I am pretty sure that I am biting off more than I can chew here, but since I had the idea to group RP a different ending for Mnemosyne’s* and the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor from Steeped In Honey, I have been unable to put it down. And since no one else has posted about it I thought I would get the ball rolling:
So until Failbetter releases an in-cannon story dealing with the red honey den, why don’t we deal with it ourselves via group RP?
I’d like to know if there are any fiction writing roleplayers out there who would like to band together to make our own satisfying epilogue to the exceptional story Steeped In Honey. One that will in all likelihood put an end to Mnemosyne’s, the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor, and a good chunk of the red honey trade. I know that my character, the Six Handed Merchant, has been obsessed with Mnemosyne’s ever since the exceptional story ended, leading me to write the short story below: His Eyes.
Consider this story to be my request to RP a collaborative fiction that will serve as a satisfying epilogue to Steeped In Honey. (The RP session doesn’t have to start with this story, it’s just the first idea that came to me.)
(* Turns out it is pronounced “ne-mos-in-NEE” which I didn’t realize!)
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His Eyes
(Warning: Contains minor spoilers for the exceptional story Steeped In Honey.)
The Six Handed Merchant checked through their rooms at the Royal Bethlehem one last time: no hungover houseguests left over from last night’s party, no students pulling all-nighters in the Correspondence library, no crazy neighbors hiding in the bathtub, no forgotten pets, no strange plants, no malevolent monkeys, no open windows, no stray bats, no drawn curtains, no unlocked doors.
Six sighed contentedly to themselves and slid back the irrigo curtain that covered the heavy iron door leading to their disused salon Few of London’s high society would ever visit the Royal Bethlehem, at least not twice, so Six had found a better use for the space. The Bohemian detective pulled out the three large keys, and one ratwork key, required to open the heavy locks barring the door. As each lock clicked open, Six heard the agitated clicks and savage scrapes of the salon’s last line of defense.
The Bohemian detective turned the final lock and entered the pitch-black room. The agitated clicks turned into hisses of frothing rage from the two enormous sorrow-spiders guarding the salon. Six held their arms wide, cooing and soothing the rabid spiders, assuring them at their home was not being invaded. Slowly, the barely-tame sorrow-spiders calmed down, and slid respectfully back into the darkest corners of the pitch-black room.
Six rotated a set of parabolic mirrors built into the walls. The mirrors directed light from the outer rooms of the apartment into the depths of the salon. Six would never risk entering the salon with a candle, for it contained the culmination of their life’s work: The Web Of London’s Secrets.
The salon had been relieved of its traditional sitting room furniture, and in its place were rows of heavily-ladened desks and bookcases, with papers and odd trinkets piled high on every available surface. The walls of the salon, and even the ceiling, were papered in photographs, newspaper clippings, wanted posters, hastily-scrawled notes, legal treatises and arcane insignias. The room looked like the study of a hoarder gone mad. And between all the papers, portraits and trinkets, a thousand gleaming silk threads criss-crossed the room, connecting seemingly incongruous items together into the most maddeningly elaborate and intricate web that London had ever seen.
This was the core of Six’s information business, and the most powerful tool in Six’s arsenal as a private detective. Every fact, every rumor that Six had ever been exposed to was recorded here, in the language of Six’s mind. The Web Of London’s Secrets connected the Widow to the Duchess, Hell to St. Dunstain’s, the urchins to the wild winds of the Neath, and nearly everything back to the Masters and the Bazaar.
Six removed their gloves and ran a long finger gently across the silken strands. The Web hummed with possibilities. Six followed the vibrations of the Web to their farthest extents. The Web was beautiful, intricate, and over the years, slowly developing into something profound, and perhaps one day, perfect.
Except for one corner, where a bunched-up pile of silk had been thrown into a heap with some broken mourning candles and a piece of paper with only a single word inscribed on it: “NAME?” Six shuddered: excising that part of the web was the smartest thing that they had ever done.
And the other corner, where a preponderance of strands grew like a tumor around the photo of a gimlet-eyed man, pinned to the wall with a dagger that was plunged hilt-deep into his right eye.
Six sighed, within days of the incident at Mnemosyne’s with the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor, the Web had already started to warp. Six had tried to put that horrible case behind them, but the more they tried, the more the web-tumor around the dagger grew. Now that tumor connected the dagger to the locket of the Withered Vagabond, to a heavily-sealed jar of cantigaster venom, and to an empty jar of formaldehyde placed strategically below the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor’s picture.
The young detective fought back tears. Six was not a violent person….not formerly a violent person. Six hated the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor, almost as much as they hated what they had become because of him. Six hated the tumor in the Web; the weaponization of the Web. In the weeks since the Mnemosyne case, Six had added whatever secrets they could find that might lead to the fall of the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor. But as those secrets dried up, Six found themselves adding whatever secrets they could find that might lead to the death of the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor.
Six closed their eyes and turned away. No! This was premeditated murder! Six had spent years putting away monsters who planned things like this, and now they were becoming one.
Perhaps they should excise that part of the web too? Before it was too late?
Six plucked a silk thread, sending tremors through the Web.
Tremors through the locket of the Withered Vagabond.
Who else would save her? Who else would save them all? Six knew it was already too late.
Tremors through the jar of cantigaster venom.
Tremors through the dagger embedded in the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor’s face.
This would demand a sacrifice from Six, just like the Name did. Only this time Six knew they would pay the price, no matter how high.
Tremors through several small slips of paper pinned to one wall, containing the names of those exceptional and capable Londoners who hated the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor as much as Six did.
Was this the kind of manic intensity that led to the Honey-Addled Detective’s fall? Not sure: there are too many missing threads to answer that one.
If Six could only pluck the right strand, it would send tremors through the Web…tremors big enough to knock down buildings.
Six tentatively plucked another thread, and a copy of Moby Dick teetered and fell off a bookcase clear across the room. Unintended consequences: Six’s worst fear.
A quote from that surface book came back to them: “He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it."
Tremors, appropriately enough, though Moby Dick.
Six shuddered. Would they even have a heart left once the deed was done?
Tremors though Six.
Selfish! Why would it matter? So long as the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor was dead. So long the Withered Vagabond was safe. So long as the red honey didn’t flow. Why did it matter what happened to one lone detective?
Tremors though London.
They had given their life over to this path years ago.
Six plucked the strand again and watched the names of those extraordinary Londoners vibrate with potential. Despite all of their efforts, the Web never produced a viable plan to kill the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor, but it did provide Six with names. Names of all the wonderful Londoners who could help Six complete this vile but necessary deed.
Six watched the dagger embedded in the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor vibrate. And below his picture, the empty jar of formaldehyde shook. The jar where…once the invitations were sent out, once the team was assembled, once the plans were made, once those extraordinary Londoners had set out, once the deed was one, once Six was sure that Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor could never hurt anyone again, once Mnemosyne’s was nothing but warm ashes, and once Six had left the biggest crater in the Red Honey trade that they could manage…that was the jar where Six would keep the Gimlet-Eyed Proprietor’s eyes.
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Lke Six, I need the help of the more experienced roleplayers in this forum to make this story a reality. I have never run a group RP or collaborative fiction before, and I could use the help and skill of whatever experienced players are interested.
And I know that people’s RP schedules are currently pretty hectic right now, so I’m happy to put this off until we have the time to do it right.
And then, once we are ready, lets set things right. One way or another.
Who’s with me?
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edited by Six Handed Merchant on 1/1/2018