwoman.
“My prize, delivered so soon? How delightful,” he chirps, looking over the anxious crew behind E.L, “Well, go ahead and take the load of it to the hold, then—you two in the back there—” here he points to two of the heftier zailors with the heaviest loads, “—take what you’re carrying and come with me. I’ve a quick errand to run back on the yacht.”
He nods once more to E.L, smiling, and strolls once again across the boarding rail back over to the Swallowtail, the two zailors following him. He’s just had a splendid idea.
E.L. has no choice but to play along. The dandy is certainly no idiot, and apparently stealing some of their bounty right back. Well, nothing to do about that for now. She waves once more to the remaining carriers. “Follow me, I’ll show you the way to the hold. Not far now!”
Madison wishes she'd had opportunity to inspect this apparent new member of their expedition. Did they know where the Inexplicable was heading? Did they know one of the existing passengers? Alas, character has to be maintained. She looks over the crew; the threat of reduced rations keeping even the shrewd zailor in line, unquestioning and nervous. One of them stops awkwardly due to an itchy nose, and Henchard starts up again. “Move your d__n feet before I—” The zailor lurches into motion before he finds out exactly what Henchard had been threatening.
E.L. keeps bouncing back-and-forth along the line of zailors carrying crates of wine, careful to never stay long enough in one place to be forced to maybe actually lend a hand. Somebody murmurs “scobberlotcher” in her direction but as she’s never heard that word, she doesn’t mind.
In the end, the Inexplicable’s hold is considerably better stocked with drinkables, Henchard has not inflicted any lasting injuries, and E.L. good-naturedly hands out some bottles of Broken Giant among the Swallowtail’s crew members. “Good work, lads! No reason why we shouldn’t share out some of this stuff. Come on, let’s all have a drink together!” She deftly uncorks a bottle with her pocket-knife and proposes a toast: “To the Disjointed Card-Counter! May his luck never run out!”
"Aye!" Madison returns the toast with an amused smile, taking a hearty swig of her own bottle without revealing the joke. The other zailors join in jovially, pleased with the unexpected opportunity to partake in some of the good stuff. As the crew relaxes enough to socialize amongst themselves she takes the opportunity to ask E.L. a question, soft enough not to be overheard by the distracted zailors. "So who was that? Our ‘Disjointed Card-Counter’?"
“Buggered if I know,” shrugs E. L., “but seems a good sport. Glad to have him along.” She offers a bottle to Henchard, too, who just takes it and hides it somewhere beneath his clothes. An odd form of payment, but perhaps this wine is valuable. He ignores the odd looks, but glares at the zailors, daring them to say something. They wisely stay quiet. So does E. L. who only thinks to herself ‘this guy is weird as hell’.
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
3/25/2018
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The Lovesick Brute is not a self-proclaimed "romantic," as are many of the passengers on the Swallowtail. Nor does he look as the "romantics" do, who are bohemians ranging from the stylishly poor to the opaquely wealthy, bedecked in fine fabric and loose clothes, beautiful faces looking out from under drooping hair. No, he is not a "romantic," as the discount Byrons that populated the Swallowtail claim to be.
But nevertheless, he is in love.
It even says so, just there, in his journal.
"I am in love.
Damn."
This was no joyous revelation for the Lovesick Brute, as the one he had fallen in love with was none other than Rory Sketch, who seemed to be claimed by the Gruff Young Toff. It was also no great surprise, however, for who wasn't in love with Rory Sketch?
He could take the Gruff Young Toff in a fight, he could, the Lovesick Brute. The Gruff Young Toff was a muscular sporting man, common among the masculine youths of the bourgeoisie who so took after the protagonists of those safari adventure novels, but the Lovesick Brute was bigger. No one stood a match for the Lovesick Brute, not when those meaty fists began to fly.
They did not fly now, however. They had not flown in some time.
Now they merely clenched in frustation, and those eyes that had once menaced many a frightened ring fighter now bore a more melancholy tint, frequently to be found fixed from across the room on the gently cascading hair that decorated Rory Sketch's head.
Love had disabled him, as love has a habit of doing.
The two had even had an opportunity to talk once. Unhappy in the Gruff Young Toff's arms, Rory spent many an evening on the Swallowtail conversing with as many a passenger as he could. He fit in too terribly well with this crowd and so after some time began speaking to the crew, whereupon he met the Lovesick Brute's young sister, who was the reason the Lovesick Brute was on this yacht in the first place. One thing led to another, an introduction was made, and soon Rory was reading the Brute poetry.
"I love you," the Brute blurted out.
And Rory had begun to cry.
Since then, the Lovesick Brute had remained here. In his room. No efforts by his sister succeeded in coaxing him out. He had tried his hand at poetry to express his feelings, remembering the beautiful verses Rory had shared with him.
"He is so pretty.
Damn it.
Damn damn damn damn it.
I am sad.
Like the moon."
So pressed on this state of melancholy.
It is on the fourth day of his seclusion, as the Lovesick Brute sits on his bed and stares at his fists as if seeking an answer from a reliable source to this new and strange problem, that Rory Sketch comes to his room.
A knock on the door. He ignores it, expecting his sister.
"Hello? It is me, Rory Sketch."
The dark eyes flash up to the door, then away. He turns, burying his head into the pillows of his bed.
A silence as the knocker awaits an unfound answer.
"I brought lots of wine."
Three pairs of eyes meet the Lovesick Brute as he answers the door, his large silhouette filling the frame. At the front, the familiar sapphire pools of Rory Sketch. Behind him, the turned eyes of two crew members, both of them carrying large marked crates.
"This is fine wine-" the Brute's eyes turn back to Rory; he feels a pang in his chest, "- and I'd like to share it with you, if you'd let me. I'm going on an adventure, you see, and I've just, well, I've just won all this wine and I've no one to drink it with because.. Oh, I've got no companion for this journey, you see, which means I'm.. All alone. And you seemed very friendly earlier and you were drinking wine. So I was hoping you'd.. Sort of.. Come with me."
By this time, those light sapphires are pointed down at the floor, towards the beaten and scuffed shoes Rory wears, worn down by a combination of too many dances and too little money.
The Lovesick Brute stares in silence til Rory looks back up.
"Oh," the Lovesick Brute says, looking away for a moment to clear his vision of this thing clouding his thoughts, "Yes, I-I love wine."
"That's delightful because I've so much of it and I love wine, too!" Rory chirps, and when the Brute looks back at him the young beauty is beaming, smiling proudly.
The happiness there creates a pulling sensation in the Brute's chest. Normally, when he feels his body pull, it is driving him into a fight. Now, this is different. He says the same thing he said the last time he felt this pull in his chest.
"I love you."
Rory pauses - the beam fades, but he doesn't cry this time, no sadness replaces that smile. He seems to think.
"I don't know whether I love you yet," he says slowly, "But I think I will. I know I could. Will you come with me, then? Because otherwise, I'll never rest til I know."
He smiles again, and the Brute can't help but smile back.
"Yes."
And so, as Rory Sketch strolls once more onto the Inexplicable, he brings with him a protector, one driven by the strongest driving force to protect of all. The sea senses the son of a father, the sun is dormant.
Rory Sketch finds a set of rooms, side by side, and moves into one, the Lovesick Brute residing with his wine in the other.
So begins an adventure.
edited by The Atumian Sputum on 3/25/2018
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Straight outta Dahut.
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
3/29/2018
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Reinol sighs as the familiar buzz of revelry returns to his senses. Laughter, chatter, music. The pitter and patter of dancing feet. The party has been going on for...a few hours? He didn’t know. There had been other things to attend to.
Namely the Mirror System. It took him most of the evening but it was done. Under the guise of the revelries, he managed to position his mirrors in strategic locations around the Inexplicable. Not the hardest of tasks of course but takes time.
Admittedly, most of said time was trying to locate a palace discreet enough to not be immediately noticed by the crew. Which was not an easy task as he had little to no actual information on his fellows. And say what you want but he’d rather overestimate someone than underestimate them.
But the main point was, his job was done. The system was secure and ready to be used. He even took it out for a test run with positive results. So it was with a light heart that he found himself returning to the festivities.
In his wanderings, he managed to encounter a fellow Bohemian or a scholar and this naturally was followed by a lengthy discussion. Though even he grew tired of such things. It was at the lonely little corner did he truly find his comforts.
A tray of a questionable size sat before him, the plates that it bore housing a myriad of foodstuffs. Namely seafood. He took particular pleasure in devouring the grilled squid, stuffed with greens of many kinds, not all native to the Surface or even the boughs of London.
As he finished the last remnants of his third bowl squid-and-clam chowder which he guaranteed was a legitimate meal from the Surface, he pondered his plans. Namely, his lacking of them. Truth be told, other than the Mirror System and his Surface to-do list, there was not much he had in mind for the future at all. Maybe a bit of socialisation to earn a comrade’s trust would be advisable but he couldn't really be bothered. He never was an a sociable creature. Perhaps later. Yes. Later. Once he finished his blueberry and cream pie. And the lemon meringue.
Yes indeed.
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 3/30/2018
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 3/30/2018
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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Tyr Teg
Posts: 10
4/7/2018
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Chapter 2 - Party flavors, party favors
After the eventful and fulfilling breakfast feast Tyr found himself lazing the rest of the day by tending to his weapons, oiling the triggers, dusting the barrels and sharpening the knives. During the breaks – while he was waiting for the oil to dry, he nailed a target to the door to his cabin and the thumping noises made by knives burrowing themselves inches deep into the wood proved to be a wonderful deterring mechanism against visits from random passengers stopping-by for a gossip. He was just calibrating the intricate scope of the Infernal Sharpshooter's Rifle when a sudden beam of lamp-light came through the window of his cabin and shattered on the crystals and lenses of the scope, bathing the cabin in rainbow light.
"Now would you look at that. As always in the Neath – beauty in the most unexpected places."
The hunter kept looking around in wonder, but just as suddenly as the light entered his cabin it disappeared as the ship the lantern belonged to approached Inexplicable's side to exchange greetings and possibly passengers. His curiosity sparked, Tyr decided to check it out.
---
30 minutes later he was wearing a tie, not his own, his shirt was half-way open and for some reason missing an arm and he was drinking from a glass with an uncertain liquid inside and trying to remember the words for his favorite zailing song.
Whiskey is the life of bat,
Whiskeeeey Johnnyyyyy,
O-whiskey is the life of bat,
Whiskey for my Johnnyyyy-O.
Tyr was sure he wasn't getting the lyrics entirely right, but the tune was easy to hum and popular among zailors and he heard a few voices from different portholes and one apparently half-bent over the railing and attempting to hum in-between retching. It was a very good party. And for some reason – what he had in his cup tasted like a Pinot gris. Wonderful.
Whiskey is the life of bat,
Whiskeeeey Johnnyyyy,
He drinks it out of a Clay-man's hat,
Whiskey for my Johnnyyyy-O.
While slowly stumbling his way along the deck Tyr noticed the two adventurous girls accosting the young Mr. Henchard. For a moment his reasonable, responsible part nudged him to follow them and find out what they were planing but he knew that he was quite beyond the point where reasonable thoughts mattered. He wasn’t yet at a point where he’d blow his cover, and if he were honest with himself – after his adventure in the Elder Continent he wasn’t even sure such a point existed anymore.
Oh well. Let the young ones enjoy their follies. He had more debauchery to commit and no matter how good the party was it wouldn’t last forever. Hearing a timid giggle followed by a deeper moan from a nearby cabin that he thought he thought he recognized as belonging to Mrs. Evensong he knocked on a door and the voice that answered certainly wasn’t Evensong’s but it was female and very inviting.
As the Surface-dwellers say – the night was still young.
---
AN: The zailing song is based on the shanty Whiskey Johnny. You can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/M_RoX7kOs_I
edited by Tyr_Teg on 4/7/2018
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The Polite Peacemaker of Bazaar
Per situlas ad astra!
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/20/2018
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My dear—
I dare say everything is going well so far. Maybe too well—believe it or not, on one of our first nights after leaving London, we met with, not a zee-monster, or pirates, but a giant luxury yacht which resembled nothing so much as a zailing version of the most dissolute Veilgarden parties. Several people we know were on it—well, people I know, at least. Maybe you remember Lord R------? The Radical Empiricist we once met at Lady Amarantyne's salon? (whatever happened to her?) Well, he took the rather less radical turn of giving himself up to vice, like aristocrats are wont to do, though I dare say it has improved his social skills, if not his theories. But I won't bore you with party stories—not that I remember a lot, anyway. There was excellent wine, and probably too much of it. My daughter apparently has managed to steal some. Why am I not surprised?
We seem to have lost a couple of expedition members, and taken on several new passengers instead. This probably happens all the time. I swear I still don't know everyone's names, but I guess that's E.L.'s job anyway. As for her, she seems to be making friends quickly, which is something new and unexpected. I'm not sure whether I should be relieved or scared.
I'm equally unsure about our leader, this Mr Stormstrider. At least half the time he seems completely insane, but I guess that's kind of mandatory in his field... whatever that is. But I'll hold off from being too judgemental, after all, how many people think you or me insane?
I'm very sorry for the rambling nature of this letter, I'm afraid I'm still nursing a hangover. I don't even know where we are precisely, except "somewhere East of London". Will write again soon, and more coherently (I hope).
I miss you.
Love,
Eva
P.S. I almost forgot, there's a Parabolan on board—well, not precisely on board—you know what I mean. Anyway, they're going by the name of Amets Estibariz. Basque! How queer a coincidence is that?
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
5/11/2018
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(This post is co-written between Vavakxnosnexus and me.)
Evensong woke up, head feeling like five rounds – all lost – at the Medusa’s Head. Cracking eyes open, she peered into the dim light leaking from underneath the door. Where was she? A brief exploration with her hands revealed that this was a closet, filled with fine silk dresses and a pile of hatboxes. Well, it wasn’t the first time she had woken up in a closet. It was only now that Evensong’s sluggish brain finally processed that her face felt unusually cool, of air unfiltered by a mask. Her hands darted up, feeling the raw flesh that should’ve been covered. Panic pushed itself to forefront over pain, and her careful exploration turned into a frantic search.
As dresses were ruffled, and hatboxes investigated, Evensong found no sign of her wayward face. As she double checked the floor, her search was cut off by a groan that filled the room. Evensong peered through the cracks, as she opened the door inch by inch, minute by minute. Another groan, followed by a thunderous snore, as Evensong finally stepped out of the closet.
The figure on the bed was a pile of petticoats and jewels, with a blanket pulled over their head. An oil lamp burned next to them, filling the room with painful light. Evensong scanned the room for her missing face, but no success. Slowly taking the lamp, she watched the slumbering figure. No stir from sleep, but experience had taught her not to trust mere tipple to escape discovery. Removing her dancing shoes, she left the hard sole steps behind as she crept across the room. In stockinged feet, before slipping out into the hallway.
She navigated the unfamiliar hallways with shallow breaths, waiting for a party goer to stumble out of staterooms or for a member of the hungover crew, going about their morning chores with surly manners. However, the whole ship seemed to be asleep, as no one stirred as the floorboards creaked and the Evensong’s light slowly floated down the hallway.
After an hour of this torturously slow creep, Evensong eventually emerged into the zee wind. The boats were still connected, though probably not for long – if the crew ever did wake up. She scuttled across the surface of the boat, like a secret-burdened rattus faber from a bifurcated owl, reaching the (relative) safety of Gideon’s boat. Now she had to take this endeavor seriously – Gideon’s crew was more likely to be hardened and ready compared to the professional babysitters she left behind. If only her head would stop aching. . .
As Evensong began traversing the Inexplicable, the Insatiable Seamstress entered the vessel, clothes charred and skin stained with sunlight. Her mind was still reeling from the experience. Having to discern the dark and muted shades of zee-ship corridors was an unwelcome prospect after seeing such wonder.
Still, the Seamstress’ body couldn’t just be left on the Swallowtail, that would simply be wasteful. So she changed vessels, blindly walked the wooden bridges between them and now, just as blindly, navigating down the stairs.
Evensong, listening carefully to the creaking boards and heard a new a pattern emerge. Coming up behind her, a corridor she just left. She judged her options, looking at the doors that led to the engine and stranger mechanical oddities that filled the belly. Behind her, her hand grasped one of the door handles. She tested it, finding it locked. Of course, she reminded herself through the fog, it would be, making sure nobody at the party accidentally sabotaged the ship.
Evensong turned to face who was coming, lantern held to clothe their non-face in shadows.
The Seamstress blinked once, then twice, then thrice. If this was a memory of the light, it was uniquely persistent. More likely, it was a lantern, held aloft by an unclear figure.
A tentative “Greetings” slips out.
A stiff “Greetings” is returned, as Evensong tries to see through the light. Her eyes are no longer used to such brightness, after spending so long under London’s lamp choking smog. Still, she can make out a woman, moving oddly but apparently human. Not much of a fighter if it comes to that.
Evensong would rather it didn’t come to it - surely Gideon would notice if too much of the crew ended up in the zee?
“I don’t suppose you might help me out here a wee bit,” said the Seamstress, seeking the next step down with her foot. “I might’ve gone and stared at the sun and now I cannot discern beige from peligin.”
“Sure.” The reply came without thought, from years of training that taught that a helpful stranger is less suspicious then an unhelpful stranger. She calmed her rising paranoia with the words of this stranger - honeymazed most likely. It wasn’t like honey wasn’t flowing like water at the party last night. Evensong could probably show her the truth and tell her everything and this stranger wouldn’t remember it from one minute to the next.
The Insatiable Seamstress finally finds the necessary step, and moves her other foot down to match. “Wonderful. I just need to get to…” Where does she need to get to, really? It’s not like she has a room, having just arrived here. “The cargo hold. I need to meet someone there.” It’s a lie, but it’ll do.
“Follow me,” Evensong says, asking no further questions - she decided that this was a fling arranged during the party. Nothing for her to worry about.
“How are you enjoying the yacht? I figure you’re from this ship, and not there. Nobody from there would have the foresight to bring a lantern.”
“The yacht was...nice.” Evensong decided that was a safe answer. “Though, I wonder if we have any stray guests we’ll need to clean out before we continue. One wonders how any of those people survive back in London.”
“The answer is that they don’t. Not on their own. They sail on ships bought by the richest gamblers among them, discourse at length with the most scholarly authors among them, indulge themselves carelessly with the most depraved addicts among them, and ask total strangers to guide them back to their cabins when the night is over.”
“Excuse me for any offense. We have just been raised in very different families - my family has always valued self-sufficiency. We don’t often go to parties for fun, even the few us who have managed to rise beyond our station.”
“No offence was taken. For all their worth, they are far from kind, but merely looking for a way to spend what time they have down here. Why, would a friend of mine leave me, blinded and lost, to stumble through an unfamiliar vessel? I suppose they did.”
Both of them take a turn in the corridor, one after another. “I didn’t even know most of them, really, you know. I don’t even know any of their names! This lady I’m wearing? No idea who she was. Some sorta tailor, maybe.” The Strangling Willow might be getting to her. “The others, too! Who are they! I don’t care! That’s the beauty of it, you know, not caring. Caring is the forefather of sorrow.”
“You sound like my family for a moment there - are you and me, perchance, cousins?”
“Cousin? The two of us?” There is a long pause, made longer still by the nature of the situation. The sun-blindness is easing, somewhat. “I’m afraid not. Not yet. But I may be...adopted, which would make us... some sort of family. My adoptive parents would then be the forefathers of the principle you are known to utilize. Or you’re talking about your actual relatives. I’ve no idea as to our relation, in that case.”
“No offense meant, but you are not close enough to be my family. Your family still has a home to return to. Mine does not.”
“Right. My apologies. I hope I haven’t made the impression that I do not respect your family. I just thought that there was a similarity between yours and mine. If I may be so prying, how do you conceive of…how do you think of the skill all Cousins have? Taking faces, I mean.”
"We are taught shame in our skill. That we must do so because we are cursed for the crimes of our forefather." Evensong paused, as they found the locked door to the stairs into the hold. They set to work opening it, even without keys. "Only the heretics among us see anything else."
“I, erm...I see.” The Seamstress, or the thing wearing the Seamstress, is wont to disagree. “That was an enlightening answer.” There isn’t much for her to do while the lock is being picked. “The one I’ll be meeting should be just up ahead. I’ll be able to get there myself.
“Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Evensong turns to leave this strange creature to her task. She should hurry - the next unexpected interruption may be less accepting.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/14/2018
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
5/21/2018
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Regrettably, every pleasant night spent overindulging in drink must be followed by the morning after. Upon waking to discover that this is one of those mornings, Gideon rolls off the chaise longue in surprise and lets out a long, low groan.
Reginald, infuriatingly, seems to be suffering no ill effects. He watches Gideon from his armchair with sparkling eyes as the inventor struggles to get upright without triggering a headache. “Hair of the dog?” he says, proffering a glass of brandy.
I can't think of anything in the world I would like less at this moment, thinks Gideon. His mouth, not entirely in sync with his brain, says “blurgh” instead.
He gives up on standing of his own accord for the moment and slumps against a wall. “Sir Reginald,” he says at length. “No doubt we had a diverting evening, but I seem to be having difficulty recalling most of it.”
Reginald chuckles. “Trust me, my boy, you're better off not knowing.”
Any further inquiries are cut off by the strident call of a ship's horn. Gideon rushes over to a porthole to see the Inexplicable beginning to draw away from the party yacht, departing at last for the hunting waters of the Chelonate. “Oh, heavens!” he exclaims. “Oh, crumbs! Oh blast and d__n and ____!”
Reginald sketches a salute to Gideon as he hurries out of the door. “Until we meet again, my peculiar friend!”
Gideon runs through the corridors of the yacht, scattering dishevelled party-goers. Honey-mazed bohemians watch his passage languidly, tittering to themselves when he manages to knock the gaudy feathered hats off the heads of a group of ladies in such a way that they land on top of his own head. Thus behatted, the hapless inventor bursts onto the upper deck and leaps into the frothy wake of his departing ship.
Despite his panic, Gideon is prepared for just such a situation. Some years ago, he purchased a jar of wind from a furtive young lady who claimed to have found it in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Polythreme. Fascinated by this natural phenomenon contained in a ceaselessly complaining glass jar, he promptly put it on a shelf in his shed somewhere and forgot about it for months. He only found it again when trying to invent a device that would dry hair from a distance. It proved to be invaluable for this purpose, but the wind in the jar was not limitless and it seemed like a bit of a waste. So, in his wisdom, he designed a nozzle to be fitted to the jar that would allow it to be used as a propulsion device.
Splashing about in the dark zee-water, Gideon extricates the jar of wind and shakes it a little to be sure that the wind is sufficiently angry. The jar moans something about mistreatment, but Gideon ignores it and points the propulsion nozzle behind him in the water, then opens it to full throttle.
The wind howls like a caged demon. Somewhere near the Neath-roof, storm clouds rumble and the dead god in the roof tilts its eyeless head to take notice. And so Gideon bubbles along through the water at an alarming rate, propelled by the jar of wind.
Zailors cross themselves as he approaches the stern of the Inexplicable, but they throw down a rope anyway because they know where their pay comes from. Gideon is hauled onto deck sopping wet and gasping for air. But on the bright side, he has forgotten about his hangover for the moment.
The Inexplicable forges on through the inky waters over the next few days, illuminating an uncertain path ahead in flickering glim-light. One foggy morning, the indescribable smell of the Chelonate wafts across the deck. Zailors scurry about their duties with clothes-pegs on their noses, not wanting to expose themselves to the carrion stench for longer than necessary. Gideon leans against a railing at the bow, luxuriating in the sheer heady horribleness of the scent. Ahead, the first colossal ribcages jut from the sea.
“Take us into Schabelport, skipper!” he says to nobody in particular. “We shan't be swapping hunting tales long – we have business below.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 5/23/2018
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
6/1/2018
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A strange land, the Chelonate.
Monster-hunters, faces marked with white chalk, stare at the pretty young thing dressed in rags and the scowling brute in fine clothes behind it, the two an odd pair in any land, an odder pair here where no pretty things belong.
The pair stand on the rough, creaking docks of Schabelport, the Inexplicable looming in the water beside them. Rory's natural curiosity drove them to be the first off the boat, now the Lovesick Brute's natural protectiveness causes them to pause. Chalk-marked eyes stare out from the shadows about the vast turtleshell, all examining the new arrivals. The Brute's arm rests about Rory's shoulder.
Rory's own eyes examine the shadows where no eyes look back.
These shadows are far darker.
"Let's go," Rory suddenly speaks, looking up at the Brute with an encouraging smile, "I've heard the Chelonates are wonderful dancers."
"Where did you hear that?" the Brute asks, quickly following behind the ectomorph, who confidently prances down the creaking boards.
"My father."
Rory smiles politely to the monster-hunters as he passes them, their forms various and at times inhuman. Some are nearly bare, silhouettes of scarred and lumpy muscle in the outline of a body, others are swathed in torn and battered clothes, fabrics put through the tests of war. Some of these fabrics come back more alive than the wearer - is that one breathing, or are her clothes?
And some of them are dripping something dark.
Rory blanches for a moment before realizing it is not blood - lamplight falls on the puddle gathered beneath one of these Chelonates and fails to pierce it; the liquid is blacker than night.
Wait, no. There's something within.
"What are you looking at?"
Rory looks away from the puddle sharply at the Chelonate's words, but fails to find a face to focus on. He settles on the white stripe of chalk looking back from within the monster hunter's many-fabric'd hood.
"Your sleeve is wet, I think - you're dripping," he offers.
"Is it?"
The white chalk line is broken - black liquid trails through it, dripping down.
"Come on. Let's keep going," the Brute urges.
The two continue on, Rory's eyes lingering on the wet monster-hunter for a moment as they go.
He finally turns, shaking his head. He glances up at the Lovesick Brute - the latter is grimacing, thick fingers pinching his own nose shut. Rory frowns and sniffs the air.
"What's the matter?" he asks.
The Brute looks at him - the young model seems unperturbed.
"Don't you smell it?"
Rory shakes his head.
"It's awful. The smell of the Chelonate."
Rory sniffs again - nothing. Maybe the Brute just isn't used to the zee air.
As the two continue on, Rory confidently leading the way, the boards cease to creak beneath them. Rory's ragged sandals clop down on the turtleshell beneath them, and more lights guide their path. Unfortunately, this serves to give view to very few pleasant things - monster-hunters gather in groups, misshapen packs of dark and scarred figures, and loudly tell gruesome tales of the hunt over beers that seem to swirl. Chelonate children trail Rory and the Brute with hungry eyes, asking for treasure or stories, the look in their gazes far too vicious for that of the young and innocent. Bands of roistering hunters tumble out of the bars, punching and kicking at one another, and the Brute guides Rory carefully away from these. The deeper they go into the turtleshell city, the more these increase, and the unsettling urchins grow closer as the Brute and Rory continually pause to stop and dodge about monster-hunters waiting for another face to fight.
Hands, cold and clammy and small, grip Rory's shirt - he looks down.
"Tell us a story."
That is no child.
"Get back! Get back!" the Brute barks.
The two duck into an alleyway, the Brute batting away at the small creatures chasing them. The urchins finally disperse as the Brute begins to roll up his sleeves, running away back into the crowded streets.
One of them has left a puddle.
"By God," the Brute mutters, leaning against the wall of the alleyway, "The people of this place are mad."
True black.
"Let's rest here for a moment. We should find you something to hide your face - you look too out of place."
Something looks back, out of the puddle, and Rory holds its gaze.
What is that?
"Rory?"
Oh, of course.
How could he forget?
It's his father.
"You have his eyes," said by his mother back in Rome, before she left them.
Pale, pale blue, something like the Frostfound ice, cold and open.
At first, he saw only these, but now he can make out the rest - the face, brilliantly handsome and pale, the lips, red and shaped, and the black curls, merging into the nighttime color of the puddle; say, where does that end, by the way? Where are the edges?
As Rory's eyes move away from his father's face, he sees there are none. The Lovesick Brute, the alleyway, the Chelonate, even the Neath sky, are all gone. Only blackness, stretching in every direction. Settle your gaze on any spot too long and those icy blue eyes start to form again, then surely enough that face, that person.
He still says nothing, a long silence, like the last time Rory saw him, called into his office late at night.
The wind had been cold, out on the balcony, and seemed colder by the contrast to the warmth of the fireplace within the office. But Rory stayed, for he knew he wasn't ever to be in the office without Papa's permission and out here on the balcony you could see all the stars, brilliant and ivory against the blackberry clouds.
And Papa had something to say.
He was taking his time saying it, eyes still fixed on Rory, his face in deep thought.
Finally, he knelt down, long legs folding beneath him to go down on one knee, and he rested a hand on Rory's shoulder.
"You are beautiful," he said, "Always tell them you love them."
And he had kissed him on the forehead and smiled, and Rory had smiled back, and Papa had gone back to smoking his cigarette and Rory had gone back to bed.
And he had never seen his father again.
The handsome face smiles, again, like on that night back in Italy.
Rory opens his mouth and speaks, but the sound is swallowed up - no words escape his lips before the blackness devours them.
"Always tell them you love them."
"Don't you smell it?" Papa asks.
His voice fills the silence, and as it ends, a million tiny whispers take its place like residue left behind by his words - "Always tell them you love them the deep Always tell them you love them cold, the dark Always tell them you love them below, the quiet Tell them you love them black, the peace Always tell them you love them the black the blue the deep the quiet the Love them the peace the silence the quiet the black You love them the dark the deep below the peace Always tell them you love them below, below, the deep, below Tell them you love them cold and quiet, the peace, below Tell them you dark and deep and black and silence Love them the deep the zee Always tell them you love them the zee the zee the zee the zee Always the zee the zee the zee You love them the zee the zee the waves below the dark the peace the black the quiet the zee the zee the zee the zee
below the waves
"Don't you smell it?"
He smiles, and kneels down, and puts a hand on Rory's shoulder.
Ozone.
"Always tell them you love them."
Peligin, in a crashing wave, washing away it all.
Papa disappears into the black, consumed.
The whispers.
Sight.
Sound.
All of it, gone.
Rory floats, for what must be eternities, in nothingness.
Silence, and peace, and cold.
Forever.
"You are beautiful," he said, in the chill wind out on the balcony of the villa back in Italy.
Always tell them you love them.
Rory blinks.
The Neath stars drip peligin.
A few more blinks, and they merely dimly glitter back at him from the Neath roof, as they have always done.
He looks around - he lies on a Chelonate rooftop, noise of the roistering crowds distant below him, the Lovesick Brute unconscious by his side.
His eyes wander to his own hands, resting on his stomach, holding between them a large decanter. Within it, the contents swirl slowly, movements the consistency of sadness. Held up to the ear, something melancholic can be heard.
Drownie tears.
A gift from Father.
Rory clutches the decanter to his chest and nestles close to the Lovesick Brute, who snores lightly.
A strange land, the Chelonate.
--
Straight outta Dahut.
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
6/23/2018
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When Reinol first woke up, he realised one thing. And that was that he was sleeping in his suit. Once that realisation came out of the way, he soon was enlightened on the fact that his suit, and by extension, his bed sheets, now had a distinctive scent of wine and honey.
Terrific.
Though he was comforted by the fact that both were easily replaceable, and by the fact that he was luckily alone in his bed and quarters for that matter. Though it still raised a pressing concern.
The fact that he had returned to old habits again. He liked to think that he was able to control himself now that he was no longer living of the scraps and inspiration was now very easy to come by, but it seems that his detachment from London society had worn on his austere.
Ever since the party, he found himself indulging himself on the familiar pleasures of honey and wine, a habit he picked up in his early days.
With a deep sigh, he resumes his chores, swapping his stained coat for a more decent coat and doing the same to his sheets. Soon, he found himself exiting his room, and into the cafeteria where in procured a morsel of bread for himself. Originally, he planned to enjoy his breakfast on the decks but the second he stepped onto there, the pungent smell of carrion and other scents of the flesh assailed his senses.
Gagging slightly, he quickly rushes back inside, where he found himself comforted by the smell of cheap beer and tobacco. It was still better than that. Even after all this time, he still couldn’t get used to the Chelonate. And he doubted he ever will, for even when a year had passed since he first set sail, the reek of the dead beast still sent him bowling over to the place farthest away from it. He still remembered the laughter and jeers if his crew the first time it happened. Once more, he sighs as he finishes his meal.
They were nearing their destination. Which meant he would probably need some firepower. And a decent amount as well.
God knows what they’ll end up facing down there anyways.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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phryne
Posts: 1351
6/30/2018
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In their cabin on board the Inexplicable, mother and daughter Canning were sharing a bottle of excellent pinot grigio - one of the more notable spoils of E.L.'s exploits during The Party (everyone was referring to it as "The Party", with very audible capital letters).
The portholes of the cabin remained firmly closed. They had been that way ever since their ship had entered the waters around the Chelonate.
E.M. was muttering, "I still can't believe we got here this quickly. Talk about treachery of maps..."
"You must be mad to go down there."
E.M. sighed, closed her eyes and massaged her temples. "You've said that already. About a half dozen times, I think. My hearing's not that bad." It was rare for E.M. to mention her hearing impairment, and probably a sign of how distracted and preoccupied she currently was. Spread out on the table between her and her daughter was a host of papers: mostly covered by notes in her own hand, but lots of maps, too. No two of those maps seemed to agree on anything. Shuffled in among everything else were several letters featuring the distinct handwriting of her wife. Her personal messenger-bats, the utterly livid trio Huey, Louie and Dewey, had been busy.
E.L. acted like she hadn't heard. "But I'm not mad, and I won't be going out there again." She wrinkled her nose fetchingly. "I didn't believe anything could smell this badly."
"Oh right, that. Don't worry, I've got something to help with that." Her mother started to rustle around in one of her larger trunks, the one she'd bought many years ago in Buenos Aires. "Jackie gave me this concoction which basically kills your sense of smell for several days. Affects your tastebuds, too, though. I'd recommend enjoying a hearty meal before taking this. I'm not quite sure how long the effect lasts."
"You give me this now? I almost died out there!"
"Well, I don't think I've ever heard of anyone actually dying from olfactory inconvenience. But I am sorry, I probably just didn't notice it as much as you did. Have I told you about the time I've extensively explored the sewer systems of ancient Persia..."
E.L. snorted and rolled her eyes. "No, and please don't." She warily eyed the small phial her mother had handed her. "What's this made of... no, don't tell me that either. If it works, I'll roll with it."
E.M. stifled a chuckle. She was always amused by her daughter's primness when it came to anything filthy or foul-smelling. So different from herself... she thought of her childhood on the family plantation in Florida. Always running around in the wild, digging up bones, snails and arrowheads, returning home looking like a wood-sprite. Her nannies probably would've found E.L. far easier to manage: she couldn't recall ever seeing a speck of dirt under one of her daughter's fingernails. No surprise since she took care never to do anything that could possibly result in dirtying them. For all her fraternizing with zailors, she never so much as lifted a single tarpaulin. She would play cards, exchange dirty jokes and tall tales, but as soon as there was any actual work to do, she'd disappear without a trace. The zailors tolerated her though, not least for those crates of wine she'd sneaked aboard so cunningly.
"Anyway. You found someone?"
E.L. snorted. "It's no problem to find a handful of people with a death wish around here. They're waiting for me to contact them again. Actually... there's one guy I'm not sure about. He doesn't want to be paid. He wants us to take him aboard and take him back to London."
"What's the problem? We seem to be losing and taking on passengers all the time. I'm sure the captain wouldn't mind. I'm not sure he would notice."
"I can't put my finger on it really, but there's something... fishy about this guy." She gave a nervous laugh. "But hey, he does want to leave this place! That makes him saner than everyone else."
E.M. finally stopped fidgeting and focused her attention on her daughter. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? You say I'm throwing my life away going in that zubmarine. I'm not sure you realize your mission might be the far more dangerous one."
E.L. pulled a face and shrugged. "I still don't see what the problem is exactly. It's just a ship and we're going to sink it. Ships sink easily. If it exists at all—I'm sure all those tales are exaggerated."
E.M. sighed. She always seemed to do that a lot when talking to her daughter. "Remember, all we need is the figurehead."
E.L.'s smirk was nasty. "You've said that already. About a half dozen times, I think. My hearing's not that bad."
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edited by phryne on 7/1/2018
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
7/17/2018
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“The cargo hold. I need to meet someone there.”
It wasn't altogether a lie, was it? The Insatiable Seamstress is here only because a certain dreamer is still sleeping in a tight-lidded sarcophagus somewhere in here. Because that dreamer needed something from her.
First things first, the Seamstress looks through every pocket she has available (One joy of being a Seamstress was that you could finally have pockets on dresses. Hers was covered in them), as well as her dainty handbag, under her sleeves and inside her shoes. After that self-shakedown, she had her wallet, as well as several pieces of jewelry, a pile of scraps with little secrets written across them, two meters of talking fabrics, a half-empty wine bottle filled with something that is definitely not wine, and a locket with some close relation the Insatiable Seamstress likely treasures when she isn't being possessed by silver-tongued eidolons.
All but the last item are discreetly inserted into the dreamer's cargo. It is always easy to lose one's possessions in a party, and she probably hadn't even owned half the things she had on her before today. Losing the locket might cause undue levels of panic - humans tend to worry about the simplest things sometimes - so it stays.
The body itself is laid down near the sarcophagus. She won't wake up anytime soon. If the want strikes, she might be eaten before then. It is, after all, rather uncouth to waste a perfectly fine glove.
But, for now, the eidolon is back to dreams. Real dreams.
They've touched sunlight tonight.
Their sleep will be golden with dusk.
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
8/19/2018
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Evensong only had long enough to (less than gracefully) slam the cabin door behind her and start rummaging through her suitcase of faces when the door swung open again. Evensong huddled down, gripping the suitcase in her hands to use as shield or weapon.
“Top o the morning to you, the bonniest wife in the neath!”
Evensong relaxed and turned around to greet Dirae Erinyes, relief turning into confusion. “What are you wearing?”
“A toga! And all of my clothes that I could find,” Dirae Erinyes said, while engulfing Evensong in an embrace.
“Why are you wearing a toga?” Evensong asked, voice muffled.
Dirae Erinyes let go of Evensong to assume a properly grandiose stance. “It wasn’t just superior tipple, or regrettable love affairs that followed last night, there was also artistic vision! As one whose had to climb through the squalid and questionably decorated streets of Veilgarden, I couldn’t deny their requests for a model.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Evensong asked, collapsing on the bed, placing a pillow over her head. She loved Dirae Erinyes but their good mood was not helping her headache.
“Absolutely not! However, judging from the pile of sleeping artists around me when I came to, and the abstract nature of their paintings, I think anything they saw will be just as dismissed as an overactive imagination and whatever they put in their absinthe. A fun evening overall-Are you okay?”
“It’s called a hangover. I’m surprised you don’t have one.”
“Never had too much trouble with those – I think it’s because I don’t drink enough to get one.” Evensong, seeing how much Dirae Erinyes had put down in their wild days, personally thought it had to do with whoever Dirae Erinyes parents had stolen the liver from, and whatever they preserved the organ in. But some things were best not brought up, at least not if she didn’t want to spoil the morning. “I’ll get you some tea and tincture.” Dirae Erinyes went to the small, nevercold brass stove. The small flame heated up the water as they measured out the tea leaves from the tea caddy.
“Can’t you just leave me in bed to suffer?” Evensong asked, as Dirae Erinyes rummaged for a tincture bottle.
“I’m sorry, but we are going to be sailing into the port of the Chelonate soon and I have a big day planned for us. The Temple of Storm! The Relics of the Bone Men! Shopping!”
“Shopping?” The hot water steamed, filling the tiny room with sticky heat. Dirae Erinyes grabbed the kettle off the stove and poured it into the tea pot, mixing in sugar, and at first, a few spoonfuls of tincture before just pouring in the whole bottle.
“Of course! The Chelonate has the largest market of monster hunters in existence. Monster bone carvings with scrimshaw! Scaly clothes made from iridescent scales! Chelonate Musk!” Dirae Erinyes, proud of their doctored tea, carries over and sets down a dainty tea set next to the suffering figure of Evensong. Evensong only removes her pillow long enough to pour and gulp down a cup of tea, wincing at the bitter taste of the tincture, poorly hidden with the sugar.
“How are we going to pay? I don’t think they take echoes here.”
“Why do you think we brought so many flasks of rum and jars of dried surface mangos? Did you really think we were going to use those all ourselves?” Evensong declines to answer, letting the tincture do its work.
Dirae Erinyes lifts the pillow to give a kiss. “I’m going up to sketch our arrival to the Chelonate. Please join me when you are feeling better. Make sure not to wear your good clothes for the Temple of Storm – it can get messy there.”
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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