No worries, dear heart. We’ll be waiting patiently over here by the drinks table!
I haven’t heard this amusing story before, but the style - and the inventiveness! - remind me greatly of one Dione of Argos.
EDIT: On closer examination, that’s not Greek. Maybe Cyrillic. So my guess is wrong.
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 11/9/2018
[quote=Aberrant Eremite]
I haven’t heard this amusing story before, but the style - and the inventiveness! - remind me greatly of one Dione of Argos.
EDIT: On closer examination, that’s not Greek. Maybe Cyrillic. So my guess is wrong.
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 11/9/2018[/quote]
According to professor google himself, that’s Serbian. If you’re interested.
About that…
Not being russophone myself (and my wife’s Russian being at this point rustier than Mars), I did the following:
-
Drop Но добра into the search bar. Get a long list of Russian websites.
-
Ask Dr. Google to translate. Get a good translation, with a suggestion of Serbian. Try the Serbian, get the same translation. (Hooray for cognates!)
-
Ask Dr. Google to translate цо зробилам from Russian. Get nothing, with a suggestion of Serbian. Try Serbian, get… nothing.
-
Try various other Cyrillic snatches in Google Translate, get various results, with suggestions of various other languages, including Serbian and Bulgarian. None actually give better translations than Russian.
So, until the author gives clarification, a speaker of the appropriate language gives clarification, or I can ask my Bulgarian student her opinion, I’m sticking with Russia.
- It’s not Russian.
- One of the confessions from the first batch was written by Passion.
I’m Russian, it’s certainly not Russian. "Но добра… цо зробилам? [Alright… what happened?]" and "брама [gates]" sounds kinda Ukrainian, "убране [clothes]" is very archaic and I guess might be any old-fashioned slavic language, and I have no idea what "ангиелски" and "мша…" might be.
(whoever wrote that, great job on puzzling people! :) )
Perhaps numer ten is Maria Konstantinopolska?
Excellent. Thank you for the clarification. It does make me that much more curious what it is, so I am looking forward to the author’s revelation.
[li]
We have a winner. As to the cyrilic… made it harder. But Maria DOES render polish in cyrilic. I already had it in russian, but decided to swap it as Maria would rather put doubts to paper in Polish, even if she can’t really write it. Ангелски is Angielski, English. Убране is phonetic ubranie, clothes. Мша is… hopy service? The thing the ptiest does at church, with communion and all. With the rest, incerteza is right. Even though Но добра, со зробилам (No dobra, co zrobiłam) means ‘Ok, what did I do?’
Also, bonus challenge. Does someone want to guess who ‘Spike’ might be?
Well, that explains the confusion. Brilliantly done.
I should probably say this, because the only person who is going to get it already knows: #11 is mine. It’s not Prof. Kan, but it’s mine.
[quote=Rysiek]
Ангелски is Angielski, English. [/quote]
Ah! Google did give me "Angielski," but I didn’t know what to make of of it. I should have remembered: "Non angli, sed angeli!"
Ah, good. It was the cyrillic in one hand, the criminal innocence on the other and strangely, the calligraphy. Maria is a university creature, after all.
You know, I referenced that episode on a test recently…
[quote=Mel Lawrence][quote=Lady Sapho Byron]
9. The writing is elegant - cursive with many twirls - though it appears shaky, as if written with regret. The paper upon which the black ink shines is of high quality. In the bottom right corner is a smudged drawing of a person in a corset and a tophat.
Oh how it pains me, the shame, every night. The Young Master doesn’t know. Their heirs shall never know. It was all for the good of the family, though. The contracts, the lies. Yet Old Master beckoned, and so I answer.
They’re at the zee now. When they return, I will be ready.
[/quote]
I know this one! Frogvarian/Raven, an intriguing acquaintance to say the least.
edited by Mel_Lawrence on 11/8/2018[/quote]
A keen eye! I am on the lookout for your own, Doctor. I have a guess, though I have to see further to be sure.
13. Simple, elegant handwriting on crisp rosé-coloured paper.
I convinced my Noman that she should go by the name Penelope Puddle.
14. Though this confession is folded neatly and written in a delicate, looping script on fine paper, the edges are marred with sticky honey-drippings, waxy smears of at least three lipsticks, and the wet imprints of many, many champagne flutes.
Even before I ever saw the Winged Mirror, my dreams were always of Paris. No matter how many magnificent wonders the Neath has bestowed upon me, I know the twisting tendrils of my Fate lead there. Those dulcet notes from July’s violin—as warm and sweet as summer rainfall—may drift though my slumber each night and fade again as I wake, but it will all come to pass, just as I saw, in time. I will create that painting. I will have a family. I will see the Sun again!
15. Heavy lines, disorderly slant, uneven spacing. Black ink on foolscap.
I destroyed the young Contessa with a rap of my cane. She had been transmogrified into a Clay Woman by her Clay lover, and the look in her eyes haunts me still. At the time, I thought she was terrified at the implications of becoming truly Clay, and wished to free her. But now I am certain that she feared being parted from her beloved more! Of all the deaths I have caused in Fallen London, that is the most indelible, the most culpable–perhaps because it was the first.
16. Neat red lettering on a sheet of heavy cream foolscap
So many in London are alive, and well, and happy, because of me. So many are not, because of me. And some nights, while those which are sleep in peace, I stare out at the false-stars and wonder: how often did I make the wrong choice?
17. A white sheet of paper, placed in an elaborate gold frame of tiny roses, bird bones and coins. The writing itself is in cursive, and insetad of left to right it it reads top to bottom, lending it a strange Japanese appearance at first glance.
I am here to find my fiance; I have been through so many things that if I do lay eyes on him, I 'm afraid I will kill him or find a way to consign him to a Fate worse than death. Or worse yet I might marry him and pretend that nothing exciting or horrible ever happened to me till I found him. I don’t know what treachery will be worst.
18. Scrawled on the back of a shipping manifest of some sort, in an elegant scrawl that suggests someone of an aristocratic, educated background attempting to appear less of both.
I long, most desperately, to be in love. The circumstances of my parentage, my patronage, and my preferences, all excluded me from ever experiencing love on the surface. Here, in the Neath, was the first and only time I ever felt as though I might be worthy of the affections of another, that I could pursue a romantic relationship free of the judgement of others, without the fear of being labeled an abomination against God for loving the wrong person, or the parents who, through no fault of their own, came from different corners of the world and compelled me to a nomad-like existence of never finding a country to call home. And yet, though I have seen other men like myself holding the hands of their male paramours, and women, kissing the fingers of their female partners, and even other gentlepersons, unrestricted by such foolish notions of gender as we have on the surface, enjoying each other’s company, I maintain an abject fear of being rejected for my preferences, and proving that it was not only the surface that deemed me unworthy of love. But oh, how I long for it! Truly…how I wish for love.
[quote=Lady Sapho Byron]13. Simple, elegant handwriting on crisp rosé-coloured paper.
I convinced my Noman that she should go by the name Penelope Puddle.
.[/quote]
No idea who wrote this one, but I love it already :D
A lot of foolscap being used today. Must be a popular size at the moment. Also,
[quote=Lady Sapho Byron]14. Though this confession is folded neatly and written in a delicate, looping script on fine paper, the edges are marred with sticky honey-drippings, waxy smears of at least three lipsticks, and the wet imprints of many, many champagne flutes.
17. A white sheet of paper, placed in an elaborate gold frame of tiny roses, bird bones and coins. The writing itself is in cursive, and instead of left to right it it reads top to bottom, lending it a strange Japanese appearance at first glance.[/quote]
We are putting a lot of effort into our papers, too. How much work does it take to get that much lipstick onto one piece of paper? I don’t know, but I applaud the effort.
Would Schlomo have a field day? You decide.
19. Written in a spidery hand upon the back of an expired infernal contract.
How wrong is it to keep secrets from your lovers when they are so happy with the lie?
20. An elegant if scientific hand, that devolves into a shaking scrawl the further you go down. It seems as though confessing this was rough…
I have unleashed a monster upon this accursed city, a horror right out of Stoker’s twisted imagination.
Long have I been secretly consumed with the idea of bringing easily obtainable immortality to the masses. If we could transcend mortal limitations think of what we could accomplish! However, I was unsuccessful in obtaining the required amount of Hesperidian Cider to continue with the experiment.
A colleague of mine suggested based on his research into blood that perhaps the blood of a cider drinker would have the needed immortality catalyst, so I went aboard the expedition of one. The man was so worried about someone stealing his elixir that he did not notice the occasional bloodletting.
Sadly the experiment itself was far more catastrophic. I had heard while on board the immortal’s tale of how he fought a twisted monster out for blood and dismissed it as a fanciful story… until the willing subject started to mutate in front of my very eyes. I put a stop to the experiment, but too late I fear, for the near human creature had my subject’s intellect as well as the hunger for blood.
He fled. So did I. Then the murders started.
I am so sorry.
21. Tystefy
Dear Mr. Eaten,
I am very, very sorry about trying to kill you.
I still want that Stick, though.
Truly yours,
an ink stamp of a smol pawprint
22. A hurried chickenscratch penned onto the blank side of an anatomical book’s title page.
He put that awful wretched urge in me the day we met. I had to have many things, and I had to add him to the list. So handsome! So sauve! Such gifts!
But I could not have him, so I confess, I went to Veilgarden and found another to be bribed with honey to come home with me. Not as handsome, not as rich, not as sweet… but he would be a sufficient snack for me. A treat for an empty stomach. So I slathered him in honey and sweet spices to tender the flesh, and I whispered the dark things of saints in his ears before the knife.
I confess it, and I am not proud of it.
(but I also confess: I am not sated)
23. Typed on an internal Ministry of Pulic Decency report form (unsigned)
The stone pigs are not all asleep. At least one of them is dead. And its flesh is delicious.
24. Quick and sharp, like a carefully planned river of dried black ink guiltily cutting its way through the torn slip of paper. It does not hint at remorse.
I’m tired of being a mere pawn in others’ games. I’m tired of unfamiliar blood decorating my hands. I’ve seen the acts behind the curtains, and I know the actors behind the masks.
It’s time to steal the show.
Awesome, thank you for doing this, Lady Byron!
I have a few ideas for who some of them are, but I’m going to wait until they are all out to be sure. :-)