Hamilton runs out from a side alley, looking for an opportunity to attack with his knife. When he sees Barselaar advancing on the Shade, Hamilton moves forwards until he is standing next to the Shade. Knowing that he is less than inadequate with his dagger, Hamilton just wishes to stun the Shade long enough to make an opening for someone else to make a much stronger attack.
He slices the Shade in the shoulder, then backs off, not wanting to be the next target of the Shade’s wrath.
(Co-written with Barselaar and ShadowCthuhlu)
Henchard approaches the Shade, one hand clasped to his throat. Blood oozes through his fingers, but slowly, the Shade was interrupted before he could cause too much damage. Exertion could be a problem, but…Henchard looks back at the Shade, who is turning towards Hamilton. And his hand moves from his wound to his knife. Meanwhile, the Sailor sidesteps slowly around in an attempt to flank. He is out of breath, his mountain of coats and rags tattered and torn, but his clay arm is bunched into a fist and a flensing knife is gripped in his other hand. There is the briefest moment of silence before the pair launch themselves forwards. At the first movement, the Shade turns back to them.
The uncertainty in the Shade’s eyes has faded now, however, and the fires of violence are back; ready for the attack, it responds in kind. Wise to the Sailor’s new arm, it now uses the stony limb as leverage, ducking under the clumsily-swung flensing knife and grabbing the clay wrist. The jagged sword-hilt slashes across the Sailor’s back, opening a great rift among the layers of coats and jackets, before the Shade unceremoniously releases its hold, thrusting downwards. Still unfamiliar with the disproportionate weight of his new limb, the Sailor tumbles to the cobbles, narrowly avoiding taking Henchard out on his way down.
Henchard jumps over the falling sailor, knife flashing out at the Shade. It cuts through the Shade’s loose clothing, grazing the skin beneath. Slow, Henchard realizes, he’s getting slower. But still faster than him. A blur crashes into his stomach, and Henchard leaps back, coughing out the air in his lungs. Leaving the Sun Scorched Sailor alone with the Shade.
As the Shade stood over the fallen sailor, with his blade flashing downward - that’s when he was bowled into like a slow costermonger and an speeding hansom. However, in this scenario the speeding wagon was Dirae Erinyes.
“Bairn, with all this talk of Light’s judgement and death, a fool might actually think you know or a thing or two about them.” Dirae Erinyes took advantage of the bought time to draw their blades, joining Henchard’s side. “But we both know better - a mountain blood creature like you hasn’t even played a friendly game with the boatman… you passing judgement is a bloody farce.”
Henchard steps forward and swings his blade at the Shade, interrupting any possible conversation. The Shade, still off-balance, falls as he slides to Henchard. Not that it makes his blade any less sharp. Henchard winces as it cuts flesh, but it’s closer to a graze than the Shade’s normal work. His knife scratches along the Shade’s arm as it dances out of reach.
“Have you seen a sunrise over the moors? Or even bothered to look at the sky shrines?” Dirae Erinyes asks, as they pounce on the Shade. More cuts, and more dark blood, but the Shade slips out from underneath them, his parries bring his blade close to Henchard again.
Without warning, the blade strikes out at Henchard. Who was no longer there, instead ducking low to the ground to cut at the Shade’s legs. Knife reaching out to cripple, not to kill. The tip of the knife meets fabric, only to be interrupted by an forgotten fist. Henchard’s head snaps to the side, and the scraps of flesh holding the blood inside his neck snap. He collapses to the ground, grasping at his throat with one hand. His other hand a clenched fist around his knife.
“You don’t know how to read moths, or even been to a proper funeral.” Dirae Erinyes continues, stepping over Henchard to drive the Shade back. “But when I’m done, bairn, you will know a thing or two about death.” There is something new in that voice, as Henchard bleeds. As the rooms of memory unlock in Dirae Erinyes head, they throw all their might into their blows.
It’s not a comforting voice to hear when you die.
Hands clinch the Shade’s ankles and he is pulled down.
"A well-made tool doesn’t not break easily." Dirae Erinyes rumbles as they tumble forward on the Shade. The scroll in their head falls out as they move, trailing hieroglyphs, Greek letters, and other forgotten languages. "And I long since stopped being a mere tool." They can’t stand up straight, not after that beating, but they don’t need to. The Shade is pinned, Dirae Erinyes nearly dead weight over them. "Devil. . .you really do speak nonsense. . ." the voice comes out, more mechanical as jerky fists rain down on the Shade.
"Death is never that simple."
A thought niggles at the back of Gideon’s mind, the same one that the Voice of Anna sent through his head when this all began. It feels like months or years have passed since then, though it has scarcely been a few days.
The thought is this: We shouldn’t be here. Feels wrong. Feels like a trap.
The air in the Shed is still, expectant. The front door was not forced, yet it hangs ajar, spilling moonish light into the dusty interior. The trapdoor to the deeper chambers is also open.
Most tellingly, the myriad traps have been sprung by clumsy footsteps. The allotment outside looks like a battlefield with a hangover, flecked with gold-speckled blood. Even the sea mine has detonated, blowing a ten-foot hole in the earth. Finally, there is a struggling vagrant pinned to the door with a harpoon.
“Hello there!” says Gideon, sketching a wave. “Need some help? You seem to be a bit stuck.”
As usual, the vagrant is not the most talkative. She produces a howl like a cat whose tail has been stepped on.
“Fair enough. Thought I’d ask. So your folks just left you up here, did they? That was awfully rude of them. Would you like some toffee?” He fishes in his pockets and pulls out a crumpled paper bag, which he offers to the tramp. After some consideration, she pops a toffee into her mouth and chews it down greedily, wrapper and all.
“Isn’t that much better? Now, I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions, seeing as you’re trespassing on my property. Take a seat, if you will. Oh, how silly of me. Let me get you a seat.”
The silence is broken by the scraping of a small wooden chair across the Shed’s floor.
“There, that should be more comfortable. Now, my question: what manner of vandalism were you planning to enact on this, my one and only begotten shed?”
The vagrant mutters something. Gideon leans in to listen, then nods. “As I thought. Burning down the place. Rather unsporting, if I happened to be inside at the time. Fortunately, I’m not. But I suppose they’ll be about ready to be running off before setting their arson into motion, destroying all my hard work.” He sighs heavily. “I’d best deal with your friends. I fear they might find me rather more than they bargained for. Good day to you.”
The inventor leaves the bag of toffees by the chair, and heads below to put an end to the meddling of the Legion of the Shade.
More than they bargained for, indeed. They laid a trap for me, but now they are the ones who are caught.
Dishevelled hobos raid the wine cellar, their lanterns casting sharp shadows on the walls as they rummage through the shelves. Some of the liquor is taken out into the corridors to be used as fuel for the fire. The rest is gulped down greedily.
Unseen, an observer flits among the shadows, gathering bottles seemingly at random and unscrewing sections of the teetering racks, then vanishing into the tunnels. The next bottle removed carelessly from the racks sets the plan into motion. The racks collapse in a pile of screaming metal, trapping many of the vagrants underneath and blocking off the doorway for the rest.
The work continues.
The vagrants have fired up the Paradox Engine, although none of them know what to make of it. Its thumping and whirring fills the cavern while its pistons trace glowing sigils in the air. The observer stays low, avoiding the light from the furnace, adjusting the levers and valves that make the machine tick.
The rhythmic thumping increases in tempo until it pains the ears, and the vagrants abandon their destructive work to look about in consternation, but there is nobody to be seen. Finally the machine spits out a clutch of metal pellets of congealed impossibility and the observer darts forward to grab them from the slot. One of the interlopers yells out a challenge as he takes them, and Gideon breaks into a run, pursued by a dozen of the Shade’s army.
The work continues.
One last stop. There is no time to mourn the fine upholstery, the countless gadgets of dubious utility, the rare materials that took a decade to gather. There is only survival, and whatever is necessary to achieve it and destroy the Shade’s followers in the process.
The vagrants come from all directions in the maze of tunnels, shouting for their comrades to join them in pursuit, howling like bloodhounds. Gideon is pursued as a rat by countless cats, but this rat knows all the shortcuts. It may be a tangled maze to these villains, but to him the paths unfold in a straight line to his destination.
Along the way, he turns up the gas taps on the walls to maximum, flooding the air with an acrid smell. He had told the others the pipes were harmless, but that was just one lie among many. Even without the vagrants’ efforts, the Shed is one step away from erupting in the biggest fireball London has ever seen.
He laughs, exulting in the thrill of the chase. The tunnel walls rush past ever faster. Soon it will be impossible to breathe in the deeper tunnels, but he is heading toward the surface. To freedom, and to the artefact he could never leave behind, the one that could prove instrumental in the fight to come.
The shouts are growing distant now. The tunnels teem with murderous hobos like a wasp’s nest, but they have long since lost track of him among the twisting passages. At last, he reaches an unremarkable wooden door. From inside comes the ticking of a thousand clocks.
There may not be precisely a thousand - Gideon has never counted - but there are certainly far too many. The ticks and tocks echo around the small room, relentlessly counting out the moments. This is the Tyranny of Clocks: one moment after the other, in the right order, always marching onwards. A lifespan measured in precisely calculated increments of clockwork. But the Neath is lawless, free from these tyrannies, if one knows how to exploit them.
There are clocks of all kinds in the room: pocket-watches, wall-mounted clocks, carriage clocks, even some new-fangled wrist-watches. At the centre is a finely crafted grandfather clock. Unlike all the other clocks, its hands are not moving.
The work continues.
The gas permeates the Shed. Coughing hobos emerge from the depths. Their regeneration protected them for a time, but they have finally cracked.
Waiting above the entrance trapdoor is Gideon, the grandfather clock absurdly strapped to his back. Thick iron bars are clamped in place below the open trapdoor, preventing any escape.
“So, you thought you could destroy my life’s work, did you? Nobody can do that except me, and here I am! Once, perhaps, you were men and women like anyone else, but now you’re nothing but mindless pawns for the greatest nihilist London has ever known. The Shade brings oblivion to his victims, and tonight, that is your fate! It’s quite different from the other end of the sword. Enjoy the tomb you’ve created for yourselves.”
He pulls a matchbook from his pocket, strikes it to light and drops it into the gas-filled tunnel, then runs for his life, flinging himself into the blast crater of the now-defunct sea mine. Shortly afterwards, the sky blazes with fire. The detonation is sudden and complete. A fireball shoots up from the trapdoor, launching the burning remnants of the shed into the air. Further down the hill, the tunnels collapse under the wave of pressure one by one, causing sudden slumps in the earth on the surface.
When Gideon dares to look again, his precious Shed has been utterly obliterated, along with a substantial number of the Shade’s army.
And good riddance too. He picks himself up, adjusts the straps holding the grandfather clock to his back and sets off back to the city. If the hunters are to survive their final fight with the Shade, there are preparations to be made.
(Co-written with suinicide)
Henchard stumbles back from The Shade, hand clutched to his throat. Too much blood. He tightens his grip, blood oozing through his fingers. Too much blood. He can’t even fight any more. The blood loss would be too rapid, he would be more of a hinderance. Merely a body to trip over. He’s losing too much blood.
Henchard limps towards a large crate, hoping for a moment of respite behind it. Noticing a trail of blood leading around it, he hesitates - but behind it is nothing more dangerous than a wounded blind man. Noah is writhing on the ground, trying to keep the wound on his leg shut with one hand, and fumbling in his bag with the other. Hearing Henchard, he stops. His voice is between a croak and a whisper. “Who’s there?”
“Henchard.” His voice leaned towards a whisper, trying not to move his throat. Extra blood flow through his fingers at one word, and he tries not to wince. He slowly eases himself to the ground next to Noah, trying to keep his throat as still as possible. His free hand reaches out to help hold Noah’s leg wound shut. Then he starts mentally through the checklist of medical items he keeps on him, before remembering they were all lost before this began. There wasn’t much either of them could do besides wait for a doctor. Perhaps a tourniquet would still work, but Henchard wasn’t going to cost a man his limb while there are other options.
Noah lets out a sigh of relief when he realizes he’s with a friend. But Henchard doesn’t sound like he’s doing well, and he also retreated. The screams and sounds of fighting continue. They’ve lost this, and they’re all going to die. The only way to escape…
Noah finds what he’s been looking for - a small bottle of viscous, red fluid. He opens it, and sniffs to confirm he has the right bottle. His left hand looks for Henchard’s shoulder, and shakes it, unwittingly causing blood to spurt out from the neck wound. “Gregory”, he says urgently. “Listen. You have to drink this. One sip is enough, leave the rest for me. It’s the only thing that can save us. Do it! Quick, before it finds us!”
Medicine? At least some people were better prepared than he was. Henchard lets go of his throat and takes the bottle from Noah. A quick sip and he handed it back. A beat passes. Smokey red tides sweep him away, drums beat somewhere below, brassy collisions of sounds clearing the smokey red. And then it is quiet. Except for the heartbeat.
Behind the crate, only a trail of blood remains.
Florence can only think of one time she’s ever been so terrified in her life. Last time, fear pinned her down like a butterfly stuck under glass. Right now, she’s doing her best to channel her mind-numbing terror into pure rage at this thing. The shot of whiskey she downed earlier is probably to only thing keeping her from just giving up and collapsing in a little sobbing heap on the cobbles.
The whiskey is also what made her think that the line about sandalwood perfume was even remotely intimidating.
She steps forward, hands shaking. Lifts the nozzle of the hose attached the the machine strapped to her back and aims. It’s emitting a very threatening hissing sound. The Shade is right there. Feet away from her.
Florence takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.
A stream of ganted light splits the air, almost exactly like the opposite of a lightning strike. A sizzling, crackling, popping beam of pure gant streaks towards the Shade, faster than it could possibly react.
It will work. This has to work. Because otherwise, she’s out of options.
(co-written with Lord Gazter and JimmyTMalice)
After leaving the Boiled Toad, Phryne does not join any of the small clusters of their party slowly gravitating towards Drake Dynamo. A delightful aroma in the air catches her attention, and she drifts off towards a street vendor selling various kinds of Murgatroyd’s Burned Pretzels. She buys a large bag filled almost to bursting with a mixed assortment of flavours and drifts through the milling crowd while eating them. She doesn’t notice her associates disappearing into a narrow side-alley, but catches sight of Lord Gazter loitering near the entrance of said alley. Ah, here’s someone without suicidal tendencies for a change.
Approaching him as if they were meeting on a leisurely sunday afternoon stroll, she holds the bag in his direction. “Want some? You should, really. There are sweet ones, salty ones, and some that are both sweet and salty! The things they can do with mushroom dough nowadays!”
“Thank you for the offer,” Lord Gazter answers politely, “yet I must decline. I plan on saving my appetite until after we’ve dealt with this business.” He wearily waves a gloved hand in the direction of the others.
“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing. But to each their own.” Phryne doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle when the Shade suddenly attacks a few yards away from them. She does keep a running commentary though, munching pretzels all the while. The duo is relatively well-disguised behind a projection on the wall of an apothecary infamous for selling some kind of vicious snail-thing supposed to cure gout.
“Oh no! the little guy caught the first blow again. Poor unlucky sod,” she cheerfully remarks.
“Quite unfortunate,” Lord Gazter adds absentmindedly as he draws his pistol; an intricate device showing clear signs of rattus faber design.
“Ooh, too bad about your bodyguard there! Though I guess he’s been through worse…”
Lord Gazter aims his pistol in the direction of the Shade, but is unable to get a clear shot in all the bedlam. He isn’t quite as skilled in the use of firearms as Alexander, and he knows this. Lord Gazter lowers his pistol and curses under his breath, taking a quick look up and down the other monster next to him before returning his attention back to the fight in front of him.
‘The other monster’ lets loose a cheer when the Scorched Sailor wallops the Shade against a wall. “Now, that wasn’t too bad! Hey, they’re doing quite well so far. Maybe they don’t even need me. No, you’re right, I don’t believe that either.” None of them notices the disappearance of the two wounded men.
Passers-by are beginning to stop at the alley-mouth, trying to find out what the racket is about. Phryne and Lord Gazter are doing their best to keep up the appearance of a casual conversation.
"Man is like to vanity, his days are as a shadow that passeth away. Come down, touch the mountains and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them! Shoot out thine arrows, and destroy them!" the Shade shouts up towards the Roof.
“Now, what a load of tosh. Seriously, he deserves being killed for his bad lines alone. If I wanted to hear some fire-and-brimstone sermons, I’d go listen to the Bishop of Southwark. Incidentally,” she adds, brushing pretzel crumbs from her suit, “fire and brimstone, that’s who you’re working for, isn’t it? Or working with, should I say? Yes, I’m sure you’re quite the independent operative, no lackey running around taking orders. Now, I can’t help but wonder, what are you doing here? What is it you’re looking for?” Suddenly, the cheerful bantering attitude is gone, and she is gazing at Lord Gazter quite intently.
An amused smirk appears on Lord Gazter’s face as if Phryne had made some clever jest, or droll remark. “I can tell that you are not particularly the most fond of my dear friends in the Brass Embassy,” Lord Gazter returns with the mercurial speech commonplace to societal events, although there is tension underneath. He favours the woman beside him with a charming and friendly smile, but the grasp on his pistol still pointed at the ground tightens. “The more important question, dear friend, is why do you think I am here?” he inquires with suspicion in his demeanor if not his voice.
“I haven’t a clue why you’re here, dear friend,” Phryne answers seriously while keeping an eye on Dirae Erinyes who has finally entered the fight. The alley’s narrowness makes it nigh impossible for more than one person to attack at a time, and the Shade is obviously exploiting this. “That’s why I asked, you know. I could hazard a few guesses, of course. But the truth is, I’m not interested in any of those possibilities except one, and I’m going to make that one absolutely clear right here and right now: if they’ve sent you to make one last desperate attempt at my soul, forget it. And I mean, irrigo-like forget it. Bury that thought, or I’ll…”
She trails off there, as it is at this point that the Shade tears out Dirae’s heart, and then continues stomping the giant’s head to smithereens. “Gods Below,” Phryne whispers while crumpling the empty pretzel bag in a fist, “I honestly thought at least Dirae would stand a serious chance against it.”
A relieved sigh escapes Lord Gazter’s lips, and the grip on his pistol relaxes. “Acquaintances of mine deal in such matters, but I personally have no hand in them.” His eyes return to the carnage in front of him. “You need not worry, dear friend, about my actions. You have my word. The thought, which you wish so dearly to be forgotten, is already forgotten.” He grimaces at the violent dismemberment of Dirae, and again turns back to Phryne. “Shall we assist our colleagues? I do think that they might require it.”
Phryne rests her intent gaze on Lord Gazter’s face for another second, then nods. “Alright, dear friend, I’ll take your word for it. As for coming to the rescue, yes, it does seem about time, doesn’t it…”
“Who would face me yet?”
The Shade roars his challenge, and Phryne is about to move when the small voice of Florence Garrison echoes from the other side of the alley.
“Hey, are you wearing sandalwood perfume?”
“Salt’s Curse!” Phryne groans, “what is she doing here?” She and Lord Gazter watch in amazement as the plucky scientist starts spraying the surprised Shade with ghostly unlight. “That’s pure gant, I think. Not so very different from what the Constables use to get rid of the more dangerous kinds of graffiti. What does she think that will achieve?”, Phryne mutters under her breath.
Both—along with what are now several onlookers, growing more by the minute—watch breathlessly as Prof. Garrison moves over to examine the fallen Shade, and groan in unison when the Shade rises again, hurling Florence aside like a pesky insect.
All this time, Drake Dynamo has been standing motionless to the side, watching the battle unfolding before him as if in shock—a by now sadly familiar picture.
Some sixth sense alerts Phryne to movement from above. A figure hurries down the stairs of a fire escape. As it approaches, it becomes clear that the figure is Gideon Stormstrider—a little more singed around the edges than last she saw him. He makes the final jump from the first floor to street level with little regard for personal safety.
The landing is thoroughly undignified, but he is on his feet and moving again in a moment, straight towards the enemy, brandishing something in his left hand.
Phryne takes a few steps back. So the inventor has arrived after all, armed—with a pink umbrella?
Time is a tricky thing. It creeps up on you when you least expect it, and stretches out to infinity out of spite if you pay too much attention to it. Some would say Gideon turned up late to the climactic fight with the Shade. But, as our esteemed readership surely knows by now, an inventor arrives precisely when he means to.
One day early, in fact.
Gideon has always believed in turning up early, although circumstances often conspire against him. He was late to his own wedding – twice – thanks to a series of outrageous coincidences involving a friendly widower and a kidnapping plot. For once, though, fate has deigned to deliver him to the Bazaar Side-Streets with plenty of time to set up his most implausible invention. He hires a room for an eye-watering price (paid mainly in coupons) at a hotel overlooking the most sinister alleyway in the parish, and sets to work.
The grandfather clock, lugged by Gideon up three flights of stairs, lurks in a beige-wallpapered corner of the hotel room. As always, its hands resolutely refuse to move, stuck at seven minutes past seven.
What use a stopped clock when time marches on? Even a stopped clock is right twice a day for one sacred second. The trick is taking that second, stretching it, and slaving it to the will of the clock. Then you must learn to exploit it, moving like quicksilver between the tick and the tock.
Reject the Tyranny of Clocks, that Judgemental rule held at bay by the un-law of the Neath. Embrace the Treachery of Clocks. Time is unreliable. It can bend by your command, stretch by your command, stop by your command.
Gideon reads the notes stuffed into the cavity of the clock beneath the stilled pendulum. They are written in his hand, but he barely remembers writing them, caught as he was in the epiphany of the Truth. This is the closest he ever got to transcendence: one endless night flitting between dreams in a honey-haze, captivated by the closeness of the impossible, scribbling feverishly in his pocket-book until it was filled cover-to-cover with words of rapture.
Most of it was nonsense. He wrote of flying like a moth toward a flame, of wings melting like Icarus’. But underneath the poetic imagery was hard, solid Truth; the Truth that built the foundation of his works to come as he exploited the impossibilities of the Neath. He made wonders that no Surface scientist could ever create: the Paradox Engine, the Ninefold Cat, the Irrigo Bomb, the Folding Snake-Skinner Rifle, the Sunlight Projector, and finally the Tyrannous Timepiece.
The Tyrannous Timepiece broods in its grandfather housing. It loiters. It idles. The appointed time has almost come.
Gideon spends much of the next day tinkering with the Timepiece. Everything must be perfect for its final unveiling. It’ll be a real show-stopper.
The inner workings bear little resemblance to a clock. There are thin pipes laced throughout the interior to distribute hot water piped in from the room’s radiator. Previous iterations of the device had problems with ice build-up, which was at least a change from catching on fire like Gideon’s other inventions.
There is a second panel at the base of the clock which accepts metal pellets like the ones plucked from the late lamented Paradox Engine. Gideon feeds the Timepiece with all of the pellets he has left. It is a hungry beast.
By the time the day of the meeting comes, the window of the Tyrannous Timepiece is webbed with intricate patterns of frost. The device is calibrated for the temporal harmonics of the immediate environs and almost ready to operate. Effective radius: unknown.
There, just in his peripheral vision: someone moves across the tiled roof on the other side of the alley. Gideon’s blood runs cold. He pretends to be absorbed in his work on the Timepiece and watches the figure’s progress out of the corner of his eye, not daring to turn his head.
No, not yet! I still have more tests to run!
The figure is unnervingly familiar, clothed as it is in an exact copy of Drake’s body. But unlike Dynamo’s charmingly uncoordinated movement, the Shade steps with the sinuous grace of a predator, wicked scimitar in hand. It seems to be favouring one leg; is it just coincidence as it moves across the slope of the roof, or has the Shade lost some of its former strength?
Gideon tries not to look. He has never been so close to the Shade before, but he has seen what the creature can do. It can move faster than the blink of an eye, slicing like a dervish. Without his gadgets and a healthy amount of distance, Gideon would barely even register as an obstacle.
You could end it now, says the Voice of Malice. Use your device. Jump the alleyway. Stop it before it reaches the others. Take its blade and stab it until there’s nothing left to stab. It’s what I would do.
Gideon hesitates a moment too long at that last remark. The Shade moves out of view, and he finds himself able to move again. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his forehead, where beads of cold sweat have sprung up.
I knew you didn’t have the guts, scoffs Malice.
Gideon checks his pocket-watch. Twenty-three minutes past one. He reaches round the back of the Tyrannous Timepiece and sets the hands to twenty-six minutes past one, to allow for some leeway.
Shouts rise up from the alleyway, trapped between the walls. Swords clash. Guns fire. The Shade has begun its massacre. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, says Malice.
The Shade has been reading the Good Book as a light break between murders, it seems. It quotes scripture with the fervour of old Southwark himself.
"Man is like to vanity, his days are as a shadow that passeth away. Come down, touch the mountains and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them! Shoot out thine arrows, and destroy them!"
If nothing else, it certainly has a flair for the dramatic. Gideon walks over to the coat rack and puts on his warm coat – no sense in catching a chill – then retrieves a garish pink umbrella from the umbrella-stand. This is, of course, no ordinary umbrella. It is Unflippable. Thus equipped for battle, he slides open the window of the hotel room and slips out onto the cast-iron fire escape.
One minute and thirty seconds. Time is ticking, although that is a temporary state of affairs. Gideon is linked to the Timepiece now through his pocket-watch.
As he dashes down the stairs, he catches glimpses of the fight at the other end of the alley. The Shade’s scimitar is shattered now, but it packs a mean punch. Poor Dirae doesn’t stand a chance.
“Who would face me yet?”
As it turns out, the answer is Florence. Her backpack-mounted gant emitter is ingenious, and it seems to cause the Shade real pain, although it shorts out before long. Perhaps it is a unique property of the Shade that so repels all Neathbow-fuelled devices. This calls for further study, although now is perhaps not the time.
He watches in horror as the Shade recovers, slamming Florence into a wall.
Thirty seconds.
Gideon barely knows Florence, but he senses a kindred spirit in the scientist. He thinks of Arnold and Anna and what was done to them.
I won’t stand by while more of my friends are put at risk. You were wrong, Malice. I couldn’t have stopped it on the roof. Just look at what it did to Dirae. But the Shade is bleeding now. The gant has weakened it.
I couldn’t save Anna or Arnold. But I can save Florence. Maybe that will be enough.
He reaches the bottom of the stairs. The ladder down to street level is locked in place. Nothing for it, then. Gideon takes the plunge to the cobbles, dropping the last storey. The walls rush past him and he tries to drop into a roll, but he lands poorly and pain shoots through his left ankle as he hits the paving.
Sprained, probably. It doesn’t matter. I can’t stop now.
Gideon pulls himself to his feet and retrieves his umbrella. The Shade pulls itself up, advancing on Florence.
He counts down the seconds in his head. Ten. His heart pounds. His ankle burns. And his pocket-watch ticks. Nine.
Eight. Gideon breaks into a run, stumbles on his bad leg, crashes to the ground again. Seven. He leans on the umbrella to get upright again. Six. So little time!
He limps forward and sees the blood on the cobbles, trailing off to nowhere. Five. This was a mistake. You’ll die like the others, says Malice.
Four. Not far now. He can make out the shattered body of Dirae on the ground, gears spilling over the cobbles.
"And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in Hell." Three.
The Sailor, fallen. Dirae, fallen. Henchard and Noah, vanished. Drake, standing frozen like Gideon was not too long ago. And Florence, about to become the Shade’s next victim. Two.
“He beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.” One. The Shade smiles a bloody smile and draws back its jagged sword-hilt to strike.
Zero.
The ticking of the pocket-watch stops. In the hotel room, the Timepiece’s face ices over and its pendulum begins to swing. Gideon, protected by the time wound up in the old grandfather clock, moves between the tick and the tock.
The Shade stands frozen in front of him, face contorted in a red grimace. Its vaunted speed will not help it now. Gideon has found a higher mastery.
Do what you can. There’s no time to lose. He chuckles at the thought of time, but time is already running out for him. The clockwork in the Timepiece is unwinding. Already the temperature has dropped a few degrees around Gideon, his breath puffing out in clouds, and before long the gears will freeze together and time will begin to move again.
It’s a good thing I brought my warm coat.
Gideon steps gingerly toward the Shade and Florence. His footsteps leave crystals of ice behind on the cobbles. Frost begins to form on his skin.
Gideon unfurls the Unflippable Umbrella as he walks, sending a plume of cold vapour into the air. The umbrella, too, has begun to freeze. He places it gently in Florence’s hands. No mere umbrella indeed – this one is reinforced to be bulletproof. It is remarkably heavy, being reinforced with steel plating, but such prices must be paid to keep up with the latest technology.
The Shade is even nastier up close. Gideon dances around it, being certain not to touch any part of its body. Dragging the creature into his own time-stream would be disastrous, not to mention messy. Fortunately, touching it indirectly is still possible. With a set of clamps, he gently prises the Shade’s fingers open until the remnants of its scimitar clatter onto the ground, sending up a spray of snow.
He picks up the chilled scimitar and sets to work with surgical precision. It is bitterly cold now – an icicle has begun to form on his nose, dripping water that freezes mid-air into tiny hailstones.
Gideon is not much of a hand with a sword, but his brief tenure at medical school has taught him a few things about surgery. It’s much easier when your patient is perfectly still.
The Achilles tendons are the first to go. Gideon slices cleanly through them. The cuts freeze over even as he makes the incisions. That should slow it down, at the very least.
He considers slicing its throat cleanly, but the thought is forestalled when he finds the Shade’s flesh to be as solid as ice. Too cold! It’s too cold!
Inexorably the Shade turns to face him, slipping into stopped time as Gideon’s cuts take effect. In his pocket, the watch lets out a tick. Time is moving again!
The world around him stutters into motion. Florence is rather surprised to find an umbrella in her hands. The Shade moves like lightning, hauling Gideon up by his throat with one hand.
I wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry.
Though she can’t move, Phryne witnesses everything Gideon does in the frozen time. Clearly, her condition has moved her far enough away from the Judgement’s laws that even an invention manipulating those laws doesn’t affect her quite as it should. Still, she is very impressed by Gideon’s effort, though she knows it won’t be enough. She has no idea why he hands the pink umbrella to Florence—is it supposed to protect her? But already his hands are freezing over, as does everything he touches.
It won’t be enough.
The Shade moves like lightning, hauling Gideon up by his throat with one hand—only to fall to the ground with an angry shriek, letting go of Gideon in the process, when its sliced achilles tendons can’t hold its weight. Quickly, the inventor starts crawling away from it.
Still time for some famous last words.
"You’re running a newspaper, aren’t you?" Phryne whispers to Lord Gazter standing next to her. "I expect to be quoted exactly." Without waiting for an answer, Phryne starts walking towards the fallen Shade—who is slowly trying to rise again, its tendons already healing.
"I’m very sorry," she says to Gideon when she meets him halfway. "I caused this. I made sure the Shade would know of this meeting. I wanted a confrontation with it—in a weakened state. All of you—you did more than I could’ve hoped for. But I’m afraid it still won’t be enough." She shakes her head. "You deserved better, all of you. I’m sorry." She walks on, picks up the remains of the Shade’s scimitar and turns toward her enemy who is watching her very cautiously. Clearly, it remembers her from their encounter on Seven Devils Square. She walks even closer.
"It is an unfortunate but necessary prerequisite for rising from the ashes, that the phoenix first must BURN!"
And with these enigmatic words, she pushes the blade’s jagged stump into her stomach, up to the hilt. It enters her body as effortlessly as if she was but a paper doll. Immediately, light begins to emit from the wound.
Looking into her enemy’s soulless eyes from up close now, Phryne sees nothing there besides a vast emptiness all its rage can never hope to fill, and she feels stirrings of pity for the Shade even while knowing that it must be destroyed.
Poor soulless thing. An abomination never meant to exist.
Just like me.
And in those last seconds, blinding, raging light pouring forth from her body, Phryne reaches out to pull the Shade close and plant a single kiss on its lips, and tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
For a few moments, Fallen London is shining, and far to the south the Dawn Machine blazes in answer, issuing commands—and then raging over its loss. For a few moments, the whole western Unterzee is bathed in light.
It had not been enough. Of course it had not been enough. The Commodore wipes sweat from his brow. An old prototype, this Element of Dawn, far less powerful than the current ones. Most of its energy already used up to keep the abomination housing it moving. And that vessel had been less than cooperative. Still, a useful experiment. In time, there would be others.
Basically every Londoner awake at this time witnesses what soon becomes known as "the Sunlight event". Some cry out in joy, some in fear. Some are too stunned to react. Some shrug and say the first one was better. Some behave erratically, later finding themselves in places they have no memory of going to, with no idea of what they were doing there.
Newspapers and academic publications will propound theories about what exactly happened for months to come. The authorities will offer the usual explanation of a singular natural phenomenon, which nobody will believe. Certain sorts of preachers will use the event as fuel for sermons about God’s Impending Judgement.
In short, business continues largely as usual.
Technically, there was no explosion, but there is now a crater in the middle of the alley where the unexpected kiss happened.
The Shade is lying in the centre, its body a horribly burned husk—or is it? No! it was only a false-sun, after all—poor competition for the Mountain of Light. Maybe the wounds were an illusion, maybe they healed in record time—only the Shade knows.
But it looks older: gaunt and shaken and impossibly tired. And along with everyone else, including Edward Frye up on the roof, it seems stunned, blinded, and maybe even otherwise affected by the short reign of Dawn Machine mind control. Of Phryne Amarantyne, nothing remains—
—except swirling, colourful streams of flaming light dancing in the air, crackling like Chinese fireworks, contracting and expanding as if searching for something; all the while emitting a haunting, keening sound as if mourning some terrible loss.
If souls are flammable, no one seems to have told this one.
Suddenly, a Khaganian lady appears as if from thin air and runs toward the dancing lights. Armed with a spirifer’s fork, she soon begins—very tenderly—to coax and cajole the distressed soul into a large, sturdy-looking bottle; stoppering it when she is done.
She only glances at the Shade once—not her business—and nimbly darts away into the shadows, taking Phryne Amarantyne’s coruscating soul with her.
Hardly more than two minutes have passed since the kiss.
The Shade stirs.
I’m leaving it up to you, dear friends, to decide whether some Dawn Machine command got through to your character, and how long the effect will last. :)
This is the end of Phryne Amarantyne. But isn’t every end is also a new beginning?
edited by phryne on 4/21/2018
Sergeant Driscoll curses heavily, and starts running towards where the blaze was brightest.
His certainty is unshakeable; this will mean Overtime.
(co-written with Drake Dynamo)
When Emma Dynamo sees the first flash of light in the distance, she immediately recognizes it and thrusts her hands over her eyes, desperate to escape the attention of the Machine whose work she had once done. When the event is over, she turns to Lady Orosenn and whispers: “That was the monster-woman! I told you my suspicions about her! Now who knows what she’s done?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” the monster-hunter answers, stoically as usual. Both she and Agent Evensong were wise enough to not look directly into the light—what’s the allure of a false-sun to someone who grew up in Stone’s backyard?
But for the three latecomers, the Sunlight event served as a beacon at least, drawing them unerringly towards that narrow, unnamed side-alley. Still, what a remarkable coincidence for them to turn up exactly when the Shade stumbles out of said alley, about to hail a cab!
When Emma Dynamo becomes aware of the carnage in front of them, she goes stock-still—not so unlike her brother. From one alley-mouth to another, the siblings stare at each other, at a loss for words.
Agent Evensong immediately rushes towards where the wreckage of their spouse is still lying, and occasionally twitching, on the ground, muttering an impressive list of Elder Continent curses under their breath.
But in the very moment she becomes aware of it, Lady Orosenn starts running at the Shade full-tilt. Seeing her, its face registers shock—and for once, its reflexes are letting it down. Lady Orosenn jumps and, leaning on her harpoon, kicks the Shade in the chest with both feet. Flying several yards through the air, it hits the ground with a massive thud. Hardly a second later the huntress throws her harpoon—no human would have been able to roll aside quickly enough, but the Shade just manages and, quick as lightning, is back on its feet.
Orosenn snarls, draws two short knives, and when they clash a second later it is clear that there will be no prisoners today: both are prepared to fight to the death.
But the Shade is in a desperate state now, and so fights like a wild man, or a cornered beast, moving as fast as it can, clawing, punching, kicking, tearing, biting. If not for her body-armour, the huntress would have already suffered several broken bones. Seeing that she’ll be unable to keep this up, she headbutts the Shade, adding a kick to the lower regions for good measure and is thereby able to get free from its grip. She throws the knives in quick succession, and the Shade escapes one, but takes the other one in the shoulder—before prying it out and throwing it back at Timmel, who in turn dives sideways in the direction of her harpoon and regains possession of the weapon!
Long since recuperated from her initial shock, Emma Dynamo fires a few bullets into the Shade’s back now that she finally has a clear shot. The Shade cries out in pain, and collapses. Gathering all her strength, the huntress leaps up with a scream of rage and crushes the Shade below her, before flipping it onto its back. Using the harpoon and her legs to keep it down, she draws her largest, most intimidating knife—the one she affectionately calls the ‘bonesaw’.
"You want to learn about death? I’ll be glad to teach you," she pants, about to cut out the Shade’s heart. But using the very last reserves of its superhuman strength, the Shade manages to get one arm free and close its hand around Lady Orosenn’s throat, choking her, crushing her windpipe. She still buries the knife in its chest, but misses the heart. Unable to breathe, her face turning blue, she staggers away from her opponent in Emma’s direction, breaking down in front of her lover.
Emma screams for her brother and Cider, not paying any attention to the Shade now, who hobbles away and flags down an errant carriage. When the cabbie seems unwilling to accept this terrifying passenger, the Shade grabs him with one hand, throws him off the hansom, and takes the reins itself. Fiercely whipping the horses, it thunders off into the fog, away towards the Forgotten Quarter.
Constables’ bells ring out, and the Velocipede Squad is deployed. Such chaos so very near the Bazaar has finally garnered the full attention of the powers that be.
The fight in the Side-Streets is over, but at what cost?
(Co-written with Shadowcthuhlu)
The apothecary is dark and silent, abandoned in a hurry during the commotion of the Shade’s attack. A white raven glowers from a perch in the corner, periodically screeching dire portents to nobody in particular. Preserved amphibians float in grimy jars on high shelves. The lower shelves hold bottles containing a cure for every malady and a poison for every occasion. The air is still and silent until two intruders burst through the door. A bell jingles cheerfully as it opens.
Gideon and Evensong carry the body of Dirae Erinyes between them, sadly reduced by one head. With one hand, Gideon sweeps the clutter off a large table in a clatter of metal and glass, then the duo lay Dirae down on the wooden surface.
“Bio-thaumaturgy was never my strong suit, I’m afraid,” says Gideon. “I suppose we don’t have the time to consult their original design specifications at present. Never mind. We have work to do, and precious little time to do it.”
“I’ve studied the notes before - the good news is that Shade didn’t remove everything important.” Evensong’s hands pause for a moment over her chest. “The scroll is not too badly damaged, and my Hebrew is good. What is most important is electricity - to get their motors running again.”
“I’ll see if I can get some electrodes from the back room,” says Gideon. “I have a spare battery on me, of course - never know when you’ll need something electrified - but I’m not well-equipped for emergency galvanisation. I know you’ll think me lax, but I really don’t do this sort of thing very often.”
Gideon sees the concern in Evensong’s face and his expression softens. “I’ll do the best I can, Evensong. We may not have known each other too long, but I like to think we’ve all become fire-forged friends. I’m not about to let a friend die on my watch, new or otherwise.”
With that, he wanders off into the back room. Sounds of rummaging are heard. “Electrodes, electrodes, my kingdom for electrodes! What do they teach apothecaries these days? You just can’t get the equipment!”
Evensong takes what remains of the head from her bag - not much at all. The mud-stained scroll sadly flops on the table next to the mangled mass of metal and bone. Looking over the shelves, she sees “Ms. Murgatroyd’s Anti-Sorrow-Spider Candles - Also Excellent in Deterring Stinging Insects in Watchmaker’s Swamps, and the Odious Pests Abroad.”
After requisitioning several packs and a pack of “Mr. Pompeii’s Most Vigorous Matches,” she returns to her spouse. She carefully wraps the shattered remains over the scrolls, before setting down the packs of candles. A moment of instinctual fear as she lights the match, and a moment of concrete fear about having it pointed the right way as gouts of flame sparked off the short lived match. (All experienced Londoners know that Mr. Pompeii’s Most Vigorous Matches see little use as actual matches, and much use in the pranks of both urchins and Stags alike.)
Brushing the wax away from the much-cracked eyes and from the mouth - at least, a gap where a mouth should be - Evensong recreates a face. It’s not much of one, but it will do until time and Rattus Faber mechanics can make full repairs. It’s not that Dirae Erinyes had much of a face to begin with. The Surface language chant heavy upon her tongue, Evensong carefully carves the חַי on the forehead. She wonders if this is how the Bishop feels in his prayers.
Gideon’s head pokes out of the back room. “Found them, along with a rather heavy-duty generator. Might take a minute to get it fired up, but it’ll prove far more energising than my dinky battery-pack.”
“I’ll help you - just give me a minute to crack open their chest.”
The Shade’s work has made this part easier, giving Evensong an easy way to bypass steel and muscle. With a sickening crack, Evensong opens up the chest cavity. Inside, the one remaining heart lies motionless, caught in a network of gold and ceramic. Evensong places its missing twin in its brutalized cradle. She forces the soft metal to grip the heart again, hoping that the delicate writing on the band was not too badly marred. Satisfied with her work, Evensong folds the metal and muscle back into place with another sickening crack.
A few tense minutes later, the flames roar as Gideon and Evensong shovel the last helping of coal into the furnace. The generator in the back room hums to life, expelling high-pressure steam through unseen pipes to drive a turbine and produce the necessary power for a touch of golemancy.
He takes a pair of thick insulated cables with metal clamps at the end and plugs them into a handy socket in the front room. When the ends come within a few inches of touching, arcs of electricity crackle between them. All electricity yearns to form a circuit, to follow the path of least resistance, to go to ground. The one Gideon has in mind will pass through Dirae to enliven their body. The spark of life has never been quite so literal.
“Sorcery most foul! Divine wrath beckons!” squawks the raven. Gideon shushes it and the raven resumes sulking, watching the proceedings with one wary eye.
Evensong takes a moment to clean their hands of coal dust and oily ichor before placing the electrodes. Most of them are stuck on Dirae Erinyes’ chest, with a few stray ones trailing up to the extremities. The last one is placed on the now-waxy forehead.
“You are going to want to stand back - the twitching can be violent.” Evensong only steps back reluctantly, even as she warns Gideon. “Are you ready?”
Gideon nods and flicks the switch. As the current passes through their body, Dirae convulses violently, sending the few remaining implements on the table clattering to the floor. Static crackles from the electrodes. Leather straps binding us to the table. Electrodes, wires, transference. This is much like what was done to us, Gideon.
He shakes off the intrusive memory and continues the work, hands wrapped in insulated gloves. For the flesh and clay to reform, the damaged parts must be cut away. It is delicate work, but Gideon has steady hands and Evensong holds the twitching body as still as she can. Even as he cuts, the scroll does its work, breathing life into the rebuilt head.
“Full power,” says Gideon, dialling up the generator and standing well back.
The crackling lightning takes on a life of its own, crawling over Dirae Erinyes in waves. The white raven screeches and flaps its wings in agitation. The dingy room is bathed in an unearthly blue light. Hebrew letters flare on the golem’s forehead. Alive. The body shudders and jerks as if it is straining to get free, shedding the electrodes as the cables come loose from the strain.
Dirae takes a gasping, shuddering breath as the last of the electricity leaves them. Alive.
Evensong rushes to their side, something like laughter escaping from her controlled facade. A groan follows as the lungs struggle to get into rhythm. Evensong rushes to undo the leather straps as the breathing finally settles. The eyes flicker open, and a sharky hand rises up to grasp Evensong’s hands, fluttering over the leather strap over the neck.
“Thank you… we were arguing about whether or not the Lazy Lord variant was too political to play or not…” With that weak joke, Dirae Erinyes gives a stiff smile. Evensong falls into their embrace. “How is everyone?”
Evensong’s shoulders stiffen up, and she draws a breath before continuing. “Phryne is dead. Everyone else survived. Drake is dealing with their wounds right now.”
“I remember the sun…”
“She exploded when that happened. I don’t have enough intel to tell you more.”
Gideon unplugs the power supply and removes the last of the electrodes from Dirae’s shoulder with a soft pop. “That light… it was just like a device I had stored in my Shed. Not mine, unfortunately - I ended up with it due to a postal mix-up. It was… like the sun, but not. This requires further investigation. Imagine the power that could be harnessed…”
He trails off. “I’m sorry about Phryne. Perhaps if I had been quicker, she would still be alive.”
“I thought she would’ve survived…” says Dirae. “I thought I wouldn’t be the only one of my siblings…”
Evensong hushes them with a soft kiss. “You have me. You will always have me,” she softly half-sings, before humming a popular tune, hiding any sobs from Dirae Erinyes.
Gideon tidies up the last of the equipment and scuttles into the back room to put it away.
“Is the Shade still alive?” Dirae Erinyes asks, interrupting the humming.
“Yes, but badly hurt,” replies Evensong.
“Then we’d best be on our way,” Dirae Erinyes says, steel violence in their voice.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 11/11/2017
Cowritten with John Moose.
The corridor surrounding Henchard is deep red, and quivers slowly, as if alive. Further away, faceless shapes enter from some side corridors and exit to others. Beside Henchard, a red mist solidifies into Noah. The doctor seems to have calmed down remarkably… Although something about him seems very off. His unseeing white-grey eyes seem to rest on Henchard, then the corridor, then his leg, as if seeing normally. The blood on his leg has ceased to flow out, now instead crawling back up his leg, like an armada of red worms. The wound isn’t closing, but the blood seems hesitant to leave. Henchard dreads to think of what his own neck is going through. Noah stands up slowly but steadily, and begins walking toward a small, dark corridor, leading downwards. He carries his cane, but does not seem to have need of it. On the floor, where Noah’s steps fall, shapes as if agonized faces appear, their screams unheard. “This way”, Noah says dreamily, not seeming to pay much attention to Henchard anymore.
So. Not medicine, but another mystery of the neath. Unfriendly as always. And hopefully over soon. A whisper floats past him, and Henchard looks back. The corridor is gone, replaced by a door locked with a mask. He turns his back on it and follows Noah.
“So” Noah remarks, heading deeper down the winding corridors, “What would you prefer? Love? Violence? The thrill of the chase? We have time to kill, and I’ve stored a good selection of memories down here. Is this your first time in the Chambers? I’m sure you’ll learn to appreciate it.” He stops, hesitating between two paths. Left, a golden glow shines faintly through the walls. Right, shadows of small, scurrying things are cast on the walls, without any clear source. Noah chooses the right one. “Distilled memories. It’s how I make my living, generally - extracting valuable memories from those without the ability to appreciate them, and painful ones from those who’d do better without them. You’d be surprised how much people will pay for utterly dreadful memories, in certain circles.”
“So you run a…memory trade,” Henchard says, stepping over a large face forming beneath them. Its mouth was open, hungry, salivating. “And people pay money to come here?”
“I… Operate a modest service under the watchful eye of my superiors.” Noah’s face is carefully devoid of all emotion. ”And no, not to come here, per se. To view the memories accessible from here, and sometimes to mingle with other… Enthusiasts. Although I must say, I personally find these corridors rather soothing in themselves. But generally what’s being looked for is… Say… The feelings of first experiences, true love for those who are unable to find any, how it feels to kill a person… Very hedonistic in general, you see.”
“I think so,” Henchard said, “There is nothing people want more than what they cannot have.” He stops in front of a door of a yellow star and knocks lightly on it. “So each memory is stored behind one of these doors-”
The door opens without warning, flooding the corridor with light. Henchard finds himself running through Flit, a high-pitched laughter bubbling from his throat. He’s holding the favourite hat of a fellow Fisher-King, being chased by the owner. The hat’s owner seems far less amused and Henchard knows he’ll get silent treatment for this, but he’s never able to resist teasing-
(Somewhere at the back of Henchard’s mind, he hears a young girl begging him to leave her memories alone)
-A ladder! Henchard scurried up, hat clenched in teeth. He emerges onto a flat roof, cluttered with junk and useless bits. Too useless or too big to even be stolen. A tilted flagpole hangs over the streets below, and an idea takes root at the sight of it. He can raise the bluest, hattiest flag London has ever known! Wave it from the top of the flit, a nice blue against the stars-
(A young girl is pleading, sobbing, to be left alone)
-He arrives out of breath, having looped back at the flagpole. The hat’s owner has fallen behind, struggling over the rooftops in the distance. Henchard waves, and turns to the pole. He scrunches out, inching his way along it until he reaches the end. One hand grips the pole with a too small hand, the other fumbles in pockets for a needle and thread. Carefully, carefully, he stitches the hat to the remaining rope-
(A young girl is screaming, incoherent with pain, alone, alone, alone)
-A hand grabs his foot! He squeals and jumps, twisting around the flagpole. The other person screams as the world blurs. Their hands wrapped around his foot hard enough to hurt. Let go Let go Let go LET GO!
-and Henchard is back in the corridor, Noah patiently waiting for him to resume the journey.
“I hope you liked it,” Noah said, before Henchard lunged across the room, his hands grabbing the front of Noah’s shirt.
“What was that voice?” He hissed, “The one screaming to be left alone.”
“Oh, that? The owner of the memory.” Noah’s expression is of mild surprise, instead of the usual fear - something about this place seems to be keeping him calm. “That happens, yes. It’s not a pleasant experience to have your memories ransacked. It’s handy, really - if the voice matches with the age in the memory, you know it’s fresh.”
“Fresh?” Henchard draws back a fist, and then lets it drop. “If we weren’t in a hurry to get back to the fight,” He pauses, “I’m not sure if I could kill you here, but I would certainly give it a try.”
Noah frowns slightly. “Hurry? We’re not in a hurry.” Noah cocks his head to the side, puzzled at why this man won’t just relax now they’re safe. There’s some choice memories he’d like to get to… “The dose I gave us won’t wear of at least for another half an hour. We’ll be safe and sound here until the battle is well over.” His face lights up a bit. Oh, he was worried we were going back… “Don’t worry, we’re not dying like the rest of them, I saved us. You can just relax now, and then we’ll find a good hospital to return to. I’m sure the Shade won’t keep chasing us as long as we lay low and don’t bother it.”
Half an hour. This wasn’t a temporary retreat to lick their wounds, this was a coward’s retreat, abandoning their friends and allies and leaving them to rot. Henchard looks at Noah’s vacant expression. Maybe not a coward’s retreat, but an addict’s. But either way, the result is the same. Henchard shoved Noah away and the man tumbled to the ground. Laughing and jeering faces grew out of his shadow, and he gazed up at Henchard, confused.
“No. We don’t have half an hour.” A strange fuzz grew downwards across Henchard’s face, and his hands twitched with the desire to scratch at it. Noah’s face was similarly affected, blurring him like water on paint, like memory after pain, like rot upon bread. “You will fix this. And you will get us back to the Shade in time for us to help. Do you understand.”
What Henchard gets in response is a honey-mazed laughter. “A ha ha, no, no way. Back to that? I like my blood on the inside, thank you very much. Besides, it’s impossible. The Honey’s in us now, and until it dissipates, no power in the Neath is going to take us out. If you figure a way to get out, be sure to let me know. I could publish.” At this, Noah breaks into open, roaring laughter. “Well I couldn’t! But still!” At the back of his mind, something is nagging him about this situation, but he’s having too much fun to stop.
Henchard kicks out at the laughing figure. Noah topples over onto his back, still laughing, the faces beside him cheering and sharing greedy smiles. Henchard stands over Noah, and places a foot against his throat.
“You left them alone.” He whispered, and stomped on the figure’s throat. “They trusted you and you ran, abandoned them. Betrayed them.” Noah coughed in response.
Henchard picked the figure up, resting him against a door locked with a mask. “And you dragged me into it too.” His hand shoots out, smashing the figure’s head against the door frame. The door starts to open, starts to consume Noah, and Henchard drags the figure away from the light. Noah screams, torn between dreams and memory. The door closes, the light fades, and the figure’s head is beaten into the doorway again. “You’re a monster.”
Noah only smiles in response. His mouth starts to move, to respond as the light swallows his arm. The figure is torn away with a scream. The head meets the door. The head meets the door. The head meets the door and blood crawls back inside the skull. The head meets the door and is pulled away with a deep sucking sound. The head meets the door and is torn away leaving a tendril of blood quivering, between the head and the door. The head meets the door, and Henchard drops the figure in disgust. Noah moans as the light consumes him.
-Noah is standing on the deck of a ship, eyeing the light of the buoy shining in the distance. It’s still five days’ zailing to Irem, and the supplies are dwindling. His first mate approaches him and opines “You’ve done and fucked up properly this time, Noah”. What-
-Noah twitches on the warm floor, feeling something sweet trickle in his mouth-
-warm morning in a Paris café, enjoying the beginning of the hustle and bustle of the streets. The sun feels warm on his skin. He casts his eyes on the newspaper, the cover exclaiming how “It’s real this time, boy, you’re dying and it’s in the hands of someone you thought was a friend, there’s no clever words that’ll get you out of this, Noah” Wait, that’s not what it-
-the warmth of the walls is gone now, that red light in his head that let him find his way as if he could see again, it’s all dark and confusion and pain pain so much pain-
-his lover grabs him by the hand, spins him around so his red dress flutters in the darkness, and leans in to whisper to his ear: “That’s cerebral fluid you’re tasting. Let’s find out what dying’s like, shall we? It’s ok, you deserve it, Noah”-
-his head is burning, he can’t breathe… No, no, what is this, why am I…
As Noah thrashes around on the floor, a small crack comes from his large coat’s breast pocket. A loud buzzing fills the corridor, as angry, red-shaded bees escape, swarming around him and crawling over his face. Noah tries to wave them away, but his arms aren’t moving properly.
“Now the screaming, Noah” the bees buzz in his ears. “They always screamed, didn’t they Noah, scream now, scream, there’s a good boy, scream, that sound’s coming from you Noah, scream, scream, scream” he feels the air grow cold, and something leaks from his head, from his mind, and water that tastes like mud flows over him, and suddenly he’s submerged in cold, cold water, the bees holding onto his ears and eyes and nose-
The buzzing comes first. Leaking from the door unlocked with a mask, seeping from the edges. Something has been angered, and Henchard waits.
The figure comes second. It stumbles from the door locked with a mask, and falls to the ground. It thrashes there, still lost in its dreams.
The bees comes third. As if birthed by the struggles, they spread over the figure, leaving it a red blur. The buzzing settles, almost to a whisper.
The screaming comes fourth. It floods over the buzzing, leaving only the occasional whisper to bob to the surface, friendly and drowning, clinging to life.
The screaming, the bees, the figure, the buzzing, they vanish. And Henchard is alone.
edited by suinicide on 11/11/2017
The sun the Sailor staggers to his feet - something he’s been doing a lot of lately - and the sun this time manages to stay there. Spots sun the sun the swim across his vision, as if he’s been looking directly atHE SU- something extremely bright. The Shade is gone. Phryne Amarantyne is gone. The alley is a ruin. As far as victories go, this seems a hollow one.
There is a joyous burning in the far reaches of his mind. Phantom pains coruscate across his skin, the memories of wounds. The brightness the hunger the voracious incandescence the white and the light and the sun the suN THE SUN THE- He steadies himself with his stony arm - the only part of him that seems any kind of steady. Deeps breaths. Focus. Remember the pain of it, the unimaginable hurt, the ugly little dark thing that, when faced with a god, with something that toed the line between ecstasy and torment, wriggled and screamed and struggled for the peace of darkness. Hold onto the hurt. The light did that. It’s like a mantra - the light did that. His breathing steadies, and the giddy feeling abides, although it’s still there, thrumming in his second thoughts.
There’s a crater in the street, and those of the hunting party that remain in the area are bloodied and haggard. No bodies, at least. To think it’d take sunlight to wound this thing. A cruel joke. Boxes of the stuff, piled up in the hold of the Reck, the Sailor’s private shame. Untouched for months - the dark ugly self twitches in pride at this - but still, he’d been unable to throw it away, to sell it. And now it could have been of use - may still be of use - at the cost of him baring himself, his weaknesses and dependancies.
A shout. What remains of the hunting party is gathering, calling him over. In a slow, loping limp he makes his way over to them. Now that the painful euphoria of the light that had once been Phryne is abating - although he fears it will be a long time before its effects truly fade - the pain finally gets a chance to set in. He is hurt, and he’s not the only one. He thinks he spies the Dynamo siblings, ministering Cider, and his hobble becomes more purposeful. There is still work to be done. His thoughts echo in his head - to be done, done, un, the s -
Gideon limps out of a side-street to see Drake and the Sun-Scorched Sailor attempting to hail a cab. Most traffic is giving the bloodstained alley of the Shade’s ambush a wide berth – surely nobody in the whole city could have failed to see the unearthly light from Phryne’s timely detonation. The inventor steps forward beside the pair onto the kerb, sticks two fingers into his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle. Almost immediately, a carriage begins to slow to pick them up.
“You’ve got to let them know who’s boss,” he says, and smiles weakly.
Gideon feels naked without an arsenal of gadgets in his pockets. There is nothing left now but the Shade and the hunters. Like a wounded animal, it flees the fight to return to its den. It’s caused far too much pain and loss already. Time to end this.
“If you’re going after the Shade, I’m coming with you,” he says. “My ankle is probably sprained, but I’ve come out of this better than most – Dirae will live, but they won’t be in full working order for some time. I don’t even know what happened to Henchard and Noah. And we all saw what Phryne did for us, to stop that creature once and for all.”
Gideon runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “It’s wounded. I saw that myself. We can stop the Shade, and I’d be remiss if I let anyone else get hurt by it on my watch. I don’t have any more mad inventions to stop it, but I have this.” He pulls a small derringer from his pocket – a last-resort weapon if there ever was one – and is surprised to find his hands shaking.
“Maybe it will be enough. One last blaze of glory. Are you with me, friends?”
(OOC: I’ve been forgetting to check this recently and I didn’t notice the post about responding in 24 hours. I was wondering if I was early
enough to join in in writing the last post or not.)
(co-written with John Moose!)
[i]
It wasn’t the pain. She had experienced worse. It was the feeling of helplessness as the darkness gathered in her vision that really - almost - frightened her. She couldn’t stop to try drawing in air through her crushed windpipe. And then everything went black.[/i]
It was impossible to determine how much time had passed when Lady Orosenn became aware of a sound. The sound of water, softly lapping against the hull of a boat. And whispering voices, nearby, but so low as to sound very far away.
She opened her eyes.
A tall figure, sitting on the end of the boat, clad in black and grinning without the hindrance of flesh or skin, is looking at her, its head slightly turned to one side. “We haven’t met before, have we? Welcome, I suppose.”
Only now realizing she’d been holding her breath, the monster-hunter exhales. Apparently, breathing is possible in this place. Not yet answering the Boatman, she takes in her surroundings.
She is not alone on the boat. There are a few indistinct figures, huddling together at the boat’s other end. They are the ones whispering. Her gaze travels further, trying to make out a shoreline at either side of her, but all is shrouded in fog. She faces the Boatman once more and clears her throat, slightly inclining her head to the skeletal figure.
“Hello there. No, we haven’t met before. It was just a question of time though. I knew that when I left my home.”
The Boatman answers with a dry chuckle, making a noise like small bones clattering in his skull. “How very prescient of you. I regret to inform you it was a question of time before you left, too.” The skeletal figure stretches a leg, ‘accidentally’ kicking a folded chessboard closer to Orosenn. He does not make eye contact - it is clear he will not be asking for favours.
“So, is this it, then? The end of your hunts, the last chapter? There’s some that have passed this way that would quite like it so. Some very recently, as it so happens. I imagine they’d love seeing you again.” His gaze returns to the Hunter, and somehow his permanent grin seems to reach all the way to his eyes, now.
The monster-hunter’s peligin eyes are as expressionless as ever. If these two were to enter into a staring contest, it could take a very long time… but Lady Orosenn obediently picks up some white chess pieces and begins setting up the board. Pointing over her shoulder, she asks: “Any of those you mentioned among the sorry lot over there? If they want another lesson, well, here I am.”
“Oh, no, no, these are a more recent haul. An orphan here, an elderly lady there, that sort of thing. Not sure if any have enough fire in them to go back.”
“Business as usual, hm?” Lady Orosenn asks rhetorically. “And what if they haven’t the strength? What happens then?” Her voice sounds disinterested, as if she were but inquiring about the weather.
“Then, my lady, they travel all the way. To the far shore.” He slightly adjusts his queen, waiting for her to make the first move.
The huntress chooses a random white pawn to start the match. She isn’t particularly preoccupied with the game yet. Unless things in London go really wrong, someone should administer some Hesperidean Cider to her dead body soon enough. But maybe there is a chance she can weasel some useful bits of information out of her opponent.
“The far shore. Hm. Sure, I’ve heard about that. No way back, eh?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know that, little one. But it is no great secret. No way back at all, and if you see those dusty moth-keepers from Tanah-Chook, you might want to pass that message on. Their pets bother my… customers.” The Boatman thinks he recognises a variation of the Hyperaccelerated Dragon, and stops to consider his opponent a bit more carefully. He responds with the Sicilian Pterodactyl, and now locks eyes with Lady Orosenn in anticipation of her next move.
In truth, Lady Orosenn is only a mediocre player. But successful hunters need an almost photographic memory: it is vital to recognize your prey’s moves. And just so, she can remember almost every move she’s ever seen used against her on a chessboard. However, right now she’s playing against someone who’s probably seen every move ever invented a thousand times or more. Come to think of it, he’s probably invented some himself. So, instead of choosing a particular line of attack - only to have that answered right away - she continues to make random moves and tries to see what the Boatman will make of that.
“Tanah-Chook, funny you should mention it. Not many ships stop there, but I do know the place.” She absentmindedly takes one of the Boatman’s rooks, just because the option presented itself. Could that have been a trap? “Where exactly does this river lead to anyway? The boat is definitely moving, but I guess we’ll never really get anywhere…?”
The skeletal figure is having some trouble figuring out the monster-hunter. She begins a very promising Pseudo-Demi-Slav-Offense, and then throws it all away for a simple rook. He decides to go for a more classical move to judge her habits. “Somewhat presumptuous to expect to know where we’ll go if you don’t even know where we currently are, isn’t it.” His voice is getting less cheerful as he concentrates on the game.
Ignoring the retort, the huntress ponders how to continue. She recognizes the Boatman’s move, even though she couldn’t name it, and knows what would be the usual way to answer it. However, she now recalls a match she once had in Apis Meet, during a long night when the Wax-Wind just wouldn’t let up. She had been playing against a Glassman who insisted the only way to unsettle even the greatest chess-masters was to play absolutely counter-intuitively - do the opposite of what seems reasonable all the time. It had served him well enough: he’d been winning all night, before throwing away everything in his last match. He insisted he’d planned it that way. On a hunch, Lady Orosenn now moves one of her knights deep into enemy territory, taking out two pawns in the process, with no hope of getting her knight back. Then she leans back, apparently very satisfied, looking out across the water.
“Well, wherever we are, I can’t help noticing some lack of variety in the scenery. Say, don’t you ever get bored of the view?”
The Boatman is now staring, unmoving, at the board. A Queen’s Continual Denied, Pro-Tartakower–Makogonov–Bondarevsky-maneuver? Really? Not that she wasn’t still losing, but he started to have a very uncomfortable feeling that she was simply gloating with these utterly obscure moves, and preparing something he might not have seen before. Growing irritated, he looks at the monster-hunter and responds: “Oh, it has its moments, especially when there’s someone to keep me company. There was a girl who very much looked like you not so long ago, come to think of it.”
At those words, the huntress freezes. She tries to read the Boatman’s expression, but this of course yields her nothing. Impossible. I would’ve heard. But he wouldn’t stoop to this, would he? Or would he? She forces herself to look at the board. It is an utter mess, enough to give chess enthusiasts a heart attack. Am I actually giving him trouble? Yes, I think I might. And even if not, I’ll rather go down with guns blazing anyway.
After a few deep breaths, she forces a smile and answers: “Nice try. But we don’t actually look that much alike, you know.” And with no further ado, she bends forward and puts her opponent within one move of a checkmate.
The Boatman is utterly frozen. Did she plan for this? Didn’t she? She’s reckless enough… But not skillful enough, surely. They were flukes. Surely. Surely.
A splash causes him to look up from the board, at a shape in the water. Lady Orosenn also turns around, only to gasp in astonishment.
“Oh ho! Talking of people you know.” There might be actual glee in the Boatman’s voice now.
In the water, the blind doctor from Lady Orosenn’s party is thrashing around in a panic, gulping water and doing his best to stay from sinking. For whatever reason, bees are crawling around his face, getting tied into his wet hair and taking flight only to return to him.
“Poor Mister Rache. It seems without his sight, he can’t even aim for the boat properly, can he.”
Shaking off her amazement, the huntress leans over the side of the boat as far as she dares, reaching out with her hand towards Noah. Realizing he can’t see, she shouts “Here! Doctor! Hold out your hand! In the direction of my voice!”
Barely avoiding drowning - whatever it would mean in these waters - Noah slowly splashes his way towards Lady Orosenn’s voice. His grasping hand finds hers, and as she pulls him aboard, he collapses in a small heap on the boat. He vomits out some oddly dark water, and tries to speak.
“…Uff… Hufff… Haven’t we… Met… NO GO AWAY! …The hunter… NO NOT THE HAMMERS! …NO! No, please not there, you’ve taken enough, please…” His voice keeps changing from exhausted but normal, to manic screeching. The bees are now calmly buzzing around him, finding rest on his wet, bloodsoaked clothes. “Help me… He hit me, and hit me, and hit me… NO NOT MY EARS NOT IN MY EARS… Help… Oh, please help…”
The Boatman shuffles further away from Noah’s limp shape. “A friend of yours? How unexpected… oh no. Not now…” There is real disappointment in his voice when he sees a golden shimmer appear around the monster-hunter’s body. “Until next time then. We’ll continue the match where we left off.” And before she fully realizes what is happening, Lady Orosenn is gone from the Slow Boat.
The Boatman is left behind with the blind doctor, now weeping as the familiar voice has gone. It has been a while since the skeletal ferryman had a game as enjoyable as that one, even if it was all a most exaggerated bluff. He wonders when he’ll have another game like this, and when he’ll see the huntress again. She should have a good story or two on her next visit, be it a final one or not. She’ll come back; they always do. He looks down.
“We haven’t met before, have - oh for heaven’s sake, stop crying on my pieces, will you!”
Coming to in her aching body, Lady Orosenn scowls up at Emma’s face. “You could’ve chosen a better moment for that! Ah well… thanks anyway.”
edited by phryne on 12/16/2017
Henchard sat at a table, dressed in a hurry. An ill fitting suit several years out of date, only moderately torn. A generous description of a hat. A pair of shoes polished to a shine. And a torn, knotted smile across his throat.
A devil sat on the other side, dressed in its Sunday best. The standard suit. The standard hat. The standard shoes. And a bright, honey sweet smile on its lips.
“And here you agree to never open a package with a shepherd’s crook on it.” The devil said, about three pages into the contract. “This one doesn’t come up too often, but we do require you to remember it…”
Henchard nodded along, not listening. The sounds of slamming doors and crunching bones echoed in his head, drowning out all other noises.
The devil tutted, disappointed. “You could at least put in an effort. There’s no fun if you don’t try and stop us.”
Henchard nodded again. “This will fix me.” He said, mostly to himself. “No more guilt. No more arrogance. No more hurting people.” He swallowed.
“So you’re one of those,” the devil said, “A disappointing end for anyone. No matter. The paperwork is all in order.” He stood up and walked over to Henchard. “This won’t take more than a second.” Something flashed in his hand, and Henchard closed his eyes.
The lion shall lay with the lamb, the priest had said. And he followed the tiger away from the party. Henchard did not stop him.
The gunner, not the most skilled, but the most brave. Placed their hand on the wrong tree. Within minutes they were pulled inside. The zailor, who refused to abandon them, and was caught in the same way.
The navigator boasted of her skill, but now she was gone. Just gone. And so was their map.
The cook, far too trusting, and the zoologist, far too hungry.
Noah, mixing bees with crawling blood, begging by laughter, and smiling the whole way.
And the eighth. Emptiness where guilt should be. And the rage over both their betrayals.
Each death was Henchard’s fault, and he didn’t care. A free man left the embassy.
edited by suinicide on 12/26/2017
edited by suinicide on 12/26/2017