Timmel Orosenn walks over to Alexander, while keeping an eye on the Bertrand/Emma situation. “Just collecting what’s mine,” she says, pulling her knife from the tomb-colonist’s shoulder. She doesn’t say sorry, or show any remorse. Tomb-colonists probably don’t feel much pain anyway, and you’ve got to expect some trouble if you walk into an underground lair unannounced.
The Scorched Sailor’s coffee is cold.
Really, that should be the least of his worries, but he can’t help but be disappointed. It’s been a long day or two, and it taxed him quite enough trying to listen to everyone’s suggestions, not to mention talk them out of hanging Drake over the lion’s maw as bait, so he really could do with a pick-me-up. He may still have an arm, or a sort, but he’s decidedly not fighting fit, and since the Sergeant brought him his coffee - the man might be sneering brute but it doesn’t do to cause discord in front of children - many of the words exchanged in the Scheming Chamber swam past him in a haze.
He wonders idly what’s causing his stupor - lack of sleep, loss of blood, residual shock… clay in the bloodstream? - when suddenly he is jerked out of it by the slight figure of Phryne storming out of the room, tearing the door clean off its hinges. Things thunder and boom in the near distance and a thin trickle of dust falls from the ceiling. The Sailor is not entirely sure what it is that has happened, but as Noah dives under the table and Gideon leaps nervously around, checking dials and turning levers, it is eminently clear that something is distinctly in the process of unfolding. Gideon, more agitated even than usual, executes some complicated sequence and shouts into the corridor. “Not one step further!" Something about gas?
[color=#c2c2c2]He looks about for Jordan, and finds her crouched behind the coffee-machine. Has he always been so tired? When did he get so [/color]old?[color=#c2c2c2] He does his best to nod at her, and gestures for her to stay. Luckily, it seems everyone else has things largely under control. Maybe. As much as they ever do.[/color]
[color=#c2c2c2]He can’t even muster the energy to be surprised when two strangers enter the Scheming Chamber. Gazter and Alexander. He registers their names briefly, before chuckling slightly to himself. Why bother remembering? Either he’ll be dead soon enough or they will, the way things are going. The chuckle turns into a cough. He really does need some rest.[/color]
[color=#c2c2c2]"D__n cold coffee," he mutters, before downing it in a long draught and forcing himself to his feet. It looks like Phryne and Gazter have caused a good deal of upset between them, and there may be work to be done.[/color]
[color=#c2c2c2][OOC: I’ve not been around as much I’d like recently - as the old curse goes, these are Interesting Times - for which I apologise, but if anyone wishes to use the Sailor in a post then feel free.][/color]
edited by Barselaar on 4/6/2017
Alexander takes the stitching set from Noah. He takes off his coat and rests it on the table. He places down the stitching set and quickly gets to work on shoulder. It is clear from the way he handles the needle that this is not the first time he has preformed this procedure on himself and after a few minutes he seals the wound. He replaces the equipment back into their container and hands it back to Noah. He mutters his thanks to Noah before grabbing his coat and walking over to one of the rooms corners. He puts his coat back on and continues to glare at the party. It appears he is one for talking.
The tomb colonist furrows his brows underneath the cloth wrapped around his head. He looks over to Lord Gazter, who gives him a nod. Alexander grudgingly removes his sword and its scabbard as well as his pistol. He places them down on one of the room’s tables and moves next to Lord Gazter. If the party was still suspicious of the duo, it appears that the tomb colonist trusts the party even less. Several eyes look at Lord Gazter expectantly, but he only chuckles.
“I think that you’ll find that I am not carrying any weapons upon my person.” Lord Gazter says as he empties out his pockets.
He pulls out several pieces and a few scraps of paper out of his pockets.
“To prove to you without a shadow of a doubt that my intention are in no way malicious,” he states as he places the papers down upon a table, “I have brought with me all of the constabularies’ reports on sightings of the Shadow of London, as well as the reports on the murders throughout London that are believed to be connected to it,” he finishes as he places the last of the papers on the table.
Lord Gazter’s hands return to the head of his cane and looks up at the party with a cheerful smile on his lips.
Evensong is getting impatient. Such roundabout answers she expected in her normal line of work. However, being in a crazed inventor’s shed while planning to take down a monster is not her normal line of work. Judging from the monster hunters in the group, they probably aren’t amused either. Emboldened by the army behind her, she decides to speak up.
"One could argue that any party, ill or well meaning could have obtained those reports - however those actions do not concern me. The fact that you refuse to give straightforward answers after marching into our base is not helping your case. So, let’s try this again.
Lord Gazter, why are you here?"
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/10/2017
Lord Gazter looks over towards Eversong. His manner changes slightly. The look in his eyes is different, but he gives no inkling to what thoughts lie behind those eyes.
"My purpose here is simple. I have come here to assist in the hunting of this shade." He looks back towards Emma.
"And if I was truly here to do you all harm, as it seems several of you still believe, why would I have come with only one companion instead of a dozen or more, as well as unarmed save for my companion here, and willingly to hand over our weapons without any resistance?" he asks Emma directly his green eyes staring into hers. "What could I hope to gain in such foolhardy manuver?"
edited by Lord Gazter on 4/10/2017
Noah raises his eyebrows at the loud smack. [i]Oh well, that’s one solution. I suppose there are merits to her direct feedback methods. If I’m ever out of line, my nose will surely know within seconds.
[/i]"Not at all. My Lord, a person might exist so devoted to public good that they would track a hunting party down and break into their heavily trapped hideout from only the goodness of their heart and a willingness to help, but you must understand that my battle-hardened friends find such a scenario unlikely to the extreme." Noah turns away and starts slowly making his way back to the coffee machine.
"The general consensus is probably that you have some ulterior motive in doing so. If that is ‘revenge on Shade for a lost loved one’, excellent. However, I fear my pessimistic friends here have surmised that ‘slitting our throats as we sleep as Shade commanded you to do’ is also a possible motive, and I cannot blame them for their healthy self-preservation instincts."
"Also" Noah turns to face Emma before resuming his quest for caffeine "as for interrogation, my offer stands, should it come to that. But I do hope we can settle this without such… Unpleasantness."
Timmel Orosenn looms over Alexander, harpoon in hands. "If you want to make your situation even more unpleasant than it already is, go right ahead. I’m in the mood." She nods at Mr Stormstrider. "Where do you want us to put them? Does your lair come with a dungeon?
"As for these reports," she says to Emma, "let her have a look at them." She points towards Azoth, who has surveyed the whole Phryne/Gazter chaos without getting up, almost constantly shaking her head. "Smartest person in here, if you ask me. And I trust her judgement, spy or not."
edited by phryne on 4/17/2017
Lord Gazter pulls himself up from the ground leaving his spectacles on the floor. His hands still holding onto the head of the cane. It is now clear what emotion he was feeling few moments ago. Irritation gives way to anger. Lord Gazter’s eyes look towards Drake Dynamo.
"It appears that you have let dullards take charge of your hunt Mr. Dynamo. Dullards who cannot tell friend from foe. I offer not my companion and myself to this hunt of your, but few of my resources like the ones that followed you here and told me about your whereabouts. Believe me when I say, if I can track this party down so easily than so can the Shade. You all left a bloody trail from Spite, to Veilgarden, to here. It is your decision Mr. Dynamo, whether or not fools ruin your chances of survival."
Lord Gazter eyes keep darting from Timmel to Emma.
edited by Lord Gazter on 4/11/2017
(Co-written with Bertrand)
Dirae Erinyes guides Evensong away from glaring at Lord Gazter, and back to their now cold coffee mugs. There is a hushed conversation as Evensong recaps the conversation, ending with another glare at Lord Gazter. Finally, Dirae Erinyes speaks up.
“Love, I know you are just trying to watch out for us - but trust me Lord Gazter isn’t much a threat. It’s true he works with Hell, and some of the current trade negotiations aren’t going the best, but. . .that man is more of a windbag then a bagpiper on the cliffs of Mutton Island.”
“I still doubt he’s here for altruistic reasons - what interest does Hell have in all this?” Evensong speculated - more into her coffee cup then at Dirae Erinyes.
“Permanent death is bad for business - every person with a soul who gets killed is lost to Hell.”
“Maybe, he’s working with other parties. The Shade is from across the zee. . .” Dirae Erinyes could recognize this - old fears wearing new masks, the eternal hunt that Evensong saw salivating around every corner.
“Do you want some coffee, too?” asks a voice from behind their backs. Jordan is standing right there a broad smile painted on her face and two cups of steaming coffee in her hands. It’s hard to say if she has just arrived or if she has been eavesdropping for a while - maybe the Sergeant has taught her some of his tricks. “Is the new guy a problem? He seems nice enough to me. He says he wants to help. Why is everyone behaving like Randy all of a sudden?”
Dirae Erinyes accepts the cups gracefully. “Thank you - our own coffee resembles something found at the bottom of well than actual coffee. As for what’s going on - well I suspect Lord Gazter’s famous charm fell flat with this crowd. I don’t think he’s used to London outside of posh salons and fancy clubs.” Evensong studies the coffee before taking a deep swig - it has a warmth that never fails to help smooth the edges.
Jordan frowns a bit. “Yes, he looks out of place - just like me, I guess - but some other people here don’t look like hunters, too. You think he could be in danger if he helps you?”
“Well, first it’s all about how you carry yourself - even a mite like you can make a good impression with the rougher side if you have the right attitude. As for being in danger - possibly. I would insist that he takes no part in any actual fieldwork - both for his safety and ours.”
Jordan lets out an amused giggle. “You really think I could make a good impression? I don’t know: when I end up being in trouble for some reason, Randy always shows up to help me out. I never found anyone who was scared by me. Anyway, I think I understand. You can’t take care of him and fight at the same time. But then wouldn’t it be better if those who can’t fight remained here where it’s safe?”
“Nah, not with his agents having sniffed us out - who knows who was watching them? The safest place would probably be a trip out of London - there are many pleasant islands close to London and I doubt the Shade will leave while Drake is still prancing around here.” Evensong will comment, breaking their soothing pattern of sips.
Jordan gives the woman a long, appraising glance. “You really sound like him, you know? You must be someone who’s always trying to outsmart others as well. Don’t you find it tiresome? You should try to take a break from all that over thinking things sometimes. I mean, that kind of thoughts can keep you up at night and stress you out - I’ve seen it happening.”
Dirae Erinyes gives a laugh. “It’s a professional hazard and a b-----y annoying one as well. It’s a hard habit to break. We found that warm milk before bed and large snake around your house helps with those nights. Though talking about your paranoid ward, I’m surprised he remained as calm as he did.”
“Do you think he’s calm?” says Jordan, tilting her head a bit. “Well, I guess he might seem calm to someone who doesn’t know him well. But he’s not calm at all. He’s just trying to hide his feelings, piling them up inside until they blow up. I’ve seen him doing this before. He becomes… scary if he keeps this up for too long. More than usual. And he starts to have bad thoughts. I hope this will end soon: I don’t like him when he’s like this.”
“Maybe he’ll feel better once we get out of this shed and back into the occasionally fresh air of London. Being proactive about one’s problems usually helps. Afterwards. . .everyone needs a place, a thing or even a person that they can feel safe around. I think you might be that for him - which is another reason to move out soon.”
Jordan is about to say something, when the Sergeant’s voice cuts in. “Having a little chat, are we?” He glances at Dirae and Evensong. “I hope she’s not bothering you. She has a bad habit to pester people - even those she doesn’t know.”
“Not at all. She reminds me of my own daughter when she was young,” Dirae Erinyes responds, with a touch of melancholy. Evensong avoids choking on her coffee.
Lyndon raises an eyebrow. Is there a sense of tension in the air, or is he imagining things? “A daughter, you say? Well, the kid’s not my flesh and blood, but…” he pauses, struggling with himself. “…she is family.”
“Mine was adopted too,” Dirae Erinyes beams. There is a new tinge of respect in Evensong’s eyes as she glances over at Lyndon. Both of them can respect a man who understands the word fully.
“Anyway, I should I go, yes,” blabbers the Sergeant. His face has become a nice shade of red. “I must take a look at those documents before the Dynamos hand them to the cat-lady. Yes, of course I do. I… I’ll leave you with them, kid. Don’t overstay your welcome.”
Jordan watches him go before speaking to Dirae again. “He must like you a lot. You got him to say I’m family. He never says that. He usually says I’m a liability.”
“Must be the stress you were talking about. If you are worried about being a liability, I can teach you few tricks as those bookworms work. . .”
(collab with Barren/Bertrand Lyndon and phryne)
Finishing his cup of coffee, Noah hears the thud a pile of papers might make were they slammed hurriedly on a table. Quiet steps pass Noah by on their way to the corridor, and a strong smell of blood, cordite and smoke wafts against his face soon after. The doctor sets down his cup, and follows the smell with steady and careful steps. Turning around a corner, he hears the flustered steps slow down as their cause escapes the sight of orphans and giants.
“Sergeant?” Noah calls after him. “I was wondering if you had a moment.”
What now?
Lyndon raises an eyebrow, wondering what business could he share with the blind doctor of all people. He’s not in the mood for idle chatter. “Of course, but try to be brief. What do you want? If you want to speak strategy, I’d suggest people who have more authority than me in those matters.”
“Not… Quite. Sergeant, I make no pretense of martial prowess; on the contrary, my usual approach to combat is to make sure it’s something that happens to other people. However, in my current condition running away is… Hardly an option. I fear I would end up on the ground within meters should I attempt to run.” Noah looks rather uneasy at this point. “Fight or flight, and flight is no longer possible. However, I do now have an excuse for always having this little poker in my hand. I was wondering if you could give a few pointers for a beginner on how to make sure the pointy end ends up in the other fellow, should push come to shove.”
Is he joking? He must be joking.
Lyndon suppresses a sigh. Most people there seem unconcerned by their lack of training, and the only one who is worried about it is unfit to be properly trained. However, that concern at least shows that the doctor isn’t just another fool with a death wish. He probably has joined the hunt without thinking of the risks, and it is obvious why he doesn’t want to back away now. Still, a blind man can’t be much of a fighter.
“Under any other circumstances, I’d tell you to keep yourself out of harm’s way and use that cane only to move around. However, I’ll make an exception this time, since you clearly won’t give up on this. There might be something even someone in your condition can learn. Something that will give you an honest chance in a fight.” Lyndon takes a few steps back and to the side. “First of all, can you poke me from where you are, following only the sound of my voice? If you can’t do even that, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Noah frowns. Concentrate. Don’t screw this up. Don’t hold back, he won’t appreciate me trying not to hurt him, and I can keep the sheath on the blade. Around… 2 o’clock… And it always sounds like they’re closer than they are… So…
Noah glides his right foot forward, putting his weight on it, and lunges with the cane towards the sound.
Lyndon grabs the cane before it reaches him. It’s slightly off-center, but better than he had expected. Maybe the doctor isn’t entirely hopeless. “Good enough. Too slow, though. You have to work on this.” Lyndon frowns slightly. “You are a doctor, and your knowledge can help you hone your fighting skills.” He moves the cane to put the tip on his heart. “Heart.” Then it moves it up to his neck. “Throat.” Finally, it lowers it to his stomach. “Guts. You must learn to find your opponent’s vital points. Focus on those you think are easier to hit. Since you won’t have many chances to strike, you must make every hit count.”
“Yes, that seems reasonable. I’d say… Gut for stabs, throat for sweeps? There’s probably no point trying to go between the ribs without visual aid.” Noah raises the cane back to where he thinks Bertrand’s throat is. “Thank you. I appreciate that you’re willing to do this.” The cane moves half a meter down, ending up at Lyndon’s hip. The sergeant corrects the position. “I realise that a blind man will hardly be an asset in a battle, but at the very least looking like I know what to do with this might make the enemy pause for a bit.” The cane keeps seeking out its targets, slowly speeding up, as Noah slowly and carefully steps left and right, to and fro.
“You’d be of no use if you die,” states Lyndon with a flat tone. “Anyway, you have to make the most out of your first strike. As you said, most people will underestimate you, and give you a good opportunity to land the first blow. If you can strike them down in one hit, you’ll be safe. Otherwise, you’ll most likely be dead. Show no mercy, and aim to kill. Or at least to disable.” Lyndon pauses for a moment. “When you’ll be more confident about this, try to learn to hit every vital point you can think of. You can’t count on people offering you their throat or their guts all the time. Sometimes, you’ll have to go for less obvious spots. Being flexible is just as important as being precise.”
Noah keeps moving around, swaying a bit to attempted ducks and weaves, his cane now trying to seek out unorthodox angles. He’s enthusiastic enough, but it’s clear not seeing his surrounding is holding his feet back, and the cane is already starting to become heavy in his hand, and that shows. “First… Strike. Yes. Sensible.” A wide lunge attempts to be a strong one as well, but the Sergeant easily catches it in the air.
“Don’t overdo it,” says the Sergeant.“ You can’t learn to fight overnight. It’ll take time and practice. Keep working on it every day, and you’ll get good soon enough. There’s no other way I know of.”
Noah stops, out of breath, leaning on his cane. It takes a while for the wheezing to quiet down. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Honestly, just swinging around and hitting something is already quite a refreshing feeling. I don’t think I’ll lack motivation to improve.” Noah straightens out, his breathing more regular now. He continues in a hushed voice. “Especially in our current… Company. Sergeant, if I may ask… What do you think of the addition of this… Miss Phryne… To our party?”
“You mean that glowing woman, right?” Noah nods. “She managed to stop the creature, and probably saved our hides, so I’m glad she joined us when she did. However, she’s not the kind of ally I’d like to keep close to myself: she’s too erratic to be reliable. Personally, I think she’s our best bet to take down our mark. I’d rather not be near her when she does that, though.”
Just when he’s finished speaking, Phryne is approaching them. She has spent some time in the bathroom, primping her appearance as much as possible. She still looks like she just escaped from a battlefield. The glowing has almost completely subsided though.
"I’d like to apologize for my hurried exit, and all the hubbub it caused.” She smiles uncertainly. Both men are visibly disquieted by her proximity.
“Please, relax. I’m not in any danger of blowing up right here and now, honestly. I feel much better." She looks around, at all the people milling around in- and outside the Scheming Chamber. "So, have you formed any kind of plan in the meantime?"
Lyndon turns towards the woman. Was she listening to us? Is she angry? She doesn’t seem about to attack them, but that doesn’t mean much. Anyway, there’s nothing he can do about her, and it would be unwise to be rude. “Only in the most general sense of the word, I’m afraid. We are focusing on finding where the creature is hiding, but we still have no idea how to destroy it.”
At this point, Noah has mostly stopped shaking. He turns towards Phryne, attempting a polite smile. “I haven’t thanked you for saving us back then, have I? Apologies for that, miss. Your strength was quite awe-inspiring.” Breathe, panic isn’t helpful… “Should it come down to that… Miss, what do you think of your chances against the Shade, should we find it? Based on what I heard of the previous encounter, it seems like the rest of us might simply end up being in the way. Should we leave the fighting to you entirely?”
Phryne considers how much she can say without saying too much. “I’m… not sure I could pull that particular stunt again. I don’t think I’ll be much help in any real fight, but if you could manage to get me alone with this guy, I think there… might be something I could do.”
Something of a real smile creeps up on Noah’s lips. Well, that’s a better answer than I dared to hope for. “I see. We shall be sure to bring this up with the others. Your courage is admirable, miss. We are all in your debt.”
Lyndon has to make an effort not to grin. It wouldn’t be wise to show that much happiness now, but that is definitely good news. “Indeed, we appreciate your offer, and I’m sure the others will be equally grateful. We’ll try to find some other way to deal with the creature as well, but our options seem to be very limited right now. Your help might be necessary.”
Phryne smiles. Yes, her help would be necessary indeed, from what she could see of this rather drawn-together party. How much of a help it would turn out to be in the end, she couldn’t say, of course. She might not be able to kill the Shade, but she was quite sure of being able to hurt him severely. Finishing him up would then fall to the others. “I will be glad to assist. I hate murderers, even the rather tame ones who play Knife-and-Candle. Murdering permanently is abominable. But now I think I should speak with your leader, Miss Dynamo. I haven’t had the chance yet.” With that, she turns away.
As she vanishes into the Scheming Chamber, Noah slumps against his cane, cold sweat dripping down his chin. Funny how fast confidence can vanish into thin air. Time and practice, indeed.
“Honestly, I’d feel so much better if she’d just breathe once in a while.”
edited by John Moose on 4/14/2017
(Co-written with Barselaar)
Gideon takes a seat at the table and reaches over to grab some milk for his coffee. As he turns back to his cup, he catches the gaze of the Scorched Sailor. The zailor’s eyes glitter beneath the bandages.
Don’t ask about the arm, says Voice 3.
“So, about that arm…” Gideon says. D__n it all. You had one job.
The Sailor snorts a little. Everyone had been staring at it ever since he’d reappeared, so an outright question is refreshing. He’s used to the staring - he’s been dealing with it ever since his scarring - and honest curiosity is always easier to deal with than furtive horror. People are never as subtle as they think.
“You prob’ly know as much about it as I do. Clay Man takes me to the Quarter - Unfinished, I think - I pass out from the… y’know, blood -” He’s still not comfortable remembering the pain - “and when I wake up I got this.” He waves it a little. “Works a’right. Past that, I’m not sure what to think. Not much time fer any kind o’ thinking.”
Gideon nods along, listening attentively. “A Clay Man, you say? I’ve heard about the sort of things that go on in the Clay Quarter - there was that terrible business with the Comtessa - but I’ve never heard of clay parts being outright grafted onto a human.”
He pauses for thought. “You are human, aren’t you? Apologies, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. Regardless, I’d very much like to take a look at it, if you don’t mind. Is that a Correspondence symbol I see there, where the arm joins your body?”
The Sailor regards the inventor curiously. This is the first time these kinds of enquiries have come so completely without judgement - he can’t see anything but inquisitiveness underneath the questions. “Human? Yes.” He pauses. “Might not be much of one anymore, but this here is human down to the core.”
The bandages have fallen away from the arm almost completely, and the edges of a sigil are just visible. The Sailor remembers the irrigo bomb. “Good eye. If you think ye can make somethin’ of it, take a look. Try not to blow us up.”
“I don’t tend to make a habit of blowing things up - I prefer to leave that to my more combative friends - but I’ll do my best.” Gideon walks round to the Sailor and gently unravels the remaining bandages around his shoulder.
The join between flesh and clay is red and bruised - although that may just be the Sailor’s usual complexion - but there is no seam; they are truly fused together. Under his touch, several Correspondence symbols flicker to life - they seem to be a random collection at first, but a theme soon appears: amalgamy. The primary sigil reads “forever circling, never drawing closer, never drawing apart.” The union of two links on the Chain, forbidden by the Judgements. The Red Science must be behind this.
Gideon aches to learn more, but he knows a little of what the Red Science can achieve, and the thought chills his bones.
Still, he makes a mental note of a few of the sigils he hasn’t seen before. A good scientist keeps meticulous notes, and one as good as Gideon doesn’t need a notebook.
“Fascinating,” he says, and steps back to give the Sailor some space. He strikes Gideon as the type who values it. “This type of sygaldry is beyond me - biology was never my strong suit - so I don’t think I can make any improvements to it, but I may well be able to replicate it if our group is in need of any more replacement limbs. I’d make the new limbs from scratch, of course - we don’t want any more hapless Clay Men going about with missing arms, after all."
A thought occurs to Gideon. "I believe your old arm is around here somewhere, but I doubt it’ll be of much use to you now. Actually, that’s why I asked about you being, er, human - it seems to be made at least partially of tallow. I’d ask how it happened, but I imagine it would be a painful memory to relive.”
The Sailor allows Gideon his short monologue - it seems that once he’s seized by a thought there’s not much to be done until the thought reaches its end - nodding every so often. Correspondence, bar the very basics, is a closed book to him, but he registers the impossibility of reattachment with a pang. It’s been so chaotic that he’s hardly had time to consider his arms - old or new - but suddenly he’s hit with the realisation that this is him now. Another lost piece of himself.
At the mention of tallow, his mood darkens further. “There are places that curiosity should not lead you, even if yer a man of science. Obsessions…” A long pause. “You’re right. Painful. And it won’t help us now. But mind you don’t let yourself get taken over by ideas. Control is harder to regain than lose.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to with this… wreck, would it? I’ve heard Drake mention it, and I saw the flyers… how many months ago? I was tied up with a project at the time, or I would have gone myself.” Gideon lowers his voice. “From what I’ve heard, not many people made it back from that voyage, and many of those who did vanished shortly afterwards. Did their obsessions get the better of them?”
“Reck’s my ship. My home.” The Reckoning Postponed. He looks around the Scheming Chamber. “If I had any sense at all, s’where I’d be now.” Gideon is disconcertingly well-informed. “Bad business, that whole trip. Business that still hasn’t ended. Damn Shade.”
He sighs deeply, and makes a small attempt to regain control of the conversation. “Whatever happened is in the past. If I know anythin’ it’s that there’s no changing that. I’d be obliged if you could let it lie.” His voyage with Drake and the others, his humanity, all of it - even if there isn’t any discernible malice in Gideon’s prodding, the Sailor is uncomfortable opening up about things that he still hasn’t come to terms with himself. “Dwell on the past too much and the present’ll dismember ye.”
Gideon hears the pain in the Sailor’s tone. Perhaps it’s for the best if he leaves this subject alone. “Quite a turn of phrase you have there,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I prefer to always look to the future, myself. There’s no telling what I’d find if I turned around, and I have a sinking feeling that what I’d see in the past is nothing at all. Sometimes I remember things that I shouldn’t have any business knowing, and sometimes no memories exist where there should be some. It’s like my mind is a library with all the books shuffled around. Nothing is in its proper place, half of it is missing, and it’s haphazardly filled in with books from a different library. It’s maddening.”
He stops abruptly. Perhaps he’s said too much. The Sailor is hiding some trauma deep in his past, but he’s been honest enough that Gideon felt the need to reply in kind.
“Aye, I’ll drink to that.” The Sailor takes a swig of coffee before realising that it’s still the same cold cup he’s been hanging onto for far too long. The inventor is an inscrutable one, to be sure, but something about him inspires if not quite confidence, then something close. “It’s a mess alright. Still, could be a mercy. Ain’t nothing so awful as truth.”
“To the truth, then,” says Gideon, holding out his steaming coffee cup for the toast. It’s out there, if you know where to look.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 4/12/2017
(co-written with Drake)
As soon as she enters the Scheming Chamber, Phryne seeks out Emma Dynamo. “Hello! I don’t think we’ve even been properly introduced yet. You probably have some questions, and I have a lot to explain.” She smiles tentatively.
Emma eyes the undead woman suspiciously. “I don’t know what your game is, but my work with the Sequence will continue, once I sort things out with my brother. So you can tell whoever sent you here that things are fine,” she asserts.
Phryne holds up her hands defensively. “Please, listen to me. I have nothing to do with the New Sequence whatsoever. I was feeling very exhausted earlier, and then I was drawn to a… source of energy that turned out to be an Element of Dawn. I… “ Here she hesitates briefly. “I… incorporated it, let’s call it that. My little problem earlier was a… side-effect of that. Anyway, I think I have it under control now. And I’m not going to take yours away.” She winks. “Oh, and I’m sorry for mentioning it to your brother. I thought he would know.”
Emma frowns and shakes her head. “That may be so, but you have jeopardized my standing with my brother by bringing that up. Perhaps, if you could, you might speak with him, and tell him you made a mistake,” she suggests.
Phryne smiles knowingly. “I can do that. Everything else I told him was complete nonsense anyway, so it’s surprising he believed that part. Now, something else: I don’t know what you’re planning exactly, but I think your party is relatively ill-equipped to deal with the Shade in a one-on-one fight. I might be able to help you out there, so… well, figure it into your plans. I’d be only too glad to help.” Now let’s see whether she buys into the good-samaritan act.
“I suppose, if you’d be willing to help, and you can control your… transformation, I would not be averse to your help. Perhaps it will take a force of supernatural power to defeat this abomination,” Emma says, thoughtfully.
Phryne’s (mostly singed-off) eyebrows are only slightly raised. ‘Supernatural’, am I now? Well, it sounds better than ‘monstrosity’.
“I think I’m well enough in control for now. Though I’d really appreciate a tiny sip of Cider - just the very tiniest, really, and watered down. Just to help with my healing.”
“Drake’s got the Cider, I don’t keep any on my person due to my line of work. I’m going to find Lady Orosenn now, so if you’ll kindly excuse me,” Emma says with a curt nod, before walking off.
Phryne looks after Emma for a couple of seconds. Well, she certainly doesn’t trust me, but I guess I’m officially on the team. Then she goes off to find Drake, determined to be extra-friendly with him to make up for their utterly confusing talk earlier.
edited by phryne on 4/13/2017
Postulate: Any murder by the Shade’s hands is not entirely without meaning. It is the hunter, hunting the most dangerous game. Its humanity is a twisted one, born from an immortality unlike any known to the broader humanity. Why it would kill is not the right question: why it kills who it kills is a better one. The deaths and disappearances of acquaintances of Drake’s acquaintances indicate a desire to attack at the father, at the being responsible for its birth.
"You squander death, when the rest of us have but one death." A memory, one from a yesterday that felt so long ago. "And with your death, we are one step closer to restoring the natural order."
Why would the Shade guard this natural order, the laws that rule what is? It was born from immortality, hidden away from the light and law of the stars. The words gnawed at Azoth, hinting at still greater mysteries. On one hand, it could have been nonsense, meant only to distract and occupy the mind in the midst of battle. Still, there was a certain showmanship it seemed to carry itself with, an almost-playfulness in the way it fought. It was the behavior of someone who’d won the battle before it begun, who would gloat for the satisfaction. If it were telling the truth, then it was no madman, killing for the sake of killing alone. No, it was an extremist, driven by philosophy and ideology, one who killed with a purpose.
If it truly hated humanity, or at least the humans of the Neath, it could do far more damage than it had done. No, every murder was a chance for exposure, a beacon that drew attention to its activities. Staring at the files in front of her, Azoth considered the potential within them. It was always nice, the last moments before a reveal, the last moments where there still was hope for a good result. She doubted that the files had much of use, but every morsel of information could be useful.
She took a sip of her coffee and began reading.
It was equally amusing and sad to see the pages of notes on how to best keep word from reaching the broader public. It seemed the constables really did not want this information disseminated. Still, there were pieces of good information scattered throughout, notes on the identities of the deceased, descriptions of the bodies, notes on their discovery. Most were unknowns, people with no known connection to Drake, though she would have to ask him to look over them just to be sure. There were some connections - the file on one "Jimmy Mariner" was colorful enough, and the disappearance of one "Mr. Mauvais" left much to the imagination - but there were people of all ages, factions, even nationalities killed. There needed to be other patterns, a different connection.
In her mind’s eye, she captured London, with its intricacies and twisted streets, and began pinpointing the sites of each body. The deaths were likely part of the Shade’s twisted game, either to goad Drake or simply to eliminate liabilities on the Shade’s part. Either way, she began labeling her mind’s map, looking at the distribution of discovered bodies. To the north of the city, murders were few and far between, it seemed. Few bodies had been discovered and the reports focused mainly on informants, who often gave conflicting accounts as to the activities of the Shade. Most bodies were scattered near the Stolen River, on the bank across from the Forgotten Quarter and south of the palace. Reports of bodies washing up by the House of Chimes were common enough, and it seemed there were even informant reports of bodies still undiscovered, sliced to pieces and scattered across the city.
A few pages in, a particular paper caught her eye. An internal report, classified and not to be released even to the constabulary, one describing an incident in a high-security cell high above the city. The Dynamos’ jailbreak. No witnesses were left, but enough threads remained for the constables to connect it to the so-called "Shadow of London". Whispers in the underworld of dark-spectacled strongmen working with the "Shadow", preparing for something. And there they are again, Azoth considered, taking another sip of her coffee. The New Sequence. Not a word was spoken about them, of course. Even the mention of spectacles would probably have been censored for any broader release, but there it was nonetheless.
The Element of Dawn with Emma, along with the Shade’s previous mention of her "employer" made her affiliation clear enough, but this? This was the Shade, working in conjunction with her employers, preparing to break her and her brother free. Perhaps it was merely a deal of mutual convenience, but even the possibility of alignment needed consideration. Maybe it was this that gave the Shade its will, its desire to impose order. Laws were laws, and perhaps even it could be subverted. Or perhaps this was a disruption that the Shade sought to eliminate, just as it saw Drake and his fellow hunters. There was much to be considered, and much to analyze.
She set the papers down. Names, places, and ideas swirled about her mind, pieces coming together and apart again, working to find the connections between them. The files were unnecessary now. Right now, she just needed to sit and ponder.
(Co-written with Barselaar)
Henchard surveys the room, counting the damage from whatever happened while he was not asleep. Fortunately, the damage seems to be minimal, limited to the tomb colonist he didn’t know, and a newly arrived woman in a torn dress. Both seem to be managing quite well, and the growing unpleasantness over the new arrivals has been dispelled.
What he needs to take care of now was the growing stench of...something. A freshly burned well, the smell of drought after rain, of pain through rebirth. He pulls out the Sailor’s arm, which had managed to become unwrapped. Chunks of tallow flesh hang from threads of thickening liquid, clinging to the inside of his coat. Henchard made a note to burn everything he is wearing, and reaches inside his coat again.
A short time later, a neatly wrapped arm lay next to him, and he makes another note to burn his arm. It was probably the only way he’d feel clean again. He laughs quietly under his breath. Only to regret breathing, the smell was still lingering, soaking into the walls and into his lungs. A shudder runs through him at the image, remembering the feeling of curdling fluids under fabric as he tried to scour everything off his jacket, back into the bundle. What had he been thinking to put that in his coat? H__l, what had he been thinking to even grab the arm in the first place?
Henchard spots the Sailor near one of the machines, in conversation with someone else. More importantly, he has two arms. A strange thing for someone who recently lost an arm to have, but it didn’t matter. One way or another, Henchard is getting rid of this oozing mess.
The Sailor puts down the coffee as Henchard approaches. They share a moment of awkward silence, and Henchard is the first to speak.
“I think I’ve found something of yours,” he says, suddenly nervous. Maybe this wasn’t the right way to do this, but it was too late now. Never back down. He takes the wrapped arm from his coat and offers it to the Sailor.
Perplexed, the Scorched Sailor peels back the heavy wrapping, stony fingers moving slowly and deliberately. Whatever is inside is sticky, and strangely heavy. The next few moments devolve into a series of shapes - he can see what’s there in front of him, but not parse it. The object refuses for a long few seconds to resolve into anything comprehensible. Then it hits him like a punch to the gut. His arm. All wrapped up preciously like a Sacksmas gift, wetly congealing from the stump, gore-rimed and stinking. Unmistakable, scarred in ugly welts and whorls, his own skin and bone and tendon and tallow lying there like a paperweight.
More than anything he is struck by how… dead it looks, limp and grey. He notices the strangeness of the form of an arm in a way that one doesn’t register when it’s attached to the rest of a body. It’s impossible to ever believe that this thing, this hunk of almost-meat and bone, was ever his. He jerks his own, new, arm back in repulsion, and half expects the scarred, fleshy fingers to respond and move with him.
They don’t. The arm is still dead. The Sailor turns his horrified gaze to Henchard. What on earth could possess a man to take such a grisly trophy? His eyes, half-obscured by cloth and bandage as they are, do the asking that he is too shocked to verbalise. Why?
The question is written across the Sailor’s face. Even under the bandages, even in the dark, the question is almost blinding. He hesitates, mouth half open. Why had he grabbed it? He thought back, trying to remember. A pile unbuilding, gaping mouths, a screaming shape. A blur. He rubs his temples, why couldn’t he remember?
“What did you do for a new arm?” He asks instead, his tone perhaps sharper than he intended.
Heavy footsteps and darkness and stone and the soft crack of chisels, the Sailor thinks, still reeling. A dismemberment healed from nowhere merits comment, sure enough, but this man seeks to question him after dropping such a payload? “Myst’ry to me. Someone thought I needed it, thank Storm.” His voice is flat, but it slowly rises, getting louder and more agitated. “What in the hell possessed you to drag-” he struggles for a word “- detritus, morbid waste, all this way? You ain’t no physician. There ain’t nothin’ you coulda done with it.”
Henchard glares, his irritation rising with the Sailor’s volume. He opens his mouth, a sharp tongue rising to the challenge. How dare this half man, this abomination question a favor, how could-
Henchard bites down hard on his tongue. The sword of wit crushed by the teeth of a lion. The taste of blood spreading through his mouth as his eyes close. There was nothing strange about the Sailor’s reaction. Or at least, not as strange as returning their severed arm a day later.
“I...” Henchard says in a small voice, then he clears his throat. “I was injured during the fight with the Shade, and was not thinking clearly afterwards. For quite some time afterwards.” He swallows, blood flowing down his throat, and continues in a monotone voice, distancing himself from what he was saying, “I grabbed this in the hope something could be done. I failed to realize you were gone until we arrived here. Now I simply wish to be rid of it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I upset you, however I am,” he hesitates, then pushes out the next sentence quickly, “unprepared to deal with this scenario. I thought respecting your wishes on the matter would be the best way to deal with it.”
The Scorched Sailor feels the anger halt in his stomach and turn to bile. He’s surrounded himself with the criminal and the strange for so long that he didn’t see how much the last few days had affected Henchard, affected everybody. Henchard’s reply - sincere and reproachful - stalls him utterly. “You… Yer right. I’m sorry. This thing, this hunt… s’bad fer all of us. Couldn’t see past meself.” He reaches his clay arm down and covers old hand with new. “Thank ye. No clue what to do with it, but thank ye.” He makes to wrap the dead thing back up in the covers that Henchard had given it and looks the man up and down. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it. We thought we were joinin’ a hunt, and now we’re in the middle o’ war. Whole group’s like a powder keg. Glad you’ve got my back - our backs. Crack shot with that rifle out in Seven Devils.”
Apology and gratitude have never been his strong points, but he hopes he’s managed to defuse the situation a little. “Besides. Way it’s goin’, someone else might need a spare ‘fore too long.”
edited by suinicide on 4/15/2017
Doctor Florence Garrison, for her part, has absolutely no clue that any of this is happening. The last she saw of the Dynamos, they were being dragged of to prison, but knowing them, they made their way out in short order. Of course, a visit from her friends would be lovely, but her career at the University has kept her terribly busy.
Right now, she’s poring over a cramped notebook, scratching in her ideas about the unique lack of light reflection found in ganted objects. It’s obscure, hypothetical work, and she loves every second of it. And her superiors at Benthic University are sure to love it, too. Perhaps they’ll love it so much that they’ll reconsider her bid for that professorship that opened up after the last fellow lit himself on fire in an experiment gone wrong, jumped into the river, and was promptly claimed by the Drownies.
Right now, her life is regular, organized, and above all, as safe as life in London gets. That will soon change.
Lyndon watches the water turn red as he washes the filth and blood off himself. He had been meaning to do that for a while, but things kept piling up. The strategy meeting that led almost nowhere. The whole mess about the newcomer. The kid being annoying. The blind doctor’s odd request. The glowing woman revealing her suicidal tendencies. So many things going on in such a short time have almost made him forget about his basic necessities.
His head has ached all day, but now that he is finally relaxing, it is outright killing him. The water prickles at his wounds as it flows over them. He runs his fingers through his hair several times to untangle it from the clots of blood. He has been in worse shapes, but not by much. A wiser man would’ve forfeited the hunt by now. But wise men rarely go places in London.
Most pieces are on the board by now, and it would be difficult for any new addition to turn the tables either way. The arrangement of their side of the board is quite clear, but their moves have been amateurish so far, while their foe is clearly a master of the game. The other hunters aren’t giving the right value to their pieces: trying to save everything is a sure way to save nothing.
Dynamo is clearly their King: powerful and flexible in theory, quite useless in practice, but important nonetheless. However, the group isn’t ready yet to balance out the need to protect him with the necessity to use him as an effective bait. In time, they’ll learn the difference between a ‘check’ and a ‘checkmate’.
Oddly enough, the glowing woman is their Queen: powerful, flexible, and central in every strategy he can think of. She’s their best option to bring down the creature, but unleashing her on the mark thoughtlessly is more likely to waste her than anything else. No, she must be sacrificed for a purpose, or their situation will turn from dire to hopeless.
The monster-hunter and the hulking masked fellow are their Rooks: they’re both powerful enough to cut through most problems, but they only move in lines, since they lack the necessary finesse to do anything else. By themselves, neither is enough to bring down the creature, but they might accomplish something noteworthy if they start to work as a team. Unfortunately, they don’t seem disciplined enough to do that.
The madwoman and the inventor are their Knights: they might have their uses, but they must be moved carefully to be effective. The inventor isn’t a problem: he seems a pretty reasonable man, if one overlooks his penchant for the odd and explosive. The madwoman is a much bigger issue. She clearly doesn’t think things through, despite her high opinion of herself. However, she is also the key to move the monster-hunter. He should be more careful around her: he could do without her, but losing Orosenn would be a problem. Not that he regretted anything. He would hunt the creature alone before allowing anyone to put the kid in danger.
Lyndon himself and the other Canon are clearly the Bishops: the opposite of Rooks, they move sideways all the time and they reach the peak of their power when they strike from odd angles. The cat-lady is a somewhat more orthodox Canon than him, if such a thing even exist, but his own contribution to the front lines has been lackluster so far. It is quite clear that the creature cannot be defeated with brawn alone. It will probably be necessary to make full use of both their networks.
Finally, the rest of the group is made of Pawns: some more promising than others, but he can’t see any skill that make them stand out from the group. The blind doctor and the grumpy sailor can probably be shaped into something useful given some time, but time is a luxury they cannot afford right now. The remaining ones might have some hidden qualities he still hasn’t figured out, but he’s starting to doubt it. However, they can all be useful under the right circumstances. They are more expendable than the others, if anything else.
The kid is a piece he needs to get rid of, though. If there was a chess piece that gave advantages to one’s opponent, that would be her. He needs her out of the way as soon as possible, at least by the time they resume the Hunt. She has already caused enough inconveniences to him as it is.
Unfortunately, the opponent’s side of the board is much less easy to read. They have already met the Pawns, and they are not to be trifled with. The creature itself seems to play the parts of both King and Queen very well. It’s hard to say if it has any Rooks, Knights or Bishops. They don’t know enough of their mark. That is a problem.
Lyndon gets out of the tub and starts to dry himself. His head is still giving him trouble, but that isn’t an issue as long as he can keep his mind clear. He reaches for the clean clothes the kid has brought him. He frowns when he sees the shirt.
Of course she had to pick the b____y yellow one.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 4/23/2017
OOC: Inspired by Bertrand’s tub post, I made my own.
The bathrooms were a pleasant surprise to Dirae Erinyes – previous experiences with mad inventors was that hygiene was usually low on the priority list, if it was on the list at all. What was an even bigger surprise was that the bathtub was big enough to fit them –- they had spent more of their life then they would admit breaking those fragile claw footed tubs so popular down here. Wading into the massive sunken cistern, they watched the water turn black.
Dirae Erinyes listen carefully during their harrowing ordeal of trying to empty out the tub and fill it with clean water as the worst of the grime was rinsed off. Through the frustrated sighs, cut-off curses, and that final SCHLORRRP, they could track their wife’s progress in undressing. Dirae Erinyes didn’t have the simplest wardrobe but petticoats and wax faces seemed like their own kind of hell. At least they finally relaxed enough to get a bath – with all the monster hunters and spies kept out due to battering ram proof doors and good old English manners.
Finally, Evensong slid in the soapy waters, resting their head against Dirae Erinyes and letting their limbs relax. Dirae Erinyes looked down at those blue eyes, the best part of Evensong’s face – no matter what mask she wore.
Watching the red brow furrow in concentration, Dirae Erinyes broke the gentle silence of lapping water. “An Echo for your thoughts?”
“The Thief of Faces.” Dirae Erinyes nearly dropped the sponge they picked up to scrub Evensong’s back. Snuffers danced around the subject of the Thief of Faces even more than a society matron over the Topsy King crashing their party.
“Why him?”
“I was thinking over the words that the Shade said, about bringing permanent death to the Neath.”
“I see.” Dirae Erinyes didn’t need any more. The memories were still fresh in their mind of the determined hunter with their stolen knife, vowing to take their game to the prison itself. The young snuffer, spending up prayers for mercy, made up of entrails and desperation. A family torn apart by the paranoia his name brought. The Thief of Faces and Murder walked hand in hand. The motion of scrubbing the dirt and sweat chased some of those memories away.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Are you still thinking about the New Sequence? I believe that the Dynamos made it clear that he wasn’t part of them – just a relationship of convenience.”
“Well, the information hasn’t been the best so far, and it would give me a good laugh if he was a Sequencer. The whole bit about death could be him deciding to reinforce the possible new laws of their sun.”
“Doesn’t feel right. New Sequencers want everyone to join them, and that doesn’t fit the Shade’s actions. Like the deaths so far – they do seem to be as random as Drake described.”
“Not the best for making a point.” Dirae Erinyes followed up, catching on Evensong’s train of thought. “He could’ve target some of the notorious offenders of cheating death: bored adventurers, drunk hedonist, or just the plain unlucky.”
“Yes, it’s not like your newspaper makes a monthly special of it or anything.” Evensong dryly noted. “Turn around, so I can get your back.” Dirae Erinyes obeyed, their mouth still tracing the path.
“There’s been no screeds send to some of the weirder papers, and it’s not like London is lacking for those. No manifesto’s hot from midnight presses.”
“Exactly.” In an ordinary day, quite a volume of non-Master’s approved literature crossed Evensong’s desk. If she hadn’t read it, then no one had.
“So, why would it reveal his motivation to bunch of anti-social hunters who he was about to kill before Phryne arrived? You might as well be yelling it down wells.” Dirae Erinyes searched their memories, using Evensong’s touch as a guide back to the present. The light taste of cider, the garden that grew in your head. How mountain blood managed to taste more like blood then their own ichor, the way it set the veins on fire similar to lightening.
“That’s because it doesn’t understand what death really means.” The memories came unleashed now: Their first encounter with death, as a sibling failed to thrive, their own curiosity halted by their parent’s disappointment. The setting of Morning Glory’s pyre despite the disapproving looks from the vicar and the muttered jokes about suttees – it was enough for them that the soul was beyond the reach of resurrectionists. They weren’t sure what she would find – life everlasting up in heaven or lives never ending on the endless wheel. They only hoped that she would be waiting. Turning away from the Far Shore at the last moment, too scared to see if Morning Glories body was among the wailing, writhing horde. Their vow as Death nattered on to return and empty those shores.
“Love, stop gripping the tub. You are going to pop one of those stitches and electrocute us both if you don’t.” Dirae Erinyes looked down to the holes their fingers gorged into the stone floors.
“Sorry,” Dirae Erinyes gently removed their fingers, trying to avoid further harm.
“What were you saying about it not understanding death?”
“It probably doesn’t think it can die – being that full of the vigor from the South. Not even a temporary death. All of this must be a game to it – a child breaking its dolls.”
“A child?”
“Yes – one with great innate skill but little experience. Easy pickings for the London’s greatest spy.”
“That’s a rather significant exaggeration.”
“Well, you’re London’s best spy to me.” Evensong couldn’t resist a sigh at the sheer corniness. “Listen to me for one more moment before you descend to total nonsense. If you decide not to go out on the town with Phryne or babysit another of our crew, go to the docks and chat with the sailors. Discover if anything like the Shade has been encountered before. I doubt that our leaders have decided to check that avenue of investigation, and we will need everything we can. Especially if have to abort this mission.”
“As you wish.” For anyone eavesdropping, all that follows is in-fact nonsense and a great amount of splashing.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/18/2017
Noah has returned to the Scheming Chamber, covered in sweat and arms aching, but somehow very relaxed. He has stumbled his way to a rather comfortable chair, and listened with interest to the flow of the conversation. His mood is further brightened by the prospect of getting to move around a bit, without the encumbrance of the entire hunting party.
"Excuse me," he chimes in when there’s a gap in the discussion. "I have some contacts in Spite I could check for news, if that might be helpful. Nothing like a network, but in my line of work one meets all kinds, and word travels quickly on the streets. I would also not mind dropping by my apartment on the way, to pick up some supplies, get a change of clothes, stuff like that." He stops to consider who he’s so far heard talking, and spots a familiar sound, as if a large piston slowly hissing away. "I would naturally appreciate company, in my current state. Erinyes, might you feel like a stroll Spite-wards? I’ll of course happily do any detours on the way and continue further anywhere you might have business. You do seem to have a knack for pulling me out of bad situations, after all" he adds with a wry smile.
"Mr Hamilton, if you could use new medical supplies as well, you’re of course welcome to mine. Would you like to join in? Mr Frye too, maybe? A handful of people, not enough to attract attention but enough to subdue an assailant or two if it comes to that." Enough people to hide behind, and none too loyal to the leaders in case they see something I’d rather they kept quiet about.
"How about it? Of course," he continues, "if Lord Gazter and Mr Alexander feel like it, I’d be happy to welcome them as well. I’m sure a chance to get to know each other better would clear any lingering bad tempers after the… Entrance."
(Co-written by Mr. Hamilton)
Edward, who has been listening from his spot on the floor, responds to Noah’s question. "I would love to join you" then glances at Hamilton "and I’m sure Hamilton would as well". To which Hamilton responds "Ah yes, I seem to be running low on bandages and such". Mr. Hamilton takes one long, last sip of coffee before getting up from his seat and putting down his cup while saying "Also I regret packing such a small amount of medicines, I’ve learned recently that I’m going to need a lot more medicine in my bag to help everyone else beat this foe".
As Edward packs, up Hamilton takes out his medical bag out and takes out a long sleek white weasel. He whispers something to his pet and the weasel scampers off. Edward finishes packing ans says to Noah, "How are we planning to get to your residence, are we going to walk… or do you have other means?", while Hamilton begins polishing his rifle (from supplies in his bag), and sharpening his knife.