Sketch sniffs.
He brushes the sweat off his brow with his forearm.
It’s hard work.
It’s bloody dogs work, in fact, but it must be done.
The hotel room is hot. Even now, with Sketch’s black clothing discarded on his bed, and with the wooden flaps of the window thrown open and letting in the various scents, both pleasant and unpleasant, of the city in, it’s bloody hot. It’s no time to be doing this kind of work.
But it has to be done.
Sketch takes a deep breath, grips the saw tight, and resumes.
Eventually, it will begin to stink. Even wrapped up tight, it will begin to stink. But if it’s hard to tell one stench from another back home in London, he can’t imagine anyone will notice the stink for quite some time against the distinct smell of sweat covering this sweltering city. No, he doesn’t imagine people will notice the stench, not unless it’s right below their window. They’ll find it, eventually, but if Sketch has gotten any better at hiding these things over the last year, hopefully he’ll be out at zee by the time that happens.
He leans forward, pressing hard into the saw.
Such things are not unexpected. Zailors often do mad things in foreign towns, knowing it’s hard to pin something on a face in the crowds that come and leave with the tide.
It’s not cheerful work. The enjoyable part is when it happens - not the clean-up. That’s a general rule for most of life, and it certainly applies here.
But it must be done. It’s only ever truly satisfactory if you know they’ll never come back.
There comes a knock at the door.
Sketch’s head snaps up, staring over the bed at the other end of the room where the sound originated. He frowns, looks down at his work, and then looks back at the door.
The dandy rises, throwing his jacket on quickly over the unbuttoned shirt and slipping his gloves on over his dripping hands.
He opens the door slightly, blocking any image of the room.
There stands a young slip of a boy, barely able to maintain his swaying balance, giggling madly.
"’Ello, zzshhailor," he says, and bursts into another fit of giggles, "You need a landlubber’s hand?"
Sketch grins. The boy’s come down from the pub occupying the lower floor of the tavern. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen.
He has enough time for another.
"Aye, that I do," he says, pulling the drunken lad towards him.
The boy giggles, stumbling into the room as Sketch closes the door behind him.
He pauses, his eyes settling on the sight beyond the bed.
"Wha’ the 'ell-"
The pipe comes down.
(OOC) Oh dear.
Wordlessly, the colonist leaves the tea-house, slipping Drake a small bag of rostygold on his way out.
Once outside, he mutters to himself “Off to get the baggage, then.” and heads towards the market where he’d last left his clay man.
(OOC) Am I allowed to bring a clay man? I can swap it with something else if you’re not partial to having one along.
(I don’t see why you wouldn’t be - we already have one hidden somewhere on board, I’m sure we have room for another.)
At a crowded market, a group of tigers are haranguing a lone clay man in a battered grey overcoat. Just as they’re about to enact violent cruelty upon the stoic golem, a cane held by a bandaged hand dispatches them.
“Bad kitties.”
“Are you alright, Tuff?”
-“Pefectly fine, Sergeant.”
“I told you, nobody calls me that anymore.”
-“Then what would I call you? You’re hardly a sir.”
“That’s true, I suppose. Let’s be off then, I’ve secured you a boat back to London, set for tomorrow morning. There’s still some business we must attend to.”
And with that, the Bizarre silhouettes walk off into the fungal jungle to the east of the port.
In one of the shadier parts of Port Carnelian the sounds of a rumpus can be heard. A large group of rather mean-looking people are roaming the streets, seemingly in pursuit of some unlucky soul. Judging from their angry shouts the recipient of their ire seems to have quite eluded them, but a hypothetical observer who for some equally hypothetical reason had decided to contemplate a barrel filled with a diverse selection of seafood might just notice something. That something being the top part of a rather stylish flat cap. The onlooker might deduce that the flat cap is not very pleased with its current place in life, it is wriggling around uncomfortably as if some dismayed angler crab was pinching its hem. but this is not a sentient flat cap from Polythreme and the one doing the wriggling is to be found slightly below the hat in the form a sentient primate from Fallen London. They are also the one being pinched.
The day had started so well for Ozymandias. He had joined a table playing some local variant of Tarot and swiftly taken a sizable lead. Then, when he wanted to collect his winnings, they had accused him of cheating!
He had cheated of course, but there was no way they could have known. Furthermore, they were cheating too, and rather clumsily at that. In an establishment like that deception is part of the game so It was really quite bad-mannered to make such a fuss over it.
But no matter how he got here, he couldn’t stay here. Port Carnelian was not a healthy place to stay right now, and another second in this barrel might cause him to go mad and imagine himself a sentient flat cap.
He decides to raise his head and at that precise moment an improbable but opportune wind blows a piece of paper onto his face. Now this is interesting. An expedition to inconceivable places with impossible goals. Anyone signing up for this would have to be mad indeed.
As the Genial Gambler raises himself out of the barrel he finds an unlikely smile on his lips. He had always said one should take life as it comes And life definitely seemed to be coming on to him. He needed to get out of town, and here the answer was literally staring him in the face. He was a gambler, an admirer of the improbable, an agent of the uncertain. This expedition was all of that, a most magnificent game. Now he just needed to find this Drake fellow.
(OOC) Sorry if there is a bit too much text. i might have let the writing get away from me.
edited by Ozymandias, on 7/17/2016
edited by Ozymandias, on 7/17/2016
When a decision has been made one should act quickly in accordance. So after making sure those who hound him are nowhere near Ozymandias leaves his makeshift hideout in an almost graceful manner and heads towards a gentleman walking by, with the intention of inquiring whether he might know the whereabouts of a certain Drake Dynamo. On the way he makes himself as presentable as one who has spent quite some time as a confidante of fish can manage. When nearing the gentleman a strange sensation grips him, call it intuition or what will you, and when he sees the curious look in the man’s eye The Gambler finds himself quite certain. He needs look no further, this is Mr Dynamo.
Therefore, he wastes no time and introduces himself immediately
“Hello, we have not met before but I do believe you are the illustrious Mr Drake Dynamo and that you are looking for brave or foolhardy characters to participate in a most extraordinary expedition. I am Ozymandias, and it is a delight to meet you.
Now, you might be wondering what exactly I can contribute to this expedition. Am I an experienced seafarer? A sturdy soldier? Perhaps a wise academic? The answer to all of those are a resounding no, though I have dabbled in it all. Truthfully, there are far better captains than me and while I do have some appreciation for fighting as a sport I much prefer to solve my problems with words and wits and daring. What I am my dear Drake, is a gambler in every sense of the word. I read people and I read situations and I adapt to whatever obstacles might appear before me. As a bonus I’ve got an encyclopedic knowledge of all sorts of games so we won’t be bored on the ship”
Having said this all in practically one breath he adds
“By the way, I occasionally speak fast, I do hope you don’t mind”
edited by Ozymandias, on 7/17/2016
Blood. I smell blood. The everlasting stench of violence. Strolling casually along the streets, a gentleman of good repose stops under an open window. Violence is being performed near by, and he is not doing it. A grin on his face, he whips around and enters into a nearby building, the smell of a certian professor in the air. Checking his pocket to make certian his laundunum hasn’t broken, Lord Vaustus ascendes the stairs and knocks.
"Damnable," Sketch mutters, hastily removing the glove.
Teeth marks.
The hand is wiped clean of the red it was drenched in a moment ago, but apparently the Polythreme glove was a little eager in its appetite.
Another knock at the door.
Sketch glances up.
He doubted it was another drunken suitor. Perhaps a friend of the youth here to retrieve him, perhaps a constable, or perhaps some other problem. Either way, it was nothing Sketch wanted to deal with right now.
He’s been quick with his work. He didn’t have enough time to make the pieces as small as the first, the woman, and they rather bulge at the sides of the bag, but they fit. He hurriedly gathers up the dripping blanket, practically as thin as Sketch’s shirt, balls it up and shoves it in the bag as well.
He glances at the door again as he throws on his vest and jacket, drapes his tie around his neck, and throws the loop of the bag over his head. Could it be a constable? Surely no one heard him.
With the bag around his neck, Sketch now looks like nothing more than a rather disheveled thief of a postman’s luggage. Of course, there are a few things that it separate it from the bag of a courier. Firstly, it is black. Secondly, it is far too large, reaching almost down to Sketch’s knees, but such a thing is hard to notice when passing quickly by. Third, it is not just a bag.
The weight straining on Sketch’s neck is already growing lighter by the time he reaches the window.
Only Sketch is close enough to the bag to hear the aggravated cough as it chokes on the blanket, then promptly resumes its meal.
Sketch swings both legs out the window, gripping it by the ledge.
The bag eats quick, and eats almost everything, but it doesn’t touch the bones. The bones would have to be discarded.
The dandy drops down into the street. Around him, there are a few curses and exclamations, but there’s always one or two young men dropping from the windows of the tavern to avoid being caught by either the landlord or some other acquaintance they do not wish to know their business. Most people bring an umbrella, just in case.
Suinicide flinched as the tea hit her face. She stood outside the Gracious Monster-hunter’s room, not even through the door yet. This was going to go well.
“You’ll notice it’s cold.” A voice came from a muscular woman, who had just torn the door open. “I’ve been waiting for you, and you took your time.”
“There were…distractions,” Suinicide said, her mind flashing back to the dancers she found shortly after leaving the ship.
“There are always distractions,” The Monster Hunter snapped, her arm grabbing Suinicide’s. The open wound was clearly visible. “And look at this! What are you doing to yourself with your little 'distractions?”
Suinicide tried to pull her arm back, staggering as the Hunter refused to let go. “I have people keep an eye on my friends, in case anything tries for revenge,” The Hunter continued, ignoring her. “They say you’ve been acting strange recently. I know what you’re doing.”
The Hunter dropped Suinicide’s arm, almost making her fall. “There’s a reward for capturing people like you. And there’s a reason for that.”
“And I have a reason for my actions.” Suinicide said, turning on her. “And they are not something I would forget.”
The Hunter stopped for a moment, watching Suinicide with her eyes. Then sighed. “You actually seem serious this time, almost like an actual person. Found something worth more than secrets perhaps?”
Suinicide said nothing, staring back at her.
“Fine.” The Monster Hunter came to a decision. “You don’t want to share. I don’t want to kill you. For the sake of our former friendship I’ll pretend you never came here.” She nodded towards Suinicide’s arm. “Next time I see you, it’d better be without that thing. Or I’ll treat you like any other monster.” The door slammed, puncutating her words.
Suinicide stared at the door for a moment, then used a bandage to wipe the tea off her face. She should have known disguising the wounds would be useless. She started to make her long way back to the ship.
Realizing his knocking useless, Vaustus kneeles down. After a second of juggling the lock, the door swings open. He sighs. The stench of blood is still rancid in the air, but the spiller of it is gone. He begins to turn, and then stops. In the corner of the room, the last evidence of the gruesome deed: a blood stain. Taking his gloves from out of his pocket, Lord Vaustus begins to smile. Perhaps he shall meet this wonderful, efficient, fellow before the day is out. His gloves have the scent now. Polythremes work is as fine as always. Following the gloves incessant pull, Vaustus looks for a new friend.
edited by Lord Vaustus on 7/17/2016
(OOC) Well, that seems to have tied everything up quite neatly, how about we continue to the next morning?
The next morning,
Two figures, one bandaged, and the other clay, stand patiently at a particular jetty at the port Carnelian docks. The heat never diminishes, and the Mirthless Colonist is drinking his Black Wings Absinthe by the bottle. The clay men, Tuff, fidgets with a small suitcase, his fingers too big to properly hold it by the handle.
edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/17/2016
(OOC: Sorry for not being here yesterday, life has been catching up with me!)
The Scorched Sailor had not left the Reck yesterday; he had no particular business in Port Carnelian. Instead, he wondered the hallways of his ship and scribbled notes in a small, crimson notebook that he carried in the breast pocket of his great overcoat. When night had come, it was a relief: Port Carnelian was too warm to reasonably wear as many layers, covers and scarves as he was wearing, but even alone on the ship he refused to take them off. His presence in a tavern or gambling den would have caused more questions than it brought him comfort.
When morning comes, he rises to find two figures stood on the jetty, waiting expectantly by the Reck. One finishes a long swig from a dark-coloured bottle before acknowledging him at the rail, and the Sailor can see thin wraps of bandage circling their limbs, covering them almost completely. The other figure, much much larger in comparison, was obviously a Clay Man, but fidgeting in a way that was very much unlike the preternatural stillness of Clay Men at rest. The suitcase he was carrying seemed comically small in comparison to his huge body.
"Ho!" the Scorched Sailor calls down, and climbs down to the jetty to meet the pair. "I’m assuming Drake sent you here." He waves a hand at the ruinous ship moored next to them. "No one would wait by this wreck unless they had been directed here!" He stretches out a gloved hand to clasp in the Tomb-Colonist’s own, both of them carefully insulated from any skin contact. "I’m the captain of this here vessel, the Reckoning Postponed, although Drake is in charge of the expedition as a whole." He casts an appraising eye over the Clay Man, debating whether or not to offer him a hand as well. He opts for courtesy, and sticks out an arm. "What brings the two of you on aboard my ship, on our improbable voyage?"
“Details tend to be trivial and pointless, but let’s just say that the ship that was meant to bring us back to London wasn’t as buoyant as one might have hoped.”
The Mirthless Colonist indiscreetly examines the peculiar ship. “Your fellow, Drake was it? He promised us a spot on your ship. As I’ve come to understand, this voyage is of an expeditional nature? It can’t be helped then, I suppose. As long as you can guarantee that eventually we’ll be back at London, I’m willing to pay, and Tuff’s willing to work.” As he steps on the deck, he turns his head towards the sailor. “And please, stay out of my business. The less you know, the better.”
Barselaar gestured at the Clay Man. " And who’s this, security?" He couldn’t quite suppress the sneer that crept into his voice. The situation was rapidly slipping out of his control: he’d pledged his ship to Drake, true, but his vessel was quickly filling up with passengers of whom he had no knowledge and didn’t trust at all.
A confrontation will solve nothing now, he thinks as he shows the pair to a particularly dilapidated suite, taking a certain pleasure in the sorry state of the room. He resolves to talk to Drake about the characters and motives of their expedition partners.
"These are your rooms. We set sail later today. And now, I’ll remove myself once more from your business." He leaves, tapping an angry rhythm on the side of his leg. The others should be arriving soon.
edited by Barselaar on 7/17/2016
Ozymandias arrives at the docks whistling a merry tune. As he had been told the ship is hard to miss. The Reckoning postponed is a battered thing, a palimpsest of marks and stains.
The state of the ship does not cause him any distress however. History has often shown that those things which proclaim themselves indestructible are soon torn apart. A ship like this makes no such claims but bears the scars of hardships endured, it has gone against the odds and emerged victorious. It spoke well for both the ship and its captain.
Speaking of the captain Ozymandias sees a figure wrapped in various cloths standing on the deck. The familiarity, bordering on intimacy, with which he inspects the ship makes it clear that he is the owner of the vessel. He is not a tomb colonist, so the rags must be hiding something else.
it seems that the captain is not all that pleased with the intrusion of strangers onboard his ship, but if the captain resembles his ship (as they are wont to do) the gruff exterior is the mark of someone who has seen the horrors of the sea and remained steadfast. If one were to get on his good side the captain would definitely prove a staunch companion.
With this in mind The Genial Gambler puts on his most sociable smile and goes too greet his new captain.
The Scorched Sailor accepts the outstretched hand of the smiling stranger. He makes a resigned noise, and remarks, half to himself and half to his new passenger, “Another one, eh? Seems like Drake is picking up every stray and wastrel he meets!” He coughs and looks away in gruff embarrassment. “No offense meant, of course, to your good self. I’m just not used to having strangers aboard.” He gives a cursory introduction and looks the man up and down. He cannot help but be slightly mollified by the stranger’s personable grin.
“If you’re sailing with us, you’ll need a bunk. Follow me.” He strides off down a set of stairs and into the belly of the ship. “What brings you on this foolhardy voyage? Drake’s improbable adventure sure seems to be drawing the crowds.”
“Well part of it is a purely practical matter, some minor matter has left me unwelcome in these parts and this expedition is a good way to get out of sight.
But to tell you the truth, the goal of our expedition has aroused in me a certain philosophical curiosity. My entire life I have been living, torn between the deterministic and the probabilistic worldview. If we can truly go back in time, I see two outcomes. The first is that our very presence upsets the flow of time in such a way that every action brings with it unforeseeable consequences. The other is that we can achieve nothing, every action will lead to the same outcome, we might even be the cause of our own expedition. Will it be chaos or order? fate or chance? What I truly want to know is this. Is life chess or is it poker?”
Having said this with a passionate glint in his eyes, the gambler suddenly looks somewhat embarrassed
“But, I do apologize if I bore you with my meanderings. I usually try to be somewhat more down to earth. Now, if you dont mind me asking captain, what has led you to lend body and ship to this expedition?”
edited by Ozymandias, on 7/17/2016
(OOC) I won’t be able to roleplay this evening, I’ve got a party and I’ll only be arriving tomorrow around lunchtime. If for some reason you must progress past a point where the Mirthless Colonist is expected to do something, just roleplay him as a solemn, silent, and physically capable character. And don’t forget that he drinks his Black Wings by the bottle.
Additionally, I wanted to add a small passage where my character recognizes Sketch’s bag as Polythremic in origin, but that’s optional.
Vaustus strolls up to the docks. There. That ship. The Reckoning. Good to see it up and about again. His gloves pull him towards it, slobbering. His new friend must be on board. Clambering up the side, Lord Vaustus enters by a hatch and hides himself in the hold. Port Carnelian had been boring him anyway.
Sketch cracks open the bag, sitting on the bed of his suite. The damned thing hadn’t been able to fully digest both of its meals. When he found a safe alleyway and opened it, he found quite a few things still remained of the young boy from the tavern. No doubt eventually some constable would find it, but Sketch would be long out at zee by then. Now all that remained was a slight smell marking the boy’s passage that lined the inner fabrics of the bag, but with a little help that would soon pass as well.
The dandy reaches into his jacket, pulling out the leather flask and letting some of its contents slosh down into the recesses of the bag. Capping it again, he sticks it back inside his jacket and pulls out a small bottle of perfume with which he sprays the inside of the bag liberally. There’s a cough of protest and indignation from the oversized sack, but it has become used to the process. Eventually, the bag would suck up most of the air, and with it the smells, within itself, but till then the alcohol and the perfume would disguise the stink of Sketch’s secret pleasures. For now, the bag would smell no different than Sketch on most nights in Veilgarden.
edited by Professor Sketch on 7/17/2016