I want to do a bit of FL-inspired writing so I’ll be doing little excerpts from Lieutenant Maxie Stark’s diary. Comments and thoughts are welcomed! :D
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3rd January 1897
Today marks the ninth visit from Mr Sacks over the Christmas period. I’m not quite sure what it wants but it seems like good enough company, unlike what I’ve heard of the other Masters. It offered me a single crumb of bread, but what the hell was in it? I hadn’t experienced hunger like this before…
MUST EAT MUST EAT MUST EAT MUST EAT MUST EAT MUST EAT
DEVOUR
CONSUME
[this goes on for about three pages in large and untidy writing]
I’ve eaten and eaten until I can eat no more. And now it [the page is splattered with meat juices and blood, blurring the ink]
–
4th January 1897
A dream. Who is Mr Eaten? What is he the Master of? Was the meat I ate drugged? What is fake and what is real? This sounds like bad news, but something is telling me to check it out.
Later though. I have important business to attend to in the Flit. Some of the urchins have told me that there’ll be a gathering of cats sharing secrets, and when up in the high ropes of the Flit, anything you can get your hands on goes.
And maybe another visit from Mr Sacks.
–
12th January 1897
Another forced exile in Venderbight. But not to worry. The tomb-colonists are more of a minor inconvenience than anything. But it was lovely to see that bandaged smuggler again…
I’ve never paid much thought to the notion of scandal. Even now, when I’ve lost track of the number of times I had to hide out in the tomb-colonies. It wasn’t what I said or did, it was more… those d_mned journalists hounding me. And even then, it’s not the tomb-colonists. It’s the d_mned zailing. I get zee-sick even after countless talks with zailors about how to stop it.
But even here, where the shores of London are so far away… what’s this about the number seven? And why north? I’ve lost track of the dreams I’ve had about that number and that cardinal direction. Shame I only brought two bottles of laudanum with me…
Only a few days before I return to my own bed, and hopefully the jewel-thief will be there. He’d insisted that the diamonds on our wedding rings were ones we stole, and the ring does give me comfort. But he has his own ways, not that I mind at all. Our union was going to be a free one.
–
18th January 1897
Back to London at last! Only so much decay and bandages you can take at any one time. And back to my lodgings to rest on my own bed for a while.
… but that d_mned name still bothers me! Why, when I just want to relax after a horrible day of zailing? At this rate it would be better to chase the urchins around the Flit. Or maybe, just maybe, make a small trip to Veilgarden and indulge in wine and honey.
–
2nd February 1897
Is it too early to be making preparations for the Feast of the Exceptional Rose? I’ve got some ideas for it. I wish I could write them all down…
The desk in my lodgings has become scattered with various items of paperwork. A few infernal contracts, some rather lucrative Bazaar Permits and a few trade secrets I’ve learned over time. But, more troubling, is these drawings of Correspondence script? I think? Along with many many repeats of SEVEN IS THE NUMBER. I don’t remember writing any of this.
NORTH… why is this so annoyingly familiar? I asked my husband if he’d seen me do any of this and he said that he saw me drawing a few times but didn’t want to disturb me. The sigils, the number, the NAME… Maybe I need to stop losing myself in honey-dreams so much. Or ease off the wine. It could even be the d_mned laudanum for all I know.
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(Minor edit from feedback received)
edited by SassmasterMaxie on 2/20/2019