The Hunt is On- to Catch a Shade

Fallen London
101

Henchard’s eyes shuttered open at the sound of collapsing brickwork. Something-sharp teeth large mouth- roared on the other side of the square. Shade lay ontop a collapsed wall. Isn’t that nice of him? Always nice to have company. Henchard closes his eyes again, smiling.

The smile transformed into a frown.  Something was wiggling in his mind.  Something important, sliding across his thoughts, a slimy trail of absence in its wake.  Ah, his weapons.
Henchard opened his eyes again.  The something was gone, instead a crying woman.  Poor her, maybe the Drake killed one of her friends?  Shame about the world, that.  At least the Drake was gone, its rampage over.  

Henchard ignored her, he had more pressing concerns.  They were very important, he thought, swaying on two feet.  If he looked at them, they became four feet.  But his weapons.  Yes.

His knife was nearby, and he grabbed it with both hands, pulling it off the ground like the sword from the stone.  He stuck it in a coat pocket, the blade sticking out through the fabric, only prevented from falling by its hilt.

Henchard smiled, just one more thing.  He retraced his path to the Drake.  And re-entered the square after a time, far too long for such a short trip.  But he had a rifle strung across his back, and a smile on his face, so he was probably successful.  

He started making his way to Shade and the others, stopping halfway.  Seems a wall had collapsed on a poor fellow.  Henchard struggled to remember his name.  Fried?  Fred?  His head throbbed, he could think of a name later.  Right now it was more important to unbury Fried Fred.  Henchard giggled.  Fried Fred Fried Fred Fred Fried.

He sat down and picked up a brick, stared at it for a while, then put it down next to the collapsed pile.
102

The Shade’s words snap Dirae Erinyes out of their pain but not back to reality. His words bring them back to the spit flecked rants of their parents. Against Death, true death. Of it’s capricious cruelty, of how it pressed humanity down through out the ages. Everything about Subject 5 was their manifesto against the tyrant of death.

This slide into the past is not helped by Phryne’s arrival. Dirae Erinyes swoops in to save the blind doctor but instead see them as their father as Subject 14 had another temper tantrum. Her new sibling whose nightmares shaped their body. A sibling whose mind was split, whose souls refused to fuse.

Dirae Erinyes tries to extend the their broken arm. It doesn’t work quite right and the results are surely cringe inducing. They do not notice, trying to give a warm smile.

&quotSibling 14, its okay. Come here.&quot

Evensong’s stomach drops as they draw close to the chaos. They did not need one of Dirae Erinyes fugue states at this moment, not with this new monster on the field. She grips her rifle in one hand, while searching for a very special music box in her pockets.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/15/2017

103

Lyndon wonders idly if he has passed out, and that is just an odd fever dream caused by his wounds. He has been tossed across the square like a paper doll by some hellish creature that proceeded to destroy everything in the path between itself and the Shade, and throw said Shade in a nearby building. However, right when their enemy seemed about to become a thing of the past, the monster that had so easily disposed of it transformed in… a woman, apparently?

He slowly tries to get back to his feet. A sharp pain hits him in the back and the world spins for a moment. That last fly must have cost him some more broken bones. He slumps back against the monument. His guts are aching, too, and he realizes that he’s bleeding much more than a human should. If he hadn’t been in the Neath, the blood loss alone would have killed him long ago, and even there he can’t carry on for much longer. His body is about to give in.

He struggles to get up, leaning against the memorial for support. A half-amused smile curves his lips. You can always count on fellow soldiers to get you back up. He stumbles towards the few members of the group who can still stand. He arrives just in time to hear Dynamo’s comment.

“Damn, it escaped!”

The shadowy lady immediately yells something at him, but the Sergeant can’t hear her words anymore. He makes a beeline to Dynamo, his mind set on a sole purpose. When he reaches him, the woman is already leaving. Dynamo hardly realizes Lyndon’s presence until the soldier’s right hook connects with his jaw with a loud crack. The punch is incredibly powerful, considering it’s coming from a man grievously wounded. Dynamo falls on the cold cobblestones, his jaw numbed by the blow.

“You f_____g maniac! Is this a bloody joke to you? You should have made them retreat forever ago! Maybe that cider of yours has made you forget, but we are risking our necks here. And make no mistake, life can become miserable even for a conceited imm–”

The Sergeant’s tirade is cut short by a powerful punch to the gut. Pain explodes in his lower body and he feels the bandages coming loose. He manages to get a glimpse of the Dynamo girl before passing out for good.

§§§

Emma hadn’t realized that the Sergeant was still standing until she sees him punching her brother in the face. She hears him yelling something at Drake, but she doesn’t listen to him. She had never liked that man to begin with, but now he has stepped too far. She runs towards them and hits Lyndon squarely in the gut, just a few inches above his wound. The Sergeant goes limp without a sound, and falls a few steps away from Drake.

Emma watches her fist stained by the Sergeant’s blood. Her gaze moves to Lyndon, and she takes a good look of him – the first since he had joined the hunting party. For someone sounding like a grizzled old veteran, he’s remarkably young – just past his thirties, probably. Emma feels a sudden pang of guilt for hitting a man so wounded, but she casts away the thought immediately. He had it coming. He shouldn’t have hit her brother, no matter his reasons.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/15/2017

104

Slowly, Timmel Orosenn’s head clears. She can’t remember much of what has happened after her attempt at skewering the Shade failed, but the others fill her in quickly enough. Her whole body remembers the jarring impact of hitting the cobblestones. Her face will remember the Shade’s near-knockout blows for a while. There are still stars dancing across her vision, sometimes.
Of her heroic defence against the Shade’s further blows, her harpoon probably remembers more than she does. At that point, she had been reduced to pure animal-fight-for-your-life mode—that has not happened to her very often.
She barely remembers the monster that apparently saved them all, and has to take the others’ word that the crying naked woman and it are the same being. Interesting. Speaking of her, someone should find her some clothes.

There’s one thing she does remember in all clarity, however.

&quotI have no quarrel with you, Emma Dynamo. Leave, lest I be forced to break my agreement with your employers.&quot

&quotYou do not control me, nor do they.&quot

Yes, there were questions to be asked here. Serious questions. But not now. For now, she will return to her original part of silent observer.

She considers the still form of Sgt Lyndon, and Mr Henchard slowly un-bricking someone from under a heap of debris.

Constables’ whistles can be heard in the distance. Of course, now that the action is over they’ll actually dare to show up!

Lady Orosenn sighs. Quite a few people might have to be carried to whatever hideout they’ll escape to now, and quickly. No matter. Even battered as she is, she’d consider it an honour to carry the brave Sergeant.
edited by phryne on 3/17/2017

105

After the Shade cut Edward, he jumped back and tripped on a stray brick on the ground. He then tried to crawl to cover, but the combination of his new wounds and his previous wounds makes this very difficult and painful. After a few moments, a very bright light shines from behind, he turns around just in time to see the Shade raise its scimitar and redirect the beam. Edward very confused as to were this light came from, but he was to busy to care at the moment.

After he finally reaches a little bit of cover near the pub, he rests there for a few moments. Then, suddenly, he sees a very fast moving figure hit Bertrand and launch him backwards into the memorial. Then he sees the figure hit a huge chunk out of the pub he’s hiding behind, and he is buried in a pile of rubble.

The next thing he knows, someone is pulling him out of the pile of rubble. He sees that Henchard has pulled him out of the rubble, &quotThank you for that Mr… Henchard? Anyway, would you care to tell me what happened while I was buried?&quot.

106

Henchard stared at Frye. The colors before his eyes had started vibrating, filling his ears with bells and slides. What did he say? Oh yeah, what happened. Henchard shrugged and stood up.

After a few woozy moments, he realized it needed a bit more explanation.  “I,” he trailed off at a sudden pain.  “I was not awake at the end.”  One of his arms flung out, pointing in the vague direction of Drake.  “Shade..” he trailed off again, “His name’s not Shade, is it?”  A beat.  “Drake.  Drake probably saw it.

He looked at Frye, eyes narrowing.  There was only one of him now.  In fact, most of London had stopped shaking.  Though he's not sure the screaming was an improvement.  “I think I need some help over there as well.”
107

Gideon nods appreciatively at Emma’s tirade. Recriminations coming from Gideon and the others, who’ve known Drake all of a few hours, wouldn’t mean much to him. But hearing it from his own sister will cut deep. The slapping was a touch unnecessary, though.

A place to hide and recover? Gideon has just such a place, although he regrets the necessity of revealing it to so many people.

He clears his throat, raising his hand. “I have a… research facility on the outskirts of Watchmaker’s Hill that might do the trick. It’s rather well hidden and off the beaten track, so the Shade and its associates will have difficulty tracking us there. And if it does find us,” he allows himself a toothy smile, “I’d very much like to see it try to get past the traps.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/16/2017

108

&quotSounds good enough for now,&quot Lady Orosenn concedes. &quotThough we’ll need to organize some mode of transport to Watchmakers Hill, and quickly,&quot she adds, hoping someone will have that covered. Walking is not an option here.

She very much appreciates the sudden shift of dynamics among the Dynamos (ha!), but is still determined to bring up her reservations at a later time.

She points at Phryne: &quotAnd someone find that poor woman some clothes, gods below!&quot

109

Edward limps over and says to Hamilton, “You should go help that Henchard fellow, he seems to be a bit damaged in the head.” who then nods and goes to help Henchard.

Then Edward goes to the rest of the group, “I have a landau I could call to give us transportation to Watchmakers Hill, but it can only fit four people… anyone else have any vehicles we can take?”

110

(OOC: Folks, something’s missing here. Drake did a post about who went with whom into which cab, but it disappeared somehow. He’ll rewrite and post it somewhere below.)

There is an awkward silence in the cab shared by the Dynamo siblings, Edward Frye and Lady Orosenn.

Mr Dynamo is still sniffling a bit.

&quotDid you hear what the Shade said?&quot Emma asks at one point, very quietly. &quotYou’d been knocked around some by that time…&quot

Timmel, sitting across from her, just nods but stays silent. She is afraid of saying too much, or of saying anything right now. Diplomacy has never been her particular forte. She does want to speak to their new leader—very much so—but she would prefer to have this conversation in private. So she closes her eyes, feigning fatigue, and says weakly, &quotNot now, Emma, please. My head still swims.&quot

Emma looks slightly disappointed—probably seeing through the feint—but nods, once. Maybe she is glad to postpone this conversation, too.

Mr Frye looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

When everyone is finally assembled at the inventor’s &quotresearch facility&quot, Lady Orosenn has no eyes for the marvels standing and lying about every which where, or for anything really. She grabs a bedroll and retreats to a dark corner somewhere as far away as possible from the noise of the big steam-powered machine. She didn’t have to feign too much, in the end, and actually did fall asleep in the cab. She cannot remember when she last was this tired. Surely, all the mysteries surrounding this strange venture can wait for their answers one more day.
edited by phryne on 3/17/2017

111

(OOC: This takes place between the two halves of Phryne’s last post)

Out here at the fringes of Watchmaker’s Hill the fog rolls low across the ground, obscuring the marshes beyond in the dim moonish light. The allotment is long-abandoned and overgrown with the ever-present fungi of the wastes. In the centre stands a shed of rotting wood. Its windows are smeared with grime; its roof is covered in grass and mushrooms.

In short, the place has seen better days.

At the edge of this scene of lush decay is the incongruous sight of a small fleet of sleek black hansom cabs. The horses toss their heads and whinny nervously, their eyes wide and staring. The drivers grip their reins tightly, as if the beasts are liable to flee at any moment.

The passengers disembark. They seem just as pleased to be here as the horses, though some hide it better than others.

As nobody else seems inclined to pay, Emma pulls out a purse with a sigh and distributes generous tips among all the drivers. As one, they exchange a grim look and whip their horses into action before anyone can change their minds, thundering off into the fog and back to civilisation.

Gideon leads the way at a brisk pace. “Come on, we haven’t all day!” Nobody seems inclined to point out that it is, in fact, night (or the closest Neathy equivalent).

The others follow, with more than a little grumbling. The seriously wounded are supported by the slightly less seriously wounded, trailing blood and curses.

When they reach the boundary of the allotment – it’s not entirely obvious, as the fences have long since rotted away and the fungi have spread indiscriminately – Gideon holds up a hand to halt the party.

“This field is trapped.” He speaks quietly, but in the utter silence of the night his words carry clearly. His tone is low and urgent. “On occasion, I’ve had reason to discourage prying eyes and deter… aggressors. When I start moving, follow my path exactly, or you may well suffer dire inconvenience up to and including extremely painful death.”

Gideon follows a weaving path across the allotment, eyes half-closed like a sleepwalker, periodically glancing back to check everyone’s remaining limbs are still attached.

He cheerfully points out the traps as he passes them. “There’s a bear trap. Watch out for that tripwire. Oh, that’s a nasty one – pit trap full of hungry sorrow spiders!”

Seeing a few of the group glance at a dark metal shape covered in spikes, he nods emphatically and says merely, “Sea mine.”

At last they reach the battered door, and Gideon motions everyone to stand to the sides. The lock is as out-of-place as the cabs were – a gleaming contraption of intricate metal, purchased directly from the side-streets of the Bazaar. A whisper-lock.

Gideon doesn’t touch the lock. That would trigger the final trap. He simply leans close to it and whispers a single word. With the tiniest sequence of clicks, the lock opens, and the door swings open of its own accord to reveal the loaded harpoon gun fixed directly behind it.

After the harpoon gun is unloaded to avoid skewering the incoming guests, Gideon ushers as many of the party into the shed as possible.

The darkened shed looks fairly ordinary, filled with spades, rakes and other gardening implements, but there is a conspicuous trapdoor lurking in one corner. Jammed in the opposite corner by the influx of grumpy associates and starting to turn red from lack of air, he gesticulates towards the trapdoor.

After giving Gideon a look that seems to say “Are you entirely sure this won’t explode or turn me into a frog or something?”, Drake reluctantly opens the trapdoor and descends a ladder into a rough tunnel lit by flickering lanterns. A slow, rhythmic thumping noise echoes from somewhere below.

A few minutes later, the entire party is assembled in the rough earthen tunnel, the shed’s door locked and the harpoon-gun primed once again.

“This is where the magic happens, ladies and gents,” says Gideon, spreading his arms theatrically. “Well, mostly science, actually, but there is a non-negligible amount of magic.”

He bounds through the maze of tunnels, showing the others his spectacular inventions as they pass them. They marvel at the Aether Reservoir, the Unflippable Umbrella, the Tyrannous Timepiece. The laboratory burgeons with wonders as varied as the bats in the sky. Optics are the theme of the day, but there is room for daring forays into chemistry and biology – mysterious flasks full of brightly-coloured liquids bubble (they are dyed, of course, to make them look more exciting) and strange creatures squeak and burble at the newcomers. Gideon sees the Ninefold Cat – or, at least, one of him – skulking in the shadows a few times, but he is wary of strangers.

“Now that you’ve seen but a small portion of the sights, I’m sure you’re all wondering where you’ll be staying. There are bedrolls packed in that cupboard over there, and there are numerous rooms throughout the complex which are available for sleeping. If you’re concerned about your ablutions, let it be known that the laboratory is fully plumbed in! There is a bathroom three right-turns from here, with clean running water and a flushing lavatory. No, I don’t know how the plumbing still works out here, and I don’t care to. Have an excellent night, and try not to think too much about today’s unfortunate events!”

The air in the tiny shrine is close and stifling, heated by a thousand candles dripping hot wax. Gideon finishes lighting the last candle and looks up at the cross mounted on the wall. The crucifix is fashioned from metallic gears and wires tangling like vines and leaves. Not as practical as his other creations, but when it comes to religion, Gideon is anything but practical.

He closes his eyes and prays. Not to God – he had stopped trusting in the wrathful figure of the Old Testament some time ago – but to the prophets, the scientists and engineers who brought the world closer to the Truth.

He bathes in the heat of the candles, inhales the heady vapours, and begins to slip into a state of mind that he seldom dares visit. The light flickers in front of his eyelids, and he hears a new Voice: sensuous, seductive, and impossibly dangerous. His nerves thrill, his mind calculates. If he ever wants to find a way to stop this terrible Shade with as many lives intact as possible, he will need its help.

It’s been a long time, croons Voice 3. Did you miss me terribly?
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/17/2017

112

Noah tries to keep his breathing under control as he feels the liquid slide down his throat. The taste would be easy to appreciate in any other situation - like every sweet thing in the world together and yet none of them, like something that had been forgotten in a dry, hot cave for aeons, but instead of crumbling to dust had become tastier with every passing year. The taste of conquering, unstoppable life.

His eyes itch and burn, as the clotted blood is pushed out of the new tissue’s way. As soon as the feeling ceases, Noah pulls the bandages over his head. His eyes feel whole, even though they’re covered in dried blood. He turns towards Drake’s sound and forces his new eyes open. What he sees is…

Nothing.

Not darkness, though. His eyes are filled with light, like a million fireworks going off all at the same time, again and again. But nothing of Drake, nothing of any kind of shape he would recognize. Noah’s hand reaches up his face, finding everything as it should be. His mind is racing, through all he remembers of the impairments of sight.

&quot…Could you… What do my eyes look like?&quot

Drake’s voice wavers, as if he’s unsure whether to be joyous or weep. &quotThey’re… Blurred? There’s a line of small blotches of black and grey going over your eyes.&quot Drake swallows nervously. &quotDo they… Work?&quot

Noah does not answer. He stands by the door, eyes unmoving and expression blank. The only change Drake sees is Noah’s knuckles whitening as he’s grasping the emptied flask. After what feels like minutes, he replies: &quotMy apologies, sir. It… Seems I’ve wasted your cider.&quot Unseen by Noah, Drake’s face contorts from grief and guilt. No, why didn’t it work, the cider should…

&quotI smell disgusting. I will find the washing quarters, and ask Mr Stormstrider for fresh clothes. I’m sorry for wasting your time.&quot By the end Noah’s face is rigid, as if he was trying to bite through his teeth. He turns around slowly, and walks along the corridor with slow, hesitant steps, leaving Drake alone.

113

OOC: Co-written between me and Phryne. Music box sound here: Wagner Leitmotives - 27 - Dragon - YouTube

Evensong leans out of the carriage, giving instructions to the driver. A small detour, nothing risky. They are wary of losing the good faith of the generous Emma Dynamo, but Evensong’s jade is enough. Azoth is watching the proceedings without getting involved-so is Bastet, whose head can sometimes be seen poking out of a pocket.

“Don’t worry 14, I won’t tell our father about what happened. I know they made us, but sometimes I think they don’t understand us. They think you might turn into another 8, but I know better.” Subject 5’s voice tries to be sure, but there is underlying pleading that shakes that facade.

“Anyway, there’s people who can help, these disciples of Schlomo. He’s not in the library - I’m not sure where I heard of him actually - but maybe his hypnosis tricks and having you just talk might help. I know they say it’s a problem with your souls - but you feel it in the mind.”

“Anyway, look, Mother isn’t upset.” Evensong can’t hide a wince at being called Mother. But considering what’s happened, she decides to let this play out until they are out of distance for either to try to chase the Shade on their own. “Right, Mother?”

“Yes, Subject 5.”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“We’re not home.”

“It’s a test, seeing how well you do in society.” Dirae Erinye’s eyes grow wide, and they try to cover the parts of their skin -and cogs- that poke out of the battered clothing. They cast a worried glance at Phryne.

“They did what was needed. Don’t worry.” Evensong takes a deep breath, and squeezes the hands of worried Subject 5 and a non-responsive Phryne.
“That’s why she gets a present.” Subject 5’s eyes widen, not sure if they should be happy or scared. “Wait here.” Evensong departs, not even waiting for the carriage to properly stop.

“See 14, you are getting better. You’re going to be whole someday and not decommissioned.”

“14, please say something. Don’t go silent like 10.” Subject 5 waits for words, but Phryne just stares through them.

Evensong returns with a plain gray dress, with a sad attempt at a red trim. “Will this work?”, Evensong asks Phryne, gently touching her shoulder.

The friendly touch of a hand, the concern in Evensong’s voice, seems to bring her out of her fugue, a little. “Oh yes,” she mumbles, “thank you. Thank you so much. You’re being… very nice.” She quickly pulls it over her head, looking around herself a little more alert than before. She says “Hello” to Azoth who gives her a wary smile.

Subject 5 shyly touches the dress, marveling at the fabric beneath their fingertips, as if this commonplace dress was the queen’s own gown. Their errand dealt with, Evensong allows the driver to go back on track.

“Is this exciting, 14?”

It takes a few moments for Phryne to realize that the strange figure was apparently speaking to her. No wait - not “strange figure”, she knew this one’s name: Dirae Erinyes.

“Why aren’t you happy, 14?”

Phryne glances at Azoth, who shrugs her shoulders, then asks Evensong, quietly, “What is wrong with Dirae?”

Evensong’s voice drops into a whisper to Phryne. “When Dirae Erinyes gets a bad shock, their memories get a little. . .scrambled. Usually they come out of it on their own.” She watched Phryne’s expression and answers their unasked question. “If not, I have my ways.”

When they reach the hinterlands of Watchmaker’s hill, Evensong decides it’s been long enough. Not even Dirae Erinyes would be stupid enough to hike back in their current state, and she needed them on guard in case of rogue astronomers and amorous fungi. Pulling a music box out of their pocket, the following leitmotifs from Wagner play: Dragon, Magic Sleep, and Love.

Subject Five’s eyes close as they listen. When their eyes open again, it’s Dirae Erinyes who looks out. But the music seems to have had an effect on Phryne, as well: “That was… that was just beautiful,” she says, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “Especially the first one.”
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/18/2017

114

(co-written: most of this is John Moose’s work, I only added Lady Orosenn’s parts)

The hideout is mostly quiet, besides the whirr of what Noah assumes to be some manner of scientific contraptions, and the steady breathing of the sleeping hunters. He hasn’t slept. He isn’t sure if he ever will.

Noah knows how this goes. He has seen it before, a criminal that could no longer run or fight. The effect is like swimming in a pool of sharks with an open wound. The moment his employers know, he’ll stop existing for them. The moment his customers know, they’ll babble. The moment the rumours spread, he’ll wake up on a silent river while a gang of thieves take away everything that isn’t nailed down, and come back later with a crowbar for what is. The main thing, then, is to not let anyone know, and not let his employers think it matters.

Noah rises up from his bedroll, holding the sheathed cane-sword in his right hand. Whatever he’ll do next, whoever he’ll try to manipulate, at the very least he can’t afford to look as helpless as he is. So his eyes don’t work. That leaves four senses to work with. He breathes in deep, and concentrates. What do I still sense?

The soft fabric of his borrowed clothes. The glow of his skin from a scalding hot bath. The feel of the cavern air as it passes his throat. The faintest sounds around him, and the feel of the rough ground under his feet. He might as well start with walking. He takes a few slow steps, swings the cane like a pendulum in front of him—not scraping the ground, that’d be like wearing a bell - and starts walking through the tunnels. Step, step, clank turn left, step, step…

Suddenly, he bumps into someone. He had thought himself alone!

“Hey, look where you’re go—oh. Sorry,” says a deep female voice. Of course, the tall monster-hunter! Only she could move this soundlessly.

There is an awkward silence. “So, um… your eyes haven’t become better yet?”

Noah considers this. Lady Orosenn seems like a warrior through and through; she’ll probably respect someone recovering from a battle wound, less so someone crippled for life—which Noah was reasonably certain he was. “No, not yet. It seems a sip of the elixir wasn’t enough for such a deep cut.”

“Maybe you should consider visiting the Carnelian Coast for a while. Get as close to the Mountain as possible. That should speed up your recovery. You should have enough money for such a trip when Emma—um, when Miss Dynamo pays you out.”

‘Emma’? Ah. Yes. Hmm. “Yes, that might be prudent. Thank you, I’ll keep your advice in mind. First, of course, we must catch the Shade. I will, of course, remain at Miss Dynamo’s disposal if she’ll have me. I think a stitch or two will still be possible, if someone describes the wound at least.” Noah smiles politely. “Thank you, my lady. It is good to have a moment to talk, just as it is good to have such a strong hunter with us. I have full trust you’ll get the better of the Shade next time. We all feel safe with you on our side.”

Noah should be glad he can’t see Lady Orosenn’s face right now. She is obviously not impressed with his fawning. “Well, thank you for the kind words. Excuse me now, I have to speak to Em—to our leader.” With that, she just leaves him standing there in the tunnel.

Hm. Maybe he really overdid the brownnosing this time.
edited by phryne on 3/18/2017

115

[i]The white is stained with red.

[/i] A figure lies face-down in the snow, motionless. A sword cane is a few inches from its hand, almost completely covered in white. He looks down. The gun at his feet is cold now, but the snow around it is still half-melted. It had shot not too long ago.
A black horse-carriage is waiting behind him. He can see the face of a young woman peeking from a window. She looks scared, and worried. He turns towards the young man next to him. His hands reddened by the cold are fidgeting. He stares back at him with his gray eyes that are so familiar. “T-This… I-I didn’t mean to… He…”
He nods, and picks up the murder weapon. “I know. All will be well, A____w.”
There’s a long, awkward pause, before realization dawns on the young man’s face. “No! I can’t let you do this, B_____d!”
He shakes his head and smiles. A calm, serene smile. “All will be well.” he repeats. “This is how it was meant to be.”

Lyndon wakes up covered in sweat. His head is still throbbing, but his thoughts are much clearer now. That nightmare… he hadn’t had it in years. It still makes him want to get horribly drunk, though. He looks around searching for a quick drink, and realizes that he has no idea of where he is. He sighs. His memories of the previous day’s events are quite blurred, and he’s not sure he wants to remember all of them.

He’s lying in a bedroll in an underground room. Since he’s not bound or otherwise restrained, he assumes the other hunters have brought him to some sort of safehouse. He tries to get up. His body aches everywhere, but he manages to raise to his feet without too much trouble. He stumbles to a nearby table. His coat has been left there in a heap, too ripped and bloodied to salvage. His sabre is also there, and in much better conditions, fortunately. He searches his coat for his Rattus Faber Rifle, takes the sword and leaves everything else there.

The earthen corridors are dimly lit and resound with whirrs and sounds of moving machinery. Is he in some sort of laboratory or workshop? It doesn’t matter. He has something to take care of before worrying about his whereabouts. Lyndon explores the place for a while, searching for a way to the top. He sometimes see other members of the hunting party in the various rooms, but he avoids them carefully. His head aches too much to chat with anybody.

He finally finds a way out, ending up on a flat roof. The landscape isn’t familiar, but it’s definitely somewhere near Watchmaker’s Hill. Good enough. There must be some of them roaming around here. He whistles part of a storm-threnody. The sound is somewhat faint, but the light breeze carries it far.

Lyndon lights himself a cigarette and waits. For a good while, nothing happens. Finally, a small silhouette emerges from the fog and flies up to him. The bat perches on a nearby railing and gazes up to him.

“Oh, it’s you. You’re quite far from your territory, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

Lyndon lets out a puff of smoke that blends with the fog. “London’s my territory.” he retorts. “Anyway, I need you to carry a message for me.” He produces a small notebook and a pen from his trousers and starts scribbling.

The bat flies on the Sergeant’s shoulder, trying to get a peek of the message’s contents. “Is it official business or are you using the network for your personal reasons again?”

Lyndon snorts and glares at the little creature. “You ask too many questions, considering you’re just a diminutive mailman.” He finishes writing, rips the page from the notebook and folds it a few times. “Deliver this at my quarters. Do you know where I live?”

The bat lets the Sergeant tie the note to its leg. “The official address? Ye.”

“You’re good to go, then.”

The bat leaves Lyndon’s shoulder and he looks it disappear in the fog before returning inside the safehouse.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/19/2017

116

Later that night, Noah dreams of the smells and sounds of jungle. Oddly for a dream, he still sees nothing, but he feels the eyes of hungry beasts upon him. When he hears them moving closer, he brandishes his cane and shouts.

&quotNo! Not yet! I’m still useful! I know you want the Shade. I’ll get it! I don’t need eyes, all I need is a mouth to get the rest moving!&quot He draws a breath, trying to stay calm. &quotThe Stormstrider spook can stop it, there’s no way he can’t. He just needs information and time; I’ll see to it he gets those. The Orosenn woman can find it if she wants. If she’s too slow on her feet, all I need to do is make her think the Dynamo woman is threatened, that’ll get her moving. And if I fix the relationship of the Dynamo siblings, I will have the gratitude of whichever leads us at the end, and I will get a share of the Shade.&quot Noah straightens his back and draws his new sword, careful not to show any weakness. &quotNothing has changed. Our contract is still in effect, I still work for you. Don’t get in the way.&quot

The jungle around him explodes with laughter. &quotOh ho! The worm has teeth!&quot exclaims a jeering voice behind him. &quotDon’t worry, blind little worm! You’re still plenty of fun. Stay a good little boy, and we might even help you escape all the scary enemies you see in every shadow when this is all done.&quot A low voice, directly in front of him grumbles: &quotBut we do want our share of that beast, and we need to keep an eye on our investment. We’ll follow you closely, now. And&quot, Noah almost hears the grin, &quotwe’ll need to make sure you’re better prepared for sudden assaults in the future.&quot He hears a soft rustle, as if a dozen great cats lowering themselves for a pounce.

&quotThe night is still young&quot, grumbles the last voice. &quotRun.&quot

117

Locke Lockhart holds the bottle upside-down, letting its last few crimson drops trickle out onto the cavern floor. Out of wine for the third time today.

He supposes he’ll have to do something about that.

Locke stands up from his cross-legged position, his muscles stiff and cramped after sitting there for so long. He leaves the bottle with the others; he seems to be amassing quite the pile. And yet it never affects him like it used to, back in the days when he spent every night out on the town in Veilgarden getting black-out, roaring, stinking drunk. It’s maddening.

He grabs a lantern and lopes off down the tunnel in search of the wine cellar. Perhaps some of the Black Wings Absinthe will stir something in him. It’s not the usual buzz, but at this point he’ll take thinking he’s a bat-person over being sober.

Gideon locks the door of the shrine behind him; the bolts slide home with a pleasing clunk. Out in the less stifling air of the tunnel, he starts to wonder if he’s done something very unwise.

After their little chat, Voice 3 has returned to its usual taciturn state. Gideon has a feeling that that won’t last long.

Now that everyone is getting settled in, the others will need something to alleviate the tension that’s been brewing ever since the carriage ride. If every moment together is spent in stony silence punctuated by angry outbursts, the team won’t have a chance of formulating a better plan. He’s seen it before in his more unconventional scientist associates on their occasional visits; put a dozen strangers with strongly-held views in a room together and sooner or later a fight will break out.

Gideon doesn’t consider himself a people person, but he’s not stupid. One more calamity might be enough to break this team, leaving them to get picked off one-by-one by the implacable Shade.

He reaches a junction in the dimly-lit tunnel and starts making his way towards the wine cellar. If there is one thing he can count on, it’s that alcohol is the great leveller.

One of the Ninefold Cat slinks out of a side passage and falls in step with Gideon. Like his other selves, he is a grizzled ginger tom with part of his right ear bitten off in some long-ago fight. He munches on a freshly-caught rat as he pads along.

“Not much to report, boss,” the cat says in a gravelly voice, mumbling around the remains of the rat in his mouth.

Gideon has told him time and time again that he’s not his boss and he’s free to leave any time they please, but most of him seems perfectly happy to skulk around the tunnels of the laboratory when he’s not out hunting secrets.

“You got quite the gang here at the moment, eh, boss? I seen ‘em all coming in. Trouble up top, is it?”

“You saw them coming in,” Gideon corrects. “If you don’t learn to speak properly, you’ll never reclaim your grandfather’s lost title.”

The cat rolls his eyes. “Why would I want to go back there? Bunch of toffs, the lot of ‘em. I’d much rather be Neath-side, hunting rats with tiny guns and listening for scrumptious secrets.”

The Ninefold Cat is something of an infamous figure among the feline inhabitants of London – a seemingly omnipresent and terrifyingly savage information broker. Until he turned up on Gideon’s doorstep he was just another scrawny alley mog willing to undergo any experiment in exchange for secrets. Now he is nine scrawny alley mogs with a single calculating mind, and that makes all the difference.

“Locke’s around here somewhere,” continues the cat. “Up to no good, as usual. If you’re going to the wine cellar, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s ransacked the place.”

Gideon frowns. When he gave his wastrel cousin permission to come round here in event of dire emergency, he didn’t expect him to actually take up the offer.

“Oh, one more thing, boss. One of me overheard a conversation between the grumpy woman with the harpoon and the slightly less grumpy woman with the funny accent that I think you might be interested to hear…”

The silent wine-racks loom over Locke, throwing shifting shadows on the stone walls in the light of his lantern. The cellar is draped in cobwebs – from what Gideon has told him, he only drinks on special occasions. What sort of life is that?

Locke peeks between the bandages on his face to get a better look at the labels on the bottles. There isn’t just wine here, of course – there’s mushroom beer, mushroom brandy and some rather disgusting mushroom port. He considers himself a connoisseur of all things alcoholic; it only seems right that he sample a bit of everything. The rows near the entrance are already depleted from his earlier expeditions, so he moves further in, holding the lantern high.

The contents of the racks become ever more alarming as he walks past them. In addition to the horizontal bottles of wine, there are transparent bottles standing upright with curious labels like “Sulphuric acid - WARNING: CAUSTIC”, “Methylated spirits” and “Fluke Extract”. Judging by the array of warning labels and the way some of them seem to be glowing, Locke decides to pass.

At last, he reaches the end of the wine cellar. Here are the truly strange drinks, the airag and absinthes of the collection. A connoisseur could really cut his teeth on these, provided they didn’t outright disintegrate on contact with the liquid.

There it is: a single bottle of Black Wings Absinthe sitting forlornly at the end of the row. Locke grabs it in a bandaged hand and holds it up to the light, watching the absinthe roil and bubble like something alive.

As he examines the numerous warnings on the label, he becomes aware of a change in the quality of the air. A faint draft tickles the hairs on the back of his neck. He whirls around and comes face-to-face with a figure shrouded in purest night.

Locke’s other hand is halfway to the sword at his belt before he hears a familiar acerbic voice.

“I wouldn’t try that stuff if I were you, cousin,” says Gideon.

118

(OOC: Co-written with Shadowcthuhlu)

Evensong pulls their spouse along, trying to keep Dirae Erinyes’ functional hand away from Gideon’s inventions. Claiming one of the may labs-turned-guest-rooms and with some borrowed tools, Evensong gets to work. Peel back the flesh on the finger, then find the severed joint. With some dainty work with a blowtorch and hammer, they reforge the finger joint back onto the hand. Some quick stitches on the flesh to hold it together while it heals. The tricky part is the arm - not only does its metal and bone need to be reforged, but the careful symbols of runes, Greek letters, and hieroglyphs need to be examined for any fractures. A few will need to be recarved after the forging is done. The muscles will need to be rewired before the skin is stitched together.

Dirae Erinyes ignores the pain, letting the moment of calm stretch on by. It’s rare that they get to feel the cool air of the neath on their sickly greenish skin. There will be work soon enough, especially with the woman who came with them.

“Phryne?”

“Hm?” She has been humming that Wagner piece about the dragon for a couple of minutes. Slowly, her eyes focus on Dirae Erinyes. She smiles weakly. “Yes?”

“That’s a neat trick you pulled there. Where did you learn it?”

“Trick…” A shadow falls over her face. “I don’t really remember much of it. I remember being angry. I found the corpse… the dead woman. She was a friend. Well, I knew her.” After a pause, she asks: “Who was that guy with the scimitar?”

“Drake calls him The Shade. Apparently it’s his shadow mixed with mountain blood and cider while zailing. It’s been killing people in London for half a year now. It seems to have an interest in Drake and his sister. Has an army of hobos for some reason.” Dirae Erinyes rattles off the information while Evensong’s brow creases in concentration. “A s–t philosopher. That answer your question?”

“By killing you mean, killing permanently? Over several months?” Phryne seems aghast at this news.

“Aye. The police don’t seem inclined or able to catch him. Thus, this rather patched together hunting party. But how come you know nothing about this? All of London’s been talking about it for months!”

“I wasn’t here for a while. I left London… I don’t exactly remember when, but sometime late last year. I was looking for a… different kind of place to live in. You’ve probably heard of the Iron Republic…?”

Dirae Erinyes frowns, and Evensong stumbles slightly in their work, dropping their tools. With a deep breath, she resumes. “We’ve been there once. Not eager to return. I take it you enjoyed your time more than I did. What brought you back to London?”

A maelstrom of emotion plays on Phryne’s face. It is a long time before she speaks. “Liked it… yes, I did. Maybe a bit too much. I…” Her voice changes, suddenly she sounds like an old woman. “I can draw no line between imposture and self-deception. It’s…” She spasms. “Shut up!” Now, that sounded a little too much like the beast from Seven Devils square! But shortly after, the spasms subside. A single tear flows from her left eye. “I know the ugly faces the moon makes when no one is watching,” she whispers. Then, as if waking from a dream: “I’m sorry… what were we talking about?”

“You remind me of myself when I was younger.” There is a dark chuckle. “There was a man on the surface much like Dr. Schlomo who helped me somewhat. Maybe you should visit him after we finish our hunt.”

Phryne snorts. “Psychologists! I don’t trust them. I don’t believe they have anything to give us. I’ll take care of my soul myself, thank you very much.” She looks at Dirae Erinyes curiously. “Say, do you have a soul?”

“At least one, but it’s as cobbled together as my body.” They give a self-deprecating grin. “I’m surprised the devils chased it as long as they did. Sometimes I’m many, sometimes I’m one.”

Phryne watches Dirae with genuine concern. “Cobbled together…” She shakes her head. “I guess I don’t have to ask why someone would do that. Some megalomaniac trying to create something perfect.” She basically spits that last word out.

“They didn’t want to build something perfect. My parents only wanted to bring their loved ones back to life.” Dirae Erinyes tone is sympathetic. “I can understand that.”

“Well, I guess I understand it, too,” Phryne grudgingly admits. “But the reason doesn’t always justify the means. Anyway, you seem to be holding together well enough,” she says with a wry smile. “You’re probably more ‘alive’ than me at this point.”

“You don’t think you’re alive? As for holding together, that’s thanks to years of love and practice. Some days are better than others.”

That wry smile again. “Evensong, maybe you should check my pulse, just to make sure I’m alright?” Evensong places down their tools with an annoyed grunt and rests a hand on Phryne’s wrist. “No pulse, cool to the touch.” Her tone is dry. “Ma’am, you seem to be a perfectly healthy corpse.” Dirae Erinyes gives a surprised expression. “Never thought I would meet anyone deader than me. The Iron Republic really did do a number on you.”

Phryne sighs ruefully. “Most of it I did to myself. The Republic, if anything, protected me. Still protects me. I was surprised not to fall down dead when I entered my ship to return to London, nor when I touched London ground. I should be dead. I definitely shouldn’t be walking around and talking to people.” She shrugs. “No one really understands how the Iron Republic works.”

“Well, count yourself lucky then. I’ve seen worse walking corpses before I came down to London and that’s saying something. Might want to be a bit careful taking a sip of the Dynamos’ cider. At least your body seems to heal up on it’s own. It’s awful to be trapped in a rotting, broken body.”

“Lucky… well, I guess that’s one way of looking at it. And I don’t heal on my own. I have to concentrate on it. And it gets harder.” The cider is an interesting notion. “Did the Dynamos promise you all Cider as a reward for taking part in this venture?”

“They promised the cider to those who got hurt. Though, you didn’t sign the contract. With Emma in charge, I’m sure she will be willing to pay whatever you ask for - especially since you did save her girlfriend. If the cider doesn’t help, there is always mountain blood to consider.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Phryne muses. “I’d still need a new heart first, that won’t grow on its own.” She seems unwilling to discuss cider, or blood, further. “But, if stopping this ‘Shade’ is what you’re all after, then I’d like to join. Maybe I can add an… unconventional approach to your tactics.”

“I’m sure Emma would be glad to have you on. Take care, little sister… sorry, I meant Phryne. I guess I’m not over my shock from earlier.” With that Evensong finishes her work and wipes away the sweat from her brow. They need a shower, and some tasty candles, but mostly they need sleep. As Phryne slips away, they curl up on the already prone Dirae Erinyes. Their eyes close, and their dreams are permeated by the strange lights of Gideon’s many inventions.
edited by phryne on 3/20/2017

119

A girl prowls the paths heading towards Watchmaker’s Hill. She grunts and pants as the drags a huge bag behind her, covering it in dirt and scratching it on the sharp stones that litter the ground. The road is becoming more and more uneven as she moves farther from the Bazaar, and her feet are starting to hurt. She stops and sits on the ground, trying to catch her breath. She checks her hand-drawn map: her destination is still quite far, if what the bat had told her was correct, and it probably was.

Why did I think this was a good idea again?

She folds the map and takes out the other scrap of paper she has brought with her. A crumpled note scrawled by a familiar hand.

There has been a setback. I need more ammunition and a new set of clothes. Bring my carbine, too. I’m in a safehouse somewhere near Watchmaker’s Hill. Ask the bat for the way. -L.
P.S.: Don’t forget the coat.

When will he learn that people react better to detailed, circumstantial requests? He could be more polite, too. She sighs. He’ll never learn. That note probably was never meant to her anyway. But Big Sis was too busy running his network, and he did told her to be more useful since she didn’t pay any rent since, like, ever.

She gives one last check to the bag. Yes, she has brought everything he has asked for with her, and even something more. She considers the idea of leaving the carbine behind – it weights like an iron anvil. He wouldn’t forgive her for that, though. He had held onto that gun since the War of the ‘82. It was like family to him.

Finally, her breath becomes even, and her feet seem to hurt a little less. She waits a little longer before getting up. It’s time to move on: he won’t wait for her forever. She grabs the huge bag and continues down the path, grunting and panting all along.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/21/2017

120

(Co-written with Bertrand Lyndon/Barren)

The Ninefold Cat studies the battered figure descending from the ladder that leads to the roof. He’s moving slowly and sometimes winces as if he’s in pain. Once he’s down, the cat can get a better look at him: a rather short, yet sturdy human with messy brown hair. He reeks of smoke, cordite and blood. His shirt is tattered and bloodied, and he looks like he’s just been trampled by a stampede of wild horses. The cat remembers seeing him being carried inside the Shed the night before, unconscious and wounded.

The human turns and finally notices its presence. He frowns a bit. “You’re not the woman’s cat. Do you live here?”

The cat closes in and stops at the man’s feet. “Yeah. You looking for the bathroom? It’s just round the corner. You look like you could use a wash.”

The man raises an eyebrow. It’s hard to tell if he’s amused or annoyed. “Good to know. Do you also know where I can fix myself a drink? I’m thirsty.”

“Well, there’s water in the bathroom. You apes seem to like it that way, since you’re so poorly equipped to groom yourselves.”

The human grins. “I’d rather have something stronger. Something bottled.”

“Ah, right, you’re looking for the wine cellar!” says the cat, with what could be interpreted as a sly wink. “Last corridor to the left, and then go straight until you see the stairs down.”

The human brings his right hand to the head, as if he’s searching for something that’s not there. The motion looks a bit silly. “Well, thanks.”

The cat looks him walking slowly down the corridor. “What’s your name anyway?”

The human raises a hand to bid the cat farewell, but he doesn’t turn. “I’m the Sergeant.”

Gideon slips through the shadows of the much-depleted wine cellar toward the faint glow at the far end, trusting in his bombazine suit to drink up any light that hits him. The stealth isn’t entirely necessary, but he wants to see the look on Locke’s face – or at least in his eyes, since most of his face is swathed in bandages.

The inventor pads closer and catches sight of Locke holding up a lantern to examine the more specialised vintages. He supposes he’ll have to stop the man before he tips over a bottle of something pyrophoric and sends the whole place up in flames.

“I wouldn’t try that stuff if I were you, cousin,” he says as the bandaged drunkard turns around.

There it is – the eyes widening in recognition. He’d like to think there’s some guilt in there for raiding his wine cellar, but that may be wishful thinking.

“Gideon! What a surprise!” splutters Locke. “Have you come to join my little party? There’s plenty of booze here for the both of us, I imagine, though I seem to have developed something of a tolerance.”

Gideon massages his temples. Talking to Locke always brings on a headache.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to waltz in here whenever you felt like a tipple. In fact, I said ‘emergencies only’. So what’s the emergency?”

Locke’s jaw works beneath the bandages. “Ah, that,” he says, drawing out the syllables. “Big emergency. Had a bit of a disagreement with the Pratt sisters at the Bomb with Two Necks – they disagreed with me living there rent-free for the last six months, I disagreed with their disagreement, then they brought some disagreeable blokes to eject me from the attic room. So I thought ‘who’s an excellent fellow, a loyal brother in the Cause and family to boot?’” His teeth flash between the wrappings in a grin.

“Could it possibly be me?” Gideon sighs.

“Actually I went to Normal Edgar first – he’s my great-uncle, see, and he’s got this great rapport with the L.B.s so he can get you pretty much any kind of drink as long as it comes in rat-sized bottles. ‘Course, you’ve got to get in with the rats if you live in a skip.”

“So then you came here.”

“Nah, then I went to the docks to see if anyone would give me somewhere to lay my head in exchange for blowing up a few warehouses, but the folks I talked to seemed surprisingly opposed to what they called ‘Bolshevik sentiment and gross vandalism’”. Locke shakes his head. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Did you at least avoid touching my inventions?” Gideon says despairingly.

“Well…” Locke avoids eye contact. “I may have nudged one of the mirrors in that sunlight thingy you keep banging on about. And it may have caught on fire, just a little bit. And just possibly, I might have tried putting out the fire with the only thing I had to hand. Which was a bottle of whiskey.”

deck him, mutters Voice 1. I CONCUR, adds Voice 2.

Gideon’s fists clench. He rounds on Locke, and his cousin backs into a wine rack.

At that moment, he is interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Gideon turns to see Drake grinning sheepishly.

“Uh, gentlemen, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Gideon frowns. Behind him, Locke makes a pleading look and nods frantically.

“I’m hoping we might find the others to discuss our plan of action. Perhaps you two would like some Cider?”

“Cider?” Gideon says. “Oh, of course, the Hesperidean stuff. Yes, if you could spare a little to mend my bruises, that would be excellent-“

Locke dashes past him and grabs a cup of Cider from Drake, gulping it down in one go. He pulls the bandages apart on his arm and sees a little colour begin to return to his pallid flesh.

Then the cumulative weight of a dozen hangovers crashes down on him all at once.

“B____y hell, this stuff has a kick!” he yells, and promptly collapses onto the floor.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/21/2017