A Tale of Two Suns - As Above, So Below

E. M. gave Mr Henchard, whom she had barely noticed so far, a sharp glance. What was his problem? There was something… odd about him. That haunted-looking empty stare… ah yes. No way to be absolutely certain, of course, but she’d bet her dessert that this man had only recently sold his soul; and she’d bet tomorrow’s dessert that he did it to get rid of some kind of severe emotional trauma. She did not judge him for that, though she privately opined that, if her postulations were correct, he had made the wrong decision. The human psyche was far more complicated than most people assumed, and getting rid of one’s soul did not solve all one’s problems. She’d seen it before, unfortunately, and hoped no one was going to trust this guy with making important decisions.

&quotThe time for doubt is never over, Mr… Henchman? Henchard! I hope you’ll excuse that. I’ve always been terrible with names. Anyway, as any true scientist knows, one’s plans, just as even the most established-seeming theories, need to be checked and re-checked, tested against new evidence and unforeseen developments, all the time. Doubt, not blind faith, is what keeps people alive in this world - what keeps us moving forward.

&quotThat does not rule out the concept of trust, of course. While I’ve never worked with Mr Stormstrider before, I’ve heard about some of his recent exploits, and trust that he will prove a more than capable leader of this venture.

&quotAs for the Gant Pole, I’ve never been there myself, but I have it on good authority that it does indeed exist.&quot She did not elaborate on the nature of that authority, nor on her lack of surprise about any of Gideon’s words.

When a renowned visionary inventor invites one to go to the surface with him, one does make a few guesses on how he plans to achieve that. She’d have been surprised if Dawn’s Law had not been involved somehow. And the Gant Pole, well - she would keep that to herself. No one needed to know that her reasons for joining this expedition included anything besides scientific curiosity and a melancholy yearning for the sun. After all, these things were very much among her reasons, no need to pretend anything. But human beings were complicated creatures, and rarely had no hidden motives - which was precisely why she’d brought along her daughter: to learn the hidden motives of her companions. Better safe than sorry.

To her left, Squidley Johnson had been nodding along vehemently during her short speech. Apparently she had made a friend already.

Gideon sits and lets the lively debate wash over him. It reminds him of the old days at the University with the Delvers. What an adventure that was!

You remember what became of them, do you not? says a distant Voice. Arnold and Anna, trapped in this wretched head of yours with me. The others, burnt alive in the fire. Do you think they cursed your name when the flames lashed at their skin, crisped their flesh, boiled their fat? Did they thank you for the adventure when there was nothing left but charred bones?

He tries to ignore the vitriol, but the words wedge in his mind and refuse to be dislodged. The Voice falls smugly silent, its work done. Gideon picks up some more bacon from the middle of the table with a fork, skewering it harder than strictly necessary.

The sudden emergence of Amets is welcome; their sojourns into the Real have been lamentably brief in recent months, but they requested that a mirror be placed at the meeting table and Gideon was happy to oblige. He is still not sure what to make of them, ambiguous as their every feature is. A Fingerking wearing a human body like a suit, or something yet stranger?

The answer surely lies on the shores of dream, he thinks, and snatches of last night’s vision drift back to him. Peculiar dreams are hardly unusual in the Neath, but this one felt more real somehow. Had the eidolon been watching him from the banks of the river?

Gideon glances at Squidley with paternal fondness. The Rubbery has come far since they first met. After much encouragement by the inventor, Squidley has taken steps towards behaving like a proper gentleman. His table manners need some work, but the foghorn-like honking is now restrained in polite company and he plays a mean game of charades. Nobody is currently trying to drag the Rubbery into a corner and murder him – always pleasant – and one of the Cannings has even engaged him in conversation. Who knew that you could pronounce three ‘p’s in a row with such… phlegm?

Henchard’s spirited defence of Gideon would almost be heart-warming if he knew where it had all come from. The man always seemed so detached when they were hunting the Shade. He was all business, all the time – Gideon never did find out whether his name was Gregory or David – and now he came out with this! This newfound loyalty is almost certainly misplaced, but he appreciates it all the same. It’ll be good to have someone competent to watch my back. Even if he expects to be paid afterwards.

Gideon chats along for a while, making the appropriate noises, acting the part of the consummate host. The questions raised by the passengers are understandable, but he gives them some time to settle down and fill up on bacon and coffee before speaking up.

“I assure you, my friends, the Gant Pole is more than mere myth!” he says. “Some months ago I visited an old sapphire-processing plant in Port Carnelian where I met a Fierce Philanthropist, an expert in all matters zubmersible. She runs an enterprise – not strictly legal­, but we’re all friends here – constructing zubmarines, and she stays in touch with a number of enterprising zubmariners. As well as the plans for my own zub, she also told me about a captain who caught a sighting of the very place we are heading to now: the Gant Pole. The captain never docked there himself – apparently his zub was attacked by a giant eel before he got close – but he was able to catch a glimpse of the place. A great stone heart on the zee floor, surrounded by carrion – enough dying zee-beasts to feed a city.”

He flashes a smile. “After hearing this, I was immediately struck by inspiration. As you said, Ms Dynamo, the Gant Pole is in the vicinity of the Chelonate – I heard the same thing from my good friend the Philanthropist. Our first stop on the journey will be there. To get to the Gant Pole itself, we’ll need to use my zubmarine, which is secreted aboard this very vessel. But the inky depths of the zee are no easy task to navigate, even if we knew the location of the Gant Pole – so I came up with this.”

On cue, a zailor wheels a large rectangular object covered by a red cloth into the room. With a flourish, Gideon whips off the cloth to reveal a glass tank of water – and in it, a very ill-looking man-sized zee-crab. Its glowing antennae twitch unnervingly as it presses itself against the glass wall. Squidley lets out a low, mournful trill.

“The Gant Pole draws dying zee-creatures towards it inexorably, like the pull of a great magnet. I found this crab at an auction – apparently it belonged to an old zee-captain who kept it in this tank for years. The poor thing is close to its end now, so I shall release it into the zee once we depart in the zubmarine – and it will lead our way to the Gant Pole.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 1/6/2018

Dirae Erinyes gives a small frown when Amets makes their appearance, turning the picture back around. Pencils fly over the picture. Evensong gives an approving nod to Gideon’s caged sea monstrosity. However her posture did not relax.

“There is still the question of ensuring that the New Sequence deals fairly.” Evensong calmly states, their tension channeling into their cutlery. “The most obvious solution would be threaten to reveal one of their agents in London’s docks if we fail to return. That would’ve been best to arrange in London, but we still should be within bat flight range. We can arrange something if we act quickly.” She gives a cough that could be called nervous.

“Not that I know anything about that besides what I’ve read in the reports. But I have reason to believe that my bosses do appreciate my work and loyalty. They are the sort to show it beyond just ‘Number 1 Clerk’ teacups.” Dirae Erinyes turned the picture around again, with another smile. Amets had now been added to the group picture, with a hastily drawn mirror. Their hand drifts down, giving Evensong’s shoulder a squeeze.

The Chelonate! Madison’s eyes shine avidly at Emma’s suggestion, and Gideon’s affirmation. It took all of her effort (and a strip of bacon) not to shout about her ancestral roots to that place; she had never been there herself, and would likely be less helpful than strangers might’ve assumed from such an eager reaction. That is, of course, if they’re taking much longer than a brief stop to resupply. Given its malodorous nature the others might be keen to depart as quickly as possible, having little other reason but curiosity to stay. A new distraction wheels into view before she gets a chance to speak - an old, pitiable crab. Could Madison read sorrow within its eyes, pain in the joints of its claws, ceaseless regret over opportunities lost?

No. It’s a crab.

Madison returns her focus on important matters. She could expect at least a quick glance around the port and its various wares, if nothing else. At most, time enough for a good round of sightseeing. She thinks to ask for a more definite time frame when it occurs to her that the nature of their compass might be the limiting factor, even more so than curiosity’s allure or the overwhelming reek. In that case, she might as well know the identity of the arbiter of her destiny. &quotDoes it have a name?&quot

Dirae Erinyes steps away from their easel, clearing their throat with a gear grinding cough.

“The lass does raise a good point. A name is the very least we can do for this poor creature, who will be our noble navigator with its dying breaths. A grand name is needed for a crab that allows us to see the sun again. Names are very important. Thus, I suggest that we name him. . .Crabbie, Baron of the Devil Reefs, Fifteenth heir to the Sea King’s throne.” They look around, seeing if anyone will challenge their right to name the ailing crab. The crab looks on, uncaring.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 1/10/2018

Both E.M.‘s eyebrows rise upon hearing Dirae’s suggestion. &quotThat’s quite a mouthful. Personally, I’d vote for Lil’ Temtum,&quot she says quietly, a hint of a smile quirking one corner of her mouth. &quotAnd I’d wager the ‘Sea King’ has a lot more heirs than that, if I’m correct about whom you’re referring to.&quot

While all this is said in a mild manner, E.L. can’t help rolling her eyes. That’s already the second person at the table her mother had to disagree with. Scholars! Can they ever pass up a chance to ‘well actually’ someone?
Her appetite had left with the appearance of the smelly crab and she can’t wait for this breakfast to conclude, so she can return to the fresh zee-air outside.

Despite their fighting stance, Dirae Erinyes simply kept talking. “You seemed to have misunderstood me. The Sea King is not the same as the Fathom king. They are a vassal of the Fathom King. You can tell if crabs are prawnie or unprawnie by their claws. Those with bigger right claws follow the Sea King and are Prawnies. Those with larger left claws follow the Counterthrone and are unprawnies. They are also more likely to argue about being eaten, so it’s best to avoid them.
As you can see, our crabbie friend has a bigger right claw then left claw. Thus, they are a prawnie.” Dirae Erinyes points to his claw, before continuing their lecture.

“Now, all royal prawnies have a dark purplish blue as part of their coloring – all thanks to a mutation in the first Sea king. As we can see-despite the dullness of the carapace-that is indeed a dark purplish blue color.”

“So, once we know that our crab is royalty, how do you find out their title? Prawnies are not talkative. Once again, we return back to the carapace.” Dirae Erinyes carefully turns the tank around to allow their trapped audience to see the back of the crab.

“On the back, we can see black markings. By examining these markings with a proper set of maps, one can quickly pick out the territory of a particular crab. If you were to use one of Gideon’s maps, I’m sure you would agree that it is the Devil’s Reef. This method is really the only way to tell, since crabs don’t actually use their titles for anything.”

“As for their distance from the throne, I can only estimate that based on size and age. Since our crab friend is nearly ancient, but not as big as could be, fifteenth seems fair. “

They turned to face Ms. Canning. “All of this is in my book “The Customs of Crustacean Royalty.” You have read it, right?”

Chapter 1 - How to play the game of names and stowaways

Tyr‘s dreams were pleasant and calm. Just the way he wanted them. As his Cosmogone glasses anounced to anyone with the right knowledge – Parabola was quite a familiar place for him. He has spent more than a few nights exploring its strange forests and wondrous rivers and creeks. But this time he just wanted to stay safe and enjoy his sort-of-tea while sitting on a log and watching what passed for sunset in Parabola. He noticed an uncertain figure pass by – like a shade of a half forgotten memory. But before he could focus on it more he awoke to the sound of Gideon Stormstrider knocking on the doors on his way to breakfast.

The Polite Peacemaker sat on his bed and gazed on a pair of Rattus Faber – currently looking back at him with their paws still full of the equipment they were pulling out of their hiding place in the barrel of his Emergency Blunderbuss. Apparently they hitched a ride inside of it and now with their sleeping bags packed, they were ready to go explore their new home. While both parties seemed equally stunned by surprise there was a noise of tiny machinery being pulled apart and a front wheel of rat-sized velocipede tumbled out of the gun’s barrel (almost hitting one of the surprised rats on the nose) followed by another fluffy head with tiny eyes that quickly turned big when their owner realized their human transport was awake and aware of their presence. “Well guv, we won’t take any more of your time,” the tallest of the rats said. Before Tyr’s brain could conjure an appropriate answer – all three rats finished packing (including dividing a tiny Velocipede into three parts and sharing those equally between them) and were on their way out of the cabin.

Tyr blinked a few times to ensure he wasn’t dreaming, then shrugged and decided that “What was done was done” and after ensuring none of the other devices he brought along had any more unwelcome surprises proceeded to dress and move on to breakfast. To his surprise, he wasn’t the last one to arrive.


Listening to Gideon’s speech – Tyr wasn’t terribly surprised. He was well aware thanks to his Bazaar sources that Gant Pole was indeed not a myth and the knowledge of the unfortunate incident that befell most of Her Majesty’s Navy was common knowledge to most players of the Game on his level. Another good reason why Bazaar was necessary and the best way for the future. He wasn’t looking forward to the visit at Grand Geode though. On the other hand that destination was fairly far into the future and he was sure he was far from the most interesting person here from the Dawn Machine’s point of view so it might end up being outright easy.

Speaking of interesting – his eyes passed the gathering of adventurers. Old faces, young faces, faces that carried a lot of mementos of their previous adventures and faces – specifically the young ladies, he realized, who seemed to be on their first zee trip. This promised to be quite an adventure. The one other thing that was worth notice was the large mirror. When a person started speaking out of it Tyr knew he was right. Amets Estibariz has joined the voyage after-all.

He was browsing through the last file – the dull reading about Antonios Methodios. Tyr wasn’t sure but it was quite improbable that someone that dull and boring would be living in the Dynamo household and even less so that he would be joining this journey. Even as a Valet/Chaperone he was too boring. The more likely option was that the file has been doctored or outright fabricated. But by who? The Polite Peacemaker had no idea. Just as he put the file aside the last Delivery-bat flew through the open window into the study and dropped a heavy file into Tyr’s lap. The cover was made of cinnabar and the careful considerate writing read “Amets Estibariz” This promised to be an interesting read.

The wurbly noises draw Tyr out of his memories and he is surprised to notice that there aren’t in fact two Rubbery persons here, but Mrs Canning is in fact talking to Squiddley in his own language. Observing the room he noticed E.M’s daughter paying particular attention to Persephone’s finger. Focusing on them as well, he just caught the last part of what was probably meant to be a secret message. Spies watching spies do spy stuff. Once again he was vindicated in his belief that spying is a job for one person who doesn’t draw attention to themselves and only gives his debriefing after the mission – thus ensuring that he or she won’t get caught and keelhauled for being a dirty dirty spy.

When the giant crab was ceremoniously introduced and the debate concerning his name started – he wondered for a few seconds if he should mention his Rattus stowaways. Seeing how heated the debate was getting &quota Bazaarine agent… heh&quot he decided against it and instead used the opportunity that arose when the young Eva Louise apparently seemed to lose her appetite and grabbed some more bacon. While zailing one could never say when would be the next opportunity to eat something that wasn’t stinking like a dead fish. Overall it promised to be an interesting day.


edited by Tyr_Teg on 1/11/2018

It seemed quite impossible, but E.M.'s eyebrows managed to rise ever higher and higher during Dirae’s lecture and Emma’s subsequent outburst.

&quotWell,&quot she said more than once during the altercation. &quotWell, well, well.&quot She seemed about to go on like this, then thought better of it.

&quotTo answer your question, sir, no, I haven’t read your… publication, though my wife might have. But thank you for sharing all this enlightening information. I presume you must’ve spent many years of your life researching these matters; maybe you have even lived among the prawnies and unprawnies on the zee-floor studying their customs. Why, I cannot imagine how else you would’ve been able to accumulate such a wealth of data. Certainly, I think I can speak for almost&quot - here she winked at Emma - &quoteveryone gathered here when I say that the effort it must’ve cost you to compile such a veritable cornucopia of learning is much applauded and appreciated. You, sir, are a paragon of sub-submarine biology.&quot

All this she said earnestly and sincerely, with more than a little pathos in her voice. But her eyes were shooting sparks of mirth in all directions, and when she took a sip of coffee afterwards, most observers probably noticed how hard she had to work to keep from laughing out loud.

Meanwhile, E.L. was trying to think of a good excuse to leave the table. This breakfast seemed to go on forever.
edited by phryne on 1/11/2018

&quotPerhaps a diversion from crabs would be a welcome topic. And a return to a more…pressing one, in my opinion at the very least.&quot Reinol’s voice as calm and smooth as wax. The appearance of Amets had captured his attention for quite some time, but the argument had shaken him out of his reverie. While he had missed some parts, he certainly heard Evensong’s plan regarding the exposure of a Dawn Machine’s agent.

While such action was prudent, it was far too risky in his opinion. Enough so that he had to speak up regarding the matter. He turns to Evensong as he spoke. &quotWhile your plan certainly has merit, I must act as an opposition party regarding it. My reason is simple.&quot

Emerald eyes narrowed. &quotThe risk is far too great. The agents of Dawn have their roots deep in London’s Admiralty. While the Navy is but a shadow of itself, I’m sure an attempt of exposure would immediately force a response. We have little guarantee of the success. Our lack of information regarding the Machine is enough to derail the plan. I’m rather positive that it could go very badly if things go, err, south so to speak.&quot

A sigh escaped his lips as he returned to his breakfast. &quotDo forgive my intrusion. I have faith in your capabilities , but I still object to your plan. No information on the Dawn Machine’s influence puts too much at risk, for all we know, their roots may be deeper than we know. Admirals are known players of the Game. Certain diplomats more so. Both are likely to be under the False Star’s influence. Who’s to say they won’t have a posse of spies who are the same? Too risky in my opinion. Far too risky. A counterattack or an interception of your zee bat is possible.&quot

&quotJust some opinions on the matter.&quot Reinol leaned back. &quotFeel free to do as you wish. And if we are going to name the crab, I say we call it Temtem the Dying Zee Crab. None of that Sea King swillery.&quot He was willing to admit however, that his argument may have a few flaws.
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 1/12/2018

Evensong fixes Reinol with a blue, unblinking stare.
“As a mere clerk, it is not my decision which agents my bosses would choose to out and which ones would be allowed to continue. While I may be ignorant of how deeply the New Sequence has infiltrated our docks, I know those I work for are better educated. Thus I place all my trust in their ability. In that same vein, if I find myself needing to reveal our threat, I will be careful not to implicate the rest of you – I’m not just going to shout it as soon as we sail into port. ” A smirk forms on her lips, fighting against the placid façade. “Even our most novice interns know that any spy that gets their bats intercepted deserves what they reap.”
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 1/12/2018
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 1/12/2018

The eidolon had, sadly, attracted attention. Thankfully, only short-lived attention. Soon enough, the cabin dips back into the usual chaotic discussion, interspersed with motivated warbling . The eidolon, meanwhile, dines on fruit unseen in the Neath nor the Surface, chokes on sweetness, drowns in taste, resists the urge to gag. They’re done with their improvised and implausible meal when the dying royalty is brought in. There is much ado about the crab’s name and its royal status, now. The eidolon mimes an unapologetic yawn in lieu of true lassitude.

Nobody here really trusts each other, they muse. Not really. The conversation is bathed in paranoia and baptized in doubt. Very probably, every single one of the people here is hiding some succulent secret or other. It’s a crushing atmosphere. Unbearable, really. Might as well make small talk, lighten the mood somewhat. Fight a bitter room with sweetness.

&quotThat is all fine and dandy,&quot An absentminded gesture towards the pair loudly ruminating on blackmailing the New Sequence. &quotSpies and all, but my mind is occupied with something quite different: We’ve all heard of the sun-bathed Surface, if not been there ourselves.&quot Has the eidolon ever seen the Sun, outside of false dreams and cramped boxes? They are uncertain, and time does tend to lie. &quotWhen this expedition is over, I would be delighted to visit an observatory, if the situation were amenable to it, but just feeling the light on my skin would make me happy enough.&quot An inviting gaze sweeps through the room. Their smile is warm as summer breeze.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 1/18/2018

Madison shies away from all the debate, not having strong enough opinions to participate. She fusses slightly with her utensils to give the illusion of activity, only looking up when Amets provides a welcome chance in topic. She smiles as her thoughts turn to the sunlit surface, and all the wonder surrounding it. &quotIt’ll be weird actually seeing it; my friends and I growing up had this inside joke that the ‘Surface’ was an elaborate adult prank.&quot

She reflects briefly on the mythology they had built up over the years to explain all the scraps of evidence pointing towards the Surface being real. None of them took it very seriously - at least, she assumes none of them did - but the two she retained over the years still keep the gag alive. &quotI told a couple of them I was heading up there, and they teased me a little. ‘Send a postcard from the Sunlight Factory!’ I wonder if there’s a place up there actually called that.&quot Madison places a finger on the side of her head, thoughtful.

edited by Sara Hysaro on 1/19/2018

Dirae Erinyes sets aside their pencils and hunches behind Evensong’s chair, arms wrapped around her shoulders. “We are going to visit my family. Well, actually my first wife’s family – which I admit does sound odd. But my family growing up has all passed on, and my wife’s family is a welcoming bunch. Between my aunt and I, we’ve been entertaining them with our adventures in London. They have been clamoring for a chance to meet Evensong –they think it’s good for me to see someone new. After that, it’s for Evensong to decide – she was born in the Neath.” Evensong remains quiet, even when Dirae Erinyes words drop away.

“What to do eh?” Reinol trails off. “I suppose I’d like to make a peom describing what it’s like. Or anything in general. Art is art after all.” And perhaps a few research material as well. It wouldn’t hurt after all.

Fingers drummed on rough wood as he pondered this train of thought. “There’s simply so much I want to do. Maybe I’ll see the sights. Maybe I’ll dine on food not of Neath. Maybe I’ll get some work done. But all in all, I will make most of what I have. Though I will admit…the sigh of the clear skies, the true stars, the trees the moon, the sun…yes. That’d be enough. More than enough.”

He faded into silence at that. One of daydreaming and melancholic nostalgia. He missed the beauties of the Surface. Its light and law. Far too much was lost when he came down here. Yet much more was gained. Though even then, still he yearned, still he wished. A foolish wish in the end. But a wish was a wish. And every wish was worthwhile. No matter what they are.

The lively discussion continues as Gideon polishes off his remaining bacon. It has long since gone cold, but he barely notices, preoccupied as he is with not thinking about the voice in his head.

Squidley is having a fine old time of it. Gideon frowns – he finds himself strangely jealous of the attention the Rubbery is receiving. For a while he had been the only person who interacted with Squidley on a regular basis. I suppose I should feel happy for him.

The crab - Crabbie, Baron of the Devil Reefs, Fifteenth Heir to the Sea King’s Throne – waves its antennae forlornly. Gideon kneels before the tank and says “I think that’s enough excitement for today, don’t you think, Crabbie?”, motioning a zailor to wheel it out of the dining room.

Gideon addresses the room. “Thank you all for agreeing to continue on this voyage! Your faith will be rewarded, I assure you. You have the run of the ship for the day, such as it is – we’ll reconvene in the evening.” With that, he makes his exit; amidst the babble of conversation he draws barely a glance.


“Ship off the port bow, Mr Stormstrider,” says an Eager Swabbie, leaning through the open cabin door.

“Hm?” Gideon looks up from his book, a hefty volume titled One Hundred and One Bizarre Contraptions for All the Family.

“Looks like a yacht, sir. Big and fancy, like. They’re signalling that they want to come alongside.”

“Oh, how nice of them! By all means, proceed. I’ll be right with you.” He goes back to poring over schematics for a device that looks remarkably like a steam-powered ostrich.

The Swabbie hesitates. “Sir, you did say you wanted to be on deck for anything important, right?”

“Yes! Of course! It’s just that I don’t have a bookmark, and I’d hate to lose my place. There are so very many pages in this book, as you can see.”

“Do you… want me to get you a bookmark?”

“Well, since you’re asking, that’d be most gracious of you. My thanks.”

Once adequately bookmarked, Gideon heads above to see what all the fuss is about. The Monocular Appeaser is waiting on deck, scowling as a lavishly appointed yacht approaches. A jaunty pianoforte tune drifts across the dark waves from an oasis of shimmering gaslight and fancy curtains. “This is your doing, I take it,” he says. “These party boats are a menace. They’ve no respect for the laws of the zee, nor the danger that awaits out here.”

“We must be courteous to our fellow seafarers,” says Gideon. “Besides,” he flashes a smile, “I’ve not been to a decent party in ages.”

The yacht draws closer, and through the bright windows Gideon sees a ballroom filled with men and women in fine evening wear. They dance a frenzied dance to the tune of the piano, spinning and twirling in tangles of silk but never letting up, never skipping a beat, never placing a foot wrong. The energy of the ship is mesmerising, inviting them in to a world of black and gold.

Gideon places a hand on the captain’s shoulder reassuringly. “Yes, indeed, this should prove to be a most diverting evening.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 1/31/2018

Henchard stood by one of the emptier and quieter railings. But, considering what type of boat this was, neither of those statements were exactly true. He vaguely remembered a time when he would have been chatting with others, exchanging stories and ideas. But before he could pursue those memories, or the thoughts that followed, a voice interrupted.

“Excuse me sir,” the speaker was a rather chubby man dressed in an ill fitting suit. Black ink trickled down from his badly dyed hair, which was clearly suppose to be brown. He smiled nervously.

“You are one of the guests from that ship, yes?” He stumbled on without waiting for an answer. “I have a job for you. There’s a woman, you see. Lovely lady, absolutely perfect. With, ah, one small problem. She refuses to see me, you see.” He swallowed.

“So I was hoping you would pass a note to her.” He fumbled with his pockets and pulled out a small scrap of paper. He held out his arm and it hung between them. “There, ah, will be a reward, of sorts.” Henchard took the paper.

“Excellent! So, she’s down below deck, can’t stand the noise poor dear, room 40C. I’d deliver it myself, but as I said, she won’t see me.” he chuckled nervously. “And make sure you tell her who its from! Only, you know,” he gestured to himself. “Make me sound better.” His hand circled in the air next to him, “Like that singer, you know, the one towards the front? Terrible person, absolutely terrible, but women seem to love him. No taste at all.”

Henchard nodded, not paying attention, and pushed past the man. Near the stairs to the lower decks, a dark haired man in a well fitted suit was singing to the crowds. About weasels, of course. London song writers needed to get some new material. Henchard shook his head and went down.

The room was easy enough to find. Henchard knocked and waited. The door opened a crack, but the corridor’s weak light did not penetrate the darkness inside.

“Who are you?” A voice asked from somewhere within.

Henchard handed over the paper without a word. After a moment’s hesitation, a thin, pale hand snatched it from him.

Henchard briefly wondered how she would read it, but a soft chuckle on the other side of the door put those thoughts to rest.

“The singer? Does that pig really think I’ll drag myself out, all prim and fancy and oh so foolish, for a trick like this?” Henchard could hear the sneer in her voice. A moment passed, and Henchard opened his mouth.

“No.” She said, and Henchard closed it. “No, this has gone on long enough. I’ll be there, and make sure he comes too! Tell your master whatever he wants, but make sure he’s there! It’s time this little charade reached its end.”

The door slammed shut, and Henchard wandered back upstairs. The man saw him coming and rushed over.

“Oh what did she say? She said yes, didn’t she? I knew she would! Beautiful creature, but no taste at all. But no matter, that’s all behind us now.” He started fiddling with his tie, but it was painfully obvious he didn’t know how to tie it.

“And for my payment?” Henchard looked around. The nearby couples were too preoccupied with each other to see anything else.

“Payment? My dear sir, look around you! You’re surrounded by more wine than you could drink in a year! That’s payment, more than enough! And that’s not mentioning the ladies.” He looked down at his tie. “Now, is this crooked?”

Henchard’s face darkened, and he stepped closer to the man. The muscles beneath his suit flexed.

No one heard the splash above the music.

Now, what might she do until evening? A yacht zails into view, drawing invitingly close, as if answering Madison’s unspoken question. She cocks an eyebrow, unconvinced. That sort of party? At this hour? She watches as her fellow travellers make their way to the other vessel one by one, each eroding more and more of her resolve in staying away.

She could stay aboard the Inexplicable. Cloister herself in her room, dig out one of several books she brought along for entertainment, maybe take a nap. But she knew the others would talk about it for the next several days if she did, fostering regret for passing up the chance to see so many ridiculous sights first-hand. That, and she’d only brought so many - best save them for an emergency. She rests her elbows on the railing, cupping her head in her hands, eyes fixed on the scandalous proceedings, emboldened by their relative isolation. Someone on the other side notices Madison’s prying eyes, waving; Madison returns the gesture reflexively, lost in her own thoughts. Their conversational bellows fall on deaf ears.

She’d feel so much more comfortable socializing in a pub filled with adventurers than cavorting in a decadent revel populated with hedonistic toffs and bohemians. An optimist might postulate these are adventurous bohemians, but the vibe is so clearly unlike her normal fare.

Her eyes catch a hint of movement, over on the other side. Was that a splash? Did a drunk tumble over the railing? Well. That’s no different at all.

Madison sits up, stretches. No sense in delaying further the inevitable. A strange sound reaches her ears as she crosses - the splash of oars in water? Must be the rescue crew.


Inside, the party hums with dancing, flirting, and salacious gossip. Lord P_____ did what with an artist and a nun? And where? Oh my. He’ll be lucky to be back in London before the Feast (‘so won’t we!’ a reveler cheers). A dark-haired singer belts out some Mahogany Hall craze; his audience flutters, captivated. He catches Madison’s curious eye and playfully winks; Madison recoils like a tortoise under the unwanted attention, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she looks away.

The darker edges conceal lovers in varying degrees of intoxication and indecency - ravenous eyes, exploring hands, intimate whispers; Madison blushes, embarrassed at their sight, and quickly busies herself with locating the refreshments. Alcohol is just what the doctor ordered to render this revel bearable. Fortunately, the bar is well-stocked with nearly any beverage you could name (and several you could not). Drink in hand, she considers her options, subconsciously gravitating towards the buffet as she travels the path of least resistance. Any familiar faces in view? Well-travelled storytellers? Someone grumbles, reaching past Madison to nab a lemon biscuit. Madison apologizes softly, moving out of the way of hungry carousers.

Somewhere along the edges Madison spies the telltale cushions of a make-shift honey-den. Eager dreamers sigh into their beds, disappearing into unknown worlds. An affable woman oversees the operation, notable by the paper rose tucked into her braided hair. A peaceful moment of relative solitude becomes increasingly attractive a prospect amid the surrounding chaotic air. Stopping her from taking the plunge was an underlying worry it might become literal.

Anything more to gaze upon? Certainly - there’s seemingly no end to the wonders this yacht offers. Madison’s patience, however, has a very distinct end that has quite reached its limit; she makes her way back to the yacht’s deck, cutting through the crowds as politely as she can manage. The revelers part with surprising grace in her wake, almost dancing out of the way - perhaps they are accustomed to even swifter retreats? The cooler air beyond the door offers solace from the cloying atmosphere of the party’s heart. A waiter notices Madison’s nearly empty glass and tops it off. Much better.

E. L. had taken to dressing almost as carelessly as most zailors, and was probably mistaken for a crewmember by most revellers, which definitely proved useful for sneaking around the yacht. The party had been going on for some hours when she had mostly finished her work (a little lurking and spying, though there was no one interesting enough on board to make that really worthwhile, and a few unattended trinkets picked up here and there) and wondered whether she should bother trying to enjoy herself a bit.

This just wasn’t her crowd. Bohemians at the height of their fashion and their wealthy patrons - the artists would already be on the decline, and their patrons already looking to someone else, a month from now. While her mother, of course, was in her element. Last she saw her, she’d been discussing the details of Rubbery and Mushroom reproduction with a Mycologene poet and her new best friend Squidley. Or trying to, at least - they’d reached a state of inebriation where staying focused on a topic became a real effort even when wurbling wasn’t involved. But E. L. did not doubt that they would keep talking forever, if given the chance - they’d been drinking Chartreuse from Godfall; that drink got your tongue wagging like no other. The bar really was exceptionally well-stocked, she conceded - and already mused whether it would be possible to nick a few bottles for dryer times, when she spotted a familiar figure from her own party leaning on the railing.

&quotWell,&quot E. L. thought, &quotthis girl Madison seems nice enough, and by that faraway look on her face she’s not feeling any more at home with this crowd than I am. Now let’s see whether she’s any fun.&quot

Sidling up to the young woman, she smiled roguishly, and asked: &quotBored? Me too. Hey, what’s that you’re drinking? No matter.&quot Without missing a beat, another passing waiter had already positioned a filled glass in her outstretched hand. &quotCan’t complain about the service, can you? Cheers!&quot After taking a gulp, she exclaimed, &quotmy ****, that’s real grape! And they’re handing it out like… now, look here, I’ve had a thought. You see, this here yacht has all this really exceptional vintage, and I’ve heard the most terrible rumours about our captain’s port, and even if those are exaggerated, we’re definitely not stocked as well as these toffs are. I mean, they could probaby lose a crate or two without even noticing! So I thought, how ‘bout we think about ourselves a little here, you know, who knows what’s ahead anyway, might well be days coming when we’ll need some classy lubrication a lot more than these fancy **** ever will, ya know what I’m sayin’?&quot She finished her glass in another gulp, slightly out of breath. &quotSo what do you say, are you up to some off-the-books procurement of expeditionary supplies, or am I treading on your honour here?&quot


edited by phryne on 2/6/2018

Evensong wasn’t meant for parties like this. Oh, she had been to plenty before Dirae Erinyes. Dressed as a waiter, one hand carrying a tray, of glittering glasses as the other hand slips into pockets, purses, dangling jewelry. . .all held their secrets. Dressed as a demure maid, eyes never leaving the floor, an ambush behind the stairs, a snapped neck masked by inspired singers. Evensong looks for familiar faces from the dossiers that crossed her desk, but nobody here is a player or piece that she recognizes. Not on this ship of fools.

Not that Evensong could carry out such orders, not dressed like this. She was not a waiter, a maid, or even a humanoid shaped shadow. No, she was part of the guests. A role that she had not grown into, despite the years of marriage. . . even so, this dress, crushed velvet with small diamonds, the skirt showing the phases of the moon. Each moon was parabola-linen, glowing with jungle light. Evensong told herself that she had no clue how she let herself be talked into this – but the memory of the Invisible Hunt, Dirae Erinyes measuring the too soft and heavy material against her, murmuring verses from the Faerie Queene, La Belle Sans Merci. . .Evensong never thought of herself as sentimental, prone to Bohemian romanticism. She had spent too much time sulking around Veilgarden, eavesdropping on impromptu serenades, and ignoring drunken verses thrown at her. But when Dirae Erinyes harsh voice whispered in her ears, she felt herself melt into sodden wax as Dirae Erinyes placed a Russian style tiara of deep purple glim. The same tiara caught her eye in the mirror’s reflection. In that moment, she watch the moon pearls jewelry wane another silver. Evensong wondered if they truly reflected the unseen moon as venom-ruby thrummed at her throat.

A waiter interrupts her reflection, with a tray of smoked fish crisps. Evensong gives stiff thanks and quickly swallows it, a vain offering to her hungry stomach. As the waiter turns around and the other guests remain lost in their gaiety, Evensong palms a lit candle stub from a nearby candelabra. (A luxury that surprised even her – open flames are abhorred on the zee.) She smothers the flame with a quick puff, carefully holding it so a casually glance would see just another hors d’oeuvres and so the wax does not clot on the silk gloves. The hot wax scalds her tongue and sooths her gnawing stomach.

Liking away the last of the wax, Evensong sips the wine, letting it linger on her tongue, tasting for a hint of poison among the mushrooms. Her task is made harder with the thick layer of perfumed fog, even with the strong zee wind blowing down from the deck. Finally, she swallows. Evensong keeps her sips small, to forestall further drunkenness. But this wine is strong stuff, stronger than any Greyfield’s bottle. (This is the same wine that Dirae Erinyes always toasts “We are drinking the falling stars!” Evensong often wanders the origin of that toast, but has never asked. Maybe they drink the falling stars on the surface. They tell many stories about the stars on the surfaces, at least Dirae Erinyes does, especially about the one that fell, and then fell further into love. But surely stars can’t fall in love?)

Thinking of stars and love, Evensong looks across the room, watching Dirae Erinyes hold court among flock of other guests. Their outfit today was at least complimentary colors, a purple-tinted parabola linen suit whose landscapes slid out of mind, a rose patterned mask, and salivating blue gloves. Evensong leaves behind her wallflower corner to join Dirae Erinyes side. She admires how those arsenic green eyes gleam even brighter despite the dim lights. She gives a quick peck, worrying that if she did anything more, she may cast aside her face, letting herself be closer than lip to lip.

“So, there was this Rattus Faber that climbed on the stage” Dirae Erinyes pauses, returning the quick peck and draping a protective arm around Evensong shoulders as they quaff the whole glass. “So, this Rattus Faber has the smallest bloody banjo you had ever seen. . .” None of the flock questions it – Dirae Erinyes reputation proceeds them. Evensong remembers when they first walked into the Foreign Office, scandal and self-destruction still clinging to them from the Court. The snickers of the Face when Dirae Erinyes offered Evensong a sip from their hipflask. Evensong was one of the few that knew enough to question how Dirae Erinyes could drink oceans, how they could drink anything all. More memories, of stained journals hidden away, brought by a surface runner. One of the few secrets that laid heavy on their tongue as Dirae Erinyes read the latest letter from their family. Their family complaining of the most unusual robber, one that only pawed through old letters and papers up in the attic . . .

Memories and diagrams are interrupted in Evensongs mind as another joins the flock. A sandy-haired man in a white suit cautiously approaches, hand outstretched to Evensong, eyes watching Dirae Erinyes. After a minute of throat clearing, Dirae Erinyes stops their story, cracking “A don’t be such an idiot smile,” to him, and releases their arm around Evensong. Evensong does not take the hand, just considers it. “So, talking about little banjos. . .”

“I need a partner an Elder Continent dance called the Butterfly Dance.” Hesitation flees and Evensong takes his hand. He nervously explains the steps but does not listen. Her people created this dance.  He ends apologizing that they don’t have the shawls he had seen in his travels. But they would like silly at a proper London party. Evensong keeps her mouth closed, so she doesn’t tell him that they are more than clothes, that they form the wings. 

He stands in front of her as they start. The footwork is delicate, like any jig and lilt from the surface. One foot is always off the ground, often both. They hold their arms out in a grand swooping motion. The drums start slow, but speed up, transforming the swoops into frantic fluttering, and spins. Evnesong closes her eyes, feeling the non-existent shawl flutter in her grip, its fabric fanning out. She knows her partner is watching her expectantly, but the start is not a partner dance but the part danced by and for yourself. But of course Londoner’s would turn it into a partner dance – they must make everything romantic. 

Then the strings join in and the second phase begins. Her partner puts both feet on the ground and has to stop dancing as he puts his arms out. Evensong is disappointed but remembers that humans are not as strong as her people as she leaps, his arms grip and throw proving further momentum as she soars. Too soon she is caught by plump matron-who does not jump and join in the air like her people do-but instead holds still and laughs about Evensong’s quick feet. Evensong does not care, as long the matron holds out her arms for her to leap and soar again.

edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 2/5/2018


(A quick note on the snuffer dance. The first part is based off the Fancy Shawl Dance or Butterfly Dance, which is a fancy powwow dance (which means it doesn’t have religious significance but is used for social powwow dancing and competitions. Video I used for inspiration is here:FINAL 4 Fancy Shawl SPOTLITE Apache Gold 2016 - YouTube )
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 2/5/2018