The Hunt is On- to Catch a Shade

Fallen London
61

Lady Timmel Orosenn is having the time of her life.

A brick in each hand, she’s bashing in faces left, right and center. That had to hurt, even when you’re high on Mountain-blood!

But that’s not it. She is part of a group effort! The words don’t really make any sense, but that is what is happening here. And it feels good.

As she thought, Dirae Erinyes fights like no regular human would be able to, with complete disregard for their own physical well-being. She briefly wonders whether there might exist more of their kind—with a handful of those, you’d be able to storm Nidah and give the Presbyter a good thrashing!

She has no idea who’s doing the firing from the upstairs windows, but whoever they are, they know what they’re doing. There, another hobo goes down with a leg-wound. She closes on him with a few steps, and just when he gets up again, BASH!—there goes his face. Good riddance to bad trash and all that. She is laughing now.

Even those quiet gentlemen, Messieurs Frye and Hamilton, have joined the fight outside. Ill-prepared, and already collecting wounds, but there was nothing wrong with their fighting-spirit. She was orienting herself in their direction, to give them some cover, when the Unclear Device hit.

She has no idea what it is and what exactly it does—for a very brief moment, she has no idea what she’s doing here, herself—but it seems to have been deployed by someone from their party. The hidden talents of this group! She is almost giddy now. Then she sees Lyndon has gone down with a chest-wound and takes a step in his direction when she realizes that one person is missing from the battle. She stops dead, a single thought occupying her mind:

Where the f— is Emma?

62

Edward Frye was starting to get extremely wounded, and as much as he hates to retreat, he will probably die if he doesn’t leave. So, grudgingly he starts to retreat, but suddenly, something sharp hit him in the head. The world started to go black; right before he blacked out he thought to himself, they always said I was a bit daring. Then everything went black.

63

Dirae Erinyes ferocity belies their careful observation - they notice as Edward Fyre goes down, limp on the ground. Bertrand’s desperate fight, and obvious need for relief. Time for a change of tactics. With a quick hand signal to Evensong - they hoped that none of the hobos had been former employees of the Foreign Office - they start their plan.

First was Frye. Bertrand could fight, sort of. Dirae Erinyes charges forward at the scabbed man standing over Frye’s body, exacting a maneuver learned from the younger days playing at magic and deliver messages in the Spite. This is known-in those high crowds-as &quotJust mow the b_____y b_____d down.&quot The hobo-still mostly man but now just a bit monstrous-looks on with eager anticipation at what seems to be a suicidal target. An anticipation that may turn to dread if ever notices their speed. An anticipation that mostly certainly turned to regret as their makeshift shiv glanced off Dirae Erinyes bulky hide and they were slammed into the ground. Dirae Erinyes finishes the maneuver with several powerful stomps as they keep running, feeling the flesh and skull yield under their heavy boots. Not considered good form up above, but occasionally necessary.

Still, it would take too long to simply run Fyre to safety. Thus, second courier trick two-the fastball special as that scrawny Yankee had called it. They picked up Eyre’s limp body and form it into a ball, as if he was about to jump in the zee on the coast of Mutton Island. With that, Dirae Erinyes takes aim at the hobo menacing Barselaar, unsuccessfully trying to bypass that wall of zailor spite. A hobo now bowled over as they struck in the head by the flying form of Fyre. Dirae Erinyes does not worry if Fyre was injured in that. Years spent fighting, and drinking have taught them that a limp body can survive what an awake one cannot. They hope that the sailor pulls him in before their opponent regains their senses.

Now on to Bertrand. They make a beeline for him, grabbing a hobo in their massive arms. The women claws at them, but it hurts less then the wounds they would’ve gotten from charging into the crowd. Wounds that she now suffers in their steed. Discarding their battered shield, they cut their way past the next menace to Bertrand’s good health before offering the man a hand.

&quotNeed to retreat?&quot

64

Lyndon watches the wretch approaching him at an alarmingly fast pace. His sight is a blurry mess of fireflies. He raises his revolver and pulls the trigger. The bullet flies way above the target’s head. The Sergeant breathes in. His sight seems to become a bit steadier. He lowers his aim and fires again. This time, the bullet shatters her knee.

Lyndon lets out a heavy breath. He has been counting the shots. He’s officially out of ammunition, and another b_____d is running towards him with a manic grin on the face. The Sergeant reaches for his last resort, hidden in a small pocket under his coat. Timing is of the essence. He only has one shot, and it must to be fired at melee range. He snorts. That was a f_____g ridiculous idea. It was a weapon that wasn’t meant to be used like that.

The wretch is closer and closer, ready to strike him. The Sergeant can smell the reek of cheap booze coming from his breath. With one swift motion, Lyndon takes out the Rattus Faber Rifle and fires it at point-blank range. Half of the wretch’s face is blown to smithereens, but not before he manages to dig his shiv in the Sergeant’s gut.

Lyndon collapses on his knees as the rusty taste of iron fills his mouth. Another wretch is rushing in. He is officially out of options; he’ll have to fight with the shiv he has been just gutted with. The Sergeant is about to pull the weapon out of himself when the charging wretch is thrashed by an enormous masked figure. What little remains of his foe after that trouncing is in no shape to harm anyone anymore.

Lyndon looks up to Dirae, who’s offering him their hand. “Need to retreat?” they ask.

A hunting horn sounds in the distance, and the wretches start to slowly pull back. The Sergeant manages a crooked grin and accepts Dirae’s help. “Just help me fetch my sword.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/10/2017

65

[color=rgb(194, 194, 194)]The Scorched Sailor, flanked by the Imaginary Hunt’s salespeople and the swaying figure of a young woman he assumes to be the proprietor’s daughter, slumps against the shopfront, panting and bloody. The supine body of Edward Frye, unfortunate missile, stirs from just inside the threshold. The savage vagrants dissolve as suddenly as they arrived, slipping into the shadows of alleyways to answer the summons of whatever it was that had called them away. From various upstairs windows, shots whizz after them, pinging off lampposts and catching the odd runner in the leg.[/color]

[color=rgb(194, 194, 194)]None of them are in particularly good shape, but they’re all alive. The Sailor thanks Storm that the Hunt employees had stepped in when they did; he could hold his own in a tavern brawl or dark-alley dust-up, but this was something else entirely. Without the three of them to spread the focus of the assailants, he doubts he would be still be standing. As it is, the three of them are torn up pretty badly; what the attackers lacked in ordnance and weaponry they made up for in numbers and animal wildness, biting and scratching like beasts. The proprietor’s daughter, still half-mazed, her eyes clouded over, sports a long gash down the side of her face and myriad small cuts on her arms. One of the salespeople is supporting the other, whose left leg seems to have been torn to bloody ribbons, immaculate suit in shreds, but they flash a wan smile at the Sailor when they catch his gaze.[/color]

[color=rgb(194, 194, 194)]He makes a brief assessment of his own wounds, and realises with surprise that he’s in especially bad shape. There’s going to be a lot of pain when the adrenaline wears off: there’s what looks to be a tooth embedded in the meat of his calf, and a rough shiv is sticking out from just below his left collarbone, having pierced clean through his overcoat - his [/color]new[color=rgb(194, 194, 194)] overcoat! - and all of the undergarments. He feels suddenly faint. Things are most certainly not well. Everything is, somehow, more torn up than before, and those items of clothing that weren’t black or red at the start of the day definitely are so now.[/color]

[color=rgb(194, 194, 194)]The uneasy quiet that follows the sound of struggle falls on the plaza. Gunpowder hangs in the air. Blood dries on the cobbles, strangely golden. Everybody seems to be, if not alright, then alive, which, considering the circumstances, is a small miracle. The fight is, for the most part, over. So why does this feel like the calm [/color]before[color=rgb(194, 194, 194)] the storm?[/color]

66

Mr. Hamilton looks out over the wounded from his vantage point by the store, overall the battleground does not look good. Mr. Hamilton sighs and gets out a medical kit from his coat. His first patient is his friend Edward Frye, half-conscious. Mr. Hamilton gently pulls back Edward’s hair, he finds the site of the wound that caused him to go down, not a nice sight.

After five minutes or so Mr. Hamilton has the wound fairly well patched up with bandages from his kit. By now he has stopped most of the bleeding from the head but he decides to stop there just in case he deals more damage than he heals.

OOC: Noah is probably a much better doctor than Mr. Hamilton (at least in this kind of stuff, Mr. Hamilton is better at medicine than physical wounds), so he can do more later if he feels like it.
edited by Mr. Hamilton on 3/10/2017

67

&quotYou absolute lunatic!&quot

That was not, in fact, what Timmel Orosenn had meant to say to Emma Dynamo, at first. But when she turned around and saw her grinning, like she was actually proud of her head-first dive into battle, something snapped, and there was no backing out now.

&quotYou’re a good shot, I give you that much. But you haven’t got half the brains of a Texas longhorn in that pretty head of yours! Think that Cider’s gonna heal just about everything? That we can just put you back together like Humpty Dumpty after collecting your pieces here and there and everywhere? That someone’s always gonna be there to look out for you?&quot She drops the brick she had still been holding and points at her last victim. &quotIf smashing his skull can finish off this sad f___er, the same method would work on you. So have a care, for Stone’s sake!&quot

Somehow, her heart wasn’t in it. Turns out it’s damn hard to stay angry at someone so pretty for very long. And Emma is still grinning.
edited by phryne on 3/11/2017

68

As Noah steps out on the street, the smell of blood, bile and gunpowder that greets him makes him stop in his tracks. It’s as if a full-blown war was fought here, instead of a street fight. Tearing his eyes from the gold-speckled bloody corpses, Noah scans the scene for his allies.

He’s delighted to see Mr. Hamilton caring for Mr. Frye, it’s good to realize he’s not the only medical professional present. Lady Orosenn and Ms. Dynamo seem to be healthy enough if they feel up to shouting; it’s the other ones Dirae has brought to the shop front that seem to require immediate care. Dirae themselves seem fine except for superficial wounds, and can thus wait. Sgt Lyndon and the Sailor, however, both have things sticking out of them. Noah clicks his doctor’s bag open as he rushes to their side.

Lyndon is bleeding profusely, especially from his head, and his stomach where the hilt of a shiv is sticking out. The Sailor, on the other hand, is barely bleeding at all. Noah dreads the worst, but they answer to his call, and seem to be breathing. How odd. After inspecting the shiv sticking out of the Sailor’s shoulder to ensure it hasn’t pierced a major artery or the lungs, he proceeds to help Lyndon.

As Noah grasps the hilt of the knife, the sergeant moves a hand to the hilt of his sabre and grumbles a threat to the effect of where the shiv will end up if Noah isn’t careful with it and the luminosity of said place, but Noah knows better than to respond with anything more than soothing platitudes - it’s not the first time a Spite doctor is threatened by a patient. Generally, people with ventilated guts don’t follow up on such threats. The removal goes smoothly, accompanied with enough curses and insults to make a zailor blush. Noah isn’t quite sure whether his usual pacifier of a swig of whiskey would be a good idea with a patient whose esophageal tract might or might not have a hole in it, but Lyndon makes the decision easier by yanking the bottle from Noah’s hand and starting to empty it at an impressive speed. All in all, Noah decides, getting the man happily buzzed will probably make life easier for all of them.

After the application of bandages and disinfectant, Lyndon seems to be wrapped up well enough to last until the party makes it to a safe location and Noah and Mr. Hamilton can do a more thorough inspection. There’s a good likelihood of concussion from the blow that tenderized the back of his head, Noah tells him, and asks to aim away from the bandages if he feels like he’s going to vomit. He also recommends a diet of porridge for a week as well as avoiding any bricks in the future. Lyndon replies with an unintelligible grumble - Noah thinks he can make out the word “nanny” - and a look that tells the doctor his presence is no longer required.

Moving on to the Sailor, Noah removes the knife as well as the tooth lodged into the Sailor’s calf (great quantities of disinfectant are used here), notes the continuing absence of profuse bleeding, shrugs, and cleans and ties up the wounds.

As he’s finishing up with the two human pincushions, Noah hopes there will be time to do a clean-up of Dirae’s wounds as well. They’re not in urgent need of it, but Noah has a strong feeling they’re not entirely human, and he definitely wouldn’t mind a closer look.

As he’s pondering this, Noah realizes the shouting from the ladies’ direction has subsided, and turns to look their way, about to ask whether they need help. He stays silent.
[i]

[/i]
Edited to include dialogue with Lyndon, collab with Bertrand Lyndon/Barren
edited by John Moose on 3/12/2017
edited by John Moose on 3/13/2017

69

Lady Orosenn looks down at Emma, trying hard not to grin back at her. By Stone, that woman had a mouth like a ratwork gun!

&quotStoop to that level, eh? Well, it looks like I’d have to stoop pretty low to kiss you, too. I think there’s a better way.&quot With that, she picks up Emma and puts her on top of a hobo’s corpse lying nearby. He had been a quite sturdy fellow in life and provides ample footing.

&quotNow, take a deep breath.&quot

After that, it’s quite a long time before either of them says something, again.
edited by phryne on 3/11/2017

70

Azoth glanced out the window and surveyed the battlefield, lost in thought. This was the first time she’d seen the Hesperidean Cider in action, and … well, that was impressive. The thought troubled her, though. These vagabonds alone had unnatural levels of vitality; if the Shade were any stronger, it could overwhelm them with sheer force alone. Looking around, she could see the wounded lying there. The doctors seemed to have it handled. She was tempted to go down and help herself, but she hadn’t kept up with her medical skills since coming to the Neath.

Looking further, the situation seemed fairly normal: dead hobos, blood splatters, Emma and Lady Orosenn, shattered glass - wait a minute. Were they - yes, they were.

Huh, Azoth thought with a smile. Good for them. She had no idea how they still had so much energy after the battle, but some people were like that. She lingered at the window a little longer, watching them, being reminded of better days. It had been too long since she had such a liaison, and … the smile faded from her face. She’d been a different person then.

Emma and Lady Orosenn were strong, but lust is a dangerous tool in the right hands. What would happen if one were to fall? Would the other just carry on, or would something worse happen? Or, perhaps, something better? I don’t know, Azoth thought. If Bastet were here, she’d just say to be happy for them, that’s for sure. Something about that thought didn’t sound quite right, like she’d been caught up in the moment and forgotten something.

With a start, she remembered she’d sent Bastet down. That kitten wouldn’t have entered the fight, would she? Taking one last glance out the window, Azoth raced down the stairs to find her.

–

Bastet was very confused. Very confused. Okay, she’d been sharpening her claws on the furniture, and she knew that humans didn’t really appreciate that, but to grab her? That was just rude. And now the human wasn’t even talking to her; whenever she tried to speak, he just hissed at her, and it was all very annoying.

&quotHey, could you -&quot A hiss. &quotAlright.&quot

She was starting to get really concerned, too. The others had already come down. The guy with the monkey was even busy shopping for a new coat right now. That confused her too. Why would he be thinking about clothes right now? Why did he even need clothes? These humans with their baldness; really, their fur was barely anything, they had no whiskers, and their sense of smell was appalling. What did they have going for them? Thumbs? She supposed it was an advantage. This human was using them particularly well to squeeze her insides.

Footsteps and a familiar voice. &quotBastet?&quot

&quotRight over -&quot A hiss. &quot- here,&quot she finished softly.

Azoth rounded the corner. &quotLet the cat go,&quot she ordered. &quotThere’s been a slaughter literally right outside your door, I’ve spent the past few minutes firing out a window with a particularly unwieldy rifle, and I’m not in the mood to deal with a hostage situation. If she’s damaged any furniture&quot - Bastet scoffed to the best of her ability - &quotI’m perfectly willing to pay for it. If you just …&quot her eyes narrowed. &quotOh, I get it. You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror with you, would you? I’m feeling awfully vain right now.&quot

No response.

&quotYou realize she’s an innocent, right?&quot Azoth asked. &quotShe’s played no part in your war, and she will play no part in it.&quot She stepped closer. &quotAnd as I understand it, the Labyrinth is always looking for new prisoners. Let her go, and there’ll be no more trouble between us. Please.&quot She waited a few seconds.

A gunshot. For a second, the human released his grip, recoiling, and Bastet leaped out, running up to Azoth’s leg.

&quotAnd I was being sincere,&quot Azoth replied, a Rattus Faber rifle smoking in her hand. &quotYou have a role to play here. Play it, and don’t make me or her your enemy. Maybe if you could let go of that prejudice, we wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore.&quot She backed away, Bastet following close behind.

–

&quotYou know I had it under control, right?&quot Bastet asked as soon as they were out of the shop.

&quotYeah, right,&quot Azoth replied, surprisingly unamused. &quotYou don’t even know what you were dealing with.&quot
&quotI’ve dealt with crazy humans before,&quot Bastet protested. &quotThis one was just … I dunno, crazier. Still, I could’ve - what are they doing?&quot Two of the humans seemed to be pressing their faces together on top of a dead body.

Azoth sighed. &quotWhen a woman and a woman want each other very much …&quot

71

Gideon is still safely secreted amongst the soft, mothball-scented fabrics of the coat-rack. The whisper-satin garments croon dire secrets in long-dead languages. The sound of fighting and dying has died down now; all that can be heard outside is the groaning of the wounded as both sides shuffle to a safe distance. He fancies he can hear a chorus of tiny bells, the cheerful ringing that precedes the arrival of the Velocipede Squad. PUNCTUAL AS ALWAYS. IF YOU WANT A JOB DOING, DO IT YOURSELF!

Voice 2 has a point. The coppers always seem to show up when the job is beating up an unarmed suspect, but when there’s actual crime afoot they’re nowhere to be seen.

Gideon parts two murmuring coats and peeks out from his sanctuary. From what he can see through the window, the street is strewn with corpses and gold-flecked blood. Surprisingly enough, none of the bodies belong to the hunting party. Perhaps these brooding types really can walk the walk. It’s easy to make actions speak louder than words when you restrict yourself to a sentence a day.

Squinting through the clockwork monocle (now modified to reduce fire hazard by removing the offending parts), Gideon examines the aftermath of the irrigo blast. Some of the vagrants are still walking around aimlessly, muttering to themselves. The discombobulation is far more powerful and long-lasting than the last test, but considering the effort it took to steep the little spider in irrigo, the opportunity cost may be rather high.

At least the spiderling itself wasn’t destroyed in the blast. Gideon whistles a short melody, a snatch from a storm-threnody – spoken Correspondence doesn’t carry well over long distances, unless one happens to be in a vacuum. The spiderling trills an answering call and scuttles back, hopping into Gideon’s outstretched hand and curling into a ball which he stows in his pocket.

What now? Should he go and try to help the wounded?

no, no, no. it’s safe here. use your wonderful optics, watch from a distance.

Voice 1 was right. He wouldn’t know what to do anyway. The doubters at the University had seen to that, after they expelled him from the medical school for “unsafe practices”! What did they know about safety anyway? Last he checked, opening up someone to fiddle around with their guts and remove a perfectly harmless appendix wasn’t very safe, and they did that all the time!

So he remains nestled in the snug coat-rack. The next time he takes a peek outside, he catches sight of Emma Dynamo and Lady Orosenn, who are – goodness, his monocle seems to have steamed up mysteriously. He wipes it with his suit sleeve and decides to look elsewhere, blushing furiously.

Parting the coats on the shop side, he suddenly comes face-to-face with Drake, and freezes like a startled rabbit.

“Are you – “ starts Drake, seemingly just as surprised.

“Yes. It’s a good hiding place.”

“Did you – “

“Yes. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but that irrigo bomb was all I had to hand. I’m allergic to being bludgeoned to death with a brick, you see.”

Gideon ducks out of the coat-rack, banging his head on the rail. Once he has shaken off the mild concussion, he stands up as if nothing had happened.

“Gideon Stormstrider, at your service, et cetera. I believe we’ve met.”

72

Edward finally woke up, and wishes he hadn’t. He hurts everywhere, but he is happy to see his friend Mr. Hamilton treating his wounds. &quotHello Hamilton, how are my wounds&quot, Mr. Hamilton replies, &quotAh… you’re finally awake. Your wounds are fine, you’ll make it.&quot

Edward then looks around the after-mass of the battle. It saddens him to see all the dead hobos, so many lives wasted. Then he scans the street for his allies, he see Noah treating Bertrard’s wounds, and Azoth with her kitten. Then he sees Lady Oresenn and Emma, just a few hours they were threatening to kill each other! He doesn’t understand them, but he’s still happy for them

He asks Mr. Hamilton for some laundanum, he nods and hands him a bottle. &quotWhat happened while I was unconscious?&quot he asks, Then he lies down while Hamilton tells him.
edited by Edward Frye on 3/12/2017

73

Henchard rested his rifle. The last of the…army? Minute men? He would have to find something better to call them. No matter, they were gone, and something told him they wouldn’t be back soon.

He dropped through the window, slipping slightly on a broken table leg.  The attacker had managed to do quite a bit of damage on his way up.  Splintered tables and chairs lay strewn about, stained by pools of blood.  He could almost see the scene is his mind.  Someone rushing backwards, throwing anything and everything nearby.  The attacker, walking forward unflinching, ignoring.  A quick stab when things got too annoying, moving on without a second glance.  Behind, the victim struggling for breath, crawling away.  

But not far.  She stopped inches from the stairs, eyes shut tight.  Henchard knelt down to get a closer look.  Just stabbed to death, she’d be fine, given some time.  Still…  He shook his head, the constables would be coming, and being in jail would make it much more difficult to hunt down the Shade.  He left some roseygold next to her and made his way downstairs.

He strolled through the front door, worried about his comrades.  The last he had seen of them, they were covered in both enemies and the purple mist.  He hoped-What were those two doing on that corpse.

Henchard decided to go out the backdoor instead.
74

At some point, much to her regret, Emma Dynamo has to come up for air.

&quotBy the way,&quot she says, gasping, &quotI meant every last word I said earlier.&quot

&quotSure,&quot says Timmel Orosenn. &quotSo did I.&quot

Both are grinning madly. They’re about to go at it again, when they hear someone clear their throat nearby, very loudly.

Oh, right. There are other people in the vicinity.

75

Lyndon gets up as soon as the doctor is done patching him up. That worrywart gives him a few final advices that the Sergeant doesn’t bother to listen to. It isn’t the first time he gets injured, and he knows how to take care of himself better than any street sawbones. Besides, they’re in the Neath: wounds are hardly a matter of concern down there.

He inspects his sabre for the first time since the huge masked fellow – his name is Dirae, he thinks – pulled it out of the carcass of a wretch like he was f_____g King Arthur. The blade isn’t bent nor chipped. It looks like he won’t need to look for a replacement yet, which is a good thing. Quality steel isn’t easy to come by in Fallen London like it is in England.

Lyndon looks around, gauging the average condition of the other members of the hunting party. It seems he has drawn the shortest straw in this fight: nobody is quite as battered as he is, although one of the dapper gentlemen has gathered an impressive amount of cuts and bruises, and the grumpy zailor has a nasty stab wound in his shoulder.

The shadowy lady with the cat passes him by. She’s giving her pet a speech that sounds oddly like a parent explaining her child how babies are born. At least she isn’t spouting b______t about storks or cabbages. How did she end up having such an odd conversation with a cat? The answer becomes quite clear once he turns and sees what Orosenn and the Dynamo girl are doing in a not-so-dark alley.

Something churns painfully in Lyndon’s gut. Maybe he shouldn’t have chugged all that whiskey in one go. Oh, h__l, it’s too late for regrets now. He dashes to a corner where his stomach promptly disposes of everything he has eaten in the last few days. That dinner at Dante’s Grill seems a much worse idea now than when he had it.

(OOC: This is supposed to happen a few moments before phryne’s post. Sorry to be late. :P)
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/12/2017

76

An Interlude
(OOC: This ties in with what happened here.)

Phryne Amarantyne’s soul is crying…

~~~

… but Phryne Amarantyne is not.

She has been sitting on her bed, looking at herself in her bedroom mirror, for—oh, who knows how long? Who cares? She doesn’t. She cannot make sense of time anymore. The concept seems ridiculous. Everything seems ridiculous.

Looking: looking at herself slavering all over her dress (it had been ruined before) and bedclothes.

Yourself?

Another ridiculous concept, right there:

your Self.

Your self.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

Days might pass, maybe weeks. Maybe she has not been sitting here for longer than a minute, and it is only her perception of time that is warped, while time itself moves on as usual, unimpressed. Maybe none of this ever happens. Maybe nothing does. Can you prove that it does? Can you prove that it doesn’t?

Stop asking me all these questions.

I thought it was you asking them of me.

You and me are the same.

Are we? The same?

The being (her?) watching her back from the mirror has a very large, forked tongue which sometimes slips out of her mouth seemingly by its own volition, probing the room’s stale air; sometimes catching an unlucky fly mistaking her (it?) for a regular corpse.

She doesn’t care about the air. Breathing had been just another false front and consequently she’s given it up.

Is this her then? Well, a version of her, certainly. She could probably change it if she wanted to. It is harder here, but still possible—if she could only find enough will to make the effort.

Indeed, why make the effort?

There is the gaping wound in her chest, for example: barely covered by the remains of her ruined dress. The bloodless wound that would, if one were to remove that dress entirely, show to the curious examiner—nothing. Nothing but the empty cavern where her heart had been. Why hadn’t she closed that wound by now? Was it an affectation, keeping it like this? A reminder? A memento?

Who cares?

Anyway, it might be a good idea to settle on a form before I forget how.

Forget…

Laughter echoes in her mind.

Forget…

If only I could.

There’s a way.

Unreliable.

Everything is.

Yes.

So?

So?

So we wait.

There is someone inside her head, definitely. She’s just not sure it’s her.

~~~

Phryne Amarantyne’s soul is crying.

———
edited by phryne on 3/13/2017

77

As the party hurries towards Veilgarden, Noah hangs back. It sounds like they might be on fresh trail, and in that case the back of the group seems like the place to be for those not keen on fisticuffs with a monster. Thankfully, the Sailor is also at the back. Noah prefers it that way, to have someone made of stronger stuff close by, in order to run behind them should trouble rear its ugly head. In this safety, Noah considers his last patient.

Dirae seems to be… Something else entirely. While they’re certainly not the only, let us say unique, member of the hunt, they are… Noah has no idea what, exactly. The Sailor doesn’t bother him at this point - he’s probably just some kind of tomb-colonist - but with Dirae, Noah doesn’t know if they were ever even human to begin with. It’s not just the greenish skin, the glim-sculptor near Noah’s practice actually has a similar tinge to his skin. It’s not just the black blood, that could be explained by them being an over-enthusiastic monster hunter. It’s the… Modifications.
An elbow that seemed patched together, with gears poking through the stitches. The skin being of different colour below and above the joint, like two arms had been stuck together. A flesh wound that remained shallow because the weapon had glanced away from metal wiring running over the muscle, under the skin. He hadn’t dared use disinfectant on the wounds for fear of some unexpected chemical reaction. The cloth he’d used to wipe away the black liquid dripping out of the wounds smelled of oil. I’m a doctor, not a bloody locomotive engineer! It seemed increasingly likely that Dirae had, indeed, been built, not born.

I wonder what my employers would think of that. They were interested in the Shade, and witnessing the army of shamblers-turned-killers had raised a strong suspicion in Noah’s mind that this wasn’t for peaceful purposes. If whatever process had created Dirae was repeatable, it might be even more valuable for such uses. Now how to go about that… The giant had surely noticed his reaction. They - it? - had offered him a drink of something smelling of alcohol, apparently to put him at ease. It would have been wise to accept it with a smile, but Noah couldn’t in all honesty trust whatever they drank wouldn’t leave a bloody mess where Noah’s stomach used to be.

Sneaking into their room with some bees and scalpels would surely end with Noah taking a trip to the Colonies. Well, it’s never too late to apologize for his rudeness and strike up a beautiful new friendship. How are your wounds, oh great, I was so worried, by the way, how are your parents, oh that’s interesting…

A small smile creeps up on Noah’s lips. This might end up being a rather good day, after all.

78

On the way to Veilgarden, Emma and Timmel are very careful to keep apart, and not to look at each other. In fact, they hardly make eye-contact with anyone. Who knew the tall monster-hunter could look so sheepish?

Under normal circumstances, Lady Orosenn would have spoken up against this idea of the party—some of whom have just been severely injured—charging after this latest lead to Veilgarden. Or, alternatively, she might not have said anything, but kept to the back of the group and watch them walk into the trap, to make a study of their enemy’s methods. Because, if the shop had been a trap, then this would surely be another one.

Unfortunately, these are not normal circumstances and her hunter’s instincts are currently drowned out by a whirlwind of emotions. So she just trots along with everyone, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular—at least, nothing visible to anyone else. Who knows what kind of scene she’s contemplating in her mind?

Well, to be fair, we all know what kind of scene.

(OOC: If you want some information about the place we’re headed to, have a look at our google doc.)
edited by phryne on 3/13/2017

79

Dirae Erinyes slips a papers to both Emma and Lady Orosenn. It’s a Correspondent’s job to critique, review, and analyze reality. And this part of reality that had a quantity of experience with. Hopefully, both of them should find the number categories and resulting notes useful for future encounters. While they are distracted, Dirae Erinyes sidles up to Drake.

&quotSo, there’s been about forty victims more or less, right? You’ve mentioned that some of them were close to you - but not all of them right? So far, I’ve only seen him kill two people - a zailor and Mr. Mauvuis. Can’t see an obvious connection between the two of them. What do you know about the rest?&quot

80

Lady Orosenn is at first completely flustered by the note slipped to her by Dirae Erinyes. She reads it several times, before guffawing thunderously. Everyone turns towards her. She tries to wave it away. &quotNothing, really… none of your business.&quot She fixes everyone not turning away quickly enough with a menacing stare, silently daring them to ask her anything. Only Emma hasn’t turned around—she’s holding a slip of paper, too, and has turned an interesting shade of red.

So, their bug guy was a funny guy, too? Fine with her. She could play that game as well. Later, though, because at this very moment, they have reached Seven Devils square with its old war memorial in the center. The place, usually teeming with life, is almost completely abandoned—surely due to the gruesome murder that has just happened, and the expected arrival of the constables. Only outside Dictums, London’s oldest surviving pre-Fall restaurant, situated directly across from them at the other side of the square, a few people are gathered around a crumpled shape on the ground. That must be the Shade’s latest victim.

The group hurries on.

Some impulse—she has no idea where it has come from—has finally made her leave her bedroom. (Maybe it’s just that basic human need for company?) She has decided to go into town. She has taken a bath, even washed her hair (it still complains a bit, but not as much as it used to), and put on her finest Strange-Shore Frock. She has contemplated her reflection for hours and is confident she has successfully disposed of all her more distressing physical features—though she does still look a bit too bony and lean to appear perfectly healthy. She will take a hansom into Veilgarden, and just stroll through the streets. Let’s see who will recognize her, who will call her by her name.

Let’s see whether there is anything—or anyone—in London that still means something to her.

edited by phryne on 9/30/2017