A Tribute to a Master of the Bazaar, my first post on the site, and…honestly, just a post on how I imagine the most verbose of fellows might have taken a certain holiday event. Oh god what am I writing. Were it not for Rule #5 of the Fallen London fan project guidelines, I’d have roleplayed Mr Pages 24/7, and made a character for him. But for now, please enjoy. If people like it, I’ll write more. If not… well! I’ll write more of other things 'till I get better! Title is a play on the first Sunless Sea action you can give Mr Sacks.
It was half past Chimes’ evening bells. The toil of a fine neathglass worth of sweat dripped down the unseen brow of Mr. Pages in emulation of the humans the correspondence sang them to emulate. Was it a ruse, a mockery unlike any but the Flukes’ comprehension still aching for steam engines? Pages oft wondered if their own fascination with romance down here was just as ill fated as seeking the Sun. But in quieter, smaller words. Ones he would never dare speak.
"Ah. You’re still… in residual of my evening affairs, are you not? Splendid, Splendiferous! You thought I had almost forgotten- had you not?"
The work of the stars was never done. The haunting melody of the half immortals like the God Eaters or the Empress’ distorted brood were admittance enough that even the Bazaar could make mistakes. Could break the rules. But until that final knock on the icy coffins of their ‘hearts’ the Bazaar would offer Ambitions and Fate to those who sought it. Would cavort and sing in the Mongolian Palaces all the way to Wilmot’s End. Individuals like Wines knew how it was really; a temporary thing, a freedom to be enjoyed until their very existences were snuffed out. If only they all could have that same startling release on reality! Clearing his throat, Mr Pages turned to the Urchin at the doorway, smelling of Lacre. Like it was the most natural thing in the Unterzee, loquacious lies answered in turn.
"There will be no Retribution because It will returnabuncle, grace us with his frigid presence, though respite will always be fleeting while we hold rememberance for those who melt, drizzle, and dripostulate! Take your leave from sprawling spires of indifferenced, and walk the tightroping rapping of the flint above the heads of the minisculy older eldest. I’ll write a taleweavestoriee or two to tantalize tantoculabate your inform of these unfortunate events on your company in good haste." The Hooded writer calmly languished in his own vocabulary, as if savoring every exact word with utter relish before his attention soon refocused. "Youthfulness won’t care to remain indefinite- You’ve done well. Wonderful. Satisfactoriliness in a state I cannot bequeath to any other."
The Master of the Bazaar continued to babble in a mockery of mindlessness; almost playfully rasping out the words like a librarian hushing a careless reader. The lad was one of thousands, but he knew the value of information well enough. As Pages began to write upon parchment, his claw like fingers stilled upon the half bent quill smearing blots of ink down the surface. How much of it was true? How much of it was just an act, a performance, a perfunctory show of his class while his thoughts remained simple? A soft snap coiled in it’s claws, and the air thinned with displeasure before the Urchin fled with a broken ‘gift’.
Mr Pages turned as the shaking urchin fled from his presence, and continued scribbling upon the parchment to write of forbidden romance, lost and bled to dry. His prior, cracked quill- a token favor for notification of Sacks’ end- was expected to be recovered in thrice a fortnight; such wonderfully attentive Ministry men were always inconspicuously about to assist. All was well, and all manner of thing shall be well. There was no other ending to this Master’s story.
For now at least, another stroll down Blackfinger Street for some more ink sounded positively Lovely.
edited by Nyarllathotep on 6/21/2016