ForScience
Posts: 69
11/1/2016
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A sister! And one from the past! Is she why Drake organized this whole expedition, then? To bring his sister here so that she could pass out drunk on the bed? Possibly!
Florence sips at the little glass of Cider cheerfully, ignoring Emma's loud snores. "You'll have to tell me everything! We really did it, didn't we? We went back in time!" Her eyes gleam with delight. "I must say, I am quite excited to start writing up my experiences!"
Before she can continue, though, the Tomb-colonist pulls Drake aside. Is it rude to listen in? Surely Drake would have at least stepped out of earshot if he didn't want Florence to hear what he had to say. It isn't the talk she's used to from her friend, and even now she casts a wary eye on the Cider she had drunk so merrily moments ago.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
11/6/2016
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THE CUMAEAN CANAL: THEN
The ship shuddered beneath him, descending through another lock into the bowels of the earth. Malice awoke with a start, slumped against a railing overlooking the black water. The roaring of the sluices filled his ears as the lock emptied.
Seven minutes to change my past. Seven minutes to save my future.
The lord picked himself up and pressed on into the wavering shadows. It wouldn’t do to be caught by a passing zailor and mistaken for a stowaway – he looked little like his younger self now, and the trip here had left his clothing the worse for wear.
A thrill ran up his spine as he descended the metal staircase to the passengers’ quarters. He had scarcely believed that Drake’s plan would work, but here he was. And here Edith was too; not far away now. It had been too long since he last looked upon her face.
Malice checked that the Cider was still secure on his person. He had sampled it (how could one resist?) but the bulk of the miraculous liquid was still present. It had never been for him, after all.
***
The awful thing about dying was how cold it was. Shrouded in blankets, radiator turned up to full blast, she could barely feel the warmth. The chill was in her bones.
Edith knew they wouldn’t make it below in time. She scarcely believed this nonsense about the so-called Neath at all – talking tigers, sea-serpents, the lost city of London, the Garden of Eden itself, all inside a vast subterranean cavern. It was a pleasing fancy, nothing else; something for the dying woman to dream of.
All the indulgent smiles and tiptoeing around her sensibilities made her sick. It was like being a child again, patronised and mollycoddled by the grown-ups who always knew what was best for her. They talked of her being “terribly unwell” and “ailing” and expressed their deepest, most genuine sympathies and wished her well, but they were simply dancing around the issue, and the issue was that she had a malignant tumour wrapped around her lungs that was choking the life out of her and wouldn’t ever stop, not until she was a dry, desiccated husk six feet beneath the ground.
They say the imminent certainty of death does wonders for one’s perspective. Edith would certainly agree with that.
Her dearest husband was fast asleep in the bedside chair not minutes after he promised to stay up with her, naturally. She hadn’t slept a wink - her life had become one long waking dream seen through a haze of opiates that dulled her perception and her wits, but tonight was different.
Tonight she was more awake than she had been for a long time, twitching at shadows on the walls of the darkened bedroom as the ship shifted around her, facing the horror of mortality as she waited for the end to come.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, clanging on the metal floor. Edith froze, her nerves jangling. When had she become so weak, so frightened of every little sound? It felt like little remained of her old resilient self.
Another clunk outside was followed by the awful din of gears revolving. The wheel in the centre of the bulkhead door began to turn with a squeal of protesting metal.
The latch opened with a final click, and the door creaked open.
Edith squinted against the overpowering light flooding in from the corridor. A shadowy form stood in the doorway, eyes glittering in reflected light from the mirror.
She tried to scream, but her withered lungs could only manage a hoarse yelp. So this was Death personified: not some cowled reaper, but a man in a stovepipe hat and a suit that seemed to glow faintly green in the darkness. He was unarmed, as far as she could see, but it wasn’t as if she could put up a fight in her current state.
The shadow stepped forward, and Edith clutched the bedsheets helplessly.
He flicked the light switch on, illuminating his face – the face of her husband. His features looked much the same as the man asleep beside the bed – perhaps he was little greyer around the temples - but there was a look in his eyes that she misliked. Those eyes spoke of seeing things that could scarcely be imagined, of losing everything again and again. They were old eyes.
She was suddenly, absurdly reminded of A Christmas Carol. This apparition before her was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and what a terrible Christmas it must be.
***
Malice’s face flashed with a joyful smile that quickly turned to dismay as he surveyed the scene. He glanced at his pocket watch. Four minutes.
“Edith. I don’t have much time. Recriminations can come later – God knows I deserve it – but I’ve come to right a terrible wrong. I’ve been to the Neath, my love, and now I’ve come back for you. I know you never believed in such things – I had my doubts myself – but I’ve seen the Garden with my own eyes.”
He pulled a glistening vial of Cider from a suit pocket.
“This is the essence of life. One sip and all of your ills will be washed away. You’ll be whole and healthy again. We can live out our lives in happiness, and the broken man you see before you will never have existed.”
He allowed a hopeful smile to cross his face. It was the first time he had smiled genuinely for some time.
Three minutes, ticked the watch.
Edith spoke in hoarse, hushed tones, and he had to lean close to hear her.
“What kind of life would that be, Jim? A life spent treading on eggshells, fearing your retribution if I ever step out of line? Things can’t ever be like they were before, and you know that.”
She was crying now, tears dripping down her cheeks, but there was more determination and anger in her eyes than there had been for years. The ghost of her old self shone through the skeletal mask of her face.
“I’d rather die on my own terms than spend another forty years under your thumb. That’s no way to live a life. I don’t know how you came back to me, and I don’t care to know, but it is wrong. I’m not the person you want me to be, and even if the years have mellowed you, you’re still the same despicable man underneath. Go back where you came from, and leave me to die in peace.”
Malice set his jaw. He considered giving her the Cider anyway – it would be so easy – but she was right. He had created an idealised version of her in his head, and forgotten what she was really like. She was stronger than he was. He had died more times than anyone on the Surface could, but he had always known that he would come back. She accepted oblivion willingly. He had spent his whole tenure in the Neath trying to find a way to bring her back, never wanting to accept that this was the way it had to be.
Two minutes.
He would have to live with the consequences of his actions. The dream he had been chasing this whole voyage was foolish and hopeless.
He rose from the bedside and nodded. “So be it. Farewell, Edith. Try to get some sleep.”
***
Jim switched off the light and shut the door in a clangour of screeching metal, and then all was silent and dark once again. Edith turned over in the bed to lie on her side, the soft blankets enveloping her bony form. Had that really happened, or had her fevered mind been imagining impossible dreams?
Not much longer now, either way.
She felt warmer somehow, more comfortable, ready for the end.
Before long, she drifted into the sweet embrace of sleep, never to wake again.
THE RECK: NOW
A man in a fine Parabola-linen suit walked on deck. The zailors were making ready to cast off, and none of them spared him a glance.
He preferred it that way. He needed to be alone.
He lay on the bed in his cabin, so similar to the one where Edith died, and contemplated oblivion. This had been a foolish end, but a still more foolish one awaited him. Seven candles and seven letters of a Name. There was nothing left of the man he once was, now, and no room for compassion. He would not stop until the Sun was cindered and damned, and its heart was as empty as his.
[OOC: Terribly sorry for leaving this so long, but real-life concerns prevailed. It was a wonderful ride, and you've all been marvellous.]
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 Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
 Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
11/9/2016
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Darkness rules in the cabin by the end of the corridor. The antique golden stand made to hold lilac-scented mourning candles is now occupied by snuffed out stubs of foxfire. The once-remarkable Khaganian carpet has turned to a dirty shriveled rug with the flow of time. The drinks cabinet has been emptied several times over, and now only hosts the occasional empty bottle.
The owner of the cabin by the end of the corridor will open the door - wind-wreathed - and light the mirror - shadow-taken - with an unpracticed flick of the finger - murmur-driven. Orange luminescence will pour out into the cramped cabin. Thin green sprouts will rise between the floor panels. Impossible Dawn - wind-wizened - will rule in the cabin - shadow-guarded - by the end of the corridor - murmur-mastered. But the wind and the shadowy and the murmur will've caused a ruckus. The drownie crew will've noticed the rogue gust, or the unaligned dark, or the senseless word. But the mirror - wind-snared - radiates warmth. It spreads - shadow-spoked - through their body, a secret electricity in their blood. They - murmur-soaked - do not need to be awake to berid themselves of that immaculate carcass, do they...
Tired luminescence is in the air of the cabin by the end of the corridor. A figure - black-and-gold - has descended into lassitude upon the vintage bed, still fully clad. A faint smile plays upon their face.
[OOC: Feel free to interrupt, if need be. Amets’ sleep is a most fickle beast, and will probably run away the moment you open the door.]
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 11/9/2016
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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A Dimness
Posts: 613
11/21/2016
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The Reckoning Postponed is wreathed in silence and shadow. Its hull slices through oily black waves, and only the prow light and a few assorted lanterns shine through the bitter cold and darkness of the northern Unterzee. Zailors hurry across the deck, tying and untying ropes, spotting for icebergs, Lifebergs, and maelstroms, sometimes slipping on the slick and humid iron. He grabbed one by the shoulder and dragged another one by the collar to the back of the deck. A barrel was pulled tight against the railing, the rope tied around it led into the grey foam that trailed behind the ship.
...
He drank in the cool air whilst the zailors struggled to hoist up a clay shape just beneath the water's surface. With a last groaning effort, they pulled Tuff up high enough for him to grab onto the ledge and raise himself onto the deck. They'd have let him float down there if it weren't for his intervention, like bait for a fish much too large for the Reck to catch.
The sodden clay man dragged itself toward him, stood silently waiting. Once it was clear it could expect no answer from its master, it made off with a disappointed grunt.
The airs of the Neath were refreshing, but always carried a hint of staleness to remind him they'd never compare to the surface's. Even after he'd shared in Dynamo's cider, he couldn't return. The Neath was part of him now. His withered skin assured him of it. The mountain's blood flowing with his own assured him of it. The burning hole where his soul should be assured him of it. There was only one thing left to do now. He felt the pearls against his bare chest, as if they'd burned right through his shirt, right through his coat, even right through his bandages. These were a part of him, and a part of the Neath, too.
...
He'd glimpsed the solicitor only once or twice before. He instinctively avoided the man, like a bear would a wolf: for a bear was strong. But where a wolf was, there'd surely be a pack. Now he stood in front of the closed door. Closed, but not locked- an invitation. The hinges creaked mercilessly, the room was dark, laden with the scent of Pine.
The Mirthless Colonist stood, waited expectantly as Tuff had. He hoped he wouldn't be denied as he had himself denied the clay man.
Finally, the shape stirred. Tempt the fox not the snake. A silhouette sat upright in its bed and in turn smiled expectantly at him. "Well?"
He hesitated, but there was no point in drawing this out. He stumbled over his own words, and now they hanged in the air like dissatisfied bats.
"Let me taste of the colours of a world beyond mirrors."
edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 11/21/2016
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A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Arcanuse
Posts: 89
11/25/2016
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The ship is quiet.
In an unlit lonely cabin, the scientist is left, the entity having obtained its fee.
“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
The scientist spits at the shade.
“I should turn you in to the cats. Or maybe the fingerkings would know what to do with you.”
The entity laughs.
“Oh, now why would you do that, when the story has only just begun?”
“Or do you want THEM to win, eh?”
“You don’t know anything; you didn’t see what Irem showed me…”
“More accurately, I don’t really care. Perhaps I might rummage for those answers one day, but for now, we have business to discuss.”
The scientist snorts derisively.
“Implying I even want to keep working with you. Fine, what is it?”
“Possession. It’s a wonder none of them looked into why you were acting so strangely. Naturally, we can’t keep doing that.”
“Easy. You never do that to me again.”
“Sorry, no dice. I need a vessel of some sort to get around, you know that. And unless you have a better plan…”
“You’re talking to a scientist. You need a new vessel? Fine. I have just the thing.”
The scientist rummages through his possessions, pulling out a small puzzlebox.
“You gave me this, my first boon. Now, you can take it back.”
Cackling, the entity creaks open the box.
“Yes. Yes, this will do nicely.”
The entity snaps the box shut.
“That said, why this? I thought you still needed it, for your research.”
“Better that box then my rusting body.”
“Oh very well, if you insist.”
The entity proceeds to open the box once more, and seemingly melts into the box, staining the wood a deep black.
“Well. That actually worked.” He says, handling the box carefully.
“I suppose I should just throw you overboard, and be free of you at last.”
“But you won’t, will you. You still need me, just as much as I need you.” Whispers forth from the box.
“I need one of your kind, true. But not you in particular.”
“You say that like you can just walk right back there, carve off a slice of the wall, stuff It in a box, and demand its obedience.”
“True. ------ are hard to come by, even taking the precautions necessary.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, I need to rest for the trip back. You should get some sleep yourself, its been a long time since you went back home, eh?”
“Agreed. That said, If you act out of line again, we both go overboard, understand?”
“Fine fine. That sailor was fine after that you know.”
“We’re lucky that he was alone on duty that shift. Almost ruined everything.”
“But he was, and everything was fine. Now, if that’s all, go to sleep before you make the other zailors nervous.”
The ship is quiet.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
11/30/2016
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The shape will stir. Stirs. Has always stirred. It will glare and squint with it's reflection-filled eyes. Then, lean back in thought. Their smile turned sour - a-waste-of-everyone's-times - then abominable - well-he-does-not-have-to-go-to-waste - and, finally, satisfied - he-will-have-what-he-desires-and-more - as tired luminescence, green as the deepest mysteries or lush forests, will spread through the air...
...
They are but two figures sitting in some rowboat in the middle of a quicksilver sea, each person moving in a different direction. Teak oars dip into boundless reflections and emerge and dip again. One of the two, covered in layered pelts and skins, looks and gazes and longs for the lights of the West. The other, a stack of bandages and absinthe, has begun unwinding his wrappings. When he is done, nothing of him will remain. He yearns for the South’s flowering gardens.
…
Another push upon the wooden oars. Another step closer to the shores. Again, they push. Again, they near their final stop. The glum lights of Wolfstack and the bee-crested columns of Adam’s Way. One figure leans towards another. “Behind our mirror, V names VIRIC, the colour of shallow sleep.” Too close for comfort. There is barely place for the two of them on this rowboat. “We do not know with what tools reality will be built, but dreams. Dreams will be built with Viric lights." A hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare keep you here any longer now. There are more wonderful delights for you to be had, before you reach these shores.” A push. Descent into silvered depths. The end of breath. Far away, the rustling of leaves...
Something viridian and circular sits in the bandage palm of the Tomb-Colonist’s bandaged hand, the exact shade of green that haunts the sunset. The cabin’s original emerald-eyed resident, moderately disheveled, is rather insistently waving him away.
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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Barse
Posts: 706
12/1/2016
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[OOC: I guess this is the end - if there's anyone out there who's not a part of the RP who, for whatever reason, has been following this weird lumbering tale, then thanks! If not, you'll be pleased to know we'll be gone from your Unread Topics list as soon as everyone's miscellaneous business is wrapped up. It's been a pleasure writing with everyone involved, and as my first proper RP it's been fab. You're all the best, delicious friends.]
The Scorched Sailor smiles a satisfied smile as he surveys the lights of London. The Reckoning Postponed rocks gently on the swell. It's good to be home.
edited by Barselaar on 12/1/2016
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 The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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A Dimness
Posts: 613
12/1/2016
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The Mirthless Colonist emerged hastily, his cane pressed under his arm. Tuff shadowed him eagerly with a pile of miscellanea in his arms: a suitcase, the mirrorcatch box, an assortment of pouches. The bandaged wasn't much for pleasantries, but he made an effort to nod and greet the few people on-deck with him. These were powerful people, perhaps he'd have use of them, or they of him. Six pearls clacked merrily in the pouch tied to his wrist, as if excited to see the London sights. He threw a small rostygold bust toward Barselaar, his promised payment.
Then, he took a leap, the small drop lasted an instant. He landed on solid London ground. He didn't look behind him, he barely saw what came ahead. He just walked, quickly. The Viric pearl he kept separate from the others. He knew they could see him through it, even if they didn't know it. Perhaps he'd report the Solicitor to the Labyrinth-Keepers, perhaps he didn't dare.
He looked up, the lights of Wolfstack had made place for the markets of Spite. Costermongers passed by him, braggards and thiefs and other Spite filth intermingled and eyed him suspiciously. He took a deep breath, and dissapeared into the crowd. Tuff needn't follow, he knew where to find him.
...
The sun surely shone, he'd see it soon. A few more minutes, maybe.
Those minutes dragged on for hours, the seconds ticked by too slow. He inspected his timepiece meticulously again, it counted off with unmet precision. Tick. Tock. Wasn't there someone back on the Reck like that? He grinned.
The light caught him off-guard, embraced him. He quickly stood up and spread his arms. He felt the bandages around him smoke and sizzle. He stood on the bow and closed his eyes, he felt the warmth wash over him, char him, embrace him. The sailors -sailors- around him recoiled in terror.
...
When he opened his eyes again, he stood unbandaged, his skin was still withered and scarred, but looked better under the pure light. He passed his hands over his body, his feet, his legs, his torso, then his arms. He was still the same, the cider -or perhaps something else- kept him going.
He clutched the railing. Oh well, there were plenty of mysteries to uncover topside, weren't there?
And there was someone he had to see.
edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 12/1/2016
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A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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ForScience
Posts: 69
12/1/2016
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London, again, after the Iron Republic and Irem and even back to France for seven minutes. It seems a bit less claustrophobic now. For the first time, she sees the city not through thick glasses but with her own eyes.
There's a shade of green she hasn't seen in a while, on a docker's jacket. Had she been colorblind, too? Goodness. Having her full range of vision back is immensely satisfying.
Less satisfying is the memory of the Coolheaded Physicist's broken body tossed among the rubble, and of screams, and of stifling smokey air. Living through the accident was bad enough the first time. But, the Scholar consoles herself, she saved people. People who were dead until she interfered with the past. Perhaps some of them have even made their way to the Neath! She missed some of them. All of them, really.
Florence says a friendly goodbye to her fellow passengers, though she still has no idea who most of them are. A sincere thank-you to the Scorched Sailor, a hug for Emma and an attempted one for Drake (he does seem a bit on edge), and a pointed effort not to think about Sketch. Then she gathers up her things and sets off, towards her little room above a bookshop. There are observations to be compiled, samples to be carefully stored away. There's science to do, and Florence does not intend to put it off for a moment.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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