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“An archive of things that never happened”. An in-character forum for fanfiction and roleplaying. Beware - spoilers abound!

To Do What None Have Done Before- A Neathean Argo

The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/14/2016	Sketch has stirred from his ruin. He remembers the Zee. He remembers Frostfound. He remembers the East. The once-great dandy has seen many a thing in his time, and now its time to see them again. Professor Sketch clads himself in what few clothes he hasn't sold and heads down to Wolfstack Docks. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/8/2016	"Stay away, Brutus." The zailors halt. Step back at the sight of the cantigaster-dipped blade gleaming from below them. Step further back at the sight of the wicked grin. "Back away, Longinus." The dandy slaps a hand down on the floorboards, roughly pushing himself up from the ground, knife clenched in his hand with a death-grip. The rake wavers, balance unsteady, animal eyes glinting at the crowd of zailors. His gaze turns to the Scorched Sailor, who looks on with the caution, fear, and anger of one who has just been wounded by a rabid dog. "They'd kill me, you know," he smiles, teeth deep red, mouth a crimson cavern of bubbling, wet depths that spill out over soft lips and ivory skin. The dandy staggers back, swinging a hand out and gripping the railing of the ship. He looks out over the deck. At Drake, the Scorched Sailor, the Ticking Scientist, Suinicide, Captain Tobias Handles and his crew. "Come along, cap'n," he calls to Tobias, "We've hit shore." Handles smiles. The entire crew smiles. They glow like the sun. The rake whips quickly around, vaulting over the edge of the railing. His feet will touch down on the few rocks of the shore, land with perfect balance on their slick tops. The dandy will turn his head, looking at the applauding fisherman and seamstress. They will be shouting words of pride. He shall smile. He will stumble off the rocks, staggering up the frozen beach. Fall, briefly, leaving an imprint in the snow that had always been there and that will disappear the moment he is gone. Rise, hurry past the falling, burning bodies of zailors in the Italian sun. Trip up rose-garnered stairs, past three grown children sitting silently on the steps, reeking of sunlight, the zee, the Neath. The dandy will ascend the steps, stop on crimson-petaled streets, turn and look back at The Reck. Spot to-be men and to-be women there, on the deck. There, on the shore. There, in the water. Here, on the streets. See how they smile. Smell how the odor of ozone fills, stuffs, the very air. Even his jacket shall smell of it, his shirt, his clothing. Perhaps even his very skin. The dandy will turn and run, dripping blood onto rose petals and slowing snow into time as he disappears into the twisting Irem walkways. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/9/2016	Bones crunched under crimson boots, staining the soles with white powder. Wind blew through trees, got caught in their leafless, net branches, struggled, died, and formed the sighs of the worthy pagans. Sketch paused, and masks fell to the floor, cracking, joining the rest of the bones in their dry, melancholy eternity as a floor for the forest of the was. The London Dandy stopped. The Pharaoh’s Boy stopped. The Faroe Boy looked up from a rock. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Sketch muttered. The Faroe Boy smiled something sad, of make and fabric Sketch could never hope to copy, some face impossible to replicate in mask. And he stopped as well. The crimson boots were still. Motionless, for a moment, ready to join their owner as one of the gone forever things of the Waswood. Then they began to move. Step over flattened bones of kings, emperors, peasants, Faroe Boys, all alike as soil for them to walk upon. Break, crack, shatter as they moved, snap off, let bone-dust cover them, to join the bones and walk upon themselves. Sketch walked, following the trail he’d made, still busy making. He walked, careful not to trip into namelessness, as the sighs told him he inevitably would. The air was dry, there, where Sketch walked through the past. Pleasant, there, where God walked in the cool of the garden, and looked down upon the moving fixture of the Waswood, which had always been there, always would, and yet could leave whenever it wanted. Today it would leave. Today it would stay. Today it would fill the Waswood, choke it til the trees absorbed it and it was the Waswood. Today it would be stopped. Sketch paused. He turned, looking about the white forest, looking through the roof of bramble branches, scanning the eternally flat floor of stories and years gone by. Things gone forever lay within this place, sat where he gazed, but they had always been there, just as he had. They were nothing new. They never would be. Perhaps it had been nothing. He turned, looked about the forest once more, and knelt. The Polythreme glove looked back up at Sketch as he reached for the bone. Opened its mouth wide in begging, starving, dry breaths escaping its leather lips. He gripped the bone, and felt the gloves die, a final, inhuman exhale escaping their fanged mouth, the voices of that which they had eaten carried on it as it joined the sighs forming the invisible foliage of the trees. Sketch lifted the bone from the ground, looking it over in his hands. It was smooth. Smooth as glass, and bare from the dust and powder which covered the rest of the forest floor. A mirror in a bone. So that was his individual vehicle into the past? Sketch paused as he spotted the reflection of his eyes in the round smoothness of the bone. White. - Stars. The void. “There is a point, near death, when one sees either nirvana beckon or the void loom,” says some voice, riding one of the wheeling, spinning stars up above, unrecognizable and impossibly far away, “I saw the void.” The White watches him. The Red watches another (no, don’t look that way - that is none of your business) None present are fit for the Gold. Thrones tower. Stars form crowns. The White is blinding. The Red is pulling (no, now, don’t look that way. stop it now) The Gold is distant. Someone is becoming something more (none of your business, now, stop it now), something without color, on a nonexistent throne. The Red blazes (this doesn’t concern you) The White blinds The Gold shines Something cold burns, eternal, up high, enduring forever. Madnesses melt away in fear at its light. The White watches me. Oh. The White speaks amongst itself. Stars sear. The void roars. I- I think I should leave. I think it wants to speak to Sketch privately. I-I think we should leave for now. - Safe, for now. The sun blazes, up in the sky, but the stars are gone, for the moment - there is no white but in the sand of the footpaths, no red but in the cloak about the walking figure, no gold but in the buckles of his sandals. Taygetus hungers. The bundle wails openly as the cloaked figure sets it down on the rocks, away from the shadows. The sun blazes the fresh skin. The figure pauses, dark eyes cast down towards the screaming wrap. He kneels. He weeps. He is twenty-five years from retirement. He has fed the mountain a dozen dozen times. He is three weeks from death. He wonders if he can make it another day. He is at the beginning of eternity. He has no way to stop it. - Swords shine. Rain pours. Twenty-eight years of training fail him. Blood, in the running sand. The sky, up above. He has fed the mountain 150 times. Light floods the vision - parts the clouds. White. We must hide. - Eternity yawns. Steam fills an Athenian bathhouse. Lips, passionate, meet. Bodies merge. Mist frames the forming of love. Hearts pulse in unison. Inspiration fills the mind. A quill sets to parchment, later, in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits. The Muses cascade their blessings. Ink forms beauty. Crushed berries, cheap dyes, foreign ink, the feather of a simple owl work, fill first one page, then another, then a dozen, then a hundred. Gods watch, from above, see a champion forming in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits. Adonis descends, and whispers words of beauty into the champion’s ear. Aphrodite lowers, and murmurs prose of love to the Athenian. Apollo rides his chariot about Greece, and plays songs of romance for the boy writing in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits. Something beautiful is created, there, in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits. Love is put to parchment. The heart is captured, in perfection, by humble quill. Blessings rain down in the tears of the gods, who weep with pride over their creation’s work. They fall upon the playwright, and raise him high. Theaters grow, the Athenian’s lucky fate spreading to those around him, as wealth sweeps in with every production. Populations come from foreign nations to see the raw and beautiful display of the most fabled of human emotions. Kings, queens, emperors, rulers arrive to see the play that was written in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits. A generation of humanity sees beauty, for but a brief moment. Then the warriors come. Athens falls. On a stormy day, in the sands of the South, that which fed the mountain feeds the void, and the boy who wrote love in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits falls. Greece falls. The play that was written in the shade of a red-leafed tree atop a hill outside city limits falls first to inactivity, then to translation, then to mistake, then to anonymity, then to flame. It is forgotten. It is unknown. It is gone forever. Somewhere, in the waswood, it lies, inscribed upon a bone. That bone has no name. White. - Gone, again. Its touch, though, remains - the white glow left behind. Sandstone buildings, ivory in color, spread to the horizon. One turns, and golden towers spread to this next horizon. Turn again, and red temples stretch to the next. Turn once more, and one sees that the empire spreads to every horizon. Life bustles. Fortune blossoms, here. Fame is found in surplus, there. Beauty paints the landscape, here. Enemies are found, conquered and quivering, there. Step to the West, and one’s eyes descend on the stream of foreign nations, funneling in through tall gates, artisans and fortune-seekers flooding into paradise. Step to the East, and one sees the walls expand, swallowing cities, empires, countries, landmasses. Step to the South, and one gazes upon the glittering forest of twisting, brightly colored spires, towering, golden statues, stretching, smooth, ivory landmarks that kiss the pink sky. Step to the North, and one sees an emperor, bedecked in purple, sat upon the throne of the world, sipping ambrosia taken from the conquering of Olympus. Blink, and one sees it all burn. Let a second pass, and one forgets it. Look for record of it, and one finds nothing. White. - It disappears, again. Leaves its trace in the base of flames that lick the night sky. Colors, before it goes, the stones that fall, crumbling, to the sea. Leaves behind a painting in the light that falls on an olive-tinted face. Eyes, already growing old and still at the beginning of their journey, watch the ancient world go up in fire. Hands that burned it hold the last tome of the histories gone in the flames, already mostly ash and slowly flickering to nothing. Tears fall on caligae. White washes over the scene. - A moment of terror - perhaps we came out too early - the scene is white, but the White is surely gone. And in the distance lie mountains, blue as the sky above. In the peripheral is green grass, swaying in the wind, cushion to the falling pink petals of sakura trees. In the center of the whiteness are yellow flowers, surrounding a still heart. The whiteness weeps now, in the sunlight, in the ivory attire, in the garden, by the coffin. It will plan later, when night descends. By candlelight, knives will be sharpened. Whispered words will be shared. Swords will be hidden within the folds of robes. Deaths will be arranged. Vengeance will fuel the destruction of a dynasty. Time will pass, and one day, all white will be gone. Crimson will be painted the palace steps. Scarlet will be colored the emperor’s robes. Red will drip the blades of a revolution. One death shall be repaid in dozens, then hundreds, but ultimately, in the one that caused it. That which was beautiful, that which was royal, that which was palace, shall be slaughterhouse. Revenge shall be had. It shall last for a moment. And then it shall be taken again by new blades. That which wept in white shall die in a red city. White returns, at the end of it all, though. - How old must the eyes be, now, as they build the Eighth Wonder of the World? How old must the soul have grown, as it watches its creation destroyed and forgotten? How must time toll on the mind as it repeats the process through the ages? - Ancient, must be the eyes, as they fell a god. Weary, must be the soul, as it takes the god’s place. Tired, must be the mind, as its religion falls and it dies forgotten. How many times has this happened before? How many times will it happen again? Where are we in eternity now? - Take the artist, perhaps, and place him in brutal times, so he may feel the pain of savagery. Take the warrior, this time, and stick him in a civilized world, so he may rot from the inside out. Let this one, beautiful youth, live long, long, longer, till all his grace is gone. Let this one, candidate for wisdom, die as an ignorant child. The choices are endless. Eternity is endless. They will all happen - each choice, each life, each possibility. It will never end. It will never, no matter what the ancient soul does, mean a thing. He will always be forgotten. - “Sketch?” they asked me, in all the languages that never were. “Yes?” I asked, in all the languages that ever were. “I’m sorry. A sacrifice was needed. I’m so terribly sorry, Sketch.” And so they rose, desperate apologies still pouring from their lips, higher, higher, til it became so that the words they spoke could be only spoken in god-speak that never was, non-existent head crowned in god-king crown that was never made, fictional body draped in god laurels that were never tailored. Til it came so that they could be seen in none but the bodies of those never born, face drenched in the shadows of cities that never rose, colored in colors that never were. Til they came to rise so high that they never rose at all - that there never was a level to rise from, and there never was a level to rise to. Til they came to simply never be. Such was when I not-saw them, when all something was gone and all nothing was gone, and I not-saw the lack of all. And soon, it was gone, as well. Twas when I was left in everything. Ancient hands turned over the bone, reading the inscription on the other side. “There is a point, near death, when one sees either nirvana beckon or the void loom. I fell into the void.” Nirvana is gold and red. Sketch set down the bone. Blood had pooled underneath him. It was all tinted so very white. He exhaled a shallow breath. Pulled in a thinner one. Blinked, and found the insides of his eyelids ivory. The White awaited. Eternity must continue. Sketch fell. White. - Ozone. edited by Professor Sketch on 10/9/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 10/13/2016	There has been – no, there is – no, there will be a reckoning. The Scorched Sailor will know this, although he will not know whether these events will happen, will have already happened, or will be happening at this very moment. His nose will bleed blood that should not be his, and it will hurt profusely. Time is – has always been – will be strange here, but the botched investigation, trial and subsequent chaos will not go unresolved. He is – or perhaps he will be – finding it difficult to keep the tenses separated in his head, the world flattening out into one, long, always-approaching never-arriving future. Things long since past will seem lost in the far future, and things that won’t happen for years will appear to be just around the corner. Irem will be here forever, and it will see everything in its time. The Scorched Sailor will have traipsed past a number of buildings garlanded in red and decked in gold before he reaches Threshold. He will have ignored the House of the Amber Sky, where the waters will be warm and the pillows soft, deciding it is not for him. The where of it will not matter – Parabola presses so close upon the skin of the world here that sleeping anywhere at all will do the trick. Threshold will be as good a place as any, the last stop for Captains zailing East of Irem. No captains will zail East of Irem. The familiar paraphernalia of the zee will provide comfort, although they exist for voyages that will never be undertaken, and although the shop will not be open, its front steps will provide enough of a perch for the Scorched Sailor to rest on. At this point in the day – and it will have been a long day – he will be tired. He will sleep. (The sunset robes of the Riddlefishers will remind him of his purpose.) He sleeps. (There is a dawn behind the faces of mirrors, but it is not his dawn – this place is too much of the now.) He slept. (There – the feeling of futures lost and moments gone forever. That was it.) When he opened his eyes he was surrounded by trees, white and grooved like the birches he had seen before the Fall, but leafless. No wind stirred the grasping finger-branches and nothing disturbed the chalky dust and dirt. Moments lay heavy, broken into pieces. Fragmentary, consigned to past before their time, the Scorched Sailor’s experiences in the Waswood are difficult to approximate: --- bones and bones and bones and crunching underfoot time calcified ossified petrified horrified at the violence wrought upon it woodbonestoneandland somewhere there was a trail of blood that fell from an injured nose but that is not now the undergrowth was bone the bone was wood the wood fell and became the undergrowth the undergrowth was bone and the bone was underfoot (if you go down to the woods [today) is an abstract concept that carries no meaning {here] is where the past goes to die} white and ivory – birch and bone there was something there like snow-blindness pale shapes blending into one another until you could not tell what was now and what was then and what had never been lost in the woods lost in the was lost if you cut down one of these trees, he thought, you could see the rings of things past this was the land of the past; it was already done dark-circled ashen stump this ring here is someone’s marriage smooth and fake this is the death of a grandfather wobbly this one here is a married couple’s separation broken this is the stepping-on of a small flower in bugsby’s marshes in february 1893 beautiful the rings were concentric and they moved bigger and bigger until the wood opened out how old was this tree was this one his rings bigger and more present until was became is becomes is… . . . --- The Ferris wheel in Mr’s Plenty’s Carnival usually goes down, carrying passengers to abyssal depths beneath the Neath. Here, in the Carnival that lives on the backwards faces of mirrors, it goes up, a great dark ring rotating towards, and eventually above, the Neath’s roof, and the Scorched Sailor is on it. This is not necessarily true. Someone is in the booth, compelled there by an obsession that slid into their dreams and occupies their skull almost entirely – but that person is not yet the Scorched Sailor. They are Captain V. Barselaar, smuggler-owner of The Dream Weaver. The jump has worked. The Scorched Sailor watches as his past self boards one of the observation platforms in mild wonder before jumping into action. No point in trying to stop himself. He’d thought about it long and hard, but the Mountain-vision had confirmed it – his journey above was inevitable, but the scarring, the extended exposure, had been the result of a jam in the machinery. Sabotage. He takes off towards the wheel, clambering down into the pit that housed the great turning cogs and flywheels in search of the jam in the machine, the blasted saboteur. Grease and metal and screeching and blasts of steam and levers and gears and hundreds upon hundreds of interlocking teeth, but no one. Clambering and searching, still no one, trying to find the small section of machine shown to him in the vision. Nothing. Quicker, faster, frantic. Engines chug and hiss, bringing the Captain closer to the zenith. Not much time. A corner, rounded too quickly. Layers of clothing, loose, thralled to centripetal motion. Realising too late. the tear of tortured fabric the metal groan of motion, opposed the machines don't care what you look like, and they'll eat whatever they're given... The thick weave of a scarf, carried, bunched-up and torn, in the teeth of a gear, high up into the mechanism. Gear meets gear, teeth bite, fabric catches. Moving parts slowing, becoming just parts. Shaking and creaking, like the hull of a zubmarine diving too deep. No time to dwell on the realisations; the Captain’s pod is nearly out of the roof of the Neath and into the burning yearning above – only time to do, to climb. Discard the coats and gloves and garments, they’ll only get caught again. Get rid of the jackets and shirts and belts, they impede proper movement. Climb the great machine, scale its flanks as it quivers like a chained beast. The Captain’s pod has crested the Roof, inertia carrying it into the light, but the jam will stop its movement soon – get the machine running again. Faster, faster! The steel is greasy and the handholds tiny but climb quicker, there is no time there is no time there is no way to reach the tiny stuck scrap of fabric how is something so small the cause of all this it is just out of reach but there is no more time and somewhere from above (far, far above) carries the sound of screams and it might be the imagination but perhaps there is also the whiff of flesh and by the time the fault in the machine is reached and the obstruction removed (broken torn and grease-stained it will shield no one from the cold and prying eyes now) the screaming has already gone quiet and the wheel jerks back into its normal revolution unfeelingly as if nothing has happened and nothing has been lost at this point it is good and proper and right to fall, to lose grip on the great moving metal flank and fall to the ground of the engine in despair only to never hit the ground or perhaps the ground is further away than it should be, retreating into the past, and the only thing to do instead is to fall into the black and endess now, the great metal wheel and the cleft in the roof above retreating into dots in the blackness and just before crashing fatally into the brutal present- --- -the Scorched Sailor wakes up. He is still slumped in the porch of Threshold. He is still burned, the familiar oceanic swirl of raised scar and abscessed lost tissue decorating his flesh. He’s naked from the waist up, perhaps for the first time since his visit to the Carnival (the first one, before he was him), the full abstract mosaic of pain bared to the Irem air. He has failed. Irem will stir. The future will come. Soon, he will go back to his ship. Soon he will have to face his failure. He will come to terms with what it is that he is, and in so doing he will become different. He will face his friends and his enemies. He will return to London. But this is Irem – here, at some point, everything will happen. These things are of no consequence. For now the Scorched Sailor will do nothing but sit in the doorway to a shop that will never open, think, and perhaps, when he thinks that no one will be watching, he will shed a tear. edited by Barselaar on 10/13/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 8/16/2016	The Ticking Scientist watched the others take the mixture. And despite spawning off their own doppelgangers, they seemed fine. "I suppose then, that I should go next. Should my body return before my mind, feel free to give it a good smack. Its more durable then it looks." He says, pulling out a small flask. "Honestly, I despise this stuff. Mercutio says its fine, but... Well, we'll see wont we." Taking the cup from Sketch, he bends down and scoops himself a cup from the river. "Having said that, keep something sharp on hand, hmm? Might need it in a while." He says, pouring in the contents of his flask. Noticing the odd looks, he states: "Prisoners honey, Special batch, not for regular use." Taking the cider, he adds one, two, three drops. Should be enough. Strong stuff, and even if it wasn't, this is fairly close to the mountain. Giving back the cider, he sits down a good distance from the river and begins to clear his mind. Tick. There it is. He can hear it again. Tick. Tick. He takes a deep breath, and chugs down the cup in one swig. Tick. Tick. CRACK. And with the sickening sound of metal breaking, he vanished. Tick. Badump. Tick. Badump. A room. A bloody table, with a worried looking rat watching over… who? Who is that lying there? Familiar, foreign? He knew them, long, And yet, Perhaps, A long, time ago. The rat had a scalpel, and was digging around the man’s chest, pulling out.. A heart? Tick. Badump. Tick. Badump. “Ugh. Why you thought oy should be the one to do this instead of a ‘proper surgeon…” It squeaked. It set the heart down, and picked up a.. blur? What was that? “Roight then, least you were smart enough to give me the instructions on paper first… Lets see here… Connect that vein here… This whirring bit over here… Huh. Guess he was right. Really is kinda like clocks once you get down to it.” A flash, and then darkness. The sound of a match being struck, and then light. One could just barely make out two figures standing in front of a dim fireplace. “So tell me. When the time comes, will you join me, will you fight by my side?” “Yes.” Darkness. Screaming, running, whirring clicking through hallways of brass and steam given life from the corpse of Stone, leaving barren wastelands in its wake crawling across the earth above and hell belching out smog as hammer clanked away on hidden anvils and molten brass spilled forth to be cooled in the mountains blood, hammered together even as the nails scream from the burning forged into soldiers to be sent forth and kill kill kill devils and all who side with them even unknowingly as the fire purges and Darkness. An empty throne drenched in blood. What have they done? What have we done? Was it worth it? The sacrifice of so many lives for a cause few truly believed in? It’s not too late. You can still turn back you know. You can still save Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. I think you’ve seen enough. It’s not healthy to dwell in one’s mind for so long, you know. Time flies and it would seem your body may have gone back without you. Even if it hadn’t, you have bigger issues to deal with. Crunch. Whir. Tick. CRUNCH. And with a gasp, he awoke. At first, everything seemed fine. He was alive after all, wasn’t he? It was when he tried to stand up, he noticed he was already. Furthermore, his chest and legs felt like they were burning, he was covered in dirt, and somebody apparently lost their lunch on his nice shirt. The reality of what was happening kicking in, he fell over, clutching his chest. “Alright… Before I chugged that mixture and had the worst honey-daze in years…” He groaned. “…I think I asked for a knife or something sharp. If you have it, now would be the time to… GAH!” He exclaimed before the pain struck again. “…Give it here, I’ll explain afterwards!” he croaked. (OOC: Longest thing I’ve written in a while. Feel free to send me a message for any goofs on my part.) -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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Barse Posts: 706 8/16/2016	The Scorched Sailor had been lagging behind the main party, lost in thought. He was rather upset about the Mirthless Colonist filching some of his zailors to serve as his henchman, although he supposes he shouldn't be surprised: finding anyone to serve on the Reck had been a difficult task - many of the stevedores and zailors seemed to think the vessel was haunted - and even among those who agreed to serve, even less were willing to come on this expedition. It was no wonder that they jumped at the opportunity for something better. Even so, there are words that need to be had with the Colonist. Having arrived slightly behind the others, the Scorched Sailor has been standing at the back of the party in the clearing, observing the effects the Wound is having on his crew-mates. He is perhaps less surprised than the others at the surging growth of Drake's doppelgänger from the Mountain-side and the aborted bacterial splitting of the clone from Vaustus' body. He is no stranger to materials holding life that have no business to. He was glad that his thick attire covered the still-seeping wound left by the Gracious' sword. At the Ticking Scientist's request, he steps forward and hands the pained figure a simple, bone-handled blade that he pulls from a sheath on his calf. "I'll need that back," he mutters. Stepping forward to look at the Wound, he realises that the white yearning that had plagued him back at Adam's Way has not returned to trouble him since nearing the Mountain. The ghost of it is still there, in the back of his mind - the Mountain is no Sun, not quite - but it seems that its light is enough to leave him functional this far away from the stash of Mirrorcatches in his hold. Maybe he needs to have more words with the Mirthless Colonist than he anticipated. He considers the Wound carefully, the expedition party all either waiting, considering their own libations, or suffering the effects already. He had refused Drake's Cider once before, unsure what the liquid would do to someone who was not quite flesh and blood. The Wound, though... this is another thing altogether. He aches for it, not just to drink it but to feel it pumping through him again, to remember life true and real. The Wound pulses with a vitality that has long since been lost to him. This time, the Scorched Sailor throws caution to the Wax Wind, and grabs the discarded mug. The thick, red liquid trickles in, and the Sailor raises the mug - about a quarter full - to his mouth. His body is on fire. He is not sure if this is a memory or the present. He is burning, burning - he realises that this is the Blood, hot and alive, melting through his waxy innards. There is no way to swallow. He left his organs behind long ago. The Blood melts and snakes and carves itself veins, hews pathways through the body, a capillary facsimile of life, and it hurts. And then the visions start. He is on the Surface, no more than a child. On the run from the power-that-be. Signing on as a cabin boy with a ship barely fit to sail. (To think you still cling to the moniker of "Sailor"!) The true sky, blue like a knife. The Sun. The Sun. The Su- Something falls. (Everything falls, in its time.) The darkness of the Neath. The dark-beyond-darkness of the zee. A terrible homesickness. (It hurts, it burns!) Ships and friends and gaslights and loss, fleeting. Fragments of song. (...from the mouths of babes...) "Down and down and North and round, stolen for a city..." "...Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your..." They come quicker and quicker. Sail and seek and preach and axes falling, a body-not-a-body, a skin full of wax, a candle, a candle, a candle, "and let there be light" and there was light and oh it hurt! A crescendo of pain. The Blood had carved its waxen arteries and hit the space where a heart should be. One last vision. A jammed machine. Gears grinding. Something caught in the mechanism. A carnival ride - a ferris wheel - ascending to where it should not, and never ceasing, emergency stop caught on a foreign object. (Sabotage. Deliberate!) The peak of the ride, and again the burning, through the skin and out through the centre of him until he finds above the highest heights of pain a plateau and then he cannot feel anymore - When the Scorched Sailor comes to, he is slumped against the Mountainside. He feels like he has just died, but the burning sensation has dissipated, replaced with a faint thumping that he can feel within himself. There is the slightest red stain on the bandages around his wounded arm. The Wound has changed him. His visions come back to him, reluctantly, dreams unwilling to be forced to stand in the harsh reality of day, and he knows now what he must do in Irem. edited by Barselaar on 8/16/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 9/4/2016	No one seems eager - unsurprisingly - to open themselves up to the table. Sketch, unflappable as ever, already looks bored with proceedings and is focussed mainly on his cigarette. Drake, after finishing speaking, has taken a great and sudden interest in the way in which his drink swirls around the glass. No one is making eye contact. The Scorched Sailor leans forward. "Alright then." He doubts his story will surprise anybody, but still, it is one that has not yet been told. "Before," a vague, all-encompassing hand wave - "I used to be a smuggler. Captain, too, of this same ship, but a smuggler as well. Clients of a pleasure yacht pay well to go about experiencing their pleasure unbothered. Tend to be rich. Port authorities know it's more hassle than it's worth to get involved. Besides, everyone knows it's the shady ships, the ones with fore- and aft-rigging, sails and hulls black-painted, the swift cutters and silent sloops, where the business truly gets done. Pleasure yachts are slow, and full of people. They'd make terrible smuggling vessels." He chuckles. "I ran jobs for whoever paid well. The Cheery Man, the Chiefest Claw, the Mangrove Colleges. The old girl -" he slaps the wall of the dining room "- ran souls to Mount Palmerston, Red Honey out of the Isle of Cats, huge volumes of love stories from the Elder Continent into London. Anything, so long as the pay was good enough." In his head he can see the ship as she was in the glory days. Decked out in gold and crimson, rooms full of booze and gusts of chatter. Class. Opulence. Toffs that had no idea they were waltzing and drinking, making love and losing money, just a deck or two above some of the most illegal substances in the Neath. "We had a reputation. Slow and reliable. The passengers did our bribing for us, handing over petty change to port authorities so that they'd overlook their minor indiscretions, blinding the law to our huge ones. The Dream-Weaver - that was this ship, once - made stops at hundreds of ports under hundreds of different names, each time registered to a different captain - one that always seemed oddly familiar. I'd tell the dockers and the guards and the clerks that I 'just had one of those faces.' And I do- I did..." He trails off. "And then... well, now I'm here. And I'm not sure if what I'm doing is more or less illegal." He settles back in his chair. This was as much truth as he was prepared to reveal today. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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ForScience Posts: 69 10/2/2016	A gathering, a mission, a departure. Drake was as organized and coolheaded as anyone investigating an attempted murder could be, and if he trusted the rest of the little team to find the culprit, then so did she. Even so, she could be doing so much more than just lounging around Drake's cabin. Perhaps she had not yet recovered adequately to go out and interrogate suspects, but surely there was something. Some sort of scientific approach to criminal investigations, perhaps. Something like... forensics. Forensic science was still dismissed by many smaller minds back in London as newfangled and untrustworthy. But she had often overheard tipsy Constables half-celebrating, half-lamenting its many successes. Florence may not have had any special equipment, but a working knowledge of current techniques was better than nothing. She left a brief note on Drake's table, detailing her return to her own cabin and a request for all suspects to submit to fingerprint tests.. The technique of fingerprinting is still on the bleeding edge of forensic science, and she remembers in terrifying detail the feeling of gloves wrapping around her neck. But if the would-be killer had ever picked up their knife without gloves, she may very well catch them on that alone. The basis of forensic science is that every criminal leaves some scrap of evidence behind. Well, they obviously left their knife, but what else? First, detailed notes on the location and and appearance of each piece of evidence. Shame she doesn't have a camera, but it's doubtful whether there's even one on board. Sketches of the shapes of the blood splatters and whatnot. Stepping carefully around blood pooled on the floor, she examines everything down to the most minute detail. She manages, at least, to identify which of the bloodstains are hers by considering the angle at which the blood splattered onto the floorboards. Lastly, she picks up the knife, gingerly, in gloved hands. She paints the handle with ink and pressed a sheet of paper to it in the hopes of revealing some fingerprints. There is a moment of false hope when she lifts one, but a quick test reveals that it was her own, placed at some point during the struggle. It's not much evidence to go on, is it? The others will likely meet with more success questioning the suspects face-to-face. With a sigh, she flags down a Drownie, halfheartedly inquires as to his location during the attack, and requests a coffee. ((OOC: Tried to make Florence's forensic techniques as historically accurate as possible (because I'm a huge forensics nerd), with two exceptions. Fingerprinting wasn't adopted by London police until 1901, when the first United Kingdom Fingerprint Bureau was established. However, it was suggested to them by Dr Henry Faulds in 1886, it just wasn't implemented for a while. I think it's reasonable for high crime rates and advanced scientific progress in the Neath to have accelerated its adoption by a few years. That said, she did ask for ink, a more primitive method of actually collecting the prints than the iron filings we use today. Second, the 'basis of forensic science' I mention is a paraphrased Locard's Principle. Dr. Locard didn't actually state this principle until the early 20th century, but again, I fudged the dates a little bit and figured that the rapid scientific advancement in the Neath compared to our history permitted for an earlier development of the theory. PM me if you want and I'll talk about forensics aaaaaaall day.)) tl;dr: I wouldn't have been able to sleep tonight if not for apologizing for historical inaccuracies in Florence's methods.)) edited by ForScience on 10/18/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 9/10/2016	Walking underneath a Sumerian umbrella, Woodpecker tongue flicking out in the rain. "Oh, forgive us," says the fortune-teller, "That couldn't possibly be you, could it?" They kiss the dandy passionately on the lips - wrinkled old hands gripping thin cheeks as puckered, cracked lips press against pampered ones. An ancient, dusty old tongue searches around in his mouth - licks his teeth, searches his gums, finally finds his own tongue. The ancient old gypsy pulls back, spit trailing down over the wart on her chin. She smiles, if tugging leather back in either direction to show the woodchips underneath can be called smiling. "Oh, no," she says, "No, no, no woodpecker tongue. Not yet, not yet. Though I taste it in the future." She cackles - yanks his head down by his hair to look into the crystal ball. "You see the woodpecker tongue, darling?" she cries, "You see the mermaids?" All the rake could see was Storm. How beautiful they were. How powerful they were. "Oh, well, then," the gypsy sighs, "Perhaps next time we'll try oracle bones." She laughs again, lets go of the dandy. He falls back, falls, falls again, nearly catches himself before realizing there's nothing to catch himself on. WELL (Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha!) is that a mirror there? WELL (Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha!) now who would put a mirror down here? WELL (Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha!) there appear to be so very many! But oh, tsk tsk, now it makes sense. This is no well (Ah ah! Ah ah! Ah ah! Ah!) of the dandy's - no Pharaoh's Boy death for Faroe Boy corrupt! Some other well, perhaps, meant for some other poor fool to fall down! The gypsy threw him down the wrong well! Licked his tongue and tossed him down the wrong Hell! Now, there's someone shooting something, there, in that French mirror on the wall. Now, there's someone being shot by something, there, in that BRASS mirror dangling off the stalactite. Now, there's someone fighting a humongous BEE (Oh, where did that come from, then? Surely a trick of the imagination), there, in that zailor's mirror dipping down into a cave puddle. Now, there's the floor. Wait. Pain explodes deep in the dandy's skull like a long buried, thought to be inactive bomb. It rips up through the dirt, tears the Earth unexpectedly in two, cakes a village in shrapnel and mud. Splits up the rake's tortured brain, rips time unexpectedly in billion, distorts and fuzzes the Faroe Islands in insanity and neverborn dimensions. Wasn't the dandy supposed to be finding the ponce? Oh, well - time's been shattered now. Surely there are more important things to worry about. Like fishing with Father. Isn't that where the dandy was going? Jogging down the hill, grass around his knees, to go help the fisherman down at the docks? Or perhaps cleaning with Mother. Wasn't that where the rake was headed? Hopping up the hill, feet skipping from old stone step to older stone step, to go help the seamstress prepare the house? Perhaps frolicking with the boy in the sweater. Surely that was where the socialite was pointed? Running across the hill, Northern wind in his hair, to go joke and laugh and play and kiss the boy in the sweater? Or perhaps he's mistaken - perhaps he's merely been wandering, headed nowhere. He's certainly headed somewhere there, though. There, too. There, as well. There he goes, up the hill. There he goes, down the hill. There he goes, across the hill. Not him, no, but certainly him. Edward's watching, too, sitting on the rock next to his, watching all the hims run up and around and fall all the way down. "Is this what you looked like as a boy? You're very cute," they say. Most likely. Most probably. The dandy can't hear them over all the conversations he's ever had, ever will have, ever could have had, ringing, happening, happened-ing, happen-ing in his two ears. The rake does turn to look at them, though, at the androgynous angel beside him. Oh, no, that's no angel. Osiris in the north? Now what madness is this? Back to Memphis with him, surely - to the Nile for which he's worshipped. He is not welcome in the time between Thebes. The dandy rises, split skull flapping in the wind, time running around his boots and splashing up against his legs to turn his trousers ages old and seconds new in moments. The well, wasn't it? That was where he fell. Not his own, no, but someone's. He has no idea whose, of course. He's on private property - trespassing, with the Honey-Sipping Jewel Thief. "Shh!" the Jewel Thief hisses, a finger up to his lips, "If you keep breaking things like that, who knows who you'll attract?" "Sorry," the dandy mutters, carefully stepping around the broken time. The house is dark, a shadow world the rake rarely visits. The Jewel Thief was of little consequence, and this night was no different than any other. He's no idea why he's fallen here, of all places. "Grab that vase, if you'd be so kind," the Jewel Thief requests, "And that time you lost your soul, as well." The dandy nods, picking up the Chinese vase and placing it delicately in the bag. He reaches for the moment. "No, not that one," the Jewel Thief says, "The other one." "There are many?" the rake asks, looking over through the shadows at the cat eyes looking back at him. "How could there not be?" the Jewel Thief asks, grinning a Cheshire grin of glowing teeth. The dandy reaches for the moment, falls into it, trips over his chair, misses it completely. Then where did he fall? He's not in the house any longer - he fell into the moment. He's not in the moment - he missed that completely, flying right past it. He must be somewhere. Sometime. "Is this what you looked like as a boy? You're very cute." No, not there. "Sketch! Sketch! Run, goddamn it, run!" No, not there. "And the Drowned Dane DANCES, Speak heat LIGHTNING! Strike Fa-thom-king STANCES!" No, no, of course not, not there, perhaps never. Where is he, then? "Are you lost, too?" Not there. "Oh, certainly there. Here, in fact." Now what's that? "Do you think we're still falling, or do you think we've already fallen, and landed in the place where things that never land fall? I once threw a pinecone up in the air, and never saw it come down. Should be around here somewhere." That seems as good an explanation as any. "Would you mind helping me look?" Of course not. It'd be a pleasure. "Thank you. I always loved you." Well, who hasn't at some point in their lives? "Oh, hush. Help me look for this pinecone." Okay. "Do you think we'll get married?" We already have, haven't we? "The way I see it, we someday will." We can't if we're doing it right now, now, can we? "I see it as we never do. Never did. Never done, never does." Don't talk that way. "But it's true. All the other ones have cracked. We never does." Please don't blame this on me. "I don't. I don't - of course I don't, Charlie. Of course I don't. We simply never does." I'm sorry. "I know you are, Charlie. Help me find this pinecone, will you?" Of course. Of course. "So you find your way here! Finally. Took you long enough." I fell. "No, you got lost. Never thought you'd get lost, Charlie - you were always so amazing with directions. Got that from your dad. But I'm glad you did. We're lost together, now, Charlie." Will you help me find my way back? "Of course. Of course, if that's what you want. But you don't have to go back, you know. You could just stay lost." I know. "We don't ever really have to find this pinecone, Charlie. We could just search for it forever." I know. "I don't see it anywhere. Don't you not see it anywhere, Charlie? Ain't it hard to find, this tricky old pinecone?" I see it right there. "Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Charlie - I suppose that is it right there." I'm sorry. "It's alright. We'd run out of things to talk about eventually, anyway. Or even worse, we'd never run out of things to talk about. Just yap on for eternity." I'm so sorry. "It's okay, Charlie. This isn't you speaking, anyway - just some cracked version of you. Look at all the fractures - don't you see it's not you." Of course. "Get your soul back, Charlie. Get it back for me. Maybe then you can speak like this, like all these silly words coming out of your fractures. Then you can get lost again. Maybe then we can really yap on, eh?" I love you. "I love you, too. Get your soul back. And don't die, you silly git." Don't leave me. "You're leaving me, Charlie. You're so confused, poor thing. I'm so confused. Perhaps you've already left." He's falling out of where he's fallen, falling, falled. He might never land, so he may as well start walking. Try to get somewhere amongst all this falling. He hears rain. He hears the storm. He hears the sounds of the endless East. He smells the salt. He hears the echoing of endless could-have-been conversations falling down the well, abruptly and quickly silenced as they are gobbled up. He hears the many sounds of his mind. Storm, East, Eaten, Faroe. His mind. He must be there. That's where he's fallen. Perhaps down his ear - it explains all the sounds. Storm, East, Eaten, Faroe. It's no wonder he went mad. When he goes back, he'll be mad again. The dandy walks across the cave floor, over to the eyes. Looks out the glass at the real world that awaits him. The Iron Republic. The dandy sighs, presses his hand against the glass and basks for a moment in the calmness of being terribly lost. He should be getting back, though. He can't stay here forever. There are things to be done out there, in the world that waits beyond the smooth glass of Northerner eyes. He's fallen down somewhere, probably tricked by some devil or other. He can see cobblestone and a far-off street sign (though that hardly helps - the letters change with every blink.) There are things to do, so he must be getting back, but the reason for which he came here was complete. Time sloshes messily around his feet, whimpering and terrified, trying to find some semblance of order, some way to fix itself. It won't, though. He lifts a foot up out of the river. A million signatures disappear from a million papers. Countless words are slashed away - never spoken and never allowed the chance to be spoken. Endless days are forever changed to never have the man known as Professor Sketch appear in them. An infinity of one person is detached from ever being. Ever having been. Ever possibly becoming. He steps up out of the water. There never was a Sketch. There never was a Faroe Boy. There never was a London Dandy. There never was a man to father Tom, Philip, Rory, and Elizabeth. There never was a governor to rule the strings of Italy with a charming smile and a sharp knife. There never was a zailor to rival Alexander and crumble Olympus for the sake of the rush of the heartbeat. Sketch never was. The dandy shakes off his boots, wrings the time out of his pants legs. Perhaps he would be again, one day, when he leapt back into time in Irem. But there was no way of telling now. There was no way of telling anything. Anything never was. The dandy steps through the glass, and back onto the streets of the Iron Republic. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 9/10/2016	(OOC: for transparency’s sake this is heavily based on and borrows from Neil Gaiman’s short story “Other People” – it was too appropriate not to use. All credit to him.) The Scorched Sailor has heard tell of the sculptors of the Iron Republic, the lesser hold of the Law here allowing flesh artists, carnemancers and golemists to undertake work far more intricate and improbable than London’s Face-Tailor would even consider. The rumour mill, unstoppable as ever, took stories of the impossible artifice of the Iron Republic practitioners far and wide. Artificial limbs made from coalesced shadow, a false eye made from wasted time, whole bodies created and transplanted from the muscle and bone of the lost and weary. Some stories also said that these constructions often fall to pieces once free of the Republic’s tyranny, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the Sailor has been searching for a backup plan ever since he realised that this voyage will not necessarily succeed. Directions are treacherous, here more than ever. The Sailor stops to try and get his bearings on a street corner, opposite an implausibly tall woman screaming blue murder at the sky, the air around her stained a livid cobalt as her protests slide out of her mouth like paint. Suddenly, a hunched and almost naked figure stumbles out a doorway that the Sailor had not even noticed and sprints down and alleyway, screaming incoherently. “It was already me! Even before – I did this to myself!” The Sailor cannot get a good look at the figure before it disappears around a corner. Meanwhile, the door that the man had emerged from, which now has a small sign above it that reads “Theseus’ Parlour”, grows behind the Sailor, getting bigger and bigger – or is it closer and closer? – until he is swallowed by the great dark maw and – He awakes in a room. There is a demon in the room. Or a man – this close to Hell, the difference is sometimes arbitrary. It – he? – is horribly misshapen, with sunken eyes like dying stars in the void of space, limbs protruding at unnatural angles, mismatched flesh and fused metal scarring joints. It speaks in a voice like a beast’s, unused to speech. “Time is fluid here.” The Sailor, disoriented, approaches the creature. Looked at closer, its skin is a mess: nothing is visible beneath a crosshatch of livid scarring and clumsy grafts. Its nose was almost entirely non-existent. Its eyes were dead and long past pity. “Before long, you will be grateful for this.” Along the walls are hung hundreds of metal implements, the tools of the flesh-shaper’s trade. The creature took one down, heated it in a fire, and began, quickly overpowering and binding the Sailor. White-hot tongs approached, burning through the Sailor’s clothes, rending and shredding and melting, and the Sailor screamed. The creature cycles through each implement in turn, building agony upon agony, until each has been used, cleaned, and hung back upon its hook. The Sailor looks at the creature, blinking through blood and tears. “What now?” “Again.” He grows to know each instrument intimately as they work their agonising changes upon his increasingly mutilated flesh. His throat wears itself out. His body is methodically taken apart, altered, and put back together, the alterations never quite fitting as well as beforehand. Every flaw, every ugliness is drawn out by the creature and manipulated into something worse. It takes years. They have all the time in world, here in this room. Once it ends, it begins - “Again.” The Sailor stops fighting. “Again.” He stops screaming. A hundred years later. “Again.” There is an acceptance of the mutilation that he hates himself for. He moves so that the creature can more easily reach its target areas. He opens himself to the torture, leaves no aspect unaltered, experiencing his body as he knew it and then how the creature changed it. All resistance was gone. Nothing was left unchanged. When the last cycle is done, he lies there, waiting for the voice to say, “Again.”, but there is silence. He looks up. The room is empty. A door that had not been there before swings shut and locks with a click. When he next looks back, the door is gone. He stands, unfamiliar with his body, unfeeling. He examines the space where the door had appeared. When he turns around, there is a man in the room, heavily bundled in thick clothes, no skin showing, and he understands. “Time is fluid here,” he tells the man. *** In the night of the Iron Republic, a wretched creature runs from a door that does not exist from a warehouse that is not always there, screaming to the sky of its sins. The touch of fresh air restores something of what it used to be, and in fear of what it has done it flees somewhere, anywhere, its body a warped and loping mess. The further it runs the more of what it used to be returns to it, but it is blind with fear and cannot, does not, stop to take stock of itself until it reaches the docks. Its foot snags on a plank, and it falls, inches away from falling into the black waters of the zee. It is only then that it notices that it seems to be less naked than it was when it had begun to run from… wherever it was that it had been running from. It had seemed so important, so terrible. A scarf that it could remember being there a minute ago unfurls itself from its face, and remembers where it is, face down and looking into the inky waters, and is startled by its own reflection – The Scorched Sailor has never been so glad to see his own face. Every scar, every burn, is as it had been on waking this morning. He is out of breath, and flooded with relief at the sight of his visage, and although he cannot remember what he was running from or why he should be relieved, this feeling stays with him as he picks himself up from the floor, dusts down his overcoat, and looks around for the Reck. edited by Barselaar on 9/10/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 9/10/2016	We are four players at the table, Myself, a devil, me again and (“Undefined Variable”). I’ve been having tremendous luck, but unfortunately my winnings keep turning into more cards and so the game has continued for an (Error) amount of time. But now I can feel the last round approaching; I lay down the hanged man (Beware Death by Water). The card burns up. The next card flies away (it dreamt it was a butterfly). The third begs to be let go (it has a family you see). In this manner all my cards are used up. I am left completely bare. I can see the devil smile; I’m not quite sure what I’ve bet, but I think that for once in my life it is something I might like to keep. Then in a sudden bout of inspiration, I reach over the table, pick the other me up and lay me down. This is the last round, which means the fool trumps all. Unfortunately, the devil does not believe I have played The Fool. He says it is in fact Fortuna. And so we agree that The result is to be decided by dice Three small brass die are procured First the devil Throws second R+ ∪ {0} Then I throw first √-1 The results are inappellable . I have won; I make sure to shuffle myself properly, collect my winnings (Three brass die) and make my way out to the chaotic streets of The Iron Republic. edited by Ozymandias, on 9/10/2016 edited by Ozymandias, on 9/10/2016 edited by Ozymandias, on 9/10/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Barse Posts: 706 9/30/2016	Damp they are, and bulbous eyed, as they climb the ragged hull by glim-light. The night is punctuated by the occasional squelch. The Scorched Sailor stands at a railing above deck, the Waterlogged Mechanic pacing behind him. He had been unable to hear much of her song from above water, only able to make out a low, distorted crooning and the occasional bubble, but now she is full of restless energy, more active than he has seen her in all her time aboard the Reck. The first of the Drownies crests the railing with unsettling quiet, and is quickly followed by a second, then a third, until a small group is gathered on deck in front of the Waterlogged Mechanic. One raises a bloated finger in her direction. "She sang of a home away from home, of depths out of the deeps. She sang of a wreck that zails the tides of the zee above as the others are carried by the undertow." Another trails a finger along a rotted section of railing almost lovingly, and traces the outline of a barnacle. One of them mutters something slowly, quietly enough that it may not have been said at all. "As below, so above." The Scorched Sailor looks at them. They are not many - far less in number than the crew that has been lost so far - and they are ragtag, sporting salt-caked and ripped clothing from fashions long past, in parts reduced to a few small scraps. They are pale and bloated, skin almost pearlescent under the false-stars. The Waterlogged Mechanic eyes them warily, although clearly pleased her song was understood, but the manner in which they are looking at his ship puts the Sailor himself at ease. He steps forward and begins to speak to them of what it means to be part of a crew. A small time later the Scorched Sailor treads the corridors of his Reck, trailing his fingers along peeling and crumbling walls. The new crew are dispersed about the ship, the Mechanic on hand to make sure each understands his or her duties. He wonders how the rest of the party will react to the new arrivals. It hardly matters - he considers these measures necessary for the expedition's arrival in Irem - but it would be preferable if more conflict could be avoided. As he is clomping into the area reserved for the party members' quarters, he pauses, feeling something sticky on his fingers. Confusion, followed by alarm. A small red stain on the wall. A quick taste - metallic. Blood. Something has happened here. He lumbers on down the corridor, heading for Drake's chamber - this business with the crew has occupied the Sailor for too long and he has no idea what the others have been up to. Drake may know. (OOC: If anyone wants to have a run-in with a Drownie, go wild. Write them however you like - they're essentially redshirts, but wetter and more interesting than your regular zailor.) edited by Barselaar on 9/30/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 9/10/2016	Look through the porthole now, we are here. It’s time we were separate once more, for the time being. Silence. It was cold. The Iron Republic is never cold, to most. But it remembers. It knows who he is and is waiting. Time to go. Savoring the last minute of sanity, he finished wrapping his bandages, donned a blindfold, and walked out to meet his contact. -- Laughed. – Cried. – Was, once more. – Never stopped. – Met --- guest at the docks. Took him by the hand, and walked over the pier just so, to see… Who was it again? Existing as more than a lingering thought was difficult. Unimportant, -- had to bring --- guest to ----, to show him. A gift, a present from the garden. The maw in the ocean reached out to them, hungry, wanting -- watched the screeching void lash, demanding its share gave it its token of passage and, guests hand in --- hand, they stepped over the pier, somewhere else, somewhere different. That’s enough, I think. Our guest has had a long, trying journey here the rest of the audience hardly need know how he got here. Sit down, sit down. Enjoy your show. The masks, comedy and tragedy, receded into the abyss. Curtains opened, four doors revealed. A Bloody Heart. A Blind Heart. A Mournful Heart. A Painted White Heart. https://youtu.be/Jr9JVhr4R5Q?t=379 A voice from the Bloody Heart door. ???: “Welcome, one and all, to our very special show, just for you. Last time we thought you would have learned your lesson when you were told to never come back. But you came back anyways, didn’t you. Boy, you sure like to play with fire, huh?” Audience: Laughter A voice from the Blind Heart door. ???: “Well, you happen to be in luck. Hell is oblivious as ever, and has no idea who you really work with. I would have hoped our last little present would have told you just what to do, and yet you still are as lost as ever. Oh, the things we have to suffer for our pride and joy.” Audience: Exasperated sigh A voice from the Mournful Heart door. ???: “Of course, you could turn your back on us, though we truly hope you wont. Finding those desperate, (or mad), enough to co-operate with us is a trying and difficult task. You aren’t feeling guilty, are you?” Audience: Sobbing A voice from the Painted White Heart door. ???: “Oh don’t sound so sad. We want you to win this fight after all, we want you to succeed. After all, you would be a hero, right? A hero to all, the mighty knight who slayed the evil, devil menace, a true and just and pure soldier, yada yada yada, blah blah blah. Frankly, this goody-goody act makes me sick. You started this all on petty hate, you rotten leech. You disgusting parasite who would d_mn all of London for your own wrath. But here you are, wanting our help. Perhaps you came here knowingly. Perhaps you thought it was merely bad luck that ship passed through here. You should know better by now. After all, a devil sits on every shoulder. They have to go somewhere when the poor, sad little husk of a host just goes and DIES on them for good, you know?” Audience : Screeching, monkey chittering A voice from all four doors. ???: “So then, this has gone on quite long enough. Get comfortable, the show is about to begin. Aha ha ha ha!” Curtains shut. Lights cut out. Clear stage, prepare for scene 1. Spotlight, center stage on. Curtains open. Two life-sized puppets walk on stage from opposing sides. A is dressed as a gentleman. B is dressed as a Devil. Puppets A&B bow. Puppets A&B Rise, take a seat on a bench. Puppet A: “Oh what a fine evening this is, wouldn’t you say, dear friend?” Puppet B: “Oh how it is, how it is. But aren’t you forgetting something?” Puppet A: “Pray tell, what is it?” Puppet B: “Why, your SOUL my dear friend, did you leave it at home today?” Puppet A: “Whatsoever do you mean, why, It” Puppet A halts. Puppet A checks pockets, checks coat, looks worried. Puppet B: “Oh dear, that won’t do at all, now will it? I can’t carve profit out of thin air; I do believe that we are quite finished.” Puppet A: “But dear friend, surely I am more than just a soul?” Puppet B: “Perhaps, but souls are my trade, not rotten husks of parasites.” Audience Laughter Puppet A frowns, takes out a knife, and stabs Puppet B. Puppet A: “A Parasite am I? I called you friend, shared my finest with you, and you repay me in my darkest hour by abandoning my side!? No, this will not do, this will not do at ALL!” Puppets A&B Struggle, rolling off the bench, fighting for the knife. https://youtu.be/Jr9JVhr4R5Q?t=2315 ???: “Oh, how easily trust is broken, a friendship betrayed. You disgust me.” “Oh, it was not my fault, the devils started this whole mess!” “What B_ll. You know better than that, that excuse hardly even convinces yourself! And yet, rather than tearing it down for a REAL reason to fight, you build on it, unwittingly sealing your fate. Look again at the stage. We are not finished here yet.” Puppet A is victorious in the struggle, and resumes stabbing Puppet B. Puppet C, dressed as another Gentleman, walks on stage, raises hands to face, and screams at the sight. Audience: Laughter Looking at the intruder, Puppet A stands and lunges towards Puppet C, slashing, cutting, red everywhere, and finally, darkness. Lights out. ??? “You forgot that part, didn’t you. How it wasn’t just the one devil, no, it was nearly everyone at that event, wasn’t it. You had to be sure, you had to be without doubt that nobody had secreted your soul away there, hiding it from you. That’s what you told yourself at the time. But really, you were always a lunatic, just waiting, bottling all your wrath, and releasing it on some poor sod who happened to be in the wrong alley at the wrong time. The only difference, was that you got caught at that little party, hmm? Not that the officers suspected YOU, it was such a massacre that day, they wondered how anyone could do such a thing. When you woke up at home, you found out that you were the only survivor, what luck, to have narrowly avoided a dreadful demise at the hands of a monster.” A pause. ???: “No, that’s not quite right is it. These aren’t entirely your memories, are they? What a mess, all these little secrets and atrocities all jumbled together inside your own tiny little head.” Clean stage, replace puppets, prepare for scene 2. Lights, full stage. Backdrop and props indicate a massive factory, belching fire and smog for miles around. A continually clanking of hammers on anvils, of sharpened blades, and ticking. Puppet A is visibly damaged, laying on a slab of Brass. A tarp covers all but the head. Puppet B is visibly damaged, laying on a slab of Brass. A tarp covers all but the head. Puppet C is examining the puppets remains, taking notes. Wearing a scientists labcoat. Puppet D is lurking. Puppet C: “Oh woe is my lot, to slice and cut and to write down how these husks lived at all, that more monsters might be wrought from metal, and given stolen life. To learn the secrets of kings of old, and create new wisdom for our people today!” Puppet D: “Look, the fool has let the molten brass get to his head. He wishes to bring life, and surrounds himself with corpses, the hypocrite. I will finish this, put this monster to rest.” Puppet D creeps behind Puppet C, inching closer, closer, closer, and finally, strangles puppet C. Lights out. Curtains shut. ???: “You walk towards your grave knowingly, you cannot run away, no matter what those fools from the southern continent say. But you felt doubt, you turned your back on our cause. You fled, far, far, far away from here, away from the consequences of your actions. But we are nothing, if not forgiving. Rise. Step forward. There is one scene left to play, and you are the star.” Clear stage, Scene 3. No What? Did the little worm grow a spine? Get out get out get out Setting, the deck of the Reck. Get out of my head you know nothing I know everything, you know that. But I can see you are not quite ready to be the star. But the show will go on, even without you. But enough of that, you wanted our boon once more? Fine. -----, get over here. Take our guest back to the ship. They have business to attend to once they are back in London. ----- Will give you your “boon” once you have left the Iron Republic. As for *you* in the audience, what are you doing here? This was a private show, and I am fairly certain that only one person on the Reck was invited to be here.Get out. Crack Thud scrape, scrape, scrape It would have been a strange sight, watching some… THING climb out of the water, dragging itself up the side of the Reck, hauling itself ondeck, scattering zailors every which way, it slumped, sighed, and collapsed in on itself. Leaving its cargo behind, the much smaller ooze slithered below deck to hide in the cabins. Creaking, dripping saltwater, the Ticking Scientist weakly gestured for assistance. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/1/2016	The Mirthless Colonist staggers out of an alleyway. Not a particular one, just an alleyway. Two blinks, and all is dark. Inexplicably, he finds his way to a pair of goggles, softly glowing with greenish light. Wearing goggles over bandages is finnicky, but this pair would allow him to see through the darkness. Where the docks should've been, the Zee was dry, ancient stalagmites rise from the bottom of the cavern. The jetty is decayed, the wood rotten and bloated. Iron ship-hulls lie scattered on the bottom of the harbor, a good eight, nine feet down. Behind him, the city, a boneyard of crumbled and corroded spires. Remains, mostly human, strewn around in the orange sand. The lawlessness of the Republic has ceded, this is something worse. The sky is pitch black, not even false-stars glimmer. The feeling of being in a closed room is gone, too, as if he is in open night-sky, but starless and lightless. The air is fresh and cold, but not comfortingly so. Something is terribly wrong here, he has to leave. Clutching the sevenfold-moonpearl necklace in his hand, the Mirthless Colonist descends into the dried harbor. In the far distance, great bones and crab-shells protrude from the sand. His own footsteps are the only thing interrupting the perfect stilness. There! Just ahead, the familiar hull of the Reckoning Postponed half-buried in the zee-floor. Climb through jagged metal, lean on rusted walls. Nothing can be seen here, a thick cloud of irrigo haze fills the ship. Nevertheless, the Colonist slowly makes his way down the ship, into a compartment filled with boxes. Mirrorcatch boxes, specifically. Remembered sunlight. These are Barselaar's, or perhaps were. This isn't his own Neath, probably. Most likely the Iron Republic had brought him somewhere he didn't belong. He wasn't sure how to get back to his Neath, to the downtrodden, untrustworthy zailors and dangerous, insane, and dangerously insane crewmates, but he had to. Only now does he hear the soft wheezing coming from the corner of the hold. A small, shriveled figure slumped in the corner, its long, thin hair trailing all the way to the floor. By Jove, this is, or was, Vaustus! It wears the same ragged clothing, but its eyes are dim and its body old and shriveled. It... he speaks in a painful, gravely voice, marked by coughs and rasps. "You're... have we met before? You're a new face, I think. The other ones look at me with hatred and hunger, so you have to be a new face." The Mirthless Colonist stares at Vaustus in silence, not sure what to say. Before he can come up with something, however, it continues, "Now that I think of it, you look familiar..." The old man's eyes grow wide, his face brightens. This is probably the first time he's been lucid in a long, long time. "You said you'd be back, and now you are! It's been so long. So, so long. Come, sit with me, I've been holding on to my last bottle of laudanum just for this occassion." This whole chain of events has been incredibly confusing, as far as the Mirthless Colonist can tell, this was Vaustus. While there was probably something better to do, like worry about being lost in a corpse-world, he couldn't think of a reason to deny Vaustus' offer. Together, they sat in the dark, sharing the Laudanum, possibly the last bottle he'd ever drain. It would be terribly impolite to interrupt the old man's ramblings, even though he uttered not a single coherent thought. Eventually, the Mirthless Colonist asked him about a way back. "The world is worse-off than even the Iron Republic was all that time ago. There is no law and no life to make or uphold it, but something remains..." The Mirthless Colonist leaned in closely to hear the words whispered on the rot-breath of Vaustus. "Judgement-light. They might be gone here, but they left us something. Enough to get you back, anyways." And so, the Mirthless Colonist gathered the mirrorcatch boxes, every one he could find, while Vaustus cackled and wept and told stories he himself didn't remember. "Remember to remember, it's so easy to forget." Hours had passed, and a truly vast amount of caged sunlight was ready to be released. Vaustus was mostly silent. As the Mirthless Colonist was about to release the boxes, Vaustus extended his arm, "I almost forgot. Give me a pearl, any one. I'll provide what I have promised." Without hesitation, the withered man takes a singular moon-pearl from the Colonist's bangle. "I is for IRRIGO. No one remembers why. Irrigo colours the forgotten corners of home." Vaustus grins, his pupils expand to the point where his eyes are almost completely black. Dead. This is it, the boxes are ready, there is nothing left here. C lights COSMOGONE, the colour of remembered suns. The fecund, the foetid, the fungal: these flourish in the glow of cosmogone. And the one most cosmogone would be the one to own these boxes in the first place, wouldn't it? Barselaar. edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 10/1/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 10/15/2016	THE RECK: NOT LONG AGO The Ticking Scientist dropped the Cider. But Malice caught it. And as simply as that, the plan came together. IREM: TEN MINUTES OVER THE HORIZON Malice will walk onto the rose-scented stone docks where the Riddlefishers call for travellers to ponder the imponderable. He will have no time for games, and will pass them by. The curve of Parabola will dip close to the skein of reality here. Entering Irem will be like slipping into a fever dream. It will be a respite from the frigid zee where the mouldy Drownies throng. The pillars, stretching up to the cavern ceiling like shafts of light, will refract towards the centrepiece of Irem: the Seven-Serpent. In a waking dream, it will turn its septet of heads towards the lord, and he will be shamed, undeserving as he is of that steady, kindly, unquestioning gaze. Septuple tongues will flicker in greeting, and Malice will sketch a wave as if to a friend. Let’s not twist the knife, shall we? Get on with it. The thought will be his own, for once. The trickster Apophis shall be elsewhere, distracted as ordained. The Fingerking will have other pressing engagements with long-gone friends of Parabola, at least until the time comes. Perhaps it has already come. He will stride the rose-garden, taking in the complex scents. There will be nowhere like it under the Earth. He will sleep, for a time. Those who tend this garden are long-gone, but they will take good care of him. The gardeners of the other place are less kind. THE GARDEN: TEATIME His place is set at the table beneath the serpent-wound apple tree. The teapot steams cheerfully. A masked servant pours the fragrant brew into both cups. Malice takes a seat, hooks a finger into the dainty china cup, inhales the aroma and takes a sip. No milk, no sugar. Unadulterated. It is pleasantly warm – just cool enough to drink – and tastes more wonderful than even the brews of the old holdfasts of the East India Company. Seated across from him is himself. He could think of no more delightful company under ordinary circumstances, but this man is merely a snake in human clothing, his mannerisms a mockery of proper etiquette. Apophis takes two milks and three sugars and slurps his tea in an undignified fashion. Malice stews, waiting for his doppelgänger to make the first move. The snake finishes his tea and puts the saucer back on the table, then clicks his fingers to summon the servant. They appear instantly, bearing a covered metal serving tray which they lay on the table. The gleaming silver dome is lifted. On the tray sits an Apple. It is the very picture of health, perfectly symmetrical in shape, its lustrous skin skeined with gold. It emits a soft radiance and a faint chiming sound. It exerts its presence upon the dream-world. This place Is Not, but the Apple simply Is. It is a constant point on the Curve of reality, even when its surroundings are submerged deep in the sublime irreal. This is what he bargained for. Still, owing to certain developments, this foul snake’s services are no longer required. Apophis has taken Malice’s form. Unfortunately for him, Malice is all too aware of the limitations that brings. In serpentine form, the Fingerking could strike lightning-fast, coiling and reacting like no human ever could. Malice is getting on a bit, and his reflexes aren’t what they used to be. When he has the initiative though, he can be as deadly as Feducci himself. The invigorating strength of stolen Cider flows through him. Time slows to a crawl as he watches, analyses, predicts. Acts. Malice upends the table, throws scalding tea to blind those hypnotising green eyes. Concealed blades flash from jacket sleeves. Too late, Apophis throws up hands to defend himself. Steel sinks into those terrible weeping scars, scorches agony into unreal flesh. Incapacitated in less than an eye-blink, Apophis slumps bonelessly in his chair. Malice wonders if he can kill something that didn’t exist in the first place. At this point, it hardly matters. He cleans his ornate daggers on the tablecloth, leaving a crimson smear behind. “I’m afraid you outlived your usefulness, old chap. No hard feelings, eh? Oh, I’m sure you were good for your deal, but the price… better left unpaid, wouldn’t you say?” An unearthly shriek from behind. Something sharp pierces his kidney. “You got blood on my suit,” he says reproachfully, whirling to slice the throat of the masked servant. The wound closes up in an instant, leaving him as good as new but for the tear in the back of his suit. Oh, I could get used to this. edited by JimmyTMalice on 10/15/2016 -- 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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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/8/2016	They say when Christ was strung up and bled on the cross, the Nazarenes were a mournful people. Tears of the Lord's chosen were shed on the sand, women and children wailing as men softly wept. The sheep of God felt grief as they watched their savior struck by Roman whips. The London Dandy felt no grief as he watched the mermaid sliced by English blade. He felt only wrath. "You laid hands!" screamed a foreign tongue into an immortal face. Neath stars, clinging to stalactites up above, watch with bored amusement at the display of dramatic irony down below. Chuckle amongst themselves as the today man rushes to the to-be corpse. "And so, I'm making this wretch walk the plank for his crimes," translate scholars, "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" Shed insides gleam on the deck - felled saint reeks of the taint of a soul. "You laid hands!" "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" Wide eyes shine, bulging and terrified, as they shrink, shrink, descend towards peligin. Coat tails flap like the wings of Thanatos. Hands reach, desperately, for a saving twin. "You bastard!" shouts some hoarse voice of a burnt throat, ravaged and molested by fangs of the sun. "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" "You laid hands!" Rotten teeth of witch are bared, Roman snarl, as she sneers at the to-be people. "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" Cautious eyes, dry and pulsing, watch killer's saber from a sweating face. "I've got the bastard!" "You bastard!" "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" "You laid hands!" "You bastard!" Voices resound, repeat, hiccup, reflect, continue backwards, translate to Faroese, mix and merge, continue like broken records. Animal hands "You bastard!" swing at wrapped "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" face. Teeth descend on cracked, boiled, broiled, wracked, bubbled, scarred, charred, troubled skin. Peligin water wraps around killer Zeus as peligin fangs bite into leper's nose. "Jesus Christ, he's biting his face!" "Someone shoot the bastard!" "Pape Satan! Pape Satan, aleppe!" "You laid hands!" Crimson wax spurts over scarlet lips. The chosen people cheer, bloodthirsty, as Moses strikes Pilate! ecaf latrommi na otni eugnot ngierof a demaercs "!sdanh dial ouY" "You bastard dratsab ouY" Blood splatters! Peligin sloshes! Water splashes! "You bastard!" "You laid hands!" "Shoot him!" "You bastard!" The air cracks. Neath stars raise crustacean eyebrows. Distorted voices freeze, halt, shatter as the bullet passes through them. Cheers abruptly stop. Clamors suddenly end. The deck falls to silence. The dandy falls to the floor with a thump. Peligin-tinted blood stains ebony clothes. The crowd is motionless. The Neath stars watch now with greater interest. Mermaids stir. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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ForScience Posts: 69 10/9/2016	It's strange. All these preparations. All this anticipation, and yet Florence never truly expected it to happen. She never expected to walk through the past, to watch moments race by again. As if they hadn't done enough damage the first time. At first, she had hoped to fix the flaw in her own design, to repair whatever mistakes she had made when designing that wonderful, terrible machine. But there were hundreds of thousands of little pieces running in tandem (at least there should have been) and to isolate the one that went wrong- or what if there was more than one?- would be a task beyond Herculean. Her mistakes had etched themselves into history, and all she can do is try and minimize their impact. If her mistakes are set in stone, their effects are not. Some, perhaps, are natural consequences of what she can only think of as her greatest folly. But others were simply unfortunate coincidences, some poor sap standing in the wrong place at the wrong time when a tiny piece of machinery didn't do its job and dying a horrible fiery death as a result. Perhaps casualties could be minimized. Perhaps her past self might be among them. The Waswood presses around her. Or maybe it did, once, or hasn't yet. The Scholar doesn't know if this is a memory or a glimpse of what is to come. Perhaps it might even be happening. Whenever it may be, Florence, at some point in time, is stepping with the utmost reverence through the woods that might even exist at the same time as her. And the mirror, charred frame and all, beckons beckoned will beckon. Florence has long been prepared to answer. Smoke. That is the first thing she knows when time folds around her. It fills the air, curling in plumes of silver from the wreck of the machine she spent so long crafting. The sound of the explosion still echoes in the air, and the fire has not yet engulfed the entirety of the laboratory. Seven minutes. The Coolheaded Physicist, her first priority, lies still among a pile of rubble. His back is bent at a strange angle. Already dead. The blast itself was what killed him, then. Florence hopes that he didn't feel it. That his last conscious moment was spent smiling for the popping cameras, never knowing what was to come. She allows herself no more than a moment to linger on his broken body. There is nothing to be done. Instead, she busies herself directing the crowd around the entrance to the laboratory out. Some brave, foolish souls break past her, hoping to save those trapped inside. Most do the sensible thing and run like the heavens. They do not recognize her. It would have created even more of a stir if two Florence Garrisons had been spotted on the scene, and so she donned a dark travelling cloak before her little foray into the past, hood pulled low over her face. Yet her glasses, catching the light of the flames, glimmer out from underneath. Inside, now, where those courageous few and the terrified scientists trapped by rubble are seemingly frozen in place. She shouts, voice roughened by her time spent smoking cigars in the Neath. They must get out! They haven't much time! One particular fellow, a Mr. Chaudhary if the smoke is not playing a trick on her eyes, is actually picked up and carried to safety. The rest, for the most part, make do with only a little guidance. Where it is safe to step. Which sections of ceiling will collapse and crush anyone unfortunate enough to be standing under them. Which fire-torn paths are worth risking. She knows them all, of course, and seeing them flee the raging fire out onto the cobblestone streets makes the whole voyage worth it. Each and every one of them perished, last time. The stairway fell and they burned, meters away from a door now buried by rubble. None will suffer the same fate, now. That is not to say that all casualties have been avoided. Even now, the screams of the dying, the damned, provide a terrible backdrop to the scene. Not everybody can be saved. Trying would only get herself killed, as well. Yet it is impossible to block out their desperate pleas for help. They trusted the Scholar to lead them, to guide them. But what good is she to them now? Florence is not a religious woman, but if she were, she would pray for them, an apology for the trust she didn't deserve. Instead, she moves like a shadow, like a wraith, to the side of her past self. The Idealistic Scholar lays against a fallen support beam. She would look peaceful, if not for the burns already appearing on her skin, the blood seeping from the wound in her side. The wound would heal up nicely, but the burns would stay. Even now, they mark Florence's face, and they would do so forever. Yet they have not yet consumed her face like they once had, they have not yet ruined her eyes. There is hope yet. She drags her past self along, arms tight around her waist, carefully avoiding the site of the wound. How odd, to feel her own ragged breathing, her own struggle to take in air. Yet she has escaped the worst of the flames, and that is a mercy. The Scholar begins to stir! What would happen if she lays eyes on her future self? It would not be wise to find out. Hastily, she is deposited in a relatively safe location. Her eyes, her unmarried eyes, flutter slightly. A letter is slipped into the pocket of her blackened, bloodied lab coat, and the Intrepid Scholar presses a hand to her past self's burned cheek. She will know the cruelty of fire, true, but never the same as she once did. Seconds left, now. The Intrepid Scholar strolls outside. She takes in the trees, the sunlight, the clear blue sky for just a moment, and then seven minutes have passed. The letter had really been the key to all this. Without the loss of her sight, who knows whether Florence would have chosen to descend to the Neath? But there was no other option. And so she had devised a letter to her past self, carefully calculated to drive her to the underground city. It was written in Spanish, her first language and the one she had cried out in when she had first awoken in a hospital bed, in a world gone dark, ravaged by a single mistaken calculation. For the most part, the letter was really rather boring, but there is no doubt in Florence's mind that it would achieve its purpose. The ending, at least, she could be proud of. You do not know me yet and you may never, but your happiness is my own. My only interest is in your wellbeing. I implore you to give London a chance, though its charms may not be evident at first. Take the advice of those wiser than you. Be not afraid of what lies in the dark. Do as you will, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. -Signed, A Guardian. edited by ForScience on 10/18/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/31/2016	The rifle turns to the dandy as the Ticking Scientist stands before the firing squad. Sketch sets down the glass bottle of whiskey, having poured himself a third glass. "Now here's something everyone's treating very casually - murder. Permanent murder, by the sound of it," Sketch says, leaning back in his chair. He sips at his glass. "And that's illegal in some places, you know," he says dryly, continuing once more in a public speaker's voice, "So I'm rather surprised you'd leap up in the middle of a civilized dinner to ask if this time travel business could be used to kill someone you wanted dead. You act as if we're all vagabonds, criminals, and bleeding hearts - I think you've got the wrong impression, there. How do you know one of us doesn't have connections to the constables? How do you know one of us isn't a constable? And even if we don't, and even if we're not, there is no guarantee we are all 'mad runaways and ruffians,' as our wrapped friend has so elegantly stated. But then again, of course, I'm not mentioning the one important detail, am I?" He drains the glass. He pulls out another cigarette from his pack. "You, the man who talks of murder at dinner like a lion in the lion's den, focus the conversation on the risks and the possible side-effects of messing about with time in such a way, because you've soothed our moral sides. This is a villain, isn't it? Damnable man? And why should we believe you?" the dandy asks. He lights a match. "No one aboard this ship knows you very well. You hopped on only recently. You seem to be in quite bad with the Brass Embassy; an agency that I'm sure has several good associates and friends at this very table. Now you stand up, as we're all talking about vacations in France and the sorry state of tonight's port, and propose an idea to kill someone that you say is bad. Whose death you say would save hundreds of lives. Whom we've never met. Now, contemplate Dynamo. Good man. A scientist. Honest-hearted. Imagine if he weren't here and none of you had ever met him - if, say, our captain were the sponsor of this expedition. I could easily stand up at this table, same as you, and begin to tell you all what a horrible man Dynamo is. How he's killed hundreds. How his death would save those hundreds - would change history for the better. How the only humane option is to change the plan of the journey so that we may kill this scoundrel and save the innocents he's slaughtered. I'd probably do it quite well. I'd probably convince every one of you. After some deliberation on the possible effects on time, the dangers of such a task, the risks that must be taken to perform great heroism, we'd probably end up doing it. And there I'd stand, splattered in Dynamo's innocent blood, a mistaken hunting party behind me watching with grim pride and satisfaction at the success of their mission. Not only would an innocent man be killed, but countless, possibly damaging, changes to time would occur. We can't condone the murder of a man on the word of a stranger. If we do, we are nothing but hopelessly naive, terribly bloodthirsty animals. The very contemplation of this proposal is wrong from the first. I'm sorry, but I'll need some evidence other than a nomad's promise before I hop onto the lynching." The rake takes a drag of his cigarette, speech ended. Edward Sane always said their lover was most handsome after a speech. Rose-tinted glasses, surely, but the replacement of charming confidence with passionate satisfaction is a pleasant one. The rake looks more honest than he has all journey - possibly because he is. He believes all of what he has just said. After all, who ever said murderers liked each other? edited by Professor Sketch on 8/31/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/17/2016	The Scorched Sailor looks around at the stricken party as Drake strides off into the undergrowth. Almost everyone is still suffering the myriad effects of drinking from the Wound, but it looks like most people are functional at least. Bar the slumped shape of the Ticking Scientist - who, after his impromptu surgery, doesn't seem to be ticking quite so loudly - is on their feet, if a bit unsteady. With the heady sensation of blood pumping in his newly carved veins - he didn't realise now how he'd taken it for granted for so many years - making him feel faintly euphoric, the Sailor hauls the Scientist over his shoulder and follows Drake, letting the others take their time. The Scientist's limbs flop like a puppet with its strings cut, but he's breathing. He weighs a surprising amount for such a nonthreatening frame - there must be more brass in there than the heart he just removed - and he bleeds all over the Sailor's overcoat, but the huge, waxed-leather garment has seen much worse. It feels good to have something physical to concentrate on. The slog through the Elder Continent foliage is long and arduous, especially with the added load, and provides ample distraction for the Sailor. He does not want to have to think about what strange transmutations have taken place within him and his shipmates. Drake had promised increased vitality: that had certainly been delivered. But that seems to have been the least of its effects, and the Scorched Sailor has a feeling that the changes wrought here will cause ripples that last a very long time indeed. Instead of thinking too long on this, he simply puts on foot in front of the other, following the flashes of Drake's clothing and the rustle of disturbed flora, closing the gap between himself and the living ship. Between him and the Reck, and home. (As the light of the Mountain fades into the distance, a familiar yearning gains strength once more. Just another reason to get back as soon as possible.) Noises of clumsy progress, the crunches of leaves and snaps of twigs, the indignant cries of brightly-coloured birds, indicate that some, at least, of the others are following. He supposes each must be lost in their own private contemplation of what the Mountain showed them, what it did. The Sailor, at least, feels renewed, in mind as well as body. He knows now that what he had desired when Drake had first explained the expedition, the tiny sliver of hope that he'd nurtured and fed, despite its debilitating unlikeliness, was possible. Retrieved memories were merely a pleasant side effect. This is good, he thinks to himself as he clears the undergrowth around the Nameless River. We're finally getting somewhere. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/7/2016	(OOC) Right, before we go ashore I'd like to quickly answer Suinicide. "It's fairly straightforward, in all honesty. You've never been to Polythreme, so I'll quickly explain." The Mirthless Colonist inhales deeply, recalling the stead of the King with a Hundred Hearts. "Polythreme is a place where truly everything lives. Everything. The walls, the furniture. Yes, even the food and the drink lives. Even the candles that you light. This makes Polythreme less of an orderly city and more of a great many voices screaming together in the dark. Some huddle together for warmth, and some are forever melancholy. The place is sometimes dreadful and repulsive, but mostly heartwarming in how everything finds solace in eachother. I've lived in Polythreme for a very long time. When I finally left, the rest of the Neath was a frightening and dissapointing stillness. Being in London does feel truly lonely when you're used to living in unison with the very stones you step on." The Mirthless Colonist is pensive for a while, and then continues. "I say this even though every one of my bandages is a sentience upon itself. Even though most of them are comparable to dogs at best, they still keep me a constant company I'd go mad without." The Colonist absently caresses the bandages on his arm as he says this. "Oh, but this story was to serve a purpose in explaining how I, er, 'tamed' the vessel we zail on, yes?" The bandaged gentleman leans over the railing and stares at the scarlet water below. "She was truly lonely. The Gracious treat her as a pack mule at best. I felt her sadness and I played into it. My bandages writhe with joy and compassion, so I asked a single one of them to stay here with her. Forever." The Mirthless Colonist now straightens his back and looks Suinicide straight in the eyes. "Endearing, is it not?" You now have 1 x Touching Love Story edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/7/2016 edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/7/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Barse Posts: 706 8/4/2016	The Scorched Sailor is faintly surprised at Sketch's offer. "Thanks." He takes the proffered cigarette and and fiddles with it, rolling it backwards and forwards over the ball of his thumb. He does not put it in his mouth. For a moment eh pair stand side by side at the rail, the Sailor letting his eyes unfocus until the river is a red blur. The cigarette snaps between gloved fingers, and breaks him out of his reverie. The two halves slip from his grip, and tumble into the river. The Scorched Sailor curses. "Sorry." The black-clad dandy exhales, and the tendrils of smoke dance like something alive. "Probably better for your health that way." "Probably." The silence continues, and the Sailor turns pensive. "What're you running from, then?" He knows very little about the man stood next to him, but the nature of their voyage betrayed a little about each of the original volunteers. "Sailing to the corners of the world, risking life and limb-" at this he waves his bandaged arm "-changing the past. In my opinion, either everyone here is mad, or has something terrible enough behind them that makes all this worth it." A vague gesture includes the fugitive living ship and the river of blood in 'all this'. edited by Barselaar on 8/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/16/2016	The Tomb-Colonist shudders at the sight of the blood-addled people all around him. It was his turn. A flagon quickly dipped into the wound, a few drops of the Hesperidean Cider. The taste is repugnant but not to the point of being utterly disgusting, he'd drank enough vile vintages back in Venderbight to appreciate the relative mediocreness of the blood. He didn't even notice he'd fallen down until someone shook his shoulder. Strange, that. Supposedly this was the part where he should get a vision, but it didn't really happen, not really. This was more of an out-of-body experience. There, in front of me, a collection of souls. Farther behind me, a half-dozen more scrambling like ants around... around Stone, magnificent and warm and full of light. Stone guides me north, past a living ship, towards her daughter, Mt. Nomad* as the Zailors call her.* And more to the west and the south, an ancient sadness, weeping still, The Bazaar. The Bazaar yearns for The Sun, burning far away among the Judgements but they can't be together because they spoke in the Correspondence and told her not to defy the Great chain of be- No. That's not what Stone wants to show me, I got distracted. It's irrelevant, forget it. Again. Stone guides me back to the others who came with me, and light blooms from them. Apocyan, Cosmogone, Gant, Irrigo, Peligin, Violant, Viric. Seven colours correspond to seven of my crewmates, but they're too bright for me to see them apart. Cosmogone might be Barselaar, what remains of a light that fell. And Irrigo might be that wretch trying to drown his sorrows. The others... I do not know. Stone tells me that I should find out. She asks me to bring her light to London, that someone there needs it. I vow to deliver, and I bid her farewell. The Mirthless Colonist comes back to himself, thick blood streams from his nostrils. He was never really unconscious, but it still feels like he's waking from a long sleep. As he slowly looks around, the brightest lights fade from sight, but the seven colours still lightly blur his vision. "Emergence." the bandaged man mouths. "These idiots here represent the seven colours. Insufferable." But who was whom? (OOC) My character is usually a grumpy jerk so I gave him a reason to go out there and socialize with you folk. Stone's vision has made clear that seven of the shipmates are in some way related to one of the seven colours from the Neathbow each. This gives me a reason to have some characterization with each of you while I try to find out which one of you is which colour. edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/16/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 8/16/2016	(OOC dont you love it when it turns out you not logged in and it deletes what you wrote. Blech.) Mumbling his thanks, he took the knife and began to cut through the bandages. You knew this would happen. And you still did it anyway, didn’t you. The next part would be a bit more difficult. Back in London it would have been easy, but here…. Look at yourself. Laying on the ground, struggling for dear life. He had to hurry. Wincing, he plunged the knife into his skin, sawing away over his chest, and pulling the flap away. Weak. Pathetic. Brass would feel nothing at replacing their own parts. Taking a deep breath, he dug, deep, deeper, down to the ribs. At least you had some foresight in your designs. The ribs were brass, replaced the last time this procedure was done. Unfortunately, the hinges were grown over, meat and bone sealing it. He began to hack away at the hinges. What, did you expect that this would be easy? Cut. Saw. Hack. Gouge. Grab and... CRACK ..yank. There was the problem. Two hearts, fighting for a place. One of flesh returning and the other… Whirring. Ticking. Steaming. A piece of home to take with you. Brass. Of course. His body had never really accepted the heart as his own, even as its gifts saved his life on several occasions. But now, leaving it there might mean his death. He set down the knife, closed his eyes, and ripped it out. CRUNCH There we go. There we go. With it removed, his fleshy heart filled the space left behind. He would heal from this, given a bit of rest under the mountains light. Unfortunately, he would not have long to appreciate this. Removing the brass heart took the vitality and strength it gave him, letting the pain catch up to him. “Nighty-night” he mumbled before passing out, knife and brass heart falling to the ground. An interesting decision, choosing meat over metal. But that was hardly the real choice, wasn’t it? You cannot put it off forever. You must decide. Will they live, or will they die? Silence. No, no, I refuse. I may have to do so, but not yet. Not yet. Sleep then. But know this: You cannot run from what you must do forever. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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ForScience Posts: 69 9/4/2016	How interesting. Florence can't help but feel as though the Ticking Scientist's request was rather odd. But the responses it inspired have offered certain insights into the characters of her new companions. A tale of romance, a tale of loss, a tale of deceit. She has no idea what to say, herself. Her secrets are held too close to her heart to divulge; she feels that the two are linked, and baring her past for everyone to see would tear her apart. She's tried many times to convince herself that what happened wasn't that much of a tragedy, all things considered. That she should finally exorcise her old demons and move on. But every time, when she shuts her eyes, she sees the walls of flame, hemming her in, burning, searing- Keeping her secrets a little while longer cannot hurt. She'll tell a watered-down version, then. Not what happened, but the aftermath. It's a secret in itself, for nobody else knows. But she cannot let what really happened go. The specter of living with it, of seeing not herself but a disfigured and discredited version every time she looks in the mirror, has grown to be a part of her. Florence nods her acknowledgement to the Scorched Sailor. "I didn't come to the Neath to stay." She toys with the folds of her skirt, hands in frantic motion. Even this much is setting her on edge. But she knows that she'll have to have her turn to talk sooner or later, and making something up would be downright deceptive. No. This much, she tells herself, cannot hurt. She can afford to divulge this much. Something something something, all manner of thing shall be well. Where did she hear that? She really isn't sure. "I came expecting to stay only briefly. For my work. I planned a cursory investigation of certain Neathy phenomena. That was not quite two years ago." That's part of the reason why she came down here, anyway. The only part anybody needs to know except for her. Doing the best she can to stamp any semblance of a tremble out of her voice, she continues. "I died instead. Only temporarily, of course! Returning to life was really quite simple. But reconciling myself to the knowledge that I would never see the Surface again... that wasn't. I miss it. I miss my home, wherever that may have been." (OOC: this is Florence) [spoiler] [/spoiler] -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 9/4/2016	“I suppose then, that it is my turn. Very well, it is high time I explain my intent at any rate.” The Young Man “Several years ago there was a young man, a bl__dy idiot, but a charming one. You would have thought the fellow had never heard of Icarus considering how often he partied with devils. A truly shameless flirt with danger, thought the world was his, and nothing could stop his path to fame and fortune. Again, a bl__dy idiot. Eventually, his lifestyle caught up to him, and next thing he knows, his soul is gone. Whether he was drunk, he was drugged, or they simply stole it from him and needed an excuse when he woke up, it hardly matters anymore. At first, he was fine. So what if my soul is lost, surely things can go on just the same, he would say. Not so. The devils snubbed him. And when they did, so did many of his so called friends and allies, just conmen waiting for the right moment, all of them.” A pause, a slight shake of the head. “He was left bitter and angry. For a time, he was unable to act, oh he certainly had the influence to strike down a devil or two for good, but what he wanted was to take down every last devil, not an easy feat at all. You may recall the failed incursion to hell? Suffice to say, he needed more. More allies, more firepower, more soldiers, more everything. And he found it, the perfect inlet to get his revenge. Some of you can guess already who it was he ended up working with. Out of some foolish sense of duty, I will keep the man’s name intact. Regardless, an oath was made, a pact formed of hatred for devils. Enough hatred to drive him to study devils, learn their ways. What they are and how they can be killed. But as such things go; his wrath lacked fuel, and slowly burned out. He had waited, and waited, but never did the day come for the second strike against hell. Years passed. Eventually, he did find his soul again for what it was worth, but the deed was done. A pact made, and would be followed through until the end.” “At any rate, that young man is gone. He was bitter still, but time had healed his anger, and let him move on. Until recently. You recall the bombing of the brass embassy? The information leaked before and after the incident was… flammable. The flame was rekindled once more.” A frown. A sigh. “Bold. Brash. Arrogant. A different sort of idiot.” The Near Present “It was difficult, but deals were brokered, research gathered and new alliances forged. It was not enough, and weapons were designed, new weapons, ones that would change war as we knew it. Hell had caught on by now, but thought it a low priority. It was a threat to be sure, but unlikely it would ever amount to anything. He, no, I…” A long pause. A shake of the head. “I apologize. My recollection of events at this point is damaged, broken. I recall designing a special blueprint, and ordering my servant to follow the instructions listed… Waking up in the grand mausoleum in the tomb colonies, having been dead for… Well, longer than then I had any right to return from. Loyal servants are hard to find, but well worth the price. Anyways, having gathered my wits I returned to London to gather my notes before the devils could steal them. Afterwards I fled to the southern continent where I continued my research in private. Spending time away from devils has… Changed me. I took a look at what I was doing and… Again, I apologize. Part of the reason I left London was to forget, to put this behind me. I was faced with the choice to either let the course stay unaltered, or to take victory at any cost. You might recall how I showed up on the living ship unannounced. I had hoped that it might take me away from my research, my choices. It took me deeper into the heart, where we drunk from the wound. We all saw something after we tasted the water, and what I saw was more than I could handle. After that, the Scorched Sailor would be better at explaining if anything happened while I was out cold. Regardless, once we returned to Apis Meet, I knew what had to be done. My laboratory, my research, it all had to be destroyed. I could leave no traces behind in that place for some poor sod to find. All, no, most of it was burned or ruined after the detonation. You may have seen the pillar of smoke as the ship left.” A sigh. “Why then, am I telling you all this? To understand why I asked the question I asked, you first needed to understand the reason and the events leading up to this. So, to answer the unasked question in the room of who I would erase from time…” A pause. “Me.” He let this sink in before continuing. “I always knew what would happen if I continued my work against the devils. I ignored it for so very, very long. I thought I could just leave this foul business behind, but I can’t. It follows me wherever I try to run and hide, and… Oh sod it. Words fail me. You want to see why I have regret, why I doubt that winning a war against devils would be worth the price? Look at me. What I wanted was power, something that could handle the devils. What I ended up with was a faulty prototype that to put into production would be a horrendous war crime.” Slowly, painfully, he unwraps the bandages on his face. The damage is… extensive, to say the least. Deep scars, burned flesh, whirring cogs, entire chunks of his face either missing or replaced with brass, a jaw visibly held together with wire. To say he bore a resemblance to the work of Dr Frankenstein would be an insult to the fine work that went into Victors creation. His visage was monstrous, sickening. “Look at me. Look at me and take it in. Take a good long look.” Pulling his hood over his face, he stands up, coughing. “But that doesn’t answer the question, does it. The prototype exists, the blueprints exist, but fullscale production and refinement never started. Why then would I not just keep quiet, break my oath, and let the opportunity pass me by? Because, of one thing. I know that were the blueprints to be used for creating these things, we would be guaranteed victory at all costs. The war would be won, and London would never be the same again. And that is why when I overheard, I could not help but ask. A opportunity to wage war, and if the cost it too high, simply go back in time and stop myself from starting? A hard offer to resist, but even if I changed history, I would still remember the atrocities committed in the name of victory.” A choking noise. “I… apologize. This is… A sensitive subject, as you can imagine. If for some reason you need to see me, I will be staying in my quarters. I have… Much to consider, as you might imagine. I believe we all do.” A hacking, retching noise. Finishing his port, still not as bad as the expressions around the room indicated earlier, he called a zailor over to help him get back to his room, where he could replace his bandages and recover his composure. It was going to be a long evening. For what it was worth, he could at least say his conscience was appeased after finishing his story. Perhaps you were too honest. Perhaps they might try to help you. Perhaps they might turn you over to the devils. Perhaps they might kill you and steal your research, claiming it as their own and finish the job you started. Perhaps many things, but time will tell if trusting them with the truth was the right choice. But it wasn’t the whole story was it. You told them you were a monster, and showed them your face, but you hardly spoke of what monsters you had designed, prepared to fight a war humans were never meant to be involved in. We will see soon, wont we. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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suinicide Posts: 2409 9/4/2016	Suinicide carefully puts the port down, an arm’s distance away from her. “If this is to build trust, I’m afraid I can’t remember any stories for that. I regret many of my decisions after seeing the consequences, and few secrets are things I would choose to share. Instead, I offer you something akin to blackmail. A story of a crime I have committed. If any of you wish to see me arrested, or otherwise make my life difficult after this journey, I trust you’ll be smart enough to find evidence, and know what to do with it.” She lies. There is no evidence. This story never happened. “I hope you find this satisfactory, and that none of you feel the need to use it.” “How many of you are familiar with Dr. Orthos? A wealthy man, a very wealthy man. Rich enough to hire entire fleets of ships to harass rival scholars. And that is just his hobby. Adding in whatever his actual business is, he is likely richer than anyone on this ship.” Suinicide gives a short apologetic nod towards Drake. She doubted he would actually be offended, but angering near-immortals is fairly low on her ‘good ideas’ list. “But no matter his actual wealth, he still plays scholar. I say plays because he seems allergic to actually doing scholarly work, instead leeching off of actual academics and stealing their research through brute force. I could almost admire the man, if he ever gained more than a surface level understanding of any subject.” “But at one point he crossed a line. When I was studying the correspondence, part of a fleet tried to rob me. Now, most of his fleets are near wrecks, compensating for their lack of speed or basic maintenance with numbers and weapons. Not this one. We almost didn’t get our weapons prepared before we were surrounded, and quickly thrown into battle. As I’m still standing here, I think you can guess who won.” “The actual battle is unimportant. I’ll spare you the details and simply say it lasted far too long, and I was rather uninvolved in most of it. The important part is we captured the captain of the fleet.” Suinicide reaches back for the port, making a face as she drinks. Back it goes to the table. “I learned about his employer, how they got separated from most of their fleet, and most importantly, that this man was important to Orthos. He alternately bragged and threatened that last part.” “As you can imagine this put me quite a position. I personally delivered him back to Dr. Orthos with utmost apologies, hoping for the best.” Suinicide let out a short laugh. “And since this is the story of a crime, I’d be surprised if any of you believed that. Instead I disfigured him and dropped him off near one of the more remote tomb colonies. I say near because none of us wanted to risk landing for someone that tried to kill us. After seeing him off, we fled back to London.” “Now Orthos had a missing friend, and he wanted answers. After calling in some favours, I attempted to give him those answers. A small time criminal was made up to look like our former captive, and given extensive lessons on how to act. And then we set him free. He wandered back to Orthos, placating him with a sob story of a lifeberg and khanate pirates.” Suinicide gave a smug smile. “Maybe if Orthos bothered to actually learn what he stole, he would have seen through it. But remarkably, it worked. I gained a spy inside his camp, feeding me secrets, and whenever he got too close to one I wanted, I could waltz in and pluck it from his grasp.” “I hope this information is enough to buy your trust. If you inform Orthos of this arrangement, I will lose my most valuable spy, and the flow of secrets will dry up. After that, he will likely seek revenge, and man with that much money, and that many armed men.” She hesitates, “My life would be difficult, to put it mildly. If it continued.” Of course, even if the story was true, and someone sent Orthos after her, it wouldn’t matter. She would soon be leaving London, going where even Orthos could not touch her. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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TheThirdPolice Posts: 609 7/14/2016	The Clay Man is white with salt crystals. Underwater currents have ripped holes in his body, erased his features, torn off most of an arm. It took him many weeks to walk back to London. It is not safe for him to remain. He walks beneath the pier and waits for nightfall, ready to climb aboard Drake's ship. He knows his last captain is still out there. He still needs the map. And he is accustomed to long voyages. -- Excessive Corpse & Tender to Irreal Ravens Lover of Flawed Souls And with especial pride, Worst Screwup of the Decade!
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 10/10/2016	Wind will be an unfamiliar sensation to them, but the wind will guide them through the pillared city. Shadows will point them the way. Passerby will murmur hints and obscure remarks. “The Waswood: all things within are gone forever, and all things that are gone forever lie within. But you, Amets, you may always leave... You may always leave.” Amets. A familiar relic. The Fisher of Dawn. They will recognize a part of themselves in them. Half-lucid, half-dreaming, their voice will intone. “This one finds treasures in a river beyond sleep. Bring a suitable antiphon." They will whisper back words strewn in their head by the wind. “I wish to pass into Parabola. Into the Waswood.” A phrase given by shadows of the hands of an articulated god. “I will reward you a hunger. A thirst.” An utterance from the nameless figures of the crowd. “A naked need. Alban.” They will accept their offer. They will take their skull, sigil-maimed and emerald-eyed. A familiar relic. Waswood. No winds blew. No shadows fell. No murmurs followed. Bones crackled their last under the Game-Carver’s boot. The dead might be guides in this place, but the skull only rattled lies. No progress was made. No change was possible. Waswood. Inhibited winds blew. Softened shadows fell. Hushed murmurs followed. Bones crackled their last under the Solicitor’s boot. It entered its cavity of broken ivory with ease. The Solicitor followed these steps for what might’ve been ages, or what might’ve been a single second. The body tires. The mind wanders. No change. No progress. No escape. Waswood. Only their winds blew. Only their shadows fell. Only their murmurs followed. They wound from tree to high tree, stopped by no leaf nor branch. Gleaming eyes of red gazed upon the steps. The way. Them. Winds cut away the skin, culled the pelt from the meat. Shadows split bone from muscle, carving their victory into supple ivory with brilliant words. Murmurs granted the sweet escape of death, escorting the mind with threats at it took upon the temporary journey. The huntsman took an eternity, and it was but a moment. Two thousand pails of surface snow. Three hundred black-barked trees. Forty nine scales of colour. Fourteen eyes like jewels. Seven voices in disrepair. “You will disrespect the deal.” Three hissed. “And the deal will be sacred. We will not stand by this.” “You had disrespected the wood.” Three seethed. “And the wood was sacred. We had not stood by this.” *“You do not stand by this? So be it.”* The wind crashed. *“I have a need of you, and you have a need of me.”* The shadow soared. *“But you have disrespected me! I will be sacred, and I stand not by your side!”* The murmur roared. No voices in disarray. No words. *“I have a future for each of you. A past for each of you.”* The wind absconded. *“I have the sun for us all. A light for us all.”* The shadow spread. *“But you have abandoned me. You may have nothing.”* The murmur repeated. “We will disrespect the deal.” Twin thews hissed, jade-eyed with the murmur’s threat. “We had disrespected the wood.” Two amber-eyed ligaments intoned, too blinded by the shadow’s promise. *“We have not disrespected you.”* Two of the cartilage whispered, dark-eyed from the wind’s insight. They will return to Irem, clad in their tanned skin, cloaked with what they are most familiar: Gold, Bombazine, Cosmogone. The Riddlefishers will hail them as their old name. “Amets, now.” They will respond, seemingly reciting the short phrase from memory. The Fisher of Dawn will hail them as their lost name. "You will be right, for now. I wish to prove you wrong." They will remark with a glare of the unmasked eye, coloured with shallow sleep. They will step up the gangplank, someday. But they will linger, for now. [spoiler]A sketch of the new dress a person that goes by the nick Stars on the Delicious Server: Thanks to them for making this.[/spoiler] edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 10/13/2016 -- 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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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 11/30/2016	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. -- 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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Arcanuse Posts: 89 10/9/2016	????, ?? November 1867, London. Do you really think the date matters? Yes. May I continue? Certainly. We have all the time you need. I was a fool. Flirting with disaster, enjoying the company of devils. I wish I had the foresight to accept the consequence as my own fault. ????, ?? December 1870, Iron Republic. He wanted power. I wanted freedom. A deal was made. Later, he would try to go back on his half. I knew he would never agree to a second deal, so when the opportunity arrived… ????, ?? October 1894, Iron Republic. I never wanted to return. They brought me back, no more running. I needed more. And I gave it. 1100, ?? October 1894, Irem. I had dropped the cider, and walked down to the port, my body not my own. I had dropped the cider, and rode down to the port, fear, disgust, loathing. I had no choice. He had no choice. I signed a contract. I had a debt to claim. We knew what to do. We knew where to go. To the highest point of Irem. To the deepest foundation of Irem. I had a price to pay. I had such sights to show. ????, ?? October, 1894. Mountain of light. Slowly, unnoticed, the heart tumbled down into the river. You should remember this much. How you left your heart behind here, and never looked back. How could I have known what would happen, what had yet to happen? The heart touched the blood, and slowly, it began to beat. Had you never returned for another contract, it might never have. But you did, and so I claimed my price. You had no right. What had those people done to you? What could anyone have ever done to you to do such a thing? The heart changed, growing limbs, claws, fangs, a beast that should not be. What had they ever done to me? Nothing. Truthfully, you could say I was doing you a favor. After all, you would have had to deal with the locals if I never had. You could have given me a chance, at least let me get the innocents away from that place. Screeching, it dove deep, deep, deeper still, reaching the riverbed. What innocents? The only things between you and the mountain were obstructions. They were people. It would settle here, grow. Bud. Reproduce. It was away from the view of outsiders, by the time they knew what was happening, it would be far, far too late. ????, 20 November, 1895. The Mountain of light. By now, the infected area had spread significantly. Mostly underground, though the river near where the heart first fell had taken on a brassy sheen… Really, it’s their own fault for not noticing what was happening. How could they? Until we went to Irem, it never happened. Many things never happen, and yet they still change the world. Stories, you mean? Naturally. But enough of that, we need to jump ahead a few decades. Oh? What, did you think it would grow overnight? No, no. For something of the magnitude I need, this would take time. It wasn’t easy, certainly not pleasant keeping a stable connection over the decades, but it had to be done. So you say. 0900, 02 July, 1902. Smoke on the horizon. The infection had stayed relatively small, on the surface anyways. Below the ground a factory had been built to process the life harvested from the mountain-blood into new creations, abominations, weapons designed to kill even those said to be immortal. *Honestly, looking back on it now I feel rather proud* of making such things. Proud? You make me sick. What you did to them… Daw, I love you too. You were weak, and that has yet to change. But it will. The course is set, and you can go with fate or I can end you. You wish. You need me as much as I hate you. By now, the Presbyterate had caught on that something was wrong. Strange new beasts that whirred and clicked came from the forest en mass, attacking anyone they could find. Not wanting to invite outside interference, they fought tooth and claw, both on the frontlines and to keep outsiders away. It was adorable. Thinking they could resist. They fought as best they could but… People tire. Year after year after year of fighting, with nothing to show for it but loss after loss against an unending tide. If that was the worst it would have still not been enough for you, would it. Naturally. I needed workers and volunteers, even unwilling ones.** Your machines butchered the citizens of the southern continent. We all had to make sacrifices. Some, more than others. Are you done? Certainly. I wanted to show you a taste of the future, after all. And regardless, I think we have overstayed our welcome here. The snakes are biting at my metaphysical heels. Shall we, then? Lets. Rising from the foundation of Irem. Falling from Irem’s peak. We return to the ship. We return to our cabin. We have much to discuss. We have much to discuss. Of devils, and blood. Of oaths, and hate. But these are for another story, not this one. Perhaps one day, something might change. But it’s time for rest. Enjoy the peace well it lasts. -An anonymous letter found crumpled in the trash. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/7/2016	"It's unique," the dandy replies, dusting himself off as he reaches for the port, "But certainly something you've got to taste once in your life - to make every other drink seem all the sweeter, if nothing else." He plunks the bottle of port down on the counter, the green glass covered with a thick layer of dust through which suspiciously chunky portions of the liquid are visible clinging to the edges of the bottle. "There's your initiation ritual," the rake exhales, "Though I still consider it rather rude to attempt suicide in the middle of our conversation." The dandy pops off the bottle's cork and slides it across the bar. For such a vile drink, it actually carries scarce an odor, making it rather an unexpected poison. The rake pulls up a seat behind the bar and collapses into it, sighing as he kicks his feet up on the splintered mahogany. He takes a drag of his cigarette. He exhales, smoke trailing from his lips like Medusa's locks, and if a tendril were to brush against one's cheek, one would find the spot where it graced them unexpectedly chilled. Mermaids are stirring. "A nasty place, indeed, old London," the dandy nods, "A wonderful place for love to brew, but hardly a place for it to bloom. I expect we might move elsewhere once the wedding happens. Though my lover's research keeps them here presently." The rake takes another drag. "Besides, better than the Khanate, eh?" he asks, grinning behind a cloud of grey, "Rather here than there - that's the English motto. Though the Khanate has its attractions as well. Used to visit it on the occasion back in my zailing days - do business, see the Oriental architecture, mix with the locals, hear interesting stories. Get shot at. That was usually the best bit, that last one. But I must have told the story of the three-headed Peruvian Khanate stockbroker in the lace overalls a million times. You seem a well-travelled sort. Surely you have some tales to tell over port and cigarettes?" -- Straight outta Dahut.
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ForScience Posts: 69 10/17/2016	The Intrepid Scholar strolls back aboard the Reck. The feeling of sunlight warming her face, of standing underneath the great blue sky that stretched on forever, had been enough to justify this entire trip, attempted murder and all. She replays the moment in her mind over and over, savoring every detail. But, of course, that was not all that she accomplished on her little trip through time. Lives were saved! The explosion had still taken its toll. She feel it more keenly now than ever; she had known that not everyone could be saved, but now each life lost seems like a personal failure. Even so, people are alive, right now, who had not been just an hour ago. A wrong, her own mistake, had been righted, at least in part. And she cannot help but smile as she regards herself in the mirror of her cabin. Her face still bears scars, carved across her cheek by tongues of flame. But they are not as pronounced, and they do not cover nearly as much of her face as they once did. And her eyes! They had not been ravaged by fire as they once were. Absentmindedly, she had gone to push her glasses up, on the way back, and delighted when her fingers met nothing but air. She had placed rugs over the bloodstains on the floorboards, not wanting to look at them any longer. Her cabin still bears evidence of the struggle, but it is far from the front of her mind now. Florence tucks the mess one might call her hair under a top hat and knocks at Drake's door, in much better spirits than the last time she had done so, eager to share with him what had transpired. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/18/2016	(OOC) Sorry, was away on some business. Time. Queer thing, that. The Fingerkings, drownies, maybe even the masters, they all have metaphors for it, they call it a flame, a wheel, the zee itself. Time could be betrayed, yes. The Iron Republic stood firm, as a monument to the eternal greed of mankind and devilry. But what was time, if not merely a guide? It brings you were you are to be, and here in Irem, it brings you were you were already. A house, long ago. Where the suns still hold reign. A woman, her cheeks stained with tears, a scowl on her face. A note on the table in a language he'd long not spoken. Here he'd left her, them. He was angry and confused back then, he'd strayed. He never did get to say goodbye. The sunlight burned at him, but he stood tall. He walked towards her, she looked up, stifled her sobs. In a thousand years he wouldn't look again like he did when he was still young, but she'd recognize his indignant stance anywhere. "What are you doing here? What happened to you?" Questions. He didn't want to answer questions, he just wanted time with her. Just enough time to hang on to the memory. "Where I've been," he hesitated, "Such questions are best left unanswered." That made her grin, he'd often said that same phrase back when he was still mostly man. "You might not understand the effort I've gone through to be here, but it was a lot. I've missed you." Her lip trembled once again. "Then why did you leave me in the first place?" A question he couldn't answer, not to her. "It's- complicated. I can't tell you, I'm sorry. I came back here to tell you... let me go. Don't follow, don't try. Please?" Rage. Pure, hot-blooded anger at him. "I bear your child and you tell me to let you go? Coward!" This was new. This was something he hadn't known. Despite the situation, he felt completely content for a moment. He put his hand on her face, but she slapped it away. "Don't you lay a hand on me! You bring sorrow and only sorrow!" This wasn't the moment to drink, but his hand instinctively went to the absinthe in his overcoat. He only barely contained himself. "Alright. You want to know why? Because there's things greater than me or you down there. Things that could ruin everything. Everything we've built up. People more dangerous than you can imagine, creatures vaster than those in the wildest tales and myths our elders told us. And I want, I need to protect you. I need to protect everyone. It's been three hundred years, and I still don't know how. But I keep going on, because I love you, I still do. The least you can do is acknowledge that." A tint of raw emotion in his otherwise monotone voice, something in him wanted to beg her. Her fury was gone, her expression gave nothing away. The longest seconds passed that seemed like an eternity, and then she embraced him. He felt those primal feelings of complete belonging he'd missed for so long. Her hair smelled like smoke, as it always did. Her breathing was uneven, but still comforted him. He moved his hand down her hair, the gesture was meant to be affectionate, but his fingers got tangled up. A single shudder went through him. "I'm going to miss you more than I ever did from now on. Do me a favour, do not pursue me, don't let my chidren either. Keep our family away from there, it brings only evil." Big, brown eyes looked up at him. This was it, he realized, he'd have to go soon. "Leave something for me, for our children, for their children." And so he did, he walked out of there with a lighter tread, but a heavier heart. Soulless. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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ForScience Posts: 69 10/18/2016	Well! Whoever this woman is, she's certainly new. Florence returns Drake's little wave with one of her own and listens to Emma's spiel with an of bemusement. She certainly knows how to make an impression, though whether that impression is one she will regret once the alcohol has worn off remains to be seen. "Thank you, thank you, I haven't, and... it's a pleasure to meet you. Doctor Florence Garrison, at your service," she introduces herself, extending a lacy-gloved hand for a shake. "I'd remember you if we'd met before. I take it you somehow made it on board during the last few minutes?" Looking past Emma and into Drake's cabin, her eyes fall upon a pair of empty glasses. Presumably they've already been emptied many times over. Exactly what Drake did on his little jaunt into the past to bring Emma here, she cannot fathom, but it will surely be an entertaining story. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 10/20/2016	It’s a long way to the Waswood from here. Luckily, Malice knows a shortcut. Traversing between such fundamental opposites – the Garden, brimming with vitality, and the Waswood, where death goes to die – requires a steady hand on the tiller. Between them is a conceptual void, filled with the imaginings of those who traverse it. Thanks to the knowledge he stole from his Fingerking passenger, Malice can provide such a hand. For him, the entrance to that void is the Gate that haunts him in his dreams. “NORTH,” they say. “Never go NORTH.” He has never heard such utter nonsense. This is not the Avid Horizon. That will come later. This is merely a rehearsal. He approaches the High Gate, flanked by watchful angels. It is pleasantly warm, the heat of the Garden bleeding across the boundary where the ground transitions from neatly trimmed grass to icy rocks. The Hesperidean Apple remains where it was thrown when the table tipped over, in the dirt with the worms. He knocks five times. Shave and a haircut. A pair of answering knocks from the other side completes the exchange. Two bits. A small postern creaks open within the vast doors, barely large enough to admit him. The stars lie beyond. He steps through and feels a curious weightlessness like being submerged in water. The air is wrenched from his lungs, but he has no need for breath. Such concerns are reserved for mortals. BETWEEN STARS: WHEN ALL IS WELL The vast, freezing blackness stretches before him. The starlight is pale and distant. It is difficult to judge speed with no frame of reference and no air to part before him, but he soon comes to realise that he is hurtling headlong towards his destination at unreasonable speed. The stars blur into white streaks. The wayward lord streaks ever onward, trailing an incandescent aura like a comet. If he were to collide with a stray speck of dust at this velocity he would be atomised, Cider or no Cider. No matter. There is no way but forward. Even stars die, in the end. His passage follows the Sequence that all things must. At the beginning, the stars are white and gold and radiant, but soon they swell, expanding outwards, becoming thin, weak, red. Some diminish then, gravity crushing them down to nothing but cinders. Others go out in a blaze of glory seen for light-years. A billion supernovae explode around him, fusing the elements that make life on Earth possible. That’s what we are, thinks Malice, enraptured. Dust forged in the flames of suns, scattered across the cosmos. Without the Judgements, without their sacrifice, we could not exist. The Neath is a transgression against all the laws of nature. Life cannot exist without death. Every death means something, furthers that grand Sequence. But why did it have to be her? THE WASWOOD: AT THE END OF ALL THINGS The stars diminished to blackness, as if they never were. Once the blackness was gone, sickly gant light filled the void, illuminating bleached white trees. This was the place that remained when all other places were consumed. Malice walked amidst the silent trunks, strata of history crunching beneath his feet. The bones of leviathans jutted upwards from the forest floor, ribcages like pillars. There, a clearing. A reflecting pool. This would be as good a place as any. Malice kneeled on the edge of the pool and beheld his reflection. No tricks, this time. No more games. Just a man who looked very, very tired and unwell. Wouldn’t it just be easier to fall beneath that glistening surface, to hear the splash and feel the ripples as he sunk inexorably toward his doom? Cider couldn’t preserve him forever. He had only taken the smallest portion. It would be such a relief just to lie down for a second. He felt his eyelids begin to droop. Darkness swallowed him once again. Sleeping in a dream; how preposterous. [OOC: Sorry for stretching this out; I've been terribly busy lately so I just posted what I've finished. Final part should be up within a day or two.] edited by JimmyTMalice on 10/20/2016 -- 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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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/1/2016	The socialite raises his eyebrows. "A conversation," he says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, "Bit of a chat. Bit of a laugh. Making new friends, you know. Did you see my name on the roster?" The dandy pulls out a small matchbox. "Wait," he grins, "Wait, no, no, let me guess - you've heard the name, eh? Saw my plays?" He strikes a match. "Just kidding," he continues, "No one saw that drivel. A few sleeping Frenchmen, maybe. Some nihilists." The rake takes a drag of the cigarette as he strolls down the hall towards the solicitor. "Terribly cold out here, old chap," he says, shaking his head, "We'd better go hide out somewhere. Preferably with liquor, eh?" The dandy grins at the Solicitor as he passes, winking in unison with a quick puff of the cigarette. The Solicitor follows as the dandy rounds a corner, small smirk still tugging at their lips. "You look startlingly like my fiancee, did you know?" the dandy asks, "The mask is the main bit, though, I imagine. Fond of masks, she is. He is. They are. I always insist they're the wife, they always insist I'm the wife. Gets wild when we get out the dresses, it does." He looks back at the Solicitor, winks again. "They wear it for fashion, or mystery, maybe sex appeal - I'm not quite sure. What's yours for, then? You don't seem much like the type to worry about fashion, if you don't mind my saying. Related at all to why you're here on this voyage?" he asks. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 9/25/2016	The Scorched Sailor does not often visit the Engine or Boiler Rooms these days – the machinery in there is so far warped by its time underwater that he no longer knows where to start with keeping it running, and the Waterlogged Mechanic, while working wonders on eclectic chugging technology, keeps the place damp and dark (damper and darker than the rest of the Reck, even). He is restless as he waits for the Mechanic’s answer, her surprise at his appearance down in these depths replaced with worry. Jets of steam screech, gears clack and water drips from the Drownie’s unkempt hair. At last, she speaks up. “Captain, if you’re sure this is what you want, I can find you some crew.” She ducks underneath a large pipe and adjusts something with a large wrench. “But I’m not happy about it. I doubt the other passengers will be either.” While not exactly a pariah, the Waterlogged Mechanic has eschewed the unterzee in favour of this life. She is no hurry to reintegrate with the Drownies, and she doubts many will be too pleased to help her, let alone aid a shipful of humans. “The recruits will be odd, Captain. More so than me.” The Sailor nods. So be it. Better that than whatever Hell-thralls and ragtag abominations would sign up here in the Iron Republic, and they need to get to Irem somehow. “Thank you.” “I’ll reach out to them once we cast off,” she says. It has been a long time since she has sung to the zee. As the Sailor turns to leave his motion flares out the end of the scarf that he’s wearing – even down here he is reluctant to leave his skin uncovered – and snags on the tooth of an exposed gear, snarled by the machine. The Waterlogged Mechanic – he hadn’t seen her move – is suddenly by his side with a jagged knife, cutting free the scarf before grasping at the threads still caught, avoiding the hungry machine with practised familiarity. “Careful, Captain,” she warns. “I know why you wear that, just…” He looks at her coldly, but she carries on undaunted. “The machines don’t care what you look like, and they’ll eat whatever they’re given.” The Scorched Sailor leaves the Boiler Room feeling distinctly troubled, despite having got his own way. edited by Barselaar on 9/25/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 10/1/2016	Malice lies in his bed in the infirmary. He has been there for some time, and has yet to work up the willpower to leave. He wonders if the others are planning another party. Even if the port is terrible, the company isn’t so bad, really. Florence and Drake did save his life from that monstrous bee. Everything hurts. The clock on the wall spins erratically, like a drunken toddler. Is it broken? Is he broken? Who can say? There is the most lamentable racket going outside. The ship is under way, engines chugging along happily. Through the open door he has seen visions of drowned men going about their business - much like the zailors they were in life, but considerably damper. Perhaps it is fitting that a drowned ship be crewed by drowned zailors. One of them shuffles past in the corridor outside. This one is dressed like a valet, his head covered by a porous bowler hat, and he limps like he is putting it on. Hold on. He is putting it on! “I say! What do you think you’re doing, man?” The conspicuously non-drowned man turns around in alarm, sees Malice. His eyes widen and he hobbles faster. The waterlogged clothes cling to his limbs and after a few paces of awkward shambling he trips over his own feet. Malice leaps from his bed, borne by a surge of adrenaline. He collars the man before he can get to his feet and removes that absurd hat. The face that grins sheepishly up at him is none other than his Long-Suffering Footman, shirking his duties! “Why, pray tell, are you dressed like a Drownie?” The Footman mutters something incoherent about wanting to fit in. “Enough of this! Go back to your cabin and get cleaned up, and we’ll talk about your punishment later. I spent days in that infirmary, and you know, there was nobody there to bring me drinks! And before that, in the Iron Republic, you just vanished. Unacceptable. I only took you on because of a recommendation from my good friend, the Jovial Contrarian, and it should no doubt be clear by now that you’ll be receiving no such thing from me!” The Long-Suffering Footman waits for a moment until he realises that he is not getting his hat back, pulls up his trousers and stumbles down the hallway, leaving a trail of water on the already damp floorboards. Malice lets out a long breath of satisfaction. It has been a while since he has felt in control, and it is a relief to let out some of that pent-up frustration on a deserving target. The nerve of it! In the opposite direction to the Footman’s sad and dripping departure, he hears purposeful footsteps approaching. The lord swivels around to see the Scorched Sailor and Drake bearing down on him. They do not look like men contemplating a pleasant dinner party. -- 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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Barse Posts: 706 10/6/2016	The Scorched Sailor approaches the Colonist, half-relieved at the excuse to leave Malice behind him. His aura of self-assurance and easy wealth makes the Sailor want to bury a fist in him even when there hasn't been an attempted murder. The Tomb-Colonist looks dazed - or as dazed as one can look when almost entirely obscured by bandages - and almost unreal. No one has seen him a goodly stretch. He could have been the one who attacked Florence. After a long moment, the Colonist speaks, mumbling about the weather and presenting a small moon-pearl. "...Tell me about cosmogone," he says as he closes the Sailor's fingers around the small stone. For a minute the sheer oddity of this trips up the Sailor's anger at the attempted murder, and he peers at the bandaged individual through his scarves and upturned collars in bafflement. "What..." Something is a bit off about the Colonist, his bandages ruffled by a breeze that is not quite there, but something about his quiet expectance, the suggestion that the Sailor could do nothing but comply with his strange request, reinvigorated the flinty spark of anger that had so momentarily been quelled. "Was it you?" He takes a few steps closer. "Not on my ship. Was it you?" It's impossible to tell what the Colonist is thinking. "Because if it was, then you're done. I'll light your bandages and you'll go up like a taper, then I'll put you out in the zee and, just before you drown, I'll bring you back up and dry you out so I can do it all again." The sheer force of his anger shocks him, hot inside his chest, and it is quickly getting hotter and brighter, a light behind his eyes, until it seems like it isn't his anger keeping him warm but something else, catalysed by his outrage, growing inside of him. The colour of remembered suns... the dancing borealis that hides behind your eyelids until long after the sun has gone, red and green and blue and umber, none of them the colour of the thing in the sky but the colour of the edges of the hole it burns in your memory. Some things are impossible to hold in your mind; they exist only in the time between moments called the "now" and when they are lost cannot be recalled until the next time you crack open the edge of the box and are hit with something that is nothing like the ghost-lights that illuminate the night inside your head. He can see it now - "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" - and somewhere, a memory of graffiti, scrawled on a Wolfstack wall in warning: "If you are not the flame, you're the fuel." The moon-pearl in his hand is suddenly extremely hot, and the Sailor's terrible anger drains away as quickly as it came. He looks at the Colonist, half in fear and half in embarrassment. "Hope I don't find anything that incriminates you," he finishes lamely. "Don't go missing again - we might have questions for you." He thrusts the small pearl back in the Colonist's direction and turns back down the corridor to where Drake and Malice are still in conversation, thoroughly unsettled. In the Mirthless Colonist's bandaged hand, the moon-pearl is warm and thrumming slightly. There's a small smudge of Florence's blood on it, left there by the Sailor's glove. He seems unconcerned. edited by Barselaar on 10/6/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 9/5/2016	Mermaids stir. Sketch gazes over at Suinicide, tilting his head back in his quickly winning battle to empty the rest of the bottle of whisky. He fills his glass again, silent, drunk, mind swirling, and looks back up at the most recent storyteller. He parts his lips slightly, stops himself short of asking the woman if she's lying. The dandy rubs his brow, shaking his head. The whisky's really getting him to now if he, of all people, wants to draw attention to someone for lying. He drains his glass dry once more, filling it yet again like an automaton. The story sickened him somewhat. Something sickened him somewhat. Probably the port. He taps the edge of his glass with a thin index finger, delicate and slim from years of doctor's work. Perhaps he's drunk too much. Perhaps the hang over has arrived early. No, the story disgusted him. Blue eyes harden into sapphires as he looks with a different kind of disgust at Suinicide than the normal, well-hidden contempt. The dandy rises from his seat, throwing the rest of the fire down his already burning throat and setting down the glass. "The table's gotten rather morbid," he says, voice uncharacteristically deadpan, "I'll be exercising in the sports room if anyone needs me. Got to work off that steak, eh?" He searches for a smile. He can't find any. His face is blank. There's a slight feeling of terror in his body as he realizes this, an abrupt stab of animal fear as the sheep clothing comes loose for a moment before the shepherds, followed by a surge of nausea that racks his flaming stomach. He turns, dizzy, and strides as best as he can away from the table. He's- he's going to kill her, he'll come to her rooms when she's alone and everyone is asleep and he'll just be rid of her, just be rid of her, not even give her to the bag just be rid of her out the porthole, watch the witch drown, oh God, he'll-he'll, Christ, he'll just The rake is out in the hallway, door closed behind him, when he finally lets himself stumble and hit the wall. The story was revolting. The woman was revolting. It was all so revolting, so disgusting, so vile, so Mermaids stir. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 9/8/2016	Pool cues SPLATTER across the floor! *EYES!* Sketch wheels, clinging to the edge of the pool table, barely stopping himself from slipping and falling onto the floorboards. He's drenched in sweat, eyes bugged wide open, teeth clenched, face tight. *EYES!* So many eyes! "I can see you!" he screams, "I can see you! You! You, goddamn it! You, I can see you! Stop staring at me! Stop bloody staring at me, you freaks!" So many eyes! Eyes! They wouldn't stop staring! Blink! Surely! Move! Surely! But always fixed on him! Always locked on his every movement, his every word, his every letter! So many EYES and so many of them so familiar. The dandy wheels again, world spinning like a roulette wheel around him, eyes fixed on the porthole opposite. Writhing city! Contorting buildings! HELL GAPES! More dangerous out there than in here! Iokanaan's head awaits! HE'D BE DECAPITATED ATOP THE ZIGGURAT! THROWN DOWN THE STEPS! The rake falls, his spinning vision exploding, flowering, into Neath colors that spin, swirl, explode, pop, ssscreaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAM as they whizz by like CHINESE FIRECRACKERS THROUGH THE SKYBLACKSKY BLACK SKY AROUND WHITE EXISTENCE AND HE CAN SEE THE *EYES* He's trapped there! Trapped there, pale Neath skin the color of ivory stripped from him and placed along his white eyes to form letters! They're watching him! "I can see you!" he screams, "I can see you! Every one of you! Don't stare at me! Stop STARING AT ME, YOU BASTARD FREAKS! DON'T YOU HEAR ME?! STOP STARING! STOP STARING! STOP SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTARING!" THE EYES WON'T STOP, they won't quit looking at him, the SCUM! Don't you hear him?! Don't you pay any attention?! Why are you still staring? Stop! Stop! And the dandy can see a pair of eyes so much more familiar than the rest - terribly familiar - eyes that have been following him all his life, and he realizes what theeyesaretheyare gods! Staring in at him! Staring in at him from this Neath color world he's never seen before! Staring in at him all this time without him ever realizing, watching on and on as those two familiar blue eyes make up his entire life! Ssssssssstaring! And they're still making it up now! Still writing every word! Still watching every movement! Still controlling every breath he takes, every thought he thinks, every way he looks! He could make the eyes quit staring right now! He could make it all stop RIGHT this second! "Stop!" Sketch screams, knuckles white with the pressure of his grip on the bar, face drained of blood by the terrors that lie before him in their spinning, spinning, spinning, never-stopping Neath colors, "Stop! Stop it, please! Stop it, damn you, stop it all! Stop! Stop! Stop!" Writing every word! Writing, writing, writing, as all the other SICK, VILE, DISEASED LEPER EYES watch ON and ON like he's some kind of FREAK at a CARNIVAL TENT! "FREAKS! FREAKS! STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP-STOP-STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTO He CRACKS his head on the floor and he's sure his BRAINS have spilled out by now, but no! No! The eyes aren't writing it! They won't write it! They won't stop! He can see it! He can see the letters now, he can see his skin stretched bare across blackness in Latin letters, he can see his LIFE! He can see the WORDS! "Oh God!" he wails, "No! Stop it, please! Just bloody quit it! No, no wait! No, wait, stop! Stop, don't write that! Don't write that! Stop it, goddamn it, stop it, I want to live, you FREAKS, STOP!" He's seen too much, though. It's time to stop with this nonsense. He's standing there, on the ziggurat ledge, bare feet on steaming hot sandstone, impossibly dizzy in the sweltering heat. He'll fall any second. Even if the executioner doesn't get him, he'll fall. The mermaids are sitting down there. They're waiting for him. They promise to catch him. He's seen too much, though. I think we should move on, don't you? This has gotten quite bizarre - this isn't on par with normal Fallen London affairs. No, no, not at all. I think it's time to stop this and get back to the rest of the RP, don't you? Yes. Yes, I think so. - "Water, please." The bartender smiles, nods, twinkles his brimstone eyes. The dandy's sweating. It's impossibly hot in here. His face must be red as an apple. Sketch pants, raising a gloved and wiping a layer of sheen from his forehead. He's off the ship now. The devils, it must be the devils. It's always warm around devils, and that's just back in London. Of course it would be quite hot here. It explains why he doesn't remember getting off the ship, too. The Iron Republic can confuse people. It's confusing him. Devil magic confusing him, that's all. He's spent years amongst devils. He's had devil friends, devil associates, devil lovers, devil in-laws. They like to play tricks with humans. That's it. That's all. "Here you go, sir," the bartender says, voice drenched in a honey-smooth drawl. "Thank you," Sketch says, nodding to the barkeep and taking the cold glass. He looks down into the water. Into the ice. Mermaids. He could swear he sees mermaids. He could swear he feels eyes on his back. But when he raises the glass to his lips, he feels no mermaids cascade down his tongue. When he turns around, he sees no gaze fixed upon him. The devils. Hell. One must get their bearings quickly in a place like this. In any place with devils. The dandy learned that long ago. He's in a bar. He's in the Iron Republic. His name is Professor Sketch. He's terribly handsome. The rake takes another deep sip of his glass. Something familiar. He shouldn't be alone in a place like this - he doesn't want to get lost like that again. Wake up once again in an even stranger, more sinister place, sweating even harder, lost even further. The crew mates. The ponce. He should find the ponce. Talk to him. He seemed interesting. He's somewhere, surely. The dandy absentmindedly places down some echoes on the bar and downs the rest of the water. Devil magic, surely. Hell's confusion. The rake clears his throat, dusting himself off. He walks out into the streets. edited by Professor Sketch on 9/8/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 9/17/2016	The Solicitor but nods. The only important thing now is the Blood. The Blood. Beneath the once-grandiose bed is a rather simplistic lidded and, thankfully, lock-lacking box. Flip it open. Within, a stained jar of red, a tender vial of liquid gold and a brilliant decanter, cracked throughout the foot. The three drops of cider do not hurry to spread in the sanguine sea. Oh, well. The Deranged Solicitor decides to call themselves over for a toast. A drinking companion is necessary, and, of course, who could fulfill such a role better than oneself? They would not spill your secrets like cheap wine, they would not betray your trust. What else is there to wish for? "To what will happen, and to what would, but hasn't." They whisper. "For what we'll do. Together." The clinking of glasses, and the first sip. Then the second. Then the glass is made empty. Then coughing. Repressing vomit. Hissing and fizzling. They, still as genial as ever, take themselves away to the other side, into the many reflected lights of a faraway place... … They are walking upon glass. There is a figure, underneath, walking in very much the same manner. They step upon their own soles as they march through a boundless hall of reflections. On their right, their reflect-I narrated the journey. I've turned my gaze South-West, looking upon the only silhouette visible in the indefinite space. Myself. I am surrounded by my associates. Upon my hat and in my hands, they lay. One of them makes for an adorable little scarf. Four more are scattered upon my black dress. I smile back to the East, seeing my interest in these magnificent little creatures. They are with me, always. Why wouldn’t they be? ... I decide to see how far I have come in this moment of self-reflection. My path is still endless, but there is something in a faraway place. A light. Rigorous. Incessant! Eating away at me! I gasp in terror, as light tremors through my body, eating away at the eyes, the fabric, at naked skin. Nothing remains to my North. I am next, then. I bid goodbye to myself, facing East, as amaranthine light gnaws my body away… [spoiler]Cartographers are as translators are. The Empress would know.[/spoiler] -- 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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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 9/18/2016	Malice slips between dream and reality as easily as the tide washing back and forth on that Parabolan shore. He looks through a window of smudged glass at the infirmary, sees a masked stranger enter. From this side of the mirror, their shimmering Parabola-linen garments produce a strange green radiance which is drunk greedily by bombazine trimmings, lending them a mantle of fat shadows. Might you happen to know when I could meet Drake? says the vision. In the waking dream, Malice’s face – no, Apophis’s face – twists in a knowing serpentine smile of its own accord. His eyes flick downwards momentarily and the lord sees his own sleeping body. When his mind next recedes from dreams of jungle under a heavy orange sun, the room is empty except for him. A jar heavy with clotted red blood sits stolidly on the table by his bed, along with a vial holding a few scant drops of faintly glowing amber liquid, a decanter and a glass. There is a shard of glass there, too – the same clear lead crystal as the glass next to it, but jagged and bloodstained. A weapon? No, an invitation. He picks it up, careful not to cut himself on the razor edges, and sees a glint of green in the reflection. Curiously, Malice dabs a finger in the blood on the inside and licks it. (Her smile, always so sure -) A flash of unreality washes over him. This is surely what Drake spoke about; the blood of the Mountain. And that must mean the vial is Hesperidean Cider. His bargain was made so hastily, and now the Cider is right in his grasp – but there is not enough here for anything but a seasoning for the Mountain-Blood. Well, no time like the present. With shaking hands, he tips a dash of blood into the decanter – let it breathe, he thinks as the metallic stench fills the air – and then adds those precious few drops of Cider. Bottoms up, he thinks sourly after pouring the roiling mixture into his glass. Even this little is enough to make him almost choke. The cloying, terrible, clotted blood smells like the runoff from a slaughterhouse and tastes worse. But he keeps it down forcibly, ignoring his rising gorge, and swallows. Awful pain wracks him suddenly, all at once, and he convulses. He falls back onto the bed and he is - Elsewhere. The Sun is awesome and terrible above, beating down from an azure summer sky strewn with white clouds. He had almost forgotten what it felt like on his skin after so long in the Neath. He walks in the gardens with Edith. She laughs gaily, smiles, makes alarmingly incisive comments. He can barely keep up with her fierce, burning intelligence; he is swept off his feet. No, this is too cruel, he thinks as he parts the mists of memory. Can I bear to see this through to the end? I must. They court for a while, snatching moments together at lavish dances, family visits; those few points of light in a dark adolescence of duty and severity. Her family thinks they make an ideal match. Nobody else can fly too close to her; she is the Sun and they are Icarus. He has no fear of flames. His father does not approve. He rarely approves of anything. But eventually he relents, seeing the opportunities for profit, moving them like sacrificial pawns. They marry a month later. The ceremony is opulent, extravagant and excessive; hundreds attend, but they have eyes only for each other. Not long afterwards, his father dies. He is not mourned. Edith and Jimmy live a near-idyllic life for a dozen years. They fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle. Together they are a formidable force in high society. Perhaps it was that he grew too out of shape, too slovenly and complacent. Perhaps the spark of passion had simply guttered out like a candle flame. But one day, while Malice is away on business, a maid catches Edith in a dalliance with another man. His wrath is black and terrible that night. He has never struck her in anger before – knows, deep down, that it is horribly wrong - but seeing the terror in her eyes makes him realise that the man he has become knows nothing of the sort. They go on like that for a time. She does not forgive him. He does not forgive her. Unexpectedly, Edith takes ill. A wasting sickness in her lungs, the doctors say. Cancer. An ugly word for an ugly disease. The best medicine is all but useless against it, and bit by bit she begins to slip away. Perhaps some of the tenderness they had missed comes back. Malice searches day and night for a cure. His prayers to a God he doesn’t truly believe in are unanswered. Miracle treatments turn out to be useless, or scams, or both. Whispers of a place in that lightless void where the city of London was transported drift to him through his networks of rumour-mongers. The Garden, they say, holds the secret of life. It is a slim hope, but it is the only one that remains. Edith is very pale and weak now. She must be moved in a wheelchair. Malice leaves the mansion in good hands and withdraws a large quantity of cash from his accounts. First they take the train from Manchester to Liverpool, and then they find a ship travelling to Avernus, the home of the Cumaean Canal. She looks to him for reassurance. He tells her that all shall be well. She smiles weakly but she knows full well that he is lying. By the time they reach that placid lake where the Canal descends into the dark depths, they both know that they will not reach the Neath in time. She is so very thin now, wasting away by the minute. He stays by her bedside in the cramped cabin that night, gripping her bony hand tightly. By the time they leave the close darkness of the Canal for the glistening expanse of the Unterzee she has slipped away quietly, her eyes closed and her gaunt face set in a peaceful smile. I’m sorry, Edith. I truly am. What he had taken for the salty zee breeze was truly tears trickling down his face. [You’ve gained 1 x Vision of the Surface] -- 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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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 9/25/2016	Malice finds himself on the dock at the centre of the rippling brass lake once again. The sanctum towers above him, an impossible, twisted, insectile structure of polished steel and brass. The screaming of tortured metal surrounds him, rising and falling rhythmically like the pulse of a mechanical heart. “Of course, we’re not really here, are we?” says a familiar voice from behind him. The lord whirls around, only to come face to face with himself. Here, the Fingerking Apophis is not a reflection but a fully corporeal being. “It’s not a heartbeat, my dearest companion. Can’t you hear the ticking? It’s an insipid machine of order, regimenting time into strict partitions. One moment after another, in the right order, at a predictable rate. A curious centrepiece for the haven of anarchists and Law-breakers. And you’re tied to it, held down by it, though you may not realise it.” His green eyes gleam wickedly. “Well, we can’t be having that, can we? Let’s go and break it.” There is a door here; not the entrance that the Curvaceous Deviless used, but a gate that unfolds from the smooth metal surface of the walls only when observed through the corner of the eye. Malice steps through blindly and stumbles into a corridor walled with mirrors. The physical bounds are barely wide enough to walk through, but it stretches endlessly to both sides in the reflections. Things are moving in the reflected corridor. Malice speeds up to a brisk pace. In his peripheral vision Apophis follows at the same speed, set upon by imagined terrors that would drive a man mad through more than the barest glimpse. The Fingerking fights viciously, blending Malice’s own martial training with the unrestrained passion of a wild animal. And always he keeps up the pace. They reach the end of the corridor. Onwards and upwards. The unreal creatures watch him warily in the distorted reflections of the staircase’s burnished metal walls. They are afraid. The ticking of the machinery envelops him now, jarring his bones with its basso rumble. He glimpses turning gears sealed inside the reflections of the walls and hears the hissing of steam from pipes. He does not know how long he spends in those identical halls, ascending higher and higher. Surely he must be almost to the Surface by now. Perhaps he deserves to fall upwards into that warm blue sky and unravel in the Sun’s rays. The rhythm has seeped into his soul. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. He marches in time with that steady metronomic tempo. His heart pulses to the beat. Somewhere, an impossible conductor waves its baton, commanding the performance that is his life. No more. The staircase ends abruptly in a mirrored wall. Malice almost runs into his own reflection, but its eyes twinkle with green and it holds out a hand to steady him. “This is the place where laws are unmade,” says Apophis. “The Tyranny of Clocks shall bind you no longer, friend. Parabola awaits.” He grabs Malice’s arm in a firm grip, and the lord holds on in kind. With a mighty pull, he yanks him through the surface of the mirror and into the reflection. They swim upwards through distorted worlds where leviathans drift in the distance. The grain of the metal flows and parts around them. Malice cannot open his mouth without inhaling a mouthful of liquid metal, but he doesn’t need to breathe. After all, he is not really here. Apophis keeps a tight grip on his hand. What can one count on if not one’s reflection? The ticking grows overwhelming, pulsing through the reflection-stuff until at last they burst up through the surface, spraying showers of scintillant droplets. Despite not needing to breathe, Malice takes a huge gasp of air the moment he comes up. The very air pulses with the sound of the Clock here. He climbs out of the surface of the metal floor. As he puts his hands down on the liquid, it solidifies, and he hastily pulls his legs out before they become trapped. Apophis is not in the room with him. “This is your moment,” he says from the reflection in the floor below Malice’s feet. “Savour it.” He looks around. The noise is vast and devastating. Each second is parcelled, divided into discrete chunks by the clock’s rigid beat. The machinery all around him reminds him of the interior of the House of Chimes – it is, after all, a clock tower. Tick. Tock. The space is cavernous, filled to the brim with gears and axles and engines belching steam. Catwalks wind through the space, ascending inevitably towards the summit. Tick. Tock. Without further ado, Malice climbs. It cannot be much further now. Tick. Tock. He is at the top before he knows it. An array of clock faces stretch out before him, all ticking in time. No, not all of them. The catwalk passes a series of clocks that are broken, the glass on their faces shattered. There are names on little brass plaques below them. Drake, Barselaar, Sketch, and the others. They are no longer subject to the whims of time’s currents. They can make their own way. Tick. Tock. There is his clock. It is identical to the countless others ticking away. Could it be so simple? Of course it could. To swim against the currents of time. To be with her again. Tick. Tock. He draws back his fist, heedless of the glass, and smashes the clock. The pulsing beat in his head splutters, skips, stops. Ticktocktockticktick – All around him was silence. No, is silence. Will be silence? It is so hard to tell. I think I’ll skip the rest. After all, I was never here. Time ripples around him, then slips backwards. In the blink of an eye, he rewinds. Malice found himself on the dock at the centre of the rippling brass lake once again. The sanctum towered above him, an impossible, twisted, insectile structure of polished steel and brass. The screaming of tortured metal surrounded him, rising and falling arhythmically like the last flutters of a dying mechanical heart. He turned his heel, and walked away. There was nothing here for him, and there never would be again. -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 9/26/2016	'For your hands.' Good one. Florence knows what the substance sitting innocently in the mug is. She knows what it'll do to her, and she's got half a mind to make an excuse to drink it later. Frankly, though, Drake doesn't seem like he's in the mood for a compromise. And it'll certainly take her mind off the Iron Republic. She takes the mug and nods at Drake. "Thank you." After positioning herself carefully on a nearby seat, careful to avoid anything she could hurt herself falling on after the Blood knocks her unconscious, she gives him a nervous grin, braces herself, and downs the contents of the mug. Her first thought is that it tastes horrible. It makes that port from the first dinner on the ship seem like the finest wine in existence. Then her vision collapses in on itself, and she falls into a memory. ..."Exciting, isn't it?" It was about two years ago. "Today, my friends, my colleagues, we will see the culmination of everything we've worked so hard for! All those years of research have finally led us here. Today, we will make history!" We'd better, a voice in the back of her head grumbles. I staked my reputation on this. It'd be such an embarrassment if nothing happened. The Idealistic Scholar leads her team out of the sunlight garden, where dappled light casts an odd shadow over her face, making her look just like the woman she'll become in about an hour. Scarred. Burned. The team follows her into the laboratory. Her assistant, the Coolheaded Physicist, passes her a slip listing the earlier diagnostics report. Her team trusts her, despite her age and lack of experience. A young woman leading such a significant experiment. Truly, they are living in a modern era. They all seemed to enjoy her little speech, at least. And now, preparations are made, reporters are smiled at. The Scholar looks as though she hasn't slept in a week, but her face is alight with excitement. They're ready, now. She says a few more grand words to the reporters swarming about. And then she turns the machinery on. It hums with steam-powered efficiency, the pinnacle of what she's been working for. She smiles once more to a flashing camera, arm in arm with the Coolheaded Physicist, and then- The laboratory is aflame. Some defect. Some mistake. There was an explosion, and now fire is all that's left. Her head hurts terribly. The Scholar struggles to her feet, across the room from where she had stood just before the blast. Must've been blown clear across the lab. The Physicist was not so lucky. She spots his broken body laying among a pile of rubble. There is nowhere for her to go. Flames hem her in on all sides, licking at her feet, her dress. When she falls, when fire tears across her face and ruins her eyes, when all there is is the terrible smell of burning skin, she cannot remember why this all was so important anyway. The Scholar does not die. The same cannot be said for most of her colleagues. The survivors will not speak to her. Her sponsors break all ties with her work, and she is left to pick up the charred pieces of her life all by herself. No easy task, considering that she couldn't even see for a few weeks. The doctors didn't expect her vision to return in full. They told her gently but firmly, and even crying hurt. She proved them wrong, at least, after fashioning a pair of eyeglasses that very nearly restored her sight to what it once was. But they hurt to wear, for they rubbed against her burned face. It was a sensation she resigned herself to get used to. Nobody wants anything more to do with her. Nobody wants a broken, failed scientist with terror in her wide eyes, who jumps every time she sees the flame of a candle. There is only one place where she could ever hope to regain her former glory. She flees to the Neath. Where her story is only one in a crowd of tragic tales. Where her scarred face is no cause for alarm. Where she can rebuild. Or, at least, try. ..."We stand on the brink of a breakthrough, the significance of which outweighs nearly any other in human history." The Intrepid Scholar whimpers in her sleep, her brow furrowed. She doesn't like remembering, but she made her choice. Dreams have ensnared her, and it does not seem as though they'll be willing to give up their grip anytime soon. edited by ForScience on 10/18/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 9/28/2016	A hallucination, perhaps, the sight of a ragged Dynamo stumbling down the hall, Suinicide a drunken bride in his arms. A delusion, possibly, the still form of the witch, writhing in sea of blankets against waves of Wound blood, with none to protect her from fate but her killer. A mirage, most likely, the knife in a gloved hand viewed in first person, gleaming in the shadows, sharper than Eastern swords. A dream, definitely, the quiet bedroom surrounding the dandy. But the crystal-ball eyes hanging from above, out beyond the porthole. The blurred, wet outlines of to-be men and to-be women, silhouetted against lantern light. The hanging curtains of limp, dead, wet hair that frame the stage. The audience of mermaids that watch the play. That is all terribly real. The dandy is sweating, now, as he closes the door. Ebony jacket unbuttoned, vest undone, blood-splattered shirt bared to the theater house to mark him as the antagonist for the audience of Fathomking representatives, and yet still he sweats. Perhaps not sweat, though, lining the villain's handsome profile - perhaps saltwater, leaking from his hairline, embalming his face for the casket showing, taking his measurements for the funeral attire. Yes, the more astute of observers decide, surely saltwater, for the villain marks the zee of the Neath, come to take a woman from her bed and plunge her down to their ranks. Sleeping. She's asleep. The dandy stops before the bed. He's spinning, isn't he? Or the room is. Surely a wild effect of the bohemian engineering - some trick of pulleys and levers backstage to wow the audience. The rake's grip tightens on the knife. Leaves teethmarks in the handle as his gloves anxiously chew on it. This is murder, and no regular night of it. This isn't for pleasure, not for thrill, not for the hedonistic, calming, opiate-like wave of calm after a brief, rushed, bloody, hurried brutalizing of a body. This is because it must be done. Just as she did what she did. The very thought of it sickens the dandy further - brings back into mind the heathen tongue she spoke. Drownies - twas the word she used. Scream not 'Yahweh' before the Nazarene - utter not to-be name before to-be man. The stage floor is spinning further now. The villain stands fully embalmed in sweat, fully cascaded and lathered in layered folds of molten heat, wrapped in a coffin of nausea, revulsion, dizziness, bloodlust. He climbs atop the bed. The witch freezes briefly, stirs still against her thrashes. Nightmares stop for a moment, halt in their meaningless terrors at the sudden, terrible feeling of a real nightmare awaiting upon awakening. The rake lifts a leg, straddles the unmoving form of Suinicide. The face of the witch lies in shadows, but the outline is unmistakable. The thick, hovering, blurred feeling of disgust in the air, heat shimmer of repugnance, is unforgettable. The house tenses as silence sets in, the dandy motionless atop his helpless victim. The theater house is quiet. The orchestra is still. The knife swings up, shooting star of reflected light on metal against night sky of bedroom shadows, inciting a loud, collective gasp throughout the audience. Eyes pop open across the center of the shadowed face on the pillow, gleam, wide and terrified, as moons in the dark. The orchestra strikes alive, musical score kicking immediately high, concert violins impersonating a scream that fills the room, piercing the killer's ears with the exact opera he wants to hear as the knife descends. Rows of spectators clench in delighted terror as blade strikes skin, squee in gleeful disgust as blood splashes off the stage, getting the front rows wet. Frantic, confused, sleep-thick hands fueled with animal terror grip the base of a candlestick. The knife swings high again, painting subtitles for the deaf in crimson spray across the wall. Mermaids lean forward in their seats. The candlestick strikes once with a clash of concert drums. Ooh! from the turnout. Strikes twice with a crash of the cymbals. Aah! from the house. The rake pours off the bed, collapsing on the floorboards and sending peligin sloshing onto the already drenched front seats. A squeak of release from the mattress as the witch stumbles to life - hated silhouette fumbles, desperately, for a matchbox. A drawer bangs against the floor, discarded (Violins!). A cabinet rips out from its place, tossed aside (Piano!). If only the director had supplied her with such a prop. The silhouette's eyes dart up from her search, look in the mirror at the sound behind her just in time to see the spotlight hit the dagger the noise carries with it. Actor lunges to Step Mark B! Actress leaps to Step Mark G! Glass shatters in a beautiful confetti spray of shining stars, cascading through space and away from the supernova of the knife's impact, fascinating the audience to point of applause. The female lead's head whips around, deer before wolf, looks out from behind a running, crimson curtain that waterfalls over her brow at the round, bulging eyes pulsing at her from the darkness. How they throb, rather than stare, like unseeing, nocturnal creatures of the deep ocean, feeling their environment with every shake of the body. From below them stretch fangs. From below them stretches something horribly akin to a smile, but so very much more wild. Incredibly more primal. Incredibly more sharp. The house coos in ecstatic chills at the sight, shivers like thrilled schoolchildren hearing a scary story. The knife flies through the air, discarded prop, caught by an enthusiastic spectator like a bouquet of roses. The London Dandy leaps, violins screeching, clasps hound-killer hands around fragile throat and brings his victim to the ground in another reverberating crash of the cymbals. The dandy tightens sprinter legs around swimmer body, pins form of the educated under muscle of the inhuman. Onlookers lean further, further in their seats. Mermaid faces push against porthole glass. Eyes of killer, victim, audience grow wide as the female lead's face grows purple, as veins pop in hands that crush a dying windpipe. A mermaid shifts in his position. Moves his torn and wet shoulder and lets false-star light pour through the window and frame the victim's face, spotlight from Shakespeare's heavens. Wait. The score falls. The room freezes. The dandy's hands halt. Let go, just long enough for Florence to grab the fallen lantern and *Scream of delight from the audience as the choir booms!* As the violins shriek! As the piano roars! As the drums rumble! As the villain collapses once more and the protagonist scrambles up off the floorboards - dashes backstage! Sudden silence as the scene grows still. The conductor bows, and the house erupts in applause. Curtains close. The rake is gone by the time they open again. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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ForScience Posts: 69 9/29/2016	There are better ways to wake up than to see the sharp, thirsty gleam of a knife plunging towards one’s face. Unfortunately, Florence has just suffered a bout of very bad luck. Now, lying on the floorboards, blood pooling on the dark wood (her own or her assailant's? hard to say), the Scholar drew in shallow, ragged breaths. Her mind, still clouded by the Iron Republic and the Blood, scrambles to process what had happened. Reflexively, she checks her glasses; she had fallen asleep with them still on and they are miraculously intact, though they’ll probably need a good cleaning or three. A horrible shade of crimson coats her field of view like a fresh coat of paint. There was a knife and a struggle and the scent of sandalwood cologne. And Florence was very nearly killed. Why? And why did the attacker leave her gasping for air on the floor instead of finishing the job? Questions for later. As her mind clears (or, rather, becomes slightly less foggy) she staggers to her feet, supporting herself against the wall. The gash on her forehead sends waves of pain, piercing and impossible to ignore for even a moment, through her. Her eyes, tired and clouded as they may be, fall upon the knife. The knife wielded by the attacker. Oh, god. What if they come back? She cannot stay here, alone and vulnerable. There must be somewhere safer, cleaner, somewhere that isn’t the scene of a crime. The infirmary! Yes, of course. Even in her disoriented state, some little nuisance in the back of her mind reminds her of the dangers of infection. Damn medical training, kicking in when she needs it least. Damn it. Damn it all. Hardly a few steps out of her cabin, though, and she lurches forward, tries to steady herself, collapses. She can’t make it to the infirmary. She can barely make it out into the hallway. The Scholar simply leans up against a door, blinking back tears. Somebody wants her dead. They very nearly succeeded. A door! As quickly as she can bear, she struggles to her feet. A door! Whose door? Her groggy mind fumbles the simple question. How far did she make it? A glance back, and she sees that she's put her own room further behind her than she had thought. It's a cabin, isn't it? Isn't it? Does the would-be murderer await her behind the door? It doesn't matter. She's exhausted. Florence knocks, feebly, then tries again. There. That was most likely audible. She leans against the doorframe, clutching at the wall to stay upright. Blood coats her face, mars her dress. Would she be mistaken for a ghoul, brought on by a failure to observe some zailor's superstition? Perhaps. Perhaps. But thinking is tiring. Florence closes her eyes, slipping into a gentle half-slumber, perfectly willing to place her survival in the hands of whoever this cabin belongs to. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 9/10/2016	Suinicide stays at the table after everyone has left, considering the port. She downs the rest of her bottle with a shrug. No use postponing the inevitable. She grabs a steak knife to hide in her bandages, and leaves the ship. The first thing she notices is the scent of burning secrets, hanging like a thick fog over the city. Disgusting. Shreds of books, paper, secrets, laws. They all flew overhead, burning, fading, changing. They recognized her. She knew it, and averted her eyes. For the first time, she did not wish to know a secret, if those things still qualified as such. She strolls down the dock, refusing to make eye contact with the secrets. They do not press the issue, and she arrives at the city unharmed. The smell was overpowering here, drowning people in the streets. Suinicide ducks into the first store with a human sized door, gasping for breath. Inside was clear, the scent gone. A man with three eyes watched her impassionately. None of his eyes blinked. Suinicide looked around the empty room, and took a few halting steps away from the door. The man didn’t move, didn’t breath- -She moved her cards up three spaces, closing in on his joker. He tried to make a defense with his cat, which stumbles into an overly large mouse trap they had been using to control guinea pigs. He curses and tries to get it untangled. Suinicide looks at her hand, drawing two more cards as a penalty for doing so. A nine of no suit, a pawn, a fish, a ten of hearts, and a small igloo containing the Iron Republic. She discards the igloo and the nine. Then plays the fish, changing the cat to her side. It clawed at the three eyed man, losing him four cards, and cutting off his joker’s escape. The man stares at the board for a bit, then draws a card, breaking the rules. Screaming erupts from the walls. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. The man plays a card. The screaming never happened. The man draws two cards, placing his hope on them. The man’s head collapses and melts through his arms. None of his cards could save his joker. -The man didn’t move, didn’t breath. Suinicide draws in a deep breath and leaves. edited by suinicide on 9/10/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 9/10/2016	Suinicide pushed back into the scent. It had only grown stronger in her absence. No bodies remained, having been pushed away by the current. Secrets dived through the streets, terrorizing and helping the survivors. An enigma bit a woman, almost severing her arm. A flock of hints took roost on a man, whispering themselves into his ear. A Surmise looked at Suinicide. She waited, watching its approach. Something like this was too much of a treat to ignore, even if the secrets here were strange. It perched on her shoulder. And it burned. Not in the way knowledge should burn, not in the good way. But it burned all the same. Suinicide fell to the ground, her hands covering her mouth, trying not to scream. She was disjointed. Removed. Empty and full and empty again. And the Surmise left her, knowledge threw her aside. This was not supposed to happen. A hand shot out, grazing the back of the Surmise. The breath flew out of Suinicide, leaving her cradled on the ground. And the Surmise left her. It left her, it left her. Lungs burning, Suinicide forced herself to her feet and gave chase. Her feet squished down the roads, leaving slight indents whereever she touched. The Surmise floated, leaving no trails of its passing. Her face turned blue as she struggled not to breath. But the Surmise danced on, just out of her reach, and through a small door. Suinicide crashed into it, shoving her arm down the hole, reaching, taking, and grabbing. But nothing was there. Nothing but herself. And she chased it down the hole, able to breath at last. But that realization had been lost in the thrill of the chase. And she chased, lungs unburning, unhungered. (You threw yourself away) The voice echoed down through the cave. Suinicide ignored it and continued running. She could almost make out the shape of the Surmise in front of her. She was sure of it. (You threw this away) A wall. There was only a wall in front of her. No surmise, no secrets, no knowledge. (You even know the is mountain light on the ship.) Another woman appeared in front of her, in a deeper than purple dress, hope and knowledge in her eyes. (You haven’t investigated. You don’t care.) They were seated at a diner in London. The woman carefully took a bite out of the mushroom in front of her. (Do you realize how much you have changed? For something you don’t care about?) Suinicide reached for the wine in front of her, realized it was port, and set it back down. Not again. “It’s a secret.” Suinicide hissed, “What would I be if I didn’t try to uncover it?” (You would be you. But this?) She put a hand on Suinicide’s. (This is not you.) They both pulled their hand away at the same time. They sat in silence for a bit, Suinicide growing more antsy with the passing second. The woman only grew happier. (But you don’t want it.) The woman said, (You want the proof it brings, the angels at the gate. You want to see how good you truly are.) “The angels,” Suinicide hesitates, “I am not interested in.” (Don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to me.) The woman snaps, (I know you. You don’t care about the Name. You know how worthless it is.) A well gaped below them, the darkness reaching out from inside it. Suinicide recoiled as it brushed her hand. The woman laughed. (Suffering for the sake of suffering will not save you, no matter how much you sugarcoat it. It won't prove a thing.) The scene changed again. (But then, you are not here, and I do not exist. So perhaps you have already won.) They were nearing the Reck, floating down the streets, kept aloft by the scent of burning secrets. (Best of luck, and may you find your angels elsewhere.) Suinicide tumbled out of wherever they traveled in, landing a few feet from the Reck. She looked fearfully at the sky, looking for secrets or laws. But there was nothing. A blank something stretched out above her. Empty and Dark. She hurried onto the ship. Towards the Angels at the gate. Perhaps. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 9/10/2016	Several years and about a dozen dozens of looks into a hand-mirror later, they are where they need to be. "Thank you, Barselaar. We will most definitely meet again." Their speech turns into very much a trained voice A professional curtsy to the Sun-Scorched Sailor, along with an impeccably well-bred smile. The waves fume of beautiful faces and supple bodies, but the Solicitor steps with their elegant step upon the ship. The captain, again, now lying on the very thin plank. A helping hand and several minutes later, both of them are upon the Reck. Another pair of nods, and a rapid descent to the infirmary. They hiss into speech. "Drake holds the queen's blood. I will drink of it. Later. Now I will meet someone. The only one with any reason to stay here." A hesitant hand opens the door, and another enters the reflected scenery. An appraising look around the infirmary, and a genuine smile for the Chandler of Immortality occupying the very same mirror. It is a deeply familiar smile, like all the expressions to be shared between serpents. The smile of having known each other for all of one's life. The newly arrived individual gazes upon an oneiric stranger with thinly veiled disinterest and the newly arrived individual advances towards a lifelong partner with boundless relief. This was the moment of freedom. Their actions here do not matter. They have made their points. The Solicitor will ask the stranger about the queen's blood but the dance will continue, and only stop when both of them leave the stage. "Might you happen to know when I could meet Drake? I would quite desire to have of the mountain-blood, and you seem the only person important enough for anyone to listen to, or to know anything of import." -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 9/11/2016	After dropping Malice back off at the Reck's infirmary, Florence set back out. She's barely spent a few hours in the Iron Republic, and she'll be damned if she's going to leave without a full scientific analysis of the strange phenomena taking place there! Though she'll likely end up damned if she spends too much time there anyway, the place hosting the infernal population it does. This time, she's more heavily armed, in case of another bee-related incident. Ten minutes later, though, she's thrown every weapon on her person away, having sworn an oath of pacifism. She can't for the life of her remember why, but it still seems like it was a good idea. Wandering the streets, though, Florence soon comes to realize that she is so completely lost that she has no idea how she got here in the first place. Seeing little other option, she opens a bakery and does a brisk business for a few years. One day, though, a customer enters the bakery. This is not unusual. They sport a top hat, a pair of thick eyeglasses that obscure their face, and an incredibly tacky pair of bat wings, scavenged from some cheap costume. They are also on fire, which seems to be causing them a considerable amount of distress. Florence welcomes them to the bakery with her usual smile, but the customer lunges for her and grabs her by the shoulders. She sees herself reflected in the customer's glasses. Flames lick at her clothes and singe her hair; the sensation is familiar. Like coming home after a long time traveling. "Excuse me. If you're holding my shoulders, I cannot be expected to serve you. Please sit down and let me get you a menu." She politely offers, but her words fall on deaf ears. There are tears streaming from her eyes, now, and they extinguish some of the flames with a satisfying little hiss. The customer clutches at her, weakly, grabbing fistfuls of fabric. Florence cannot bring herself to break their grip. "You!" they declare, voice high and thin and raspy. "You left me blind, you left me to burn, to drown, to suffocate! You left me in the dark! You ran, and you ran, and the stars- the stars-" The two are sitting, now. Back in one of Florence's many former homes. Italy. She liked it there. She would return there over the Neath any day. But this bakery is her home now. She has not left in a very long time. The customer informs her, "We'll be dead before the day is done." Florence nods. Of course. Of course. She will die and play some chess and return, only a little bit wiser for the experience but much more melancholy. The way it always is. "No! You'd accept that? I did! I did, and look at me! Look at me!" They blaze, a brightness in the dark. They are in the dark, now. Nothing but dark, a twilight that would last forever. "You'll die, and you'll die. You must. You can still save yourself. If you care to." Florence nods again. She doesn't want to spend the rest of eternity on fire. So the stranger pulls out a knife and stabs her, right in the heart. Blood sizzles in the flames. It's a shame. She just stares down at her own wound, uncomprehending, about to speak- There is no wound. No blood. She sits alone in the smoldering ruins of her bakery. Ten years of work, destroyed in minutes. Finally. She only wishes she had been there to watch it go up in flames. It must have been beautiful in a horrible, horrible way. The yawning mouth of a trapdoor beckons her. She slips down it, Alice down the rabbit hole, and falls face-first onto the dock. She beckons a zailor over, and they politely inform her that she has been gone from the Reck for three days. Ten years fall away like nothing. Time seems to slip around her, catching her in its currents, dashing her against rocks every so often. She's come unanchored. She's got her own blood on her hands, but her chest doesn't hurt. She is going to die. She is fine. She is fine. The Scholar wearily picks herself up. The Iron Republic has changed her, in some little way, and a piece of it will always remain in the back of her mind. No matter how hard she tries to cast it out. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 10/4/2016	"Interesting person, your fiancee." They remark dryly. "But I suppose one always has the narrator to blame for that." The dandy evokes a familiar feeling in the Deranged Solicitor. He has the texture of the Zee. Yet more reason to lock themselves away in their room with themselves and the light. "And the mask... It is rather hard to explain. An Is, rather than an Is Not, the mask." An arid chuckle. "Only partially a metaphor, that. But I wonder why I am alone in my conviction, sometimes. And now I wonder what has brought such a magnificent gentleman to this wreck." Those last words roll out of their tongue as if boulders. Spit is saved. The Zee, and this dandy, call forward an uncomfortable thirst. -- 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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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/4/2016	"Passage to Frostfound," the rake replies, "Having my magnificent likeness carved into ice for the wedding. I'd have them sculpt my fiancee, too, but you never know with these ice sculptors - don't want them getting ideas, eh, what?" The dandy chuckles, taking a long drag of his cigarette as he strides into the yacht's recreation room. "Drinks in here," he calls, tapping his cigarette on an ashtray from visits previous as he passes it by, "Essential for the beginning of any good friendship. That or love making." The dandy turns, waggles his eyebrows. "Both, if you're thick enough to want to be really thick," he continues, swinging around the bar and picking up some glasses, "How me and them started out, you know - fiancee and I. Some party or other. Neither of us can remember the night, which some may call unromantic, but it makes anniversaries quite spontaneous and fresh." The rake grabs a bottle of whisky from the shelves. "Ooh!" he exclaims, snapping a finger, "I could use that time travel business for that! Head back to the night of and look for a calendar or something of the sort. Now wouldn't that be a darling wedding present? I'm certain they'd love it. Very sentimental, they are - kept me all these years." The dandy slaps the bottle down by the two empty glasses, ducking down beneath the bar again. "What about you, then? Got anyone back home? Dangerous mission - want someone to weep and look very pretty and melancholy in case you don't come back. Throw black flowers everywhere and whatnot. A lot of pretty women on board, you know," comes their jovial voice from behind the mahogany, "I could introduce you to some of them. Then again, if that doesn't sound to your liking..." They pop up from under the bar, ice bucket in hand. "A man's always a man," the dandy grins, and winks. Three ice cubes clink into either glass. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/6/2016	"A man's always a man," the dandy says, and winks. He drops three ice cubes into either glass, and looks back up to see the Clay Man standing in the rec room's doorway, shrinking the Solicitor by comparison. A confused smile spreads across the rake's face. The Solicitor turns to see what the dandy is looking at just in time to see a wall of clay before it roughly knocks the story-saver aside, clomping across the moth-nibbled carpet to the bar. Thick, stone hands reach out and grab the dandy's regularly tall, now seemingly short, self, yanking him forward. "YOU. SPEAK WITH ME. WHERE ARE WE? WHERE ARE WE GOING?" The dandy stares back with dull surprise. After a moment, a spark of amusement begins to snap, like flint being struck, to life in his eyes. "Etiquette classes, hopefully," the rake replies, smirking at the Clay Man, "And as for where we are, well, we're on the good ship Reck, dear sir, and I was in the middle of seducing a young, helpless androgyne when you stomped in here. The ship's on its way to Irem, by the by, darling, then to Frostfound, and finally, back to London. Was there anything more you wanted or may I get back to my conversation with my tragically sober friend?" -- Straight outta Dahut.
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 10/7/2016	The tip of the scimitar digs into Malice’s nightshirt, aggravating the weeping scar beneath and sending pulses of pain through his chest. Blood begins to seep into the white fabric. He meets Drake’s burning eyes unsteadily, bears the brunt of his furious questioning. What could have happened to work him up so? He always seemed genial, if less than warm towards Malice, but this is something new. Everyone reacts to fear in different ways. Some cower, curl up, and close off. Others spit fire and rage. Fight or flight. Judging by the curved sword pressed against the lord’s chest, Drake has chosen to fight. Malice is simply a convenient scapegoat. He has hardly given the others a reason to trust him. But what could put fear into the heart of a man who is nigh-immortal? Drake would barely be inconvenienced by earthly weapons, if what they say about Cider-drinkers is true. No doubt he could shrug off a cannonball through the head, given time. No, this fear is not for his own well-being. What truly frightens him is being unable to protect others. The line of Drake’s questioning seems to suggest that the person he is scared for is that young scholar, Florence. Has something happened to her? The sword’s tip shifts a little, scorching a fresh line of searing pain. Drake is unsteady, and terribly dangerous. There’s no telling what he might do. The lord weighs his options. Fighting is not an option, especially if Malice wishes to remain aboard the ship. This situation will have to be defused very carefully. He winces at the pain, but it helps him to adopt a suitable look of hurt. He opens his mouth to speak, but his words are swallowed by a sudden crash of breaking glass. All heads turn to the dripping arrival of a barnacle-encrusted Drownie in a red shirt, clambering through a shattered porthole down the corridor with little concern for life or limb. The Drownie holds a wickedly sharp blade made from throbbing and pulsing coral, and there is little doubt that it intends to use it. -- 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 10/7/2016	The Solicitor has stepped into the familiar territory of a recreation room. They’re all the same, really. Perhaps most of the furniture is misplaced, or covered in dust and untouched cobweb. (Both are the case here.) Sometimes a visitor with some… secular skills had a go at taking their fill and more without being noticed. (They have succeeded at it, or so indicates the set of broken bottles and lack of anything even semi-suitable for polite company.) Rare are the cases of port so rare that it’s memory lives on in the genially-shared jest-tales of the bohemia. (And it oh-so-has.) Getting a taste of it would make them the talk of both the Parthanaeum and the Young Stags’ Club for at least a month. (For completely different reasons, of course.) The Deranged Solicitor knows this. But there is a conversation to attend to. They nod and listen to the dandy. They allude to garish thickness, and suggest possible candidates. Their already questionable height, somewhat improved by the towering titan of a top hat is called into further inquiry by the clay visitor. They remark, that “The only thing awaiting them in London are half-done jobs and uncomfortably lingering favours. Love doesn’t last in London. It is segmented and fermented with drama for the enjoyment of the Bazaar. For all the wonders of hers, this is one of the rare frustrations we face. But I digress. Does this place contain any Port? I have heard stories of the local port's… many-faceted character.” A dry cough. “Could certainly use it now. Pass the bottle, will you, old soul?” -- 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 10/1/2016	Drake's usually genial features are composed in a grave mask, but as the pair approach Malice it is the Scorched Sailor who startles, the visible portions of his face flushed and taut, eyes thundercloud grey. He does not wait for Malice to greet them but strides towards him. Drake puts a hand on the Sailor's shoulder, but it is shrugged off. "Not on my ship," he spits at his partner. "Not on my ship!" He stops just short of grabbing the lapels of Malice's dressing gown. He trembles slightly, full of anger with no target, straining against the urge to snap like an anchor line in a tempest. "Where have you been for the last few hours?" Drake peers past Malice into the infirmary, keeping a wary eye on the Sailor. His visage is only marginally less disconcerting. "Just answer the question." Drake clocks the infirmary bed, still in disarray after what must have been a recent occupant, and a glass with traces of... something still in it. "Give the man some space, though," he says to the Sailor. The Sailor steps back, his heavy gait even louder than normal, and settles on a position between Malice and his nearest route of escape, close enough to grab him if necessary. Behind Malice, and despite his efforts to calm his companion, Drake's fingers curl around the hilt of the scimitar that has been sheathed at his hip since Adam's Way. The air hums a little as the blade is freed. All this took but a few short moments. Malice looks at the grave Drake and the tempestuous Sailor, his expression unreadable. Something drips. edited by Barselaar on 10/1/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 10/22/2016	Faced with Irem’s swirling time streams The Genial Gambler will find the tools of his profession behaving irregularly. The result of every coin flip, every die throw and every card game is set, for it will already have happened. Chance seems to have succumbed to Irem`s inevitability and The Gambler will not be pleased. Struggling to find something to break time`s hold over him, him he will remember a price he won in a place where no laws, not even time`s, apply. He will throw three bronze dice, he will look at the results, he will get a headache. Irem will reject him. And he is violently thrown out of synch with time. Ozymandias is walking through a hallway filled with doors. As far as he can guess he is in the place that exists behind mirrors. He looks through one of the doors and sees a familiar scene. A card game where he lost a fortune and had to spend the next year living with a honey addict and a goat. He closes the door; it hadn’t been that bad – the goat had played a mean game of chess. In the same way he looks through the other doors. Each one shows a scene from his life - great material losses, embarrassments, tremendously stupid decisions. Some of them put a smile on his face, while others bring back dark memories. But one thing is true for all of them. They had all been his own decisions and they had made him who he was. He had no right to usurp a life - not even his own. Having made this decision, Ozymandias walk until he reach his childhood. Here he sees a sunlit field. On a hilltop two figures can be seen talking. One of them is himself, the other one was a dear friend. It had been the best kind of friend, the kind that seems to exist as an extension of yourself. He remembers the conversation. They were talking about their future, which at that time seemed fraught with endless possibilities. In a couple of years, they would part ways which would bring him great sorrow. He looks at his childhood friend, observes their features. The past was not his to choose, but the future was. He lays back and let himself flow back into the present, leaving his past behind. edited by Ozymandias, on 10/22/2016 edited by Ozymandias, on 10/22/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 10/24/2016	The Ticking Scientist had returned. With a guest in tow. This was upsetting to the zailor keeping headcount. What was that following the Ticking Scientist? Nothing was there, and yet… Something was. Wasn’t, it? The zailor shook his head, too much underzea whiskey far too early. That had to have been it, right? Surely the headcount added up, right? It did add up, all heads accounted for, but… The number was right, but the heads were wrong. Perhaps, he reasoned, a passenger chose to stay in Irem for some unknowable reason. That leaves the extra passenger. Easy, he thought. We simply picked up another guest for our journey. But that’s not right, is it. We were taking on no more guests; we were going to head back to London. The zailors candle dimmed. The zailor shivered, a cold breeze on the unterzee this evening. In that case, it had to be a stowaway of some sort. But that can’t be right, stowaways hide from the crew, not strut around as if they belong. It could be an act. Easiest way to hide is in plain sight, after all. He had to know. He had to ask. The extra guest assured the zailor, there were indeed one too many heads onboard. “That is, the extra head is yours.” It grinned. With a clank, the candle fell to the ground, snuffed in the ensuing scuffle. The zailor blinked. The zailor was fine, naturally. After all, there never was an extra guest. How could there be, when the ticking scientist never left, and therefore could never have had something following at his heels. He sighed, picked up the candle, and resumed patrolling the deck. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/26/2016	A bag of a money. A glint of a zee captain's yellowed teeth. A gruff thanks. - A stop in a place of amber. A smell of ozone on the air. A wet stain. A twist in the plot. - A cold rock. A recognizable huddle, perched, alone, on the steps. An outfit not hard to replicate. A key. - A bundle of scarves. A thick stature. A bulk of recognizable anonymity. The zailor nods to himself as the Scorched Sailor passes by, giving the 6 foot pack of wool and grizzliness only a quick glance before turning his eyes back to the still zee and his mind back to his thoughts of fish head zoup and good tobacco. - "Oi." A pause. A turn. A stand-offish figure, squinting at the ship's latest arrival from a world of peeling wallpaper and flat carpet. A thrumming engine. "You aren't the captain." "Jeremy." A widening of the eyes. "I know where you sleep. I know where your mother sleeps. I know where little Tina sleeps." A Neath-pale face, the color of skin reflected off zee water, grows paler. "I'm far more of a captain to you than that wreck of an old man out in Irem ever could be." A silence. "Don't disturb my work." A turn. A problem solved. - A costume, discarded. A quill, dipped. A book, opened. A mad scholar. A ruined captain. A scarred scientist. A Surface-cursed associate of Hell. A dozen pages filled. A quill, dipped again. A Tomb Colonist. A mostly Tomb Colonist. A bloodied ex-celebrity. A second dozen. A quill, dipped. Another full set. A quill, dipped. A revival of the candle. A database, filled. A ship, covered. A busy night. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 12/1/2016	[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 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 10/12/2016	Time crunched underfoot. The sky shed hours, days, years, as Suinicide’s footsteps broke things unbroken. Lying false decaying secrets swarmed around her, and she traveled through time blind. A glimpse of the past. Voices of the future. Snatches of Could-Have-Beens and Never-Weres. The unchosen possibilities scatter her surroundings. A happier woman, a worse woman, a woman with an identity, draws a blade across a man’s neck. He dared threaten her family, and there are some lines that are not crossed. But the game of shadows does not stop, does not hesitate, does not learn. This will (Can’t) happen. The sun beat down on her neck, drawing beads of sweat. The lying secrets engulf her and all is silent. Leaving only the past. Suinicide treads water in an enclosed space. Voices echo from overhead. The slime water hums with vibrations. Information like ants swarmed across her body. (Rise Remove) Her fingers dig into the wet motor of the well, hoisting herself out of the water. The wet dripping of the queen obscured by the echoing of voices. “Burning yourself-your secrets,” the male voice says, the echoes repeat, and suinicide hears. “Do you see it?” Suinicide mouthed the words with herself. “The well gapes, it sings for the angels.” Her blood mixed with the water below, fading and disappearing from sight. The well works itself into a silent froth, a frenzy at its first blood. “We’re family,” The male voice says, “The well does not sing. (It screams) The things you are throwing away cannot be replaced. Suffering does not make the saint.” (Obstruction Annoyance Pest Remove) “Suffering...” Her voice trails off. (Candle thief) The undisguised want in her voice made the man look at her. (Angel of doubt) Above Suinicide put her hand against his chest in a weak push. Barely enough to move the man. (Weak resolve) Below, Suinicide grabbed onto the back of the man’s shirt. Together, a push from above and a pull from below. (An easier path) A shadow, darker than the night, covers the well mouth. Casting past at Suinicide. He didn’t even scream as he fell. Information like hornets sting him, eyes, ears, tongue. (He will not forget) False scales rise to her eyes, gifting her the future. (Removed) A goddess ruined aboard an emptied ship. She has suffered and shown herself good. The angels above stare with disguised envy. They praise and extol and honor the queen, for she has suffered for them. They guard the gate to heaven with a sword of fire. Only the good may pass. Only the good. Only her. The ship floats through the silence and stillness. She is gone. She is good. Decaying secrets rot into nothingness. (The Judgements feast on us all. And we will die on the river banks, lungs of pain and blood and fear. Delicacies of the gods. Children fed to fire and wrath, knowing little else. Humans alone cannot-) -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 11/6/2016	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.] -- 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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Barse Posts: 706 7/14/2016	The Scorched Sailor, still looking at Sketch with a frown, takes a moment to register Drake's question, and then bursts out in a coarse, asthmatic laugh. Clapping Drake on the shoulder, he leans into his ear. "Give up. There is nothing there worth knowing. There is nothing there worth seeing." Drake can feel his hand trembling on his shoulder, and the Sailor pulls up his sleeve sharply to show off his warped and burned skin. "Die on this journey instead, if you must." He tugs at his scarf for a moment, then stops, changing his mind. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to make sure these clowns load up properly. A lot of these idiots are convinced the Reck is haunted." He strides off down the dock. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/17/2016	The Scorched Sailor appraises the golden liquid and waves it away reluctantly. "No thank you, at this point I'm not sure what it'd do..." Nonetheless, he looks at it longingly. He sits in a chair in the corner of the room and loosens his scarves in a semblance of informality. "All of these extra passengers," he begins heavily. "I recognise that one needs a sizeable expeditionary force for what we are attempting, but these people you have chosen... Well frankly, I don't trust them. The Professor is too clever by half, and this new Tomb-Colonist and his lumbering guard seem downright shifty!" Not to mention to various vices and insanities of the rest, he added mentally. He shifts in his seat. "To get to the point, Mr. Dynamo. I recognise that you are the leader of this party. But this is my ship, and while the Reck is at zee my Law is second only to that of the Judgements. If anyone poses a threat, or jeopardises this ship..." He trails off, unwilling to finish the threat, letting it hang in the air instead. "I respect you, and don't want to resort to such melodramatics, but I hope you understand me, Drake." edited by Barselaar on 7/17/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/21/2016	The Genial Gambler, having until now been enjoying his meal raises his voice "If It`s stories that are needed i have plenty. Tragic stories, humorous stories and scandalous stories. I even know a few true stories; Those are quite dangerous of course." (OOC) Storytelling at Adams Way sounds quite fun; and it would be a good way to further establish the characters. -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/26/2016	Suinicide approached the gracious. "I've heard of a story, a story of a cheapskate apple and a gambler. You see, the apple had something the gambler wanted, but he wouldn't give it to her. No, that'd be too simple. The apple sat upon his throne, priceless treasures scattered about his feet. If you wanted one of these treasures, you would need to gamble for them. But he would have to challenge you, otherwise unfortunate things would happen. But the gambler didn't give up. She went to every gambling den near him. Winning some, losing some, always showing off her substantial amount of money. Until finally, a messenger arrived. She was invited to a game with the apple. Something low stakes, as he didn't want to risk his precious treasures. She accepted, and with a few other gamblers, ventured into the final gambling den. They played long through the night, losing and winning more and more. The apple growing more invested in the games. Until the final hand. Bids were placed. And the gambler spoke up. She didn't want the apple's money, or one of its treasures. She wanted a ship from his fleet. A very specific ship. She placed a bid to match, and at this late in the night the apple was too invested to refuse. He bid his ship. And lost, horrifically. Defeated by the gambler. He left without a word. But that alone wouldn't get him the title of cheapskate. No, it's what he did afterwards. Do you think he gave her the promised ship? Of course not. Instead he stole the gambler's own ship, beaten and rusted as it was, and presented it to her as the beautiful thing she was promised. No matter what words she used, no matter what her threats, he would not budge. This was the agreed upon ship, he insisted. The gambler left, angry and humiliated. Something happened that night, and the next morning the gambler found herself in charge of her new ship, the ship she was promised, and the ship she had fought for. She rarely gambled again, and never with the cheapskate apple. Sometimes you need to know when not to push your luck." Suinicide surveyed the carefully blank faces of the Gracious. "What? You want to know what happened during the night? That's between the gambler, and the cheapest apple. And you should leave it at that." -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/26/2016	The Scorched Sailor hangs back while one at a time the passengers of the Reck approach the Gracious to tell their story. He watches as, one at a time, with a gentle nod of the head, each of their tales is judged worthy: tales of personal achievement, of unjust failure, of victory over unlikely odds, of mysteries half-glimpsed. Somewhere deep in his gut a heavy coil of melancholy and spite stirs. He could tell them a story or two. He is acutely aware of his body: open wounds that seep and never scab no matter how sturdily they are dressed; liquid scars that swirl where skin should be; the suspicion, deep inside, that he was somehow foreign to himself. Oh yes. He could tell a tale that would blister the minds of the Gracious with sorrow like a lacre-pit, that would sear them like a surface-star with secrets that should have remained hidden and teach them the folly of seeking to remember, to name, to commemorate in story that which would be best left forgotten. The coastguards of the South lower their weapons to let Suincide pass through the city walls. They looked at the hunched, cloth-swaddled shape expectantly as an anger that borders on obsession rages in his heart. He feels a hand on his shoulder as Drake approaches behind him and flashes a genial smile. “It’s your turn,” he says, gently pushing the Scorched Sailor forwards. “Good luck.” Something gives way, very gently, in his mind, and the coil that had wormed its way up through his stomach and had been preparing to speak itself as story slumps in his gut. He takes a few steps towards the Gracious, leaning in close, and begins a tale. “They were the first words she said to me,” he whispers quietly enough that the Gracious have to lean in, their headdresses almost touching. “’It’s your turn – good luck!’ It was my first reading at the Singing Mandrake, years ago, and I thought I might just run before my slot. I was so nervous. And then she came up behind me, and…” His tale is long, and winding, and lacks the finer points of beginning, middle and end, but the Gracious listen. He speaks of fear, and love, and how sometimes one conquers the other and how sometimes they end up being the same thing. He speaks of poetry as if it’s something he is discovering for the first time, and he speaks of it as if it’s something he’s always known. He speaks of fires that burn brighter then the harshest Law that will not burn but keep you safe. He speaks of shards of Fourth City stone that are magic because she said they were, and of false-stars and awful wine that were supernovae and the finest vintage because she was there to watch and drink them with him. He speaks of being young - well, younger, at least - and being handsome, and being whole. The Gracious nod. They can feel the truth in the story, and the genuine regret, although they are not sure if the sadness is because of her absence, or something now absent in him. The allow the Scorched Sailor to pass. He looks back at Drake, inclining his head in thanks. It is because of him that this is the story he thought to tell. edited by Barselaar on 9/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/27/2016	The dandy's smoking a cigarette. He's been doing that a lot lately, especially for someone who looks as though they've not worked a day in their life. He taps the cigarette against the small ashtray on the table, legs crossed in a surprisingly effeminate fashion for the normally Olympian man. "The Olympians were all sheep (here he used quite an expletive)ers and boring conversation," he once replied, when someone commented on his met-knee stance, "So they couldn't have been terribly masculine. Men come from Hull, after all, not Wales." Sketch looks around the room. The dandy arrived surprisingly early for someone so fond of being fashionably late, but the other inhabitants of the Reck all seem to be here now. Of course, the crew's growing like the steadily bloating corpse of a pregnant drowning victim, so there are several faces around the table the rake has yet to be introduced to, and no doubt several outside of the room he does not even know exist. He taps the cigarette on the ash-tray again. "So, then," he exclaims, sharp, clear, voice of a public speaker breaking through the thin silk curtain of smoke rising before him and simultaneously through the thick bubble of silence that has gathered, "You'd great food last time, Dynamo. The port was shite, though. Do you have any toasts to make with your shite port, this time?" He smiles a friendly smile he stole (and quickly copyrighted) from a jovial lawyer he met once, to let the scientist know the remarks are all in good fun. They're not, though. The port was shite. edited by Professor Sketch on 8/27/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/18/2016	[I think we're in a hurry to get back to the Reck and the zee - if anyone had stuff they wanted to do before Adam's Way again, do say and I'll delete and repost this after they've done their thing. Introspection and conversation is best saved until we're safely away from the Elder Continent, if you ask me.] One by one, the strung-out party return to where they'd left the living ship. It perks up gradually, sails filling and planks creaking in anticipation and impatience as the last stragglers haul themselves onto the deck. The atmosphere is muted. Everyone seems wary of each other now in ways that they weren't before. Each have had something momentous revealed to them, have undergone some kind of spiritual or physical metamorphosis at the foot of the Mountain. (The Scorched Sailor muses for a minute on the fact that the Mountain of Light casts no shadow - for something so huge and so powerful, it leaves the land around it relatively untouched. The same cannot be said for the people.) Everyone is aware that everyone else has been affected in a similar way, and this knowledge seems to make them all flighty, reluctant to talk lest they reveal too much. Much of the voyage back to Adam's Way is spent in silence, the disparate individuals kept company by the languorous lapping of the Nameless River and the contented warped-wood groan of a ship fulfilling its purpose. Downstream the journey passes a lot faster. It does not feel like long before the silhouetted outline of Adam's Way creeps out of the horizon. The Scorched Sailor stirs from his lethargy, at once eager to return to his own vessel and wary of the mess they had left behind there. The Mirthless Colonist stoops and utters soothing words to the ship; it slows, reluctantly, so that the party can work out what to do once they dock. The ruckus caused by their theft of the living ship and hasty departure might have faded, but they were all still very much wanted personages, and they will have to content with - or avoid - the port authorities to get back on board the Reckoning Postponed. edited by Barselaar on 8/18/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 8/18/2016	Jimmy T. Malice lounges on the bed in his well-appointed chamber, his eyes pointedly avoiding the green bottle on the chest of drawers in front of him. Empty now, certainly, but it is unquestionably of the sort used to contain souls. This one had not so long ago held his. For all his wealth and power, it was an ordinary soul. When he had recovered it he expected to find it in the cobalt blue bottle reserved for the most brilliant of souls, but instead it was anonymous, abandoned in the corner of a warehouse in Spite amidst a stack of identical green bottles. It was one of his own warehouses, he had discovered. Through proxies and agents he had become enmeshed in the soul trade thanks to his infernal contacts. Considering he had no idea he even owned that place, it seemed that his left hand no longer knew what his right hand was doing. A sharp rap on the door brings him back to the present. “Enter,” he says curtly. The door opens and his Long-Suffering Footman enters tentatively. “My Lord, I’m terribly sorry for being so late, but I’ve been notified that the stolen Polythreme ship has, um, returned from the Mountain.” He flinches pre-emptively, but Lord Malice’s sword-cane remains slouched against the bedpost. Malice allows a small smile to cross his face, the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling, and strokes his neatly trimmed beard in contemplation. “Send a message to the leader, this Drake Dynamo. Tell him I would very much like to meet him and discuss terms for my passage.” -- 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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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/4/2016	Sketch pauses, thinking on the question. He recalls an interrogation he'd seen many years ago, when he'd been the secret lover of a constable. The man being interrogated was suspected of killing his mother, his brother, and his child, and there was some pretty damning evidence against him. For a man on the brink of being sent to the guillotine, he seemed remarkably calm. The basic questions he deflected in a moment. "Did you kill your mother?" "No." "Did you kill your new-born son?" "No." As the questions became more complicated, more emotion-based, his answers took longer. He was thinking on them. At one point, he was asked, "Did you hate your mother?" and paused a brief moment before beginning to think on the question aloud. He was trying to decide how a normal person would react. Sketch takes a drag of the cigarette as an excuse for his silence. Since losing his soul, the dandy has found himself in the same place as that long-dead psychopath many times. When one loses the ability to emote, to sympathize, to feel, one has to learn what it looks like when those around him feel. The psychopath being interrogated was an amateur - he knew that people thought that killing was wrong, he knew that he would go to jail for murder, he probably even knew how to small talk and when to say sorry, but give him an emotionally driven question and he'd struggle. Sketch was much better than that. When it came to something emotional, he could be terribly convincing. He was a good liar. It was when he had to decide whether or not to lie that it could become a problem. The dandy lets a sash of grey slip from his lips. The truth. "I've got a lot waiting on me," he says, "But not much after that. Rather like running from the altar, I suppose. I used to be a regular zailor, you know that? There's lots of memories for me out here. If London is the altar I'm running from, this is me bursting into my childhood home, still in my tuxedo, to look at all the toys I had as a boy before getting on the train out of town. There's two toys in particular that I want to see again, and it sounds like this voyage can lead me to them." He knocks the ash off the cigarette on the side of the ship. "Also, you know, business in Frostfound," he says, and smiles again. "So if we're all mad or running from something, which category do you fall in, then? Doubt you can run from anything in that attire. Aren't you hot?" Sketch asks casually. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/30/2016	Drake Dynamo wrote: Drake looks at the Mirthless Tomb Colonist in shock. "How are you doing that?" He inquires, as the ship stops its fitful shaking. "Polythreme," the Mirthless Colonist answers, "is a heartbroken place. Everything that comes from there is melancholy. I promised the vessel one of my bandages, one of the more conversational ones, in exchange for a trip up and down Darkgryphon Straits." The Colonist considers, and then quickly adds, "But remember, we're not taking the ship, the ship is taking us. She and I expect everyone that boards her to behave accordingly. We're guests at her behest." -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/30/2016	“I must protest your remark that there exists such a thing as a mundane gamble; All games are fascinating if you figure out their inner workings. Quite often the rules that are apparent are merely the top of the iceberg. For example, these rat-fights; one might assume that victory merely lies in assessing the strengths of the rats, but quite often it is a matter of figuring out exactly who has rigged the fights. You have to notice strange bets and get a feeling for the social flow." "But I digress. As for your dare, it would be a most absurd thing to accept; one would have to have no sense of self-preservation at all. Having said that, hand that bottle over and let’s see if I’m not twenty echoes richer in a few minutes.” As The Genial Gambler gets ready to drink he wonders how to handle the gamble. He could of course try to do a sleight of hand and subtly change out the liquid, which in itself could be interesting. Though, he was actually felling in the mood for a straight up dare. It was really quite exhilarating; one move, two outcomes. Either he walked away with twenty echoes or fell down with none. He might even wake up in a ditch somewhere in this strange city, which would again lead to an abundance of opportunities for adventure. That was the fantastic thing about gambling; You never really lost. Ozymandias pours a glass and makes a toast. “To lack of self-preservation” He quaffs the liquid. “What a quaint ta…” He keels over. But as keeling goes, it is really quite graceful. edited by Ozymandias, on 7/30/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/16/2016	Sketch blinks, still staring at the place where the Shade disappeared into the foliage. "Right, then," he mutters. The dandy strides over to the sitting Drake and the collapsed Vaustus, crouching down next to Drake and taking the mug. He sighs, looking at its size. "Right, then," he mutters again. The rake dips the cup below the impossibly crimson waters, scooping up the liquid. When the mug breaks the surface, it's filled to the brim, dripping thick, hot liquid down its gleaming sides. The dandy winces as a drop slicks over his thumb, leaving a small burn under his fingernail. He takes the flask of Cider, raising it to his nose first. "Good year," he grins to Drake. The rake holds the flask out over the mug, letting a drop of the golden liquid fall into the red heat and instantly disappear. He exhales. "Bottoms up," he says false-cheerily, raising the cup to Drake. Sketch clasps his lips around the edge of the mug, snatching his other hand to the side of it and hurriedly glugging it down before he has a chance to taste it. He's already feeling something a quarter into the cup. He's already seeing something when it's half-way empty. He's already losing his balance when he finishes it. The rake tips forward on his haunches, a light moan escaping his lips as he falls through the air. The One-Eyed Zailor's single eye goes wide, the zee veteran jumping forward and quickly grabbing Sketch before the dandy falls straight into the Wound. Sketch's being pulled backwards now, he's sure of that. Backwards from the Wound, since he's gone down South with Dynamo and the lot. He's down past Adam's Way, he's sure of that - he can see the foliage, he can see Drake's sideways glance at him as the scientist catches his breath. He can see the cathedral and the hills. He can see the blue sky above, devoid of clouds, and the far-off hills of the other islands, and he can see the ocean glimmer to the side. He can feel the cold Northern air on him, blowing his hair in the wind. He can see the other boy, running up the hill. He's in Faroe, he's sure of that. The daoroe Boy hits the grass. - "Charlie! Charlie!" Thick accents speaking a word familiarly foreign to them. The Faroe Boy doesn't listen, though. He's off the grass in a second, chasing the boy in the sweater up the hill. They're nearly matched speeds, but the boy in the sweater got the head start and has always been slightly faster, meaning he's standing there, leaning in the doorway, grinning at him by the time the Faroe Boy catches up. They're locked. An arm around the back, clinging two torsos tight together. A hand around the head, clutching and fondling hair better known to it than the sweater boy's own. Two pairs of lips met together, pressed against each other tighter than the richest man's lock, the strongest king's fist, the highest fortress' bricks. The Faroe Boy can feel the hand in his hair, clasping the back of his head, holding their lips together so that no sailor's family could ever tear them apart. The Faroe Boy can feel the familiar sweater balled up in his fists, wool stitched under a mother's needle for a boy brought to dinner years ago. The Faroe Boy can feel the kiss wiping away the grin on the boy in the sweater's face. The Faroe Boy can feel the red lips against his own, filled so often before with passion, curiosity, happiness, delight, love, lust, fill now with desperation, with woe. The Faroe Boy can feel the rocks against his feet as he jumps from one to the other He can hear that familiar, foreign name being called by voices telling him to be careful. He can feel pride in his heart at the sensation of the sailor behind him looking on with the same emotion. He can smell the ocean, the salt and the winds, on the air mixed with the musty scent of the rope. He kneels down, balanced so proudly perfectly on the rocks, and picks up the net, turning and hoisting it up in the air to the applause of the sailor and the seamstress on the docks. "Eg duki ikki at lesa heta." He sees those eyes look up from the ground at him, bluer than his own could ever be. The eyes look at him, at the letter, back at him. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, and he can see the grin slowly spreading on the blue-eyed face. "Nei," says the blue-eyed face, in disbelief. "Ja." The blue-eyed face erupts in laughter, nearly keeling over. "Charlie!" it exclaims. "Orsaka!" He can feel himself begin to laugh. He can feel himself lean on the blue-eyed boy for support, barely able to hold himself up against his own laughter. The Faroe Boy and the blue-eyed face are laughing, laughing, laughing. Laughing harder than they've laughed their entire lives. The Faroe Boy's throat is hoarse. Hoarse from laughing with the boy. Hoarse from yelling with the sailor. The two shout, flinging curses they've either learned or taught to each other, faces red with anger at one's disobedience, the other's cruelty. "Tin helvitis fani!" shouts someone. The Faroe Boy, perhaps. He's flung worse insults at the sailor over the last hour. The sailor is unlikely, but the Faroe Boy wouldn't doubt it, especially after tonight. Possibly the boy in the sweater, shouting and screaming at the eyes watching the dream as he's done only twice before, on the worst nights of the Faroe Boy's life. It's quite likely, considering this was the third of the worst nights of his life, and foremost among them. The Faroe Boy turns, and the mother-knitted sweater is gone. The red lips have disappeared. The hand in his hair is no longer there. The arm around his waist will never return. Only the rat remains, sitting there amongst the ropes of the net, looking back at the Faroe Boy with an emotion in its beady eyes the dandy scarcely sees. "The king is still there," it says with pity, Sketch's eyes beginning to flutter open once more, "Still there." "No," Sketch mutters faintly. The rat is gone. - Sketch is back at the Wound, staring into the dark, Neath sky, the faces of those around him sharply lit by the glow of the pool. Too much. To drink, to take, to live. Now the mermaids have gathered. Now they await him. (Sorry that was so long! I know Sketch drinking too much of the Wound doesn't appear to have any effects right now, but the consequences will certainly become apparent later. Sketch will suffer the worst of all of them for drinking too greedily of the Wound.) edited by Professor Sketch on 8/16/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/3/2016	"Who'd you say you were with?" "The law." The customs official squints up at the thick eyeglasses boring down into him. "You don't look like a constable. You with the admiralty?" The echoes slam down on the table. "Just show me your records." Meanwhile, across the zee, a dandy sitting atop a non-sentient crate on a sentient ship frowns at the Mirthless Colonist's comment. He hadn't brought a gun with him - in fact, all he had were his old medical supplies. He'd spotted a sports room in the ship a few days back when he'd been aimlessly wandering, which contained a few capped rapiers for fencing and a few uncapped for mensur, but nothing that would protect him at a long range. He supposed he'd just have to do the honorable thing and duck and hide somewhere if it got down to exchanging gunfire. The dandy sighs and steps up off the crate. He looks around the deck, which moves with a breath separate of the water's push and pull, at the ever shifting crowd of zailors bustling from side to side. In between the blur of burliness, one can see various faces that stand out. There stands the tomb colonist who Sketch just overheard speaking of the Presbyterate, holding a rag up to his neck. A smirk tugs at the edge of Sketch's lips at the sight of the newcomer whom the rake has yet to speak to. The dandy has a strange fascination for tomb colonists, possibly gained from his various stints in Venderbight during his more scandalous days. He reminds himself to talk to the oddity later, and moves his eyes to the next figure. There goes Dynamo, moving across the deck at a slow enough speed that he is distinguishable from the crowd, checking to make sure everything is in order. Sketch has already spoken to him before. For a man of adventure, he certainly does seem tedious. Then again, he's also a man of science, and the dandy's spent far too long amongst such men to find them fascinating any longer. The blue eyes shift to the bundle of clothes and scarves he spoke to at the very beginning of the journey for a passing moment. He certainly seems interesting. The black-clad serial killer strolls across the floorboards to the Scorched Sailor and stops beside him. "Cigarette?" he asks, holding out the pack, "I've found myself indulging in the habit a lot more than usual, lately. Blame Dynamo if I get the cough, then." He smiles at the bulk of wool and cloth before him. edited by Professor Sketch on 8/4/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/11/2016	"Ah-hah! Away we go, chaps!" The Mirthless Colonist tries to copy Sketch's energetic manner of stone-skipping, but slips on the first landing and falls gracelessly on his posterior. Several chuckles are stifled. One of the men thoughtfully throws the Mirthless Colonist's mirrorcatch box down. It lands on his head with a painful thunk. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/4/2016	(Thanks - I've been writing him for years in various RPs, his personality and motives changing according to the situation. He's nearly always a scumbag of some sort, though usually portrayed a bit more sympathetically. Also, changed the end of my post to match yours, Drake.) -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/6/2016	The Scorched Sailor roams below decks. He is not used to being on a ship that is unfamiliar to him, and he is not sure he entirely likes it. The whole movement of the thing seems wrong, the organic creaking motion of the ship - the gentle in and out that feels almost like breath - is an unsettling counterpoint to the gentle swell of the river. Laughably, the unfamiliar motion is making him feel nauseous. Years at zee, and a little jaunt upriver is making him all wobbly-legged. The faint nausea is not helped by how much Sketch had unnerved him. The damnable dandy had seemed so genuine when he had approached, cigarettes in hand, but there seemed to be an insatiable lust for... something hidden beneath his polished and well-practised social veneer. He should have known not to trust him back on Wolfstack. Nothing good happens on Frostfound. But this damn voyage, its promise of reclaiming the past... he had let down his guard, acted more trustingly than he has in years. He embarrassed himself on deck, as well. Revealed too much of himself, his wounds. He resolves to keep himself in check and an eye on Sketch. If there was as much going on inside the Professor's head as he feared, nothing good would come of a direct confrontation. Maybe another talk with Drake in order. The living ship is much smaller than the Reck and the Scorched Sailor stalks through almost the entire underbelly. He needs to calm his nerves. If only he was aboard his Reck instead of this wretched wayward vessel. He thinks longingly of the bottommost hold of his ship. He'd had to be extremely careful, recently, but he didn't think any of the rest of the expedition had cottoned on (apart from Vaustus, perhaps: but if he knew, he'd kept quiet. The Scorched Sailor was still not sure how he fit into his past). There was a reason he'd insisted they take his ship. It would have been so much harder to hide his addiction anywhere else. He needed it now; it would be so easy. A locked door in the darkness, a fumbling in the hold, one small box opening just a crack into a blaze of morning sun - Faint noises from within a cabin jerk the Sailor out of his racing thoughts. One of his hands is shaking. The word "withdrawal" is rattling around in the back of his mind. He needs to keep in control. He needs another way to destress. He presses an ear to the door. The soft rustle of paper on wood and the quick chinks of coin are just audible from within. A game of some description sounds like just the sort of thing he needs to calm his nerves. It's hardly sunlight, but it is a diversion. He pushes open the door, slowly, and is greeted by the faces of Vaustus and Ozymandias, sat in the floor in silence, halfway through a game. "You mind dealing me in?" edited by Barselaar on 8/6/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/29/2016	(Yeah, go mad. You can fill them with angry (dream?) snakes in SS, so just another kind of light wouldn't be out of the question.) The Scorched Sailor rounds the corner and runs towards Drake when he sees the drawn sword, not entirely sure what he'd do once he reached the pair. He can remember enough to know that hand-to-hand combat had never been his forte, and it was even less so now that he went everywhere so thoroughly covered in thick, movement-restricting clothing. By the time that he realises that Drake had stepped back and is in no immediate danger - a little voice in his head is wondering when he started to care about others being in danger, but that can be answered later - it is too late to slow down, and the already-angered Gracious has registered the lumbering heap of clothes as a greater threat than the disarmed (dis-venomed?) gentleman. The ornately-adorned guard raises his scimitar, the rubies on its pommel winking in the lights of the dock. Momentum carries Barselaar forwards, past Drake - who probably had not had this in mind when he asked for help, but it is far too late to stop now - and only the gangplank, and he manages to raise his arms to shield his face as the blade flashes and descends in an arc of moon-silver - - and stops. The blade is somehow stuck in the meat of the Scorched Sailor's forearm, buried deep in the clothes and the flesh, having somehow failed in cutting the sailor's hand clean off. Barselaar let's out a ragged scream, which he quickly bites off, lest someone hear. The Gracious' apoplexy turns to perplexity, and they attempt to tug their blade out, but it only shifts and does not come free. Drake, seeing his chance, comes up from behind Barselaar, grabs a knife from a sheath on the side of Barselaar's calf - which he had, in all the excitement, utterly forgotten about - and buries it in the chest of their assailant, pushing them back into the red-tinged waters of the harbour where they land with a muted splash. The pair stand in silence, watching the corpse bubble and sink. It doesn't seem like anyone has witnessed the altercation, although it is hard to be sure. When Drake turns around, he is just in time to see Barselaar yank, with difficulty, the filigreed scimitar out of his arm and turn away to inspect the wound, hissing in pain. Before Barselaar can quite turn around and hide his arm, Drake catches a glimpse of a deep cut underneath the clothes, but no blood. Instead, as if his body had forgotten quite how to bleed properly, a white, waxy substance was oozing out, and already scabbing over. Barselaar, his back still turned, let out a pained laugh. "That went well." edited by Barselaar on 7/29/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/1/2016	Sketch pauses. He looks down at the tiny, dirty hand latched around his wrist. His eyes follow up the arm to the slightly less tiny, slightly more dirty face looking up at him. "You with the mutton-chop fellow in the boat?" the child asks, "You dress funny enough for it." Sketch smirks, then quickly drops the smile as he snatches his wrist out of the urchin's filthy grasp. "Yes, that's right," he mutters, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping off his arm, "What does he want?" "Said to gather you lot up. He's at the docks. You don't look like a zailor, though. You sure you're part of the crew?" the urchin asks, giving the dandy a skeptical squint. Sketch gives the boy another sarcastic smile and asks, "How'd he pay you, then?" "Said he'd give us candies when we get back," the child answers. Sketch chuckles. He pulls out his pack of Gypsy Queens and holds a cigarette out to the boy. Recognizing something he's not allowed to have, the urchin instantly snatches the cigarette into his mouth. "There's a candy for you," the dandy says dryly, and lights the smoke for the boy. The child breathes it in and instantly begins to cough, spitting out the Gypsy Queen like it were poison. Sketch chuckles again, shoves the boy to the cobblestones, and strolls away to the docks. edited by Professor Sketch on 8/1/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/4/2016	The Scorched Sailor nods slowly. A circumspect answer, but he'd hardly expected a direct one. It is a wonder this expedition manages to move at all, the density of secrets is so high. He hopes faintly that the "toys" in question are not people. A short-lived Governor of Port Carnelian had been shipped, straitjacketed and raving, back to the Beth during a visit there a few years ago, after mutilating a secretary who had snuck out for a break while screaming "The toys are not behaving!" Those who view people as their playthings rarely seem to be up to anything good. He can detect nothing in Sketch's tone, however, to suggest any malicious intent, so he dismisses his paranoia for the moment. It has been long enough since he's engaged in a serious conversation that he's prepared to put any worries aside for now and simply enjoy it. "Lots of memories here for you, eh? Well, me too. Ones I've lost, things taken from me. I suppose I'm here to get them back." The ship sighs and creaks in its own language beneath them. The Scorched Sailor can see no reason not be frank. "I thought it'd do me good to be at zee. For too long I have been..." He searches for the correct word. "...Not myself. I guess you'd call me one of the mad ones. Nothing to run from. Nothing I can escape, anyway." He tries not to think of the wound on his right arm, still gently seeping something that is not blood underneath the bandages and layers of clothing. Some burdens cannot be dropped and left behind. He forces a chuckle and breaks eye-contact. "Good job for you lot I am mad. No sane captain would carry a crew of desperados and fugitives to the edge of the Neath and back. As for this-" He gestures at his unkempt and all-covering outfit, "-this is more for your benefit than mine. I'm hardly pretty." He waits for a second, thinking. He tends not to reveal himself to anyone if he can help it - the looks, a poisonous concoction of fear and disgust, were hard to bear - but something flinty in Sketch's level gaze suggests that he would react less violently than most. Slowly, he pulls the glove off of his left hand, wincing with pain as he uses his injured arm to make the reveal. The skin beneath is mess: in parts deathly pale, and others an angry red, it is scarred and misshapen like a candle in a heatwave, raised ridges and deep pockmarks littering the surface. The pair regard the improbable topography of the Scorched Sailor's burned flesh. When he speaks, his voice is dull, and he quickly moves to put the glove back on. "It's like that all over. An accident." He falls silent, waiting for Sketch's reaction. Mercifully, the dandy's face had hardly moved at all during the reveal, perhaps a slight twitch, but nothing remotely approaching the revulsion commonly shown. He had remained carefully neutral. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/4/2016	"We all go ragged in the end," Sketch says, "The human body is beautiful for a period of time until something comes by to ravage it. Time, disaster, horror, something more powerful. As some things are beautiful for their power, for their legacy, for their strength, for the terror they instill in others, man's beauty is prelapsarian. Power stays. A legacy remains. Strength lives through myth and fable. Terror keeps generations of children awake at night. But at some point, something comes along to ravage our beauty. I could have my head stoved in with a lead pipe tomorrow, and my beauty would be ruined. I could be stabbed by some mad zailor, left on my knees, my face red and tight and horrendous, coughing blood all over myself like a baby spitting up food on its chest. Our beauty can't remain, old chap, and we all go ragged in the end. What matters is how you go ragged. I don't intend to let time get me, and it looks like you don't either. Sometimes, when one is ravaged, it gives them power. Sometimes, when one is ravaged, it gives them a legacy. When one is ravaged, it can give them a form of beauty the human body never knew it could have. Let yourself be ravaged for a reason, and you may become a ragged god." He twiddles his cigarette between his fingers, staring at it. "Or die young, meaningless, and hopelessly beautiful. Some can't be ravaged, even by death. But that's not us, old chap." edited by Professor Sketch on 8/5/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/4/2016	"A pretty speech." The words are acid. "But I'll tell you what power is." The Scorched Sailor had become increasingly enraged throughout Sketch's monologue, to the point where he started to tremble. The ship's handrail creaked in pained protest as his grip steadily tightened. His words were hissed through his teeth. "Power is being able to walk down the street without being mocked, avoided, stared at. Power is being able to meet someone's eyes and see something there that is not fear or loathing. Power is knowing who you are and where you are going, it is being able to give of yourself freely and without fear and being to accept someone else accordingly. Power is being able to remember the name of a girl you met one night, terrified, in a bar, and in so remembering tasting once again her wine-stained lips and being able to hold that feeling deep within yourself until it pervades you and remakes the world in its image. That's what power is. Power is lo-" He breaks off, jaw shaking. "This - my ravaging - made me powerless. It did not make me a ragged god, only less human." Worried that he might not be able to restrict himself to just words if he continued the conversation, the Scorched Sailor turns his back on Sketch and clomps below deck. Something in Sketch's eyes, a well hidden hunger, black and formless, has unsettled him more than he likes to admit. If Sketch has a reply, the Sailor does not hear it. (You know what they say, "In matters of the Bazaar..." This has been a fun conversation - I know I have stormed off [there was no way for him to stick around without punching something] but I'd be interested to see Sketch's reply/reaction.) edited by Barselaar on 8/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/4/2016	Sketch sighs, flicking his cigarette out into the red waters below. Damn it all. He'd read the bastard wrong. He wasn't a one-legged puppy, as the dandy had thought. The one-legged puppies were easy - you gave them motivation, you gave them understanding, and they trusted you. He'd thought the speech would do that. Give the sniveling puppy a reason to limp on and show the puppy that you understand, that you're just like them. He was one of the damaged ones. They were bloody impossible to read, impossible to predict. You can't learn behavior from observing society and then predict the reactions of someone upset and outcast from it. He had been close, too. The dandy stands, fists clenched around the guardrail, thinking for a moment. Dynamo had some sob story about losing a sister, didn't he? The Faroe Boy story should work on him. Sketch brings his hands up, rubbing his eyes. If only the bloody, disgusting freaks on this boat weren't such pathetic sacks, maybe he'd actually have some allies. The dandy exhales slowly into the fabric of his gloves, calming himself. The Faroe Boy story for Dynamo, and maybe mensur with the tomb colonist, or dinner, or some other connecting, darling little bullsh- Sketch clenches his jaw. Forget it. He wasn't in any threat at the moment - he could make friends later. He needed to calm himself right now, or else he wouldn't be thinking straight. The dandy drops his hands to his side, sighs, and looks around. He feels the hand latch onto him, and spins around. "Don't fu- Dynamo," he says. He is, for a moment, dead-eyed, staring at the man before him, as if frozen by the thought of being caught in his anger. "What is it, old chap? Tell you what? What? Jus- Could you repeat what it- what it is that you said?" he asks, rubbing his forehead. edited by Professor Sketch on 8/4/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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ForScience Posts: 69 8/19/2016	It would be hard for anybody to look more out of place if they tried. Yet here stood an elegant, tastefully-dressed young woman blinking owlishly behind an enormous pair of eyeglasses, wandering the docks of Adam's Way. She could have been any waifish Bohemian hanging around sipping honey back home, in London. Yet she carriedherself with a sort of undeniable confidence, as though she had seen all life had to throw at her and couldn't wait for it to try again. Adam's Way was not her home. She had never been there before in her life, and she was impatient to leave. After all, she had heard mentions of a most extraordinary voyage, and had rushed to join up with it. With a gentle clearing of her throat, she attempted to make her presence known to the Scorched Sailor she had been searching the docks for. "Ahem! Excuse me, I do believe you're who I'm looking for. You are traveling with a certain Drake Dynamo, correct?" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 8/16/2016	Suinicide snatches the cup out of the distracted Kylestien's hand and dips it into the wound, filling it with the dark red liquid, though not having a wish to repeat everyone's experience, the cup is not full. She extends her other arm over the cup, and the never healed wounds drip her own blood, mixing it with crimson and water. She adds a drop of cider and raises the cup to her lips. Darkness. Pressure on all sides, crushing her. Large creatures look at her, at the burning symbols on her arm. Pain. They turn away, impassive. The zee brushes against her mouth, tearing it open. Failure. The water pours down her throat, flooding her. Empty. It will never fill her. It will never be enough. Failure- A man looked up at her, begging and pleading for light. A friend. Trusting. He disappears, leaving an empty void. A void of secrets, a void of presence, a void of friendship. There is no regret. There is a hunger. There is emptiness, and a frame around it- She looks up at unknown gates. Winged angels guard the passage to there. Judging those that pass through. Only good people are here. Only the good. Only her. She has to be here. She can still hope. She is gone- Darkness. Fear and determination. A pinch on her neck. Darkness- Hunger. Chain. Drown. Lucid. Skite. Blanched. Scar. Soon. edited by suinicide on 8/19/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 8/28/2016	Hearing this set the Ticking scientists gears in motion, literally and figuratively. Sipping his drink, (A special blend of olive oil, grease, and surface honey. Pricey, but having clockwork in your system has its special needs.) He set aside his fear of the Iron Republic for the moment, and asked: “In theory, could the process be changed? Not by traveling into the future, but by hammering in our very existence into reality, ensuring that no matter what happens, WE always will have, so to speak. And, as a result of twisting this logic, undoing another from having ever existed?” Mmmh? Setting down the glass he elaborated: “…Yes, I understand the implications of such a question. To clarify the undoing process, I mean that in several different ways. Two, in particular are currently relevant. The first being the obvious application of eliminating an individual, either causing them to cease existing in the present, leaving their history untouched, or wipe them out at birth causing their history to have never occurred. The second, which is of greater concern, is disconnecting an individual from their history. That is, the individual still exists, but history is changed as if they were never born at all. In other words, a fresh start. The price of everything you have owned, loved, or wanted either being gone entirely or lost to you is… Well, odds are if somebody went through all this just for a second chance, they are either mad, desperate, or have nothing to lose.” Well then. So you still have some of your old spark that got you into this mess after all. Mind, you aren’t off the hook yet, so to speak. Still, you have time left. Spend it wisely, hmm? Maybe put your brain to work on practical problems. Like clockwork. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/29/2016	Sketch stubs out the butt of the cigarette, dropping it into the ashtray as he and Florence chat. A thick finger, callused from years of rope and splintered wood, taps him on the shoulder. "For you, sir," the zailor mutters. The dandy nods a thanks and takes the note, unfolding it and reading the letter within. 'Don't ask about the scar, though. Bit of a touchy subject.' Well. That was useful. He notes the information down in his mind. He's made three notes so far. This is the second most helpful, though it may leap to first, depending on the situation. The first most helpful note the dandy has made this night came with the second, on thin notebook paper in Dynamo's handwriting Dynamo is a matchmaker. The rake ditches the idea of telling him the Faroe Boy story - it looks, now, as if playing the youthful romantic angle will help him fall into Drake's affections much quicker. The second most helpful note is, of course, Florence's scar. A useful defense mechanism, if ever necessary. The least helpful bit of information, for now, is the sight in Sketch's peripheral of the ponce looking briefly quite emotional. It's not of much use right now, as the dandy's no idea why the aristocrat would suddenly hang his head from the sight of others, but useful, nonetheless. Once the rake figures out why, though, it will be extremely handy. The defenses, written down in thin handwriting on the surface of Sketch's gray matter, are as follows : Ugly (Sketch's nick-name for the Scorched Sailor) - Freak. Sensitive. Easy. Ponce - Weepy. Needs exploration. Hard (This last word is written in shaking, blurred handwriting, liable to dissolve and change in a second.). Fool - Drunk. Killer. Pathetic. Easy. Dynamo - Idiot. Soft-hearted. Hopeless romantic. Easy. Girl - Scar. Smart. Unknown level of difficulty. Mr. Timestabber - Weird. Another freak. Terrified of devils. Pathetic. Easy. Rest - Unknown. Use venom in case of emergency. The list certainly doesn't seem threatening. Sketch doubts the reasons for the aristocrat's sudden emotions will be hard to deduce, if time is devoted, and the girl doesn't seem to be of any danger. Things are going well. Dynamo likes him, he's just received valuable information on two of the latest crew members, there are no immediate threats, and the steak is made well. The dandy chuckles, elevated on a puff of sudden, happy confidence. He sips at his glass, enjoying the fire in his throat as it descends to his stomach. What a wonderful dinner. Sketch returns to the conversation with Florence, leveling another dreamy gaze through the scientist's glasses for Drake's sake as the rake idly imagines being one of the Romans that whipped Christ. edited by Professor Sketch on 8/29/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/26/2016	Watching Dynamo pass through, Sketch supposes it's finally his own turn. What story should he tell? Sketch had traveled far and wide back in the day. He had taken Aristippus from the stinking docks of London to every shore imaginable. He had countless tales - tales too many for his mind to hold. Maybe that's why he'd gone mad. But what story to tell? He had stories of adventure, of fights and daring and feats of courage. He most certainly had those. He, himself, was a story of adventure at one time. He had stories of horrors, of eyes waiting for him at the bottom of the zee, of castles that called his name and of horrible things in dripping caves that would give those with a soul terrible nightmares. No doubt things that the Gracious heard from many a pale-faced zailor, which he had certainly once been. He had stories of beautiful things. Stories of the sun wrapping itself around him and kissing him gently on either eyelid, stories of constructs of ice that held worlds of colors, stories of white shores that held tan men and women under blue skies and gently-floating clouds, stories of lands surely too far for him to have ever touched them and too beautiful for him to have ever left them. There was a story of a beautiful thing that was waiting for him back in London, with a ring dazzling hard enough to curse the sun. He had stories of quiet moments and simple things. Softly burning fireplaces illuminating the shape of a young boy, cross-legged on the ground, and a young man, staring deep into the memory's eyes. Light coming through the window of a cabin, illuminating hands that whittled away a piece of rosewood into a tiny totem for someone now forgotten. Three faces, smiling at him with something unknown in their eyes. He wasn't sure he knew how to tell these stories. Not anymore. He had stories of victory. Memories of walking across a beach, the sound of zailors dropping dead into the sand behind him. Tales of beasts grappled, tossed, vanquished in deep and swirling depths. Stories of basking in the heat of the sun and the cheering of the crowd below, the scent of roses tossed, the sound of his name screamed by adoring masses and the noise of defeated footsteps retreating behind him. He had looked through Alexander's eyes far too often to not have been a story of victory earlier in his life. He had a story of April 2nd, 1889. He was this story now. He would not tell it. He had a story of love. He had never been this story. He had told it once before, and could tell it again. He smiles, faintly. The dandy stands up from the crate he'd been sitting on, descends the gangplank of the ship, and strides across the planks of the deck. He walks to the Gracious. Their calm faces are interrupted for a moment as he continues to walk closer. He grips one of them, and leans in close. The others try to lean in as well, straining their ears as he tells a story of a festival and a lighthouse, but hear nothing but murmurs. Only the ear of the Gracious he had picked out, cold with the rake's minted breath recalling chilly cliffs and cool air bouncing off of stone, hears the tale of far-off, burning torches warming a valley, and passionate embrace heating a room of old machinery. After some time, he leans away. The Gracious talk amongst themselves for a moment, interrogating the one that had heard the story. After a pause, with a dignified face on the one that had been singled out and dissatisfied looks on the others, the Gracious let him through. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/26/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/23/2016	Sketch glances at the chair placed under the doorknob, frowning. Everything on this ship was either rusted metal or rickety wood. If someone truly wanted to get in, they could, but they'd still have to apply quite a bit of force. He was safe. The dandy kneels down by the bed, pulling the bag out from underneath it. He knocks a stray spider off, sending it tumbling to the floor and narrowly escaping from a much worse fate for a spider. Sketch brushes the dust off of the bag, opens it and checks for anything remaining, and lies it down on the bed. The rake reaches into his jacket and pulls out the flask. He pauses again, wondering if this is the right idea. It'll be gone to him if the bag swallows it. It'll also be no use to him inside the bag til he goes back and retrieves it, meaning he won't be able to use it quickly in a fight. If he ever uses the venom, it'll have to be for something planned. Then again, no doubt Dynamo had already noticed that the venom retrieved from the ship did not quite fill whatever container he had been keeping it in. He probably already knew, or at least suspected, that someone on the ship must have gathered up some of it. Sooner or later, he'd probably show up outside Sketch's door with the Clay Man or the Sailor to protect him, and ask to pat Sketch down for the venom. If they didn't find anything, they'd probably search his rooms while he was out. No, Sketch certainly couldn't keep the venom on him, or anywhere in his room they could find it. The bag was the only place he could think of right now, however risky it was. He frowns. It was the only way. Besides, the bag didn't usually eat metal. It would probably grumble at him about the constant unpleasant taste of it in its mouth, but he doubted it would swallow it. The dandy leans in, putting his head next to the bag and softly whispering instructions to it. The bag grumbles. Sketch grins. There's a moment of fear as he reaches his arm deep into the bag and hears the mouth form in the fabric and open, but it doesn't bite him. He's trained it well. It even licks a greeting to his glove, like two dogs familiar with each other meeting after a long time. The bags lips close around the flask and morph back into simple wrinkles of the fabric. The dandy pulls his hand out, ties the bag up, and slips it back under the bed. Time for Adam's Way. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/24/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/27/2016	"Drake really didn't plan this out if he doesn't even know where the pubs are." -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/27/2016	Sketch glares at his departing figure. Hell with it - he'd bloody teach the fool. The dandy strolls over to a nearby constable, gripping him by the shoulder and leaning in close. "Officer, that man is a Jack! I swear to you, he's a Jack, officer!" he whispers, pointing a finger at Vaustus. "Jack? What the bloody hell are you on about?" the constable says. "Jack! Jack-of-Smiles! From London! He's come here to kill, officer!" Sketch replies, playing the role of the helpless damsel flawlessly. "You 'ave any evidence of this?" the Constable asks, now looking at Vaustus. "I saw him back in London. I think he got on the ship with me. Listen, officer - he wears a mask. If you find a mask on him, you'll know I'm right. Please, sir," Sketch says, adding just the right intonation to the 'please' to get the constable to turn his head and see Sketch at his most distressed and pout-lipped. The constable straightens up, swelling his chest. "Cor, this could be a problem. Find somewhere safe, then - I'll take good care of this, don't you worry," he assures the serial killer. "Thank you, sir," Sketch exclaims, embracing the constable and bringing an uncharacteristic blush to the officer's cheeks. The constable nods awkwardly and turns, walking down the street to the pub. As soon as the officer is gone, the dandy has hurried off as well, disappearing back up the gangplank and onto the ship. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/27/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Kylestien Posts: 749 7/18/2016	He wakes from sleep on the boat with a sudden start of horror. he just realised something terrible. Somethin with great and awful horror. HE LEFT THE HONEY AT THE PORT. ...This trip was gonna be hell untill they reached the isle of cats. He'd need to do something. edited by Kylestien on 7/18/2016 -- I will accept all actions, though I hold the right to refuse for my own reasons. However, if you explain WHY you send me a harmful action like Loitering or Dantes,And I feel the reason good, I will consider it more. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Kylestien Persuasive patron. You want a lesson, send me a message asking for one.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/17/2016	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 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/17/2016	Sketch pauses, looking the man over before him. He left the room dripping the venom a fair time ago, and since then had been wandering the halls, looking through the old ship's memories. He made quite certain no one saw him. He looks down at the gloves. "Polytheme work, eh?" he asks, grinning. He flashes his own gloved hands, shaking his fingers for effect. "I have a pair myself," he says, "Fine work, but I've learned you can't always trust them to reliably follow a scent. Good wolves, but shoddy bloodhounds. No, I'm afraid I don't have any venoms. My name is Professor Sketch, by the way. Pleased to meet you." The rake extends a hand and a charming smile. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/17/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/17/2016	Sketch is an athletic man. He's no circus strongman, but underneath the black clothing he's donned for this voyage is muscle hardened from his years at zee and viciousness perfected from fights to the death with larger men than he. Despite the facade of a life of wine, honey, and decadence, the dandy carries arms that have snapped the necks of hounds. He looks the man before him over and decides he could take him. He could bring him to the floor quickly and grab him by the neck, squeeze the Polythreme gloves around his throat hard until the cheeky bastard stopped breathing, and then he could bring him to a porthole and dump him in the cruel waters of the zee. No. No, he was being mad. The rest of the ship would suspect something, and then there'd be an investigation. There would be ways they could tie it back to the dandy, and the last thing he needed was a crew of zailors descending on him and tying him to a pipe for the rest of the journey. "I have no idea what you're talking about, my good man," he insists, smiling again, "Venom? I've tasted some poisons in my time, but venom's a bit too much for my liver, eh?" The rake chuckles at his own joke and claps Vaustus on the shoulder. "Get some sleep, eh, chap?" he says. He squeezes, digging his fingers in. "Really," he continues, dropping the smile, "You should rest." Sketch lets go, smiles again, and walks past. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/15/2016	The wax-hardened boots clap down on the planks of the deck. A smirk tugs at Sketch's lips as he looks about the ship. There are few things that make him smile a genuine smile anymore, but nostalgia brings happiness to the hardest of hearts. Some of the most important events of his life happened on a ship, or at least thanks to one. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. The dandy rubs his clean-shaven chin and chuckles. Maybe he'll even have time to grow a beard again. Now that would bring back memories. Sketch walks across the planks, heading belowdeck to find a bed. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/15/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/14/2016	The Scorched Sailor has been to the Avid Horizon. He has been to the Mountain. His mind was twisted by the forces that drove him to these far reaches, and the memories lie dormant. There is enough left of them, however, for him to know that his is a past that should not have been, that should be changed utterly. He has a boat. The Reckoning Postponed will take him anywhere he needs to go. Besides, he's never been to Irem. The Scorched Sailor bundles himself up in shirts, rags, scarves, culminating in a great overcoat, so that no skin is visible, and sets off through the London smog to Wolfstack. edited by Barselaar on 9/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/15/2016	Sketch woke early. His hands rest on the rusted railing of the ship, eyes resting on the water below. The zee seems calm now, lapping gently against the beaten hull of the yacht. Aristippus. That was he'd called it, anyway. The original name was Vagabond, though considering how old the tramp steamer had been, that name had probably only lasted two generations at most. Who knew what its original name had been? The rake slips off one of the black gloves, pulling a stale piece of bread from his pocket and feeding it to the Polythreme fabric. It didn't matter, though. The ship hadn't been his own, and neither had the map, but he'd been the last owner of either. He'd taken them both the farthest, and been the only holder of either to survive the journey. But of course he was going to survive the journey. There was a time when he could survive anything, and just to prove it, he did. Sketch slipped the glove back on, and began to feed the left one. One night on a ship, and already he was deep in memories. This was a new ship. A new captain. There was no point in sitting around reminiscing on the olden days. He glances over at the dark figure of Dynamo, thinking on his fellow shipmates. He didn't care for them. He hardly cared for anyone anymore - even Edward was just a toy. But he knew how people could change out at zee. People went mad. People got hungry. People grew scared. He had to make sure he wasn't the one they jumped when supplies ran low. Sketch slips the glove back on, dons a smile he saw on a fortune teller gypsy he once bedded, and strolls across the deck to Drake. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/15/2016	Sketch leans against the railing, crossing his arms as he talks. "Your posters mentioned several different destinations," he says, "But I was wondering - what exactly is the point of this journey? You said we're headed to Adam's Way. I've been there before. I passed through. When I left, my ship had a hull like the wing of a bee. This ship? I doubt it'd even survive it." -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 11/9/2016	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 -- 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 11/1/2016	The Scorched Sailor sits on the roof of the bridge, cross-legged. For the first time in a long time he feels the zee air upon his skin, the salt-sting of spray. The Reck is moving again, the crew busy with their usual combination of zailing necessities and perpetual repairs. They had not recognised him when he had finally come aboard from the Irem shore, staring at the great scarred figure clomping on deck. He had not been able to tell the fear from the revulsion from the confusion in their eyes, and for a while they had stood at a stalemate, one lone figure, half-naked, ranged against the crew, stood so as to block his entrance to the bowels of the ship. And then, "...Captain?" The business of casting off and avoiding (and finally, answering) the questions of the crew had taken a while, but now here the Sailor sits, the dark expanse of the zee stretching out in front of him and the Reck. The breeze is invigorating, the noises of busywork and the whisper of water comforting after the unfamiliar noises of Irem. He is just about to head to his cabin - and his wardrobe - when the someone sits down next to him. The Waterlogged Mechanic rarely comes above deck, let alone to the highest points of the ship, but it is her who squelches gently down beside him. "Glad you made it back." She turns her head, and a stray drip falls from her hair onto the Sailor's arm. It's cold. "You hear stories, this far East, about those who come out all this way and never come back." He angles his body, unwilling to bare to anyone too much of his skin. "Hadta come back. Got a ship to run." Somewhere in the darkness a zee-bat screeches. "Speaking of, isn't the engine falling apart without you? Gotta keep this thing-" he looks around at the gently decaying metal "-shipshape." She stands, putting out a hand. "Right you are, Captain." Her grin reveals a set of teeth that are half brown and half missing. "You better get back to it too." She pulls him to his feet, her skin cold and slimy to his dry and scar-roughed palm. There is something in her eyes that he does not recognise, and that he will not recognise until he is halfway to his cabin in search of a new overcoat. The realisation stops him, and he promptly changes course, away from his cabin and towards the rooms of the rest of the party, arms and chest still bare. Drownie eyes are hard to read, but there had been respect there, and maybe even a hint of affection. edited by Barselaar on 11/1/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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ForScience Posts: 69 11/1/2016	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. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 10/29/2016	Suinicide is-back in the snow. The roof over Irem will bleed time as she treks through the dead and dying minutes. Her scars will ache, the time below stained red. Time is returning and something must break. It must be her. She has looked to the east, to the deconstruction. Where the dawn itself bleeds and crosses the horizon. Where the zee melts up into the sky. Where she (I) will empty herself of secrets, and Salt’s song shall fill her bones. Something must devour kings. A power, a queen. A goddess beautified by sacrifice. But not yet. There is still work to be done. There is still kindness to prove and candles to gather. There are still obstacles (One less) and people to teach. They will learn of the forbidden secrets, they will learn of Salt and Mr. Eaten. Of wells, betrayals, and laws. Of what is-and what is forgotten. Suinicide will returned to the reck. She is climbing back onto the ship, and has returned to her room. The holes in the wall are still there, showing the fear she once had. She drops the knife below them. She will not die here. There is no fear. Not now. And she waits in her room. Waits for the reck to move. To take her back to London. The secrets are gone. She stares out her window at the empty zee. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/30/2016	The Mirthless Colonist was at his most mirthless. He realized he'd need to reclaim his soul sometime soon, it'd been almost three eons now, while at the same time it was a mere three hours. That was quite foolish, surrendering it so easily, it was a flight of fancy that made him feel young and passionate again. It seemed like the poetic thing to do, and no one said poets had to be wise. The Reckoning Postponed bobbed and churned on slick waves. Strange, the pearls in his hand didn't seem as promising and inviting as they once were. The box filled with light in the corner seemed duller than before. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe he shouldn't have done everything he'd done. He rolled the moon-pearls across the corner-table, watched them bounce against eachother with satisfying clacks. There were seven, the irrigo one, he'd almost forgotten- Vaustus, that wretch, had helped him. And the cosmogone one- it was beautiful, it made him weep, it made him recall Barselaar. But now, a third one shone in a strange colour, the one only a zailor -perhaps a zubmariner- would be familiar with; "P drowns in PELIGIN, the colour of the deepest zee." He could hear that crook Sketch whisper and abruptly jerked his head up. Was he gone, or did something of him remain? The moon-pearl beamed slowly, as if intoning the answer. edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 10/30/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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A Dimness Posts: 613 11/1/2016	The monotone dripping of water in a rust-caked corridor. There was a lot on his mind, and the simplicity and constancy of the drip, drip, drip helped him work it through. The Gypsy Queen was lit in his hand, it was somewhat of a hassle to take drags from it, but it seemed the fitting thing to do to, to remember Sketch by. Staring at the water was calming, brought the image that even though everything else in the Neath was skewed and crooked, this sole ceiling here would always be dripping, regardless of everything else. The Mirthless Colonist was shook from his reverie by the groaning of metal- the ship was, once again, in motion. Clank, clank, clank, went his mirror-polished shoes on the unkempt iron floor, was his tread lighter? He couldn't tell. Ahead was the office of his captain- well, the captain of this ship, anyways. Drake was in conversation with Florence and an unfamiliar face that shared his complexion. No matter, they could wait. "Dynamo," two jerked their head and stared at him, "Captain Dynamo", he quickly corrected himself. Drake lifted himself from his chair, and followed the Colonist to the hallway, eyebrow raised. If he was annoyed by his interruption, Drake didn't show it. "Well? Don't make me wait." he said. The Mirthless Colonist threw his cigar on the ground, tamped it down with the point of his shoe, breathed a column of smoke in Dynamo's face. "There's a lot going on. Did I show you my jewellery yet?" He held up the back of his hand to Drake, glowing pearls sat between his fingers. "You know how the book goes, right? I is for IRRIGO, C shines COSMOGONE, P lights PELIGIN..." The Mirthless Colonist inhaled deeply, exhaled, inhaled again, and continued. "Stone showed me, back near the wound. You're all cursed, or blessed. Something like that, anyways. Don't worry, I'm not honey-mazed, not right now anyways. Can you show me a colour, any colour, but rather the one that feels most natural to you." He pushed a pearl into Drake's palm and closed his fingers over it. "Don't dissapoint." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 11/1/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 10/8/2016	The Deranged Solicitor trembles before the empty glass. They consider retreat at the bottle. The Solicitor gives in to hopelessness at the filled glass. “I doubt suicide is quite a fitting word for… this.” Perhaps in hope to stave off consumption, they attempt to spin one of their stories. Attempt to construct a sentence, really. It proves an unbecoming challenge. “Well… I suppose… no turning back…” They grip the grimy cup with a hand. Then they retract it sharply. It takes ten minutes for them to lift them to their desert-tongued mouth. A gulp. Another. ... Silvered words spill from their lips. The Solicitor revels in their regained freedom. The port’s presence in their vicinity is, reasonably, downplayed. They speak of small lights in the night. Flashes of luminous delight. The impossible sights they were witness to. A secret is shared. Perhaps it was in thanks, perhaps it was in carelessness. Most likely it was both. ... They will be there, at last. Impossible winds will wind through their hair and faraway pathways will open to them in dawn. They will arrive a stranger, but they will be a native here. They will step on wood and blood, pass through a great many busied forms, descend upon stone and rose, and pass again, between familiarly unfamiliar figures. This will be Irem. They will be there. edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 10/8/2016 -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 10/8/2016	In an instant, the world seems to shift, to fall apart in a shower of blood and water and reform itself. Drake has fallen into the hungry waters of the Unterzee. Sketch, shot, lying on the ground in a rapidly forming pool of blood just like the one in your room, remember- There's no time to waste. A rope lies conveniently nearby. Reasonable enough, them being on the deck of a ship and all. Florence grabs one of its salt-encrusted coils, its rough fibers biting eagerly into her hands. One end is tossed below, to Drake. It may not be enough to pull him back up. But it could keep him out of the water for long enough for a raft to be lowered down. Down below, a few meters and a world away, Drake fumbles for the rope as tides lash against the hull, beating mercilessly at him. A tug on the rope! Florence plants her feet firmly against the deck, braces herself against the railing and pulls with all her might. A nearby sailor drops a bucket of something and hoists the rope, his strength easily outmatching Florence's. A scent registers in the back of her mind. Sandalwood and blood. Familiar. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/8/2016	"We don't have a moment!" the Mirthless Colonist's voice rips through the air, surprisingly loud for the usually softspoken man. He pulls out his derringer, as if to add authority to his commands. "Someone fetch him his b____y cider so we can get it on with!" His bandages glint with soft sunnish-light, like fire burning behind dimmed glass. He turns to his clay companion. "Tuff, you are to restrain sir Dynamo, and anyone else for that matter, if and when he decides to slice up the next person, er- drownie. Whomever!" The Colonist reaches for a bottle of Black Wings Absinthe in his overcoat. "And please", he adds, "Will someone tell me what the hell has been going on in my absence!?" edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 10/8/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 10/8/2016	The ticking scientist blinks, rather stunned by the whole affair. "I don't, what? Why did Drake just. Oh sod it I'm not drunk enough for this to make sense. I was resting in my cabin until we were all brought out here, and apparently there was an attempted murder?" He notices a small slime zipping below deck. Perhaps the one that brought him aboard? What on earth is that still doing here? "I'll uh, go look for the cider." He states, running after it. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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suinicide Posts: 2409 10/3/2016	There’s death, and then there’s death by water. Beyond that there are drownies. "Suinicide, you should probably find and interrogate any drownies you find. I wouldn't put them above suspicion." Hearing those words, the red shirted drownie left the room. Suinicide nodded at Drake, giving a sarcastic gesture that was somewhat reminiscent of a salute as she left the room, chasing the fleeing drownie. At last, something to focus on. She could feel the past voices growing weaker with every step. And each step was faster than the last. But the red shirted drownie stayed ahead of her. Ducking up and down stairs, running towards the back of the boat. He took two steps for every one of hers, slowly pulling ahead, down one final staircase. She tripped down the stairs after him. She didn’t recognize the room they ended up in. Imprisoned fire fought against bars of steel. Not fueling anything, simply burning. Consuming. Lining every wall. The drownie stood at the opposite wall, perfectly illuminated. At her first step, the flames nearest the door were extinguished. She sped across the room and grabbed the drownie by his shirt. The shirt crumbled at her touch. Suinicide dropped her hand and stepped back, wiping the remains off. The drownie’s grey skin blended nearly perfectly against the dull metal behind him. Cuts sliced their way up his arm, biting deep into the grey below the skin, showing flashes of yellowed bone. A crescent hole in his foot, showing nothing but emptiness a miracle he could still run. He smiled at her through cracked eyes and another row of flames disappeared. “You went too deep.” His voice strained at a low baritone. “This ship was invited into our realm. With our rules. Dry skins shouldn’t be here. Not this part.” Steam spiraled off an arm that ventured too close to the flame, and he yanked it back. “You seem drier than most drownies,” Suinicide said, taking a step forward, “So what separates us, oh dry skin?” The room grew darker. “We were weak.” The red shirted drownie smiled sadly. “We were too weak, and too hungry. Eat of the greater, and it will eat of you. It wears us like old coats, using us depending on its mood. It echoes and screams through the dark of the zee, and we cannot resist.” Suinicide opened her mouth, and nothing came out. “We know what you cannot. Trapped in your little cage, unable to visit the surface. But we, we know the sky. We know the flesh of the earth. We know the tears of the sun, the salty brine of the sea.” The drownie leaned closer to her. “We know things you will never see.” His shadow lengthened in the nearly blackened room. Darker than the shadows. He spread his arms out wide, engulfing the last row of prisoners. There were screams of illumination, and then silence. Not-light flickered through the room. “Comparing us is like comparing an ant to the ocean. Even in this dry body, we are beyond you.” Water pooled up to her ankles, slithering and alive. Rising rapidly. “No, you are not.” Suinicide spat the words out through gritted teeth. Ignoring the water. Ignoring the magnitude of whatever was in front of her. “I will see the stars. I will travel beyond you. And when you are nothing more than a grain of sand in an ocean, I want you to think of me, overhead and looming. Better than you.” The only answer was a soft laughter. The water stretched over her head, cutting off even that. Her lungs burned. She burned. Silence. Darkness. Not-light. Not-sound. A goddess strolls the deck of the ship. A strolling chase after a pitiful creature, leading her across thrashing waves and the spray of the zee. A vengeful goddess stands on a boat, screaming into the shrieking wind and booming thunder. She hoists herself (A drownie) A scepter above her head. (He squirms, fighting for his freedom. She tightens her grips, fingers breaking through his soft skin.) She was invincible. (The crowd of drownies starts a sarcastic clap) She will suffer. (She will wear wings of sound and find freedom) She will make the angels see her. She will- -the boat tipped, almost knocking Suinicide over the edge. She dropped the red shirted drownie, who landed in the water below. There was no blood, just a trail of bubbles to mark him as the reck sailed past. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/6/2016	(OOC) Impressive, Barselaar. Very much so. He wouldn't call it 'beauty', exactly. But Barselaar seemed to have fragmented something within him- maybe the long years had finally caught up with him, down in this damp piece of rust. He didn't even notice he'd sunk to his knees, and it didn't matter that much to him, anyways. Back in his quarters, tear-stained bandages uncoil. A lit candle, hours of frantic work, more tears. Small sacrifices- There's another step to be taken, another wound to be made. The polythremic weave quivers in his hands- the candle-light scorches, but hurts not. He sees them in his mind, still. The colours Barselaar saw, the endless beauty. The sun- Ruined! A true artist may have succeeded, but the Mirthless Colonist's hands aren't what they once were. There are too many details, too many coalescing shades, and the fire wasn't hot enough. His own memory of the sky above was long gone, too. Hundreds of years ago, maybe, he coud've done it. The bandages pulsate slowly, having finally given in to the flames. But where they seem to have burnt to a crisp, truly only a layer of ash crusts them. Wipe it away- here, they glow faintly with light. It is not entirely that of the sun, but maybe that's the point. ... Tuff stares ahead stoically, he was ordered not to intrude, and he wasn't the type to disregard orders. He was concerned, however. He was meant for London, that's all he knew and all that mattered, and he wasn't there yet. The cities they moored at didn't seem right- the last one left him shaken and with a heavy headache. Things weren't supposed to feel that uncertain. Then it'd occured to him- what if they were already past London. What if his employer didn't intend to deliver him at all? This wasn't satisfactory to any degree whatsoever. Maybe it was about time to venture out and demand some answers. After all, he was only ordered no to disturb- not to wait in front of the door. Through long hallways he wound, the metal felt nothing like the stone of Polythreme, and nothing returned his polite greetings. Eventually, however, he met a figure lurking around a hallway. Tuff wasn't in a patient mood, and forcefully grabbed the shade by its shoulder. "YOU. SPEAK WITH ME. WHERE ARE WE? WHERE ARE WE GOING?" Sketch stared back with dull surprise. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 9/16/2016	A thick smell of hopes, meticulously grown from a single word, clings to the stranger. Their face lights up as they face the leader of this expedition. "Ah. Drake, yes. I remember your tale. Delightful little tale of terror. But I digress. The Queen's Blood. I wish to drink of it, dear sir, and by your presence here I know that you have it. And I oh-so need it. Cats, you understand. Fountains of knowledge, but frustrating companions." They sigh at the thought, letting a thousand maggots from within their cavity roam the waking world. They, too, turn to face the leader of the expedition, taking a break of the, currently evening-shaded, jungle that they find themselves in. A pair of vitreous eyes track the Dynamo's movements with a slight smirk, still as a statue, serene as a portrait, and unrepresentative of the other side as any reflection below the Surface. -- 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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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 9/10/2016	DAY 7 Malice drifts on the shore of dreams, washed and rolled about by the moon-driven tide. The humid jungle stretches before him, mirror-frames thrusting from the undergrowth. Feline predators pad silently among the trees. (“Can you hear me, Malice? Jim?”) “Back again, are you?” a sardonic voice drawls from the crook of a tree. Draped there is a leopard with a lazy smile exposing its sharp teeth. She reminds him of a tortoiseshell cat he once saw in an elderly dowager’s mansion back in London. Malice finds strength in his arms, pushes his face up from where his cheek lies on the rough sand. His head starts throbbing when he stands up and he clutches it miserably. “Go away,” he says. The leopard affects a look of shock. “Well now, my dear, I was only trying to help. If you are determined to be rude, then I shall take my leave.” She hops down from the tree and vanishes into the foliage. (Malice stumbles along under Drake’s guidance, eyes glazed, unresponsive. He is far, far gone.) The noble surveys the jungle around him. Mirrors glint, windows into strange places. Some are familiar views of London; many are scenes of fire and torment. Too close to Hell. Now, without any hint of transition, he is mired in the marshes. Ghostly lights flicker above the muddy surface. Insects weave lazily among the reeds. Here is the place his mind slipped to, the ruined Mayan shrine adrift in dream-currents. The steps to the ziggurat drip with melted wax from thousands of candles lining the path. There is the altar at the summit, bathed in flickering orange light. There is the candle stand. Six holders for six candles. Why are there only six? The third and sixth holders are empty. The other candles sit demurely, unlit and expectant. Arthur, black as pitch. Beau, green as envy. Destin, no candle at all. Erzulie, a certain red. The altar is spattered with blood. Whose blood? Take one guess, he thinks bitterly. “Nice of you to drop in,” hisses a sibilant voice. (“‘ware serpents,” mutters the discombobulated lord under his breath) The snake is coiled around the branches of a dead tree in the corner of the cavernous shrine. Its black eyes stare flatly at him. When Malice was young, he read a book of Bible stories with fine copperplate illustrations. This serpent is the very image of the one that tempted Adam to eat the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. The Garden! Malice’s hand leaps to the golden apple Dilmun Club badge on his lapel. It’s surely too good to be true, but that snake is coiled exactly how it appeared in the book. Maybe it’s just plundering his memories. Fingerkings do that sometimes. “This place is the spitting image of the temple where the Drowned Man met the knives,” says the serpent, “but the décor is yours. Have you been making yourself at home, lordling? Pursuing a foolish end? I liked Candles. He was a good friend to us, at least as far as an echo-hunter can be. No good will come of this, but I’m sure you’ve ignored enough advice from the well-meaning by now.” Malice grunts noncommittally. “I know what it is you seek. Not the Name; that’s a distraction, a game for the man who wants to know everything, although I really think you have it in you to succeed just for the hell of it. What you really seek is what you played the Marvellous for. Your heart’s desire. In your world the past is gone and done and dead. We’re not so restricted here in Parabola.” The snake leans forward, whispers in his ear. Its forked tongue flickers ticklishly as it croons “I can help you get it, lordling. For a price.” Malice finds himself on his knees, begging before the smirking snake. “Anything. Please.” The price is unpaid. But when the time comes, it will be exacted. For now, he is left unharmed. The Fingerking – a tendril of knowledge creeps into his head and he realises its name is Apophis - will accompany him to the Real, as a spectator for now. ‘ware serpents. The rest is unwritten. Malice awakes with a start in a bed that isn’t his. A medicinal smell fills the air, and the walls are whitewashed. The floor rocks gently and a porthole shows a maddening view of the Iron Republic. This must be the Reck’s infirmary. So he made it out alive, then. There is a mirror on the wall. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t – He looks. His head is bandaged – must have hit it on the stairs – but he seems otherwise unchanged. No, there it is – a flash of green in the eyes. The Fingerking gazes evenly back at him and his reflection moves independently, pressing its finger to its lips. Malice collapses back onto the bed with a groan. What has he done? edited by JimmyTMalice on 9/25/2016 -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 9/10/2016	It takes no additional persuading to get Florence to flee. As she does, her reflection mocks her. It has no scar. Its eyes are lost in shadow, too. Perhaps it does not have any. Perhaps she does not have any, either. The thought does not feel completely foreign when she considers it. As soon as they're outside, she takes a deep breath. Her heart still races, and it threatens to beat itself out of her chest, make a quick and daring escape, and go settle down and start a family. That would be a shame, since if it vacated its current position, she would most likely die forever. In the corner of her vision, an odd little sign reads, 'Nightmares is increasing....' When she looks directly at it, the sign disappears. Probably nothing worth worrying about. With a weary smile, Florence addresses Drake. "Only a few hours. I got here, won a firearm off of some poor soul who wouldn't have been out of place at the Royal Bethlehem, if you know what I mean, and spotted Lord Malice here absconding with that Deviless. He seemed in a precarious situation, so I decided to follow in case my assistance would be required- and isn't it lucky that I did!" Not for the poor One-Eyed Zailor. And that isn't the only reason why she trailed the two of them. She wanted to know what kind of business Malice was conducting, wanted a hint as to why Drake felt the need to warn her about him. "He doesn't look well, though. Not in the slightest. Perhaps we should get him back to the Reck." -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/31/2016	Sketch raises his eyebrows, caught off guard. "Well, then," he says, filling up his glass once again, "My name's Charlie." He drains the glass. He pauses, looking around at the expectant eyes surrounding him. The dandy chuckles, shrugs, and continues, "I don't know. Rather vague, isn't it? I'm English. London raised. Never married. Parents were very bohemian - father was a lawyer, but my mother knocked that right out of him. Went to Eton, then Oxford. Loved a girl, then a boy, then a man, then the girl again, til I realized she'd never become woman and never would." Sketch fills up his glass again. He's starting to feel a pleasant heat in his stomach, a wonderful airiness in his head. He looks up from the rim of the glass as he's draining it, and laughs once again at the crowd still waiting for him to go on. After a moment, he realizes they're quite serious. The rake sighs and leans back in his chair. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair and trying to think of something. "Something personal," he mutters. The dandy downs another glass of whisky. He pauses. A sad smile slips onto his handsome features, a generic, and therefore expertly known, expression the socialite has seen and copied countless times from innumerable melancholy poets of Veilgarden. "Edward," he sighs, reaching over and filling his glass once more for good effect, "Edward's a darling secret." Edward's delicious. Edward's a toy. Edward's wishes in their pretty little head their lover has no intention of making come true. "Some of you have probably heard of them," Sketch says, lifting a foot up to rest on the side of the table in an oddly swashbuckling gesture for a man of such refine, "They're more famous than I am, anymore. In certain circles, anyway. Edward always says they like keeping themselves a secret, though. Their identity, their face, their location, their gender. I remember one rather graceful quote of theirs was, 'I'm your secret, Charlie, for only you to know. A secret is yours, and you are a secret's, linked together forever. So I don't want you sharing me with anybody, because I'm certainly never sharing you.' But, of course, a face that pretty can't help but be at least somewhat renowned. So, yes, I'm sure some of you have heard the name." Sketch pauses, glass of treesap hovering below his chin. "They're beautiful." They're sexy. "They love me." They're sappy. "They're all I could ask for." They're a trophy. "And I'm running away from them." They'll never be the Faroe Boy. "I've no idea why," the rake says quietly, and tips his head back again, resting the rim of the glass against his thin lip til its amber contents are gone once again. He sets the empty drink down. Another pause, cigarette burning quietly and unnoticed. The dandy looks up, putting on a purposefully forced-looking smile he's seen on many a widow, and says, "So, that's why I'm out here. Running away - the scared groom." He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling like a famous actor. "My friend in Frostfound will know what to do," he says, nodding to himself for everyone else, "Surely. Surely." The rake reclines into his chair, eyes staring somewhere far-off. Probably the same place the veteran from whom he stole the gaze was staring. Sketch will stay this way, collapsed back in his chair, the picture of gloomy reflection, til enough stories have been told that he can reenter the conversation as jovially as ever without it seeming suspicious. Then he will resume getting drunk, helping himself to another serving of steak, talking cheerfully to the rest of the crew, and later making love to that pretty zailor with the pony tail. Or perhaps one of the crew. The rake stops himself short of bursting out laughing at the thought of some of the crew without their knickers on, still playing the picture of Veilgarden's melancholy poets. What a wonderful dinner. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 9/4/2016	Suinicide whipped her head around to look at the speaker, as if she hadn’t seen him before. “I’d be in trouble if he ever got off, naturally, which is why I chose such a remote island. Ships don’t go there, at least not on purpose, and if they do land they would likely be in just as much trouble as him. With the tales I’ve heard, I was hesitant to even get within swimming distance to it, as something may have forced me to land.” “Not everyone realized the sheer number of tomb colonies, and how different they can be. The tomb colonists themselves are partially to blame for that, I suppose. They hide the worse, the more dangerous islands away from Londoners and other groups. Those islands are old. Whatever lurks there may be beyond human.” She takes a deep breath, then continues, “I doubt the man deserved whatever fate met him on the islands, but I cannot argue with the result. In any case, the disfigurement I gave him was insurance, in the event he got off the island. One, it would make any story he spouted less believable. London has its share of delusional people, and someone who looks nothing like the person they’re claiming to be will not be taken seriously. It’s unlikely to stop Orthos, if the man meets him, but it will at least cause a delay. Two, it increases the chances of him generating rumors when he comes back, giving me more time to prepare or run. And three, after disfiguring him to such an extent, and abandoning him on the most horrible place he has been, there’s always the chance he would come for revenge instead of meeting with Orthos.” “But I trusted the island. Or rather, I trusted it to be as horrible as I had heard, with shifting monsters of black glass and time. Plants of obsidian, and the animals that ate them. The words they used to describe the surviving colonists, I will not repeat. And I trusted myself not get in any danger. The latter was a rather worse idea, but it was all I had.” She turns back to the party. “Some of you may be wondering why I didn’t kill the man. Well, he hadn’t done anything to me for one. Not for lack of trying, and certainly not the best reason I have. Beyond that there’s drownies to worry about. I am not familiar with the drownie king, how it operates, or the limits of its power, and I was not going to take the chance of the man returning to London as a drownie, spilling his tale to everyone who would listen, and slipping beneath the waves when I confront him. If I killed him on board, well, I’d be stuck with a body on board, that would have to sail back to London, through Orthos’ fleets, to safely get rid of it. So I had to dump him, somewhere he would never return from.” ((OOC: Thanks for the question!) -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 9/10/2016	The Mirthless Colonist had been inconspicuously absent since the departure from Adam's Way, locked away in his cabin, his stoic Clay Man going out whenever he needed something. When the Reck finally reached Republic Waters, he was the first to arrive on-deck to marvel at the undoing of laws. That was... yesterday? He didn't quite recall. Some time will pass, and then yesterday had started, then there was some business with devils, now he was drinking tea with himself. He didn't look like himself, his bandages were inscribed with burning sigils, his eye glowed bright as the sun. 'Gifts from the Bazaar.' he brushed them off as. He presented himself with a seven-pearled bangle. The pearls were lightless, colourless, hazy, and transparent. "Moon pearls" he whispered to himself. Then he noticed a similar bangle on his neck. This one, however, was pulsing in strange colours. "This is the part that Stone didn't tell you about. It took me an eternity to gather them, and then to gather them again. Maybe if I give them to you, here, I won't suffer through as much as I did." He took a breath from the hookah, then rose from his cushioned seat. "I must go now, we'll meet again someday. The pearls will guide the way." As he pondered whether the rhyming was on purpose or not, he walked off into the Iron Republic streets. He closed his fist over the bangle in his hand. He'd go back to the Reck now, but there was no garauntee it'd be there when he got back. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 9/10/2016	A twain voice adds to the many-faceted texture of the street a tinge of complexity, of challenging choices. Of riddles. A voice asks an old Iremi riddle, and the voice hisses an answer. The voice disagrees with the it, and answers it's own question. 'Time' "It is the same answer as the first one." It rumbles. "It is most different," It responds "The cause is simple, direct, but always true, unlike what you propose. This is why they rule as they do in Irem." The voice is not satisfied. "The riddle is not true. I will know of a place with no time, filled with wounded kings and burnt towns." "And seek to leave it. To come to me." "And why would this matter? I am only here when I am here. And I, too, wish to be free." "Because I couldn't be elsewhere, couldn't not come to me. Not if you made the step." "And I will make it." "But do not have to, Amets." "Your rhetoric will change nothing, Alban." A silenced voice adds to the many-faceted texture of the street a tinge of finality, of challenging choices, decided. Of endlessly cracked ice... And a confused individual stepping upon the wreckage of debate, mirror in tow. They see a familiar and, most importantly, mostly non-infernal face. "Barselaar, yes? I believe we have met before, in a less... precarious position." They gaze away in shame. "I have lost track of my location, which may well spell death in this land." The great solicitor, researcher of the Republic, lost their wits in one of it's streets. How shameful. "And it is usually good practice to have a partner here, don't you find?" -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 9/29/2016	Drake! If there's anyone on this ship that Florence actually trusts, it's Drake. She practically falls onto the bed before straightening herself up. A glass of Cider is pressed into her trembling hand. Though she's hardly had time to notice, it did do its job last time. Her hands have been completely healed. Fixing the gash on her forehead, though, may not be as easy. Will it scar? No point in guessing now. She drains the glass and nods gratefully at Drake. Now that she's drinking it by itself, she realizes that it tastes absolutely wonderful. It soothes the pain, clears her head. No wonder this stuff is so expensive. "Thank you. Thank you so much. Someone... someone attacked me." Here she took a deep breath to steady herself. "Woke me up by slashing at my head. I tried to hit them with a candlestick, but I'm not sure whether they were hurt. Then they tried to strangle me, and would have succeeded if they kept at it. But instead they fled, and I'm still alive...." The words feel foreign to her. Already, the events of a few minutes ago feel faraway and indistinct. The idea of somebody trying to kill her is absurd. She isn't rich, her work is not especially controversial, and her enemies are not the type to send an assassin after her. But she cannot deny what just happened. Her bloodied forehead is a testament to it. "They left a knife behind. I think they were wearing gloves, though, and I doubt there's a fingerprinting kit onboard anyway. I couldn't get a good look at their face. But I- I saw their eyes. And their smile...." That wasn't the smile of a human. It was the smile of something without the logic and reason that separated people and animals. It was the smile of something whose only instinct was to kill. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 10/1/2016	Suinicide looked out her window. The dying secrets of the Iron Republic had long since faded into time, and yet they floated just out of reach. The dying fakes looked at her, and they were disgusted. They wanted nothing to do with someone like her, and mocked her where she could not reach. Someone that would- She shook her head. She had been locked her room for far too long. The burning knowledge faded away, dissolving back into the currents of time. She had to get out. Unlock the room and let everything flow freely. She looked at the door and sighed in exasperation. That was not a good idea. The door was imprisoned behind bolts of wood, stolen from the ever generous Drake. She had been worried someone would take issue with her little speech, and had taken precautions. It seems they were unnecessary. She glance down at the knife hidden in her bandages, now stained with her blood. She’ll keep that one. But the rest had to go. She glanced back at the door. On closer inspection, evidence of her sloppy workmanship jumped out. Nails were crooked and bent, on top of beaten boards. Dents in the walls and the boards. One board in particular wasn’t even attached to anything. Just hammered into paper thinness and hooked between two useful pieces. She pulled that one out. It was a start. Ten minutes later the boards were scattered about at her feet, and the wall around the door looked like a rattus faber target range. But she was free. She closed the door behind her and walked up to the decks. Surprisingly, the ship was running smoothly. Bloated crew members rushed around, attending to the ship, leaving nothing but wet footsteps in their wake. These ones did not seem in the mood for conversation. (-Burning your secrets-yourself) Suinicide whipped around at the voice, jumping away from the nearest drownie. His eyes were almost hidden beneath his bloated face, water spewing from his mouth as he tried to say something. They stared at each other for a too long moment. Then she took a step back. He wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be on this ship. All the same, she fled back below decks, leaving a bemused drownie behind. (Do you see it? The well gapes. It sings for the angels) Her own voice echoed down to her. And her footsteps slowed. He wasn’t here. This was something, something from the Iron Republic. Being unbound from time had done something. An unexpected side-effect. And not something she wanted to re-live. Perhaps something could be done about that. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 10/1/2016	The Solicitor hangs on the rail, top hat only centimeters away from descending into the zee. The zee... It recalls memories of an ancient friendship, and a longing for all the cold places. They know all about the zee, now. But all is so astoundingly little. So absolutely minuscule. Unforeseen questions creep into their mind. The simple ones, of salinity and depth and other trifles few would care about. The complex ones, of lives and meanings and the Sun. The Deranged Solicitor blinks. Blinks into the darkness beneath their eyes. The faraway gilded gleam of a long-lost Sun. A forlorn gaze upon the Zee. Perhaps there was no vintage relationship between the them and the Zee after all. Perhaps it is all an unpleasant effect of the Republic. All of this is best left forgotten in one of their thicker journals. With that thought, the Solicitor descends into the maze of corridors of what once was the Dream-Weaver, looking for the pleasure of the cabin that is, purportedly, theirs, a warm fire and some refractory counsel. There might even be charades. -- 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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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/1/2016	"Appears to be quite a crowd." Heads turn towards the noise. The dandy stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. In his hand rests a glass of amber, dark contents twinkling in the room's dancing candlelight. The rake's brow furrows at the sight of Florence, who sits on the bed next to Dynamo, the expedition leader patting delicately at the wide gash along her brow with a wet towel. A collar necklace of deep violet imprints of fingers wraps around her throat. "I see. Looks like the plot is quickly thickening," the dandy says, frowning as he takes a sip of his glass, "That cut looks rather nasty. I was a doctor, back on the Surface, you know - I could stitch it up for you, if you'd like. I've a medical kit in my cabin." -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 10/1/2016	The dandy smirks, raising a stiff hand to his forehead and saluting. "Understood, cap'n," he responds gaily, "You can trust me to wrench the answers out of them." The dandy drains his drink, placing it down on the dresser. "Get well, Ms. Garrison," he says, "Try tea if pain persists. Cures anything." He smiles, a certain Sir Robert Harrison suddenly wondering why he feels movement in his cheeks when his expression is calm, and leaves. - "Wandering, are we?" The Deranged Solicitor turns, quiet of the Reck halls suddenly disrupted. The dandy grins, striking a cocky stance about two dozen feet from the story-collector as he stands, hands in his pockets, in a casual, backward-leaning pose. "I'm Sketch," the dandy introduces, "Funny name, I know. You happen to have a better one?" -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 9/25/2016	A moment of freedom. Some may use it for leisure. I will use it for my frigid work. The many ices of Frostfound. Sheets from Venderbight. Hyperborean colds. Lacre and sphinxstone. I find myself humming songs I do not know or remember. And names. Dates. Places and phrases. A secretary I did not have before informs me that my info is stale. No more! I will take less puzzling of my maps and the ocular tools and disappear into the wide Unt- They stare into the floor of a familiar street. There is a texture of fearful nostalgia, of feelings that might be their own. Of ice crunching underfoot. The Solicitor parts the halls of burning shades, buttered bazaars and hungering harbours, their breath dragon-huffing. They are done with this place. They have been, for quite a while. -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 9/19/2016	After the bakery incident, Florence has had quite enough of the Iron Republic. Returning to the Reck, where time moves in a straight line instead of a confusing tangle, seems like a dream come true. As she boards, though, a wave of nausea courses through her. When she grips at the stairway's rail to steady herself, she notices her gloves. Or what's left of them. They've been singed in some places, burned through in others. Her hands seem to have remained mostly unscathed; still, her eyes widen in what she would be ashamed to call a brief flash of panic. Does Fate itself conspire to see her burned to death? She seems to come close on an alarming basis. Feeling as sorry for herself as humanly (or otherwise) possibly, she makes her way to the infirmary. The numbing effects of adrenaline are wearing off by now. She had never burned her hands before, somehow, even though her face is dappled with scars. The ship's doctor really is wonderful, though, and they didn't even seem to mind Florence's manic babble about proper burn treatments. It took her mind off her burns, though they really weren't much to worry about anyway. Barely first-degree burns. Most wouldn't have even bothered with a visit to the infirmary for such a minor injury. The doctor's work seemed to set her at ease, and they watch her flit about the infirmary inspecting medical equipment with a sort of bemused endearment. Presently, she comes to Malice's bedside. He's asleep, though he looks far from peaceful. The various substances by his bedside are interesting, though. An empty vial bearing the traces of what would seem to be cider- the Cider, she realizes with a jolt. And blood, old and clotted, with a stench like having a knife jammed up her nostril. She eyes them warily. It'll be her turn, soon. For now, she's content with a moment's relaxation in her cabin. A quick snack. A perusal of the library, including some books that could certainly get her arrested just for reading the titles. Later, Florence knows that she'll have to face whatever the Blood brings her. Surely, she is entitled to a few hours' rest. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Barse Posts: 706 9/19/2016	The Waterlogged Mechanic is quite content in the bowels of the Reckoning Postponed. The steam jets and periodical boiler irruptions are almost as familiar to her now as the ink and pull of the unterzee tides used to be. Even in port she dismantles and tinkers with the tarnished steam engines and barnacled machinery of the ship, always finding new things to be fixed, old things that are still broken. The Reck is not an easy place to be a mechanic. She had found it by chance as she fled Dahut, a sunken hulk slightly too far North for comfort. The zee had taken its toll on its insides. Levers were rusted stiff, doors buckled shut, gears and valves covered in the various secretions of the zee-things that a charitable individual might call flora and fauna. It had seemed as good a place as any to stay for a while whilst things cooled down among her kin - mostly the followers of the Fathomking do not take kindly to non-believers. When the Scorched Sailor had come back to dredge up his old vessel, she’d simply asked to stay, at home in its halls and holds, with their peeling wallpaper and mildewed ceilings and remnants of long-past hedonism. She’d helped to put the place back together, after many Wolfstack stevedores had refused to even approach for fear the almost-wreck was haunted. Neither the destination of the Reck nor its passengers interest her - as long as she can live amongst the damp and the gently chugging metal, then things are fine. The proximity to the zee down here in the deeps comforted her, and the machinery - constantly on the brink of collapse - makes for meditative work. The Reck would surely fall apart without her tireless efforts. Somewhere above, the Scorched Sailor sits in his cabin, gently peeling off an as-yet intact strip of faded and stained wallpaper with a fingernail. The vagaries of the Iron Republic had still not quite worn off - he keeps checking his reflection in the porthole, and is not quite sure why he is relieved rather than revulsed when he sees his face - and elsewhere in the ship and the port at large his shipmates are experiencing similar strangnesses, he is sure. At this moment in time, however, more practical thoughts occupy him. He considers his crew apart from the expedition party. Numbers were dwindling worryingly - the Mirthless Colonist’s stunt at Adam’s Way had lost him a fair few crew-members, and labelled far more as untrustworthy mercenaries. The One-Eyed Zailor had been a respectable zeeman, but he is gone now too. Some have taken off into the Iron Republic smog, and he highly doubts they will return. The Reck, huge, dark and largely empty as it is, needs few crew-members to man it, but even so manpower is beginning to be stretched thin, and the Sailor would prefer not to have to ask the expedition party to pitch in if he can help it. Coming to a decision, he pushes himself out of his chair and heads downwards to the cavernous engine room. He has a favour to ask. A long, thin strip of wallpaper hangs free from the wall in the cabin behind him. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 9/10/2016	"One cannot wander in this place forever. One is either brought back to where they've started, or not brought back at all." A grim chuckle at the possibility of never returning to London or to Irem. "And the Republic can, in rare situations, shift to fit us instead, building it's landscape after our will. But I digress." The group accompanies burning shadows, which leave scorch marks upon the walls with their dim edges. A devil of particularly short stature that smells of serene nostalgia shouts an insincere obscenity consisting of several colours, a child's boundless curiosity and a formula for a man's death. "I'd prefer to find myself at the docks, or whatever may act for it nowadays... nowaweeks? The one with 60 other units of time in it. Yes, I'd like to find myself at the docks by the end of this journey." The marketplace they now find themselves in is filled with novel items, floating in thick, buttery air. "I'm looking into joining Drake's expedition, you know. Quite the talk among zailors, that one." They pause, remembering reports from travellers upon zee-clippers sharing stale gossip about it in a devilish bar near the docks. None of them had anything to back up their claims that it crashed before even reaching Adam's Way. "Couldn't enter it earlier, due to my... strained relationship with the four-legged population of the Elder Continent." The Solicitor turns to face their recent companion, face verdant with unexpected carnation. "What has brought you here, Barselaar? You do not seem to me as the sort that would come here without a rather major reason." edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 9/10/2016 -- 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 9/10/2016	The Scorched Sailor is surprised and wary that rumours of their voyage have already travelled so far. "For our sins, we have not yet sunk, although it can only be a good thing if the gossip says we have. I'm here because I pledged the Reck to Drake's expedition." He does not sound altogether happy about this. "I would caution you if you still plan on joining up. It has hardly been plain zailing, and even given the things we have seen and done thus far, I'm still not convinced the scheme will work." He hates to admit it, but he needs to prepare himself for every eventuality. It's perfectly possible that this whole voyage will fail, and it will help if he accepts it. Besides, the Solicitor deserves to know the truth of the journey so far. Briefly, he provides a sketchy narrative of the journey up until this point. The Solicitor listens intently. The Solicitor's reflection, carried alongside the pair, is unsettlingly rapt, paying even closer attention than his counterpart. Maybe that was his imagination, though. The Sailor can't read his companion. Behind the mask, their face is inscrutable. Whether their talk has dissuaded or further encouraged them, it's impossible to tell, but the Sailor would be happy to welcome them aboard - a (relatively) known variable would be a welcome ally amongst a crew of unknowns, especially when that variable is a notorious explorer and survivor of the harsher ravages of the Iron Republic. It isn't until they reach the comparatively stable streets around the dock that the Sailor releases the tight hold he hadn't realised he'd had on the small, stoppered bottle in his coat pocket. "The Reck is just up that way," he says, gesturing zeewards. "I hope you've found your bearings, although I rather suspect I should be thanking you for helping me get back here myself." The Sailor had not recognised any of the streets that they had travelled during their return, and despite their feigned confusion, the Solicitor had never once hesitated when faced with a crossroads. "Regrettably, I have private business that I must conduct before we set zail again. I shan't wander as far as I had when we met, don't worry." The pair share a nod, and the Sailor turns away from the docks and into an alley that is only there when viewed in the peripheral vision. By the time he rounds the next corner, wondering what reason the Solicitor has to join the expedition - and cursing his negligence in not asking - the street that he had entered is already, and has always been, nothing but a dead end. edited by Barselaar on 9/10/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 10/1/2016	The Solicitor swivels to face the dandy, careening forward. "You could say that I am always wandering, professor." They remark. How did they know Sketch's title? Who told them? When? "One does have the nastiest ability of eternally being here, not there, in this cold, damp place." The lens-endowed mask hides something between an accusatory glare and an appraiser's gaze. Does the dandy understand? Will he? "But I digress. I have doubts that my name alone is worth the hassle. What, exactly, is it that you want from me?" They allow themselves the hint of a smirk. Perhaps it'll be noticed. It won't matter, will it? -- 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 9/10/2016	The proprietor of Euphemia is a distinctive figure, and the Scorched Sailor greets the Solicitor with warmth. They are one of the few people left to know him by the name he used to wear. The Solicitor looks worried - a bad sign in such an experienced traveller of the Republic. "It is rare to meet friends in this place," he says by way of greeting. "I confess I have very little idea where we are myself - a partner is almost definitely a good idea. Well met." Voices whisper at the edge of his hearing, but the Sailor does his best to ignore them. Rarely (only once, remember?) do disembodied voices have anything useful to say. He moves to the Solicitor's side, positioning himself in such a way that he casts no reflection in his partner's mirror. "Have you a destination in mind, or simply out of the madness?" They seem unsure. The Sailor pulls something out of a cavernous pocket and hands it over. "Even here, I've found that things gravitate homewards. This is a key to a suite on the Reck." They incline their head; they've heard the Sailor speak of his vessel before. "Should the lawlessness of this place split us up, I trust that this key will lead you to my ship. It's hardly safe, but..." A man runs down the street as if the hounds of Hell were biting at his heels, screaming about spiders and eyes - "it's likely safer than being out here. And very unlikely to shift and warp around on you, too. At the very least a place to get one's bearings." The Solicitor accepts the key, and slips it in an inside pocket. The footsteps of the pair add to the chaotic nature of the street a sense of purpose, an imposition of order. Alleys quiver in resentment and the air hangs heavy, like a hammer frozen just before the smashing of a mirror. edited by Barselaar on 9/10/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 9/9/2016	The Iron Republic always perturbs the Scorched Sailor. The lawlessness of it all is disconcerting. Even for an ex-smuggler, for whom laws and customs were a constant threat to be dodged, the anarchy of this is place is threatening. There is no building here that looks remotely like a port authority, although ships were often robbed, impounded or, in some cases, vanished entirely for not complying with a set of rules that had apparently only been thought up the morning of the vessel's infraction. Softly weighing down one of the Sailor's inside pockets as he walks from the Reck into the tangled labyrinth of the Republic is a stoppered glass bottle with a small roll of paper inside, sold to him - he suspects illegally - by a lesser goat demon some years ago. A safe-conduct, supposedly, meant to ensure safe passage to the Republic, unharried by the infernal corsairs that roam the surrounding zee. He had a nasty suspicion that the paper inside was blank, that the whole thing had been a scam, but he'd been left alone by pirates thus far and so it had earned a place permanently by his side. Even he could not shake himself free of the occasional remnant of zailor's superstition. He doubts that it will protect him from the Republic's warping effects, but he keeps a hand on it nonetheless as he wends his way deeper into the strange settlement, sweating gently beneath his heavy clothes. The goal here is more abstract than at the Mountain: to become unstuck from the past. He wonders what form this will take. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 9/9/2016	[OOC: Since time is particularly weird in the Iron Republic, the following may not be consistent with the time scale that others experience. We apologise for the inconvenience.} DAY 1 Malice has been to the Iron Republic before and supped with bright-eyed devils in their brass lairs. He knows the tricks this place plays. He knows that it is of utmost importance to keep calm, maintain a stiff upper lip and show the laws of physics that they should be more scared of him than he is of them. On deck, he can see the undulating horizon of fire and metal and smoke. This isn’t Hell, but it’s as close as anyone would ever want to get to it. To the south lies the fervid corona of the clinking, rattling Dawn Machine, the unwise Icarian project of the Admiralty. It shouldn’t be visible, nestled in its cave and hidden from sight far away, but the Iron Republic shows little concern for what should and should not be. The lawlessness of the Neath is strong here, and where laws bend there is tremendously profitable business to be done. The aristocrat smirks, puts on the devilish fedora held in his arms and strides down the gangplank with a world of misplaced confidence swelling his head. DAY 3 In the aqueducts soaring above the city on wrought iron lattices like a dozen Eiffel Towers smashed together, brass flows like water. “A temporary conceit, nothing more,” ventures the Curvaceous Deviless. Seated under a closed parasol on the upper deck of a pleasure-boat, she and Malice watch the puffing chimneys of the Republic go by. Some of them are actually producing something resembling smoke. They ascend through the locks, warm liquid brass gushing through the sluices (Like a half-forgotten dream of the Cumaean Canal) and raising the boat to the summit. Here is the lake of brass, smouldering and glimmering and steaming. Here are the lonely buoy-lights, their ever-burning flames casting a sunset glow on the rippling surface. And here is the high sanctum crouching like a water-boatman on the surface, its buttresses legs, its chimneys antennae. Boats just like theirs move across the surface of the brass, trailing a heaving glutinous wake. The lake is huge, impossibly huge; larger than the Unterzee or the Mediterranean. Sweat oozes from Malice’s pores and evaporates immediately into the greater pall of steam. Is this the way to Hell? Is he being punished for reclaiming his soul? No, they are not going west, although the Treachery of Maps lends the direction some measure of uncertainty. A compass would be useless here in any case. Time slips sideways; it progresses here in the manner of a dream. Now they are on the jetty in the shadow of the looming sanctum, surrounded by nothing but the infinite brass lake on all sides. The zailors moor the boat under an enormous gargoyle in the shape of a goat-demon; the Deviless takes Malice’s hand in a grip that brooks no refusal and leads him up the spiralling metal staircase. The atmosphere is stifling, scalding. The heat rises and falls like a terrible pulse. He’s being watched. Hateful reflections in the gleaming steel walls. Having Recurring Dreams: Is Someone There? is increasing… What does that mean? How did that thought force itself into his head? He slows. The Deviless looks back in irritation. Her eyes are not their usual calm amber; they are mirrored, enormous compound eyes like those of flies (Or bees) reflecting myriad terrified faces. They all move independently as she advances on him. She has stolen my image! Malice thinks desperately. Oh, he was such a fool to come here alone. Where are the others? Have they even left the ship? He will be harvested, drunk up like honey. Abstraction is such a generous euphemism for the theft of the immortal soul. He doesn’t remember the first time his soul was taken. Perhaps that is a kindness. This time will not be so pleasant. The deviless, now fully transformed into an enormous bee, bears down on him with powerful wings slamming against the narrow stairway’s walls and pierces his chest with her proboscis. No pain bursts from his heart – Shock, or some kind of natural anaesthetic – as the insect sucks up that glowing, ethereal substance. An inhuman screech. The bee yanks itself free, spitting dregs of half-consumed soul. Too ripe a meal. He has done terrible things to his soul in the name of knowledge (and the Name, all for the Name) and now they have saved him, poisoned the well. The devils do not partake of stained souls. What does it do to them? Impossible to say without knowing why they want souls in the first place. Is it food poisoning? No more time for thought. The bee buzzes furiously and launches itself at him stinger-first. Bees can’t sting humans without dying afterwards, he thinks absurdly, but this stinger is the size of a stake and gleamingly sharp. It comes towards him so quickly he doesn’t even have time to dodge – -- 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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ForScience Posts: 69 9/10/2016	A gunshot sounds. The bullet clips the Deviless' abdomen. It was a lousy shot, fired hastily by someone obviously inexperienced with the firearm they wield. Yet it's enough to halt the bee midair as it recoils in pain, then swivels its great head to locate the source of the errant bullet. Its glittering eyes focus in on a very small woman wearing a very large pair of eyeglasses and an expression of pure terror. Florence's voice, high-pitched and a bit raspy on the best of days, is little more than a feeble squeak as she ventures, "H-hello. Sorry to interrupt, but, er, my friend here really doesn't have the time to be impaled right now. We're on a terribly important voyage, you see...." And with that, she takes a step back. Two. She stands, tensed, ready to flee at a moment's notice. The pistol is still smoking in her hand, and she clutches it for dear life. After all, she's just shot a deviless. A deviless! How quickly does news spread from the Iron Republic? Will she arrive home to an entourage of devils ready to exact their revenge? Will it even matter, if she can't escape with Malice in tow? She makes a snap decision and decides to bluff like she's never bluffed before. Missed the shot? Ha! No, her aim was so true that she barely grazed the Deviless. Just as she intended. "My apologies. I didn't want to hurt you. Just needed you to leave him alone. I hope you don't believe that I mean you any ill intent. P-perhaps if you just turn back into something with a larynx, we could sort this out with no further violence?" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/7/2016	"IREM." The Clay Man stares uncomprehedingly for an uncomfortably long moment. Then, he snaps up at Sketch. "THANK YOU." and storms off to interrupt another conversation somewhere else, presumably. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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A Dimness Posts: 613 10/3/2016	A shape slowly forms from the blinding light: Barselaar. Yearning, burning. The two figures, both wrapped in their own fabrics, standing together like caricatures. The Mirthless Colonist is stared at with an emotionless gaze, and decides to break the silence: "Nice weather we're having, right? Er- oh, what's the point, I haven't even seen the weather, truth be told. Mind telling me when and where I am, chap? Am not entirely sure whether this is the Neath I belong in." Before the sun-scarred shipmaster gets the chance to speak, the Colonist quickly adds, "Oh, and while we're at it... could you hold this moon pearl and tell me about cosmogone? That seemed to have done the trick with Vaustus." He holds a single moon-pearl between his thumb and index; it gives off a dim irrigo radiation. "The effect should be something like this, only a bit more cosmogone. Don't worry, Vaustus seemed perfectly happy doing it. And I'm even fairly certain that he probably died of completely unrelated causes!" edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 10/3/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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ForScience Posts: 69 9/25/2016	She's combed the library, sampled an impressive variety of snacks, and even created a small, controlled explosion in her cabin in order to test certain properties of zee-water. But Florence is running out of ways to keep herself occupied. And she knows that as soon as boredom strikes, she'll have nothing to do but to reflect on what happened back in the Iron Republic. She'll sort out what happened to the bets of her ability later; for now, what she needs is some conversation. As such, she sets to wandering the ship, knowing that pulling any of the crew away from their duties might very well sink the whole ship. Possibly. Knowledgeable as she is about the sciences, engineering is another field entirely, and she has no clue of how the Reck actually works. She's certain that somebody else must be on board. The Scorched Sailor, certainly, and perhaps Drake. But where are they? Just as she's growing desperate enough to go back and charm the doctor in the infirmary, she turns a corner and there stands a decidedly ill-at-ease Drake. Florence scratches a bit at her bandaged hands (the doctor had assured her that the bandages weren't needed, but who was she to risk an infection?) and greets him. "Drake! Just who I wanted to see. Do you have a moment?" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 10/8/2016	“Alright you little bugger, where are you…” Zoom, there it goes, at the end of the hall. Quickly now, after it. Can’t let the little b_gger get out of sight now. Zip, turning on a dime, slipping past a crowd of zailors. “How on earth is that little slime so bl__dy fast?” He mumbles to himself, grabbing a zailor as he runs. “Listen, go find some other zailors and get a tarp. No, not a net, it’s a slime, get going already, its moving fast.” Swoosh. Zailors wondering what is going on, some of the newest zailors panic. Down the stairs, to the cabins. It rushes into drakes cabin, carrying out a small urn before rushing off towards... “What? That. That shouldn’t be here. No. No no no no no, not here.” An extra hall. It looked new, the paint still wet. The slime slinked through, taking the urn with it. “Welp. Nope, drake can go get his own bl__dy…” Oh. The way back is gone. B_gger. Careful now, watch your step. Follow the slimes trail. Nothing is as it seems, here. The walls danced, unseen flames flickering from behind. The sounds of a court ball in full swing. One two three, one two three, a careful waltz, a careful swing, step through the door, and hey, you’re here. There it is, right in the middle of the ballroom. Hurry, grab the urn and get out before *Oh there you are. I was looking for you, you know, the voice says as the slime grows, taking shape.* *I was wondering when you would finally get up, apparently all I had to do was steal something you currently needed. Now, I do believe its time I made you pay for your boon.* *I need a host. The slime let me aboard, true, but its not enough. I had planned on being more subtle, but, no. No more time. This wont hurt, not much at all.* feels strange not much longer now “…there it is…” picking up the cider, he it they head aboveboard “…I f… f… found the cider…” -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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A Dimness Posts: 613 11/21/2016	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 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/15/2016	Travelling into the past. Perhaps Sketch's nostalgia was not unwarranted. He raises his eyebrows and says, "That's quite a plan. Time travel. My, oh my. Forgive my rudeness, but might I ask if you've any experience in captaining a ship? This seems quite the adventure for someone who's not experienced." -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/15/2016	Sketch grins. "Quite, quite," he says. At the sound of the zailor, the dandy looks up. His eyes fix on the gaping maws of the sapphire-mines to the right of the docks, red dust glittering down through the gaslight as a lucky miner strikes the edge of one of the precious stones. "Delightful place, this," he says offhandedly to Dynamo, eyes still looking over the bohemian landscape, "I was only here a short time on my last journey, but conversation in the Blue Bazaar is wonderful. Congratulations on a safe journey this far, Captain Dynamo." He gives the scholar a sparkling smile, shakes his hand, and strolls off to the other side of the deck. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/14/2016	"Excuse me," Sketch speaks up, "I feel I should let you know - I do plan to stay for the majority of the journey. However, on the way back if we could make a small detour to Frostfound, I would be greatly appreciative. You won't have to wait for me - that's my drop-off point." He pulls out a small checkbook from the recesses of his unusually dark clothing. He's not often seen in public without some form of dashing attire - even in his recent state he's managed to keep up his public appearance - but tonight appears to be an exception. "If money is an issue, I can pay you for the detour," he says. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/15/2016	The Scorched Sailor wanders the hallways of his ship, making a note of the rooms his travelling companions have taken. He wonders about them; Drake Dynamo, with an unsettling obsession in his eyes, sending out flyers promising adventure. What did he hope to gain from this voyage? Professor Sketch, who, before they had even set off, already appeared to have an alternate destination in mind, flashing cheques around. How committed to this enterprise was he? Suincide is even more of a mystery, rushing aboard with a flyer just before preparations finished, blood seeping through her clothes from obvious wounds. She would need investigating. And something else - a feeling? - no. The Scorched Sailor puts the unsettling feeling out of mind, shaking his head. He couldn't fall prey to the rumours of the dockhands, he knew there were no other presences on his ship. He finishes his musings, determined to keep a close eye on his travelling companions until he was sure each one could be trusted. He would not let any of them interfere with his need to dig up his lost memories, to regain control of his mind. He walks along the water-damaged hallways and up a rusted ladder to the main deck, remembering how it used to look in its party-hosting days. He waits here for the others to surface. Their path, for now, was set and easy - or as easy as they get at zee. There was no harm in taking a break, in getting to know his shipmates. (OOC: The Reckoning Postponed is a hulking, broken mess of a ship, but once upon a time it was a Pleasure Yacht - see linked story in my sig. It won't be comfortable, but it will have all of the amenities expected of such a vessel, albeit warped, damaged or broken.) -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/15/2016	Suinicide arrives, flyer clenched in her hand. She has remembered the taste of secrets, stolen and shared, a desire that can override even obsession. Or perhaps they are only different flavors of the same addiction. Weeping wounds peek out from beneath her clothes, obvious to any close inspection. Reminders that she asks for nothing that she would not ask of herself. Reminders that she does not need redemption. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/17/2016	"Bloomin' 'ell!" Sketch pauses as he walks down the hallway, turning his head to look at the door the sound had come from. A second later, the door in question is thrown open, the Plutonian Zailor bursting out and stomping off down the hall as dark mutters escape his lips. The dandy watches the zailor walk away for a moment, then looks back into the open room. From within, a light dripping can be heard. Sketch walks through the doorway, pausing as he spots the gant-colored liquid dripping from the floorboards above. "Dear Lord," he mutters to himself, pulling out his flask. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/17/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/16/2016	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. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/16/2016	(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.) -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/17/2016	"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. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/17/2016	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. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/18/2016	Sketch jumps abruptly when the klaxon sounds. He curses a curse three letters too lurid for you as he notices the bottle of ink he's knocked over, drenching the letter in jet, and hurriedly pulls the dripping papers out of the way. "The world is going on now?" he mutters, quickly righting the fallen ink bottle and wiping off the wet desktop with a handkerchief. The dandy pauses, contemplating the blackened handkerchief for a moment, and tosses it to the side. He hurries out the door of his suite to the deck. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/18/2016	Sketch stares briefly at the figure on the fore-deck. The song is familiar as a Drownie's wailing tune, but he has no idea how that would help stop a Fluke Core. "Mr. Dynamo," the rake says, gripping the captain by the arm, "In my many years captaining a ship on the open zee, I never once fought a Fluke Core, and for rather good reason, I think. I imagine if I had, you and I would have never have had the pleasure of meeting, which would be a terrible shame. I recommend smothering the lights and making a swift retreat." edited by Professor Sketch on 7/18/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/21/2016	"The extract of a Hespiridean apple, for one; an overwhelmingly large amount of firearms, for another. Honestly, I'd be more surprised if we DIDN'T have something that'll help us weasel our way through Adam's Way." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/21/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/21/2016	"You really think the Presbyterate will want the Cider? They're already all so close to the mountain. As for weapons...Well, the same applies. I'd feel a tad more happy if I knew how we are going to avoid being eviscerated by a river." -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/18/2016	(OOC) Agreed. We're rushing through everything quite quickly. The Mirthless Colonist had shoved the obviously honey-addled individual aside when the horn rang. There was an air of tension and danger, and his presence would most likely be of necessity in case of danger. A Tomb-Colonist isn't particularily fast, but he made an effort to get topside quickly. Just as he emerged, he witnessed a Lorn-Fluke covered in drownies, clubbing and cutting and stabbing. "I'd hate to be pessimistic," he shouted over the clashing of Zee-waves, "But that's not going to last! We need to make distance, and now!" -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Barse Posts: 706 7/27/2016	The Scorched Sailor watches Vaustus as he gets dragged away, brow furrowed in consternation. The stowaway had not yet proved himself as a friend, but he seemed to be in possession of troubling information. If he is in trouble, the Sailor now feels under a strange obligation to help. That can come later, though. For now he turns back to Drake. "My last visit here is largely lost to me, but I suspect that we did not travel through the usual channels." His voice turns meditative. "But there must be a way for denizens of the Elder Continent to travel upstream. Anyone who has been to Polythreme and stayed too long has heard the ghost-voices of ships, listened to the creak and groan of steel and timber and thought that they sounded just a little too much like speech. When a zailor hears chains rattling with a consciousness they were never meant to have, he knows it is time to leave. And after all, what is Polythreme but a poor imitation of the Mountain?" He ponders for a second, before nodding at Drake. "You're right. If anyone has a ship with enough vitality to survive Adam's Way, the Gracious will either have it or know where to find it." The pair set off back towards the dock, Barselaar casting the occasional troubled glance towards the alley where local law enforcement had dragged Vaustus. "I hesitate to ask, but how are you thinking of paying for such a ship?" edited by Barselaar on 9/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/28/2016	(ooc: Sorry for all the delays. Everything's been more exhausting then expected. I am completely here for about two week now) -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/27/2016	Ozymandias wonders what story he should tell; Usually he would spin a tale of his exploits in different games, but something drives him to tell another, more personal, story. “Once upon a time in a far above kingdom, there was a prince. The prince was not in line for the throne, but was still beloved by his father and indeed most of the court. No expenses were spared on his education and training and he showed great promise in all his studies. It was widely agreed that he would a become a great general or diplomat; One who would shape the course of history. In the secret corners of his mind, the prince was not happy though. When he wandered the country he would see the people, many of them impoverished and malnourished and it left him distraught for reasons he did not fully understand. He would ask his valet why there was such a difference between himself and those begging on the streets and the valet would answer that it was the natural order of things; some people were born for greatness by the will of fate and by the will of God. The prince however, found himself drawn to the unfortunate. He began to drink with them, to laugh with them and to participate in their games. He also heard their stories and came to two realizations. Firstly, that there was no fundamental difference between him and them. Their different lots in life were either caused by the whims of a particular capricious god or by mere chance. The other realization was these people lived life for life’s sake, while the high and mighty lived to control everything and everyone; often to the detriment of everything and everyone. Then one night, the Prince decided that he did not wish for dominion over others and did not see what gave him the right. He left his old name behind; Adopting a new one that reflected the ephemerality of power and glory. Then he left the palace, heading for a place where all are born to endless night.” -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/27/2016	“It shouldn’t be too hard to find a pub. All cities are basically the same, even if they might not seem it. To find a tavern look for those who frequent a tavern; they can be known by their ruddy faces and improvisational way of walking. Follow them until you see a sign with a tankard on it, and there you have it.” -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/14/2016	Sketch stares at The Scorched Sailor for a moment. "Well, it's supposed to be beautiful, isn't it?" he improvises, unblinking, "And I've got a correspondent there I've talked to via letter for several years now. I figure it's about time to meet them." He smiles. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/25/2016	The Mirthless Colonist approaches, his bandages writhe with anticipation. "Gracious, you ask stories. I bring you a story, a real story." "On the other side of the mirror lie secrets manyfold. I've many times wandered through Parabola, never worrying about finding my way back, always ending up again where I started. One day, the serpents-within-dreams approached me, ware them. They commended me on my skill and talent in navigating Parabola. Then, they challenged me. They offered me something very dear to me, something that I'd lost, something that I'd never had, and I'd have it, if I managed to get back to London." The Mirthless Colonist reaches out his arms toward the glassy expanse of water behind him. "Of course, fingerkings betray, and I ended up emerging from a mirror on the bottom of the Zee. I drifted there, in the silence and in the dark, anger and fear seeding within me. There, something spoke to me. A light bloomed, then another. Dozens, hundreds of lights all around me, singing a song I did not know. The voices soothed me, and I stayed there with them, with the lights. The next I awoke, I stood before the Fathomking. I would've been a drownie, but his complexity decided to free me instead." The Mirthless Colonist's gaze is unfocused, he stares through the Gracious into a nothingness only he percieves. "Of course, that's not my story. I could tell you about the Tomb-Colonies, about the monsters that lurk in the Neath's ceiling, about ancient ruins of cities that were here long before the first one, or about... myself. But I won't. That story's all you're getting." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/25/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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ForScience Posts: 69 8/30/2016	Whether or not Sketch's cheerful (she won't call it charming, not yet) conversation is an act remains to be seen. But for now, Florence returns his smiles and even cracks a joke or two. She doesn't request any more drink, though, even if there are some better options than the horrible port. Dulling her mind with drink has never struck her as a particularly good idea, and now less so than ever. And, if she were to admit it, she wants to know more about Sketch. The elegant, carefully controlled demeanor hides somebody completely different, she's sure. And she wants to know who that is, exactly, and why he should care how she spent her education in France. "Perhaps I did, though. Maybe finding out just what was going through the minds of those old painters as they churned out scandalous portrait after scandalous portrait- well, scandalous by London's standards, anyway- truly is my life's work." Here she cracks a smile that's only mostly manufactured. "Although, if that weren't occupying my every waking moment, I'd be inclined to tell you that I'd been pursuing the glorious field of science for years before France. I started quite young, you see. But enough about myself! Here I am telling you my life's story without knowing a thing about you." However, the sheer magnitude of the Ticking Scientist's question pulls her away from the conversation. What, exactly, is the mysterious individual planning? Changing the course of one' own life is one thing, but playing with Fate in such a dramatic fashion? ...Well, why not? She had never much believed in fate, anyway. Everything could be distilled quite simply to a series of causes and effects, inputs and outputs, no cosmic interference needed. Never had she bought into the idea that your destiny was anything other than what you and any number of equally mundane outisde forces shaped it to be. "A question worth debating. I haven't fully familiarized myself with the exact mechanics of time travel, yet, but in such a situation... well, it depends. On many things. The individuals in question, for one. I would need to know much more about them in order to make an informed decision." -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 8/31/2016	The Ticking Scientist looked thoughtful for a moment, and replied. “I concede you have a point. The fact is, like I stated earlier, the event in question has not happened yet, and may never occur. The way you phrase this however, implies that I wish to strike some villain out of existence without reason. Or, at least, no intent to share my reasons. For what it’s worth, I can at least guarantee the individual in question is not present aboard this ship, and that it will be a very, very , long time before the events of which I speak are set in motion. To which I bring up my next point: Trust. Or rather, the lack thereof. I can understand not trusting me, just showing up out of nowhere aboard the ship one day, and can accept this. Having a means of transport out of Apis meet was enough. I can understand doubting that my question is with good intent, or that in eliminating one individual from existing is anything more than a personal grudge. But what I wish to know is how all of you can trust each other.” He looked around the table at this point. “The fact is, whether you joined later in the journey like myself, or were here from the beginning, most of us have never met each other before this journey. All of us have our own reasons for being here, some I imagine are relatively benign, others may have a deep regret they which to right. Others still, like you suggest Sketch, might be out to kill some poor sap simply because one day that poor sap looked at them the wrong way. At any rate, my point here is that ultimately, so far we have been co-operating either out of desperation or to satisfy some personal goal or desire. What’s to say that things will stay this way? This journey was founded on want and need, a very, very, dangerous combination, as some of you may know from personal experience.” Pouring a glass of port, in the hopes of washing away the taste of his last beverage, he continued. “Now if it would satisfy those present, I have no issue finding another means of transportation once at the Iron Republic. It won’t be the first time I have been there, and it will hardly be the last. But until then, we need to know we can trust each other, at least for the purposes of completing this journey and returning alive. So, that being said, I propose we share something personal. Be it what you intend to accomplish at Irem, what led you to where you are now, or some other secret. Now, if anyone present has a better solution to get us to trust each other, I would be more than happy to cooperate.” He sipped the port which despite the guest’s reactions was better than the usual he had to scrounge for in his spare time. It had been a while since he had a real battle of words, spending as much time in the laboratory as he did tended to leave your social skills a bit rusty. Hopefully somebody did come up with an idea that would not be rendered null by somebody telling a single lie. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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Barse Posts: 706 8/28/2016	The Scorched Sailor has been sat in silence for the most part, lost in thought. The good food is a hangover from the Reck's days as a functioning pleasure yacht: her old cook, the Indomitable Epicure, had been laid up ill during the lead-up to the voyage that ultimately sank and brought about the vessel's macabre rebirth. She is one of the few crew members left over from the days before the Sailor was scorched, when the ship still bore the name of Dream-Weaver. Uncowed by the crumbling visage of the old ship, she had joined right back up upon the Reck's return, and always kept the pantry well stocked. Although, it seems, her taste in port left something to be desired. The Sailor has no food nor drink in front of him, however, simply sitting unobtrusively on a chair towards the end of the table. At the Ticking Scientist's question he begins to take more interest in the conversation. What he is saying sounds strange indeed, although considering their goals, it hovers on the edge of plausibility. "What you're suggesting... What reason could someone ever have for attempting such a thing?" He leans forwards, elbows on the table, to look at everyone eating. "Even here, amongst this group of mad runaways and ruffians, the process you're describing sounds-" He pauses for a moment. "-inadvisable. Time is unlikely to be as pliable as brass, its machinations not as easily tampered with as a piece of clockwork." edited by Barselaar on 8/29/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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ForScience Posts: 69 8/27/2016	Goodness, but the dandy is blunt. It's not often you hear such language outside the Docks, but then again, there's something to be said for speaking your mind. No time to be scandalized, though. She catches the dandy's eye and returns the smile, though hers lacks the practiced perfection of his. Then she addresses the room, the first time she's ever spoken to most of these people. "I can't remark on the quality of the port in question, yet. But I can say that since I joined the crew of the Reckoning Postponed, oh, two hours ago, I've seen that I'm surrounded by exceptionally inquisitive individuals. I could think of no group more fitting to embark on this expedition with." Well, she could, actually. People she already knows and trusts would be nice. But saying that would just be plain rude, and she doesn't have the devil-may-care attitude like the dandy does that would allow her to pull it off. "So," and here she raises her glass aloft, "a toast. To the Reckoning Postponed and her glorious expedition. To the future, whatever it may hold, and the past, whatever we may find there." edited by ForScience on 10/18/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/19/2016	At the Darkgryphon Straits dock, where the Polythreme ship departed, Tuff waits patiently for the fellowship's return. As they slowly moor, the Mirthless Colonist quickly reunites himself with the Clay Man, offloading the mirrorcatch box with him and sending him back to the Reckoning Postponed. The Mirthless Colonist wasn't much for prodding, but he had a few theories on his Neathbow oddysey. As the other passengers set foot on land, however briefly, he picked out Lord Vaustus for a private conversation. "I is for Irrigo, none remember why. We haven't really talked yet, but I can see you're trying to forget. Make your burdens my burdens, Vaustus. Come, I know of a local bar we might visit." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/19/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 8/19/2016	Malice is out of the door almost as soon as the Long-Suffering Footman knocks, beaming his finest amiable grin as he breezes downstairs to the entrance hall. His Parabola-linen garb billows impressively around him, shaded in rippling irrigo. His bejewelled cane glimmers in the Mountain-light from the glass dome in the ceiling. He is bearded, short hair greying a little around his temples and covered by a stylish top hat. He spies Drake, restrained by two burly fellows, and adopts an air of righteous indignation. “Unhand him! I say, unhand that man! He is a guest, not a captive!” The thugs, bemused by the whole affair, drop Drake onto the fine carpet and wander off, no doubt to pursue another avenue of unpleasantness elsewhere. “Terribly sorry about that, Mr Dynamo. When I told my valet to send someone to pick you up, I didn’t expect him to take it so literally,” he lies. Malice raises his voice fractionally so the Footman can hear him upstairs. “I will, of course, be disciplining him later.” “I have the advantage of you, naturally – my name is Lord Malice. You may have heard of me back in London. Sadly, society seems to have forgotten about me entirely these days.” Malice spies what he assumes to be confusion in Drake’s face at the Presbyterate décor adorning the mansion. “This place doesn’t belong to me, of course. No foreigners can own property in Adam’s Way. It’s the residence of an acquaintance of mine, the Stalwart Captain of this city’s Gracious division. I’ve been smoothing things over with her regarding your… sudden departure.” He gestures expansively for Drake to take a seat on a plush armchair, and seats himself opposite the man. “But enough about my affairs! I’ve heard all about your expedition, both in Port Carnelian (where I was living until recent scandals forced me to take a leave of absence) and here in the Presbyterate. And now you come back from the Mountain of Light. Simply extraordinary. I visited the Grey Vineyard myself not long ago, but to reach the Greater Wound… marvellous. You didn’t happen to spy the Garden while you were out there, did you?” At that last sentence, he chuckles, but his eyes remain intense, determined. One thing at a time. Focus. Malice holds up one of Drake’s flyers, pulled from some hidden pocket in his suit. “And now you’re off to the Iron Republic, or so your itinerary says. I would be terribly grateful if you were to allow me to join your voyage. I will, of course, pay all the fees required for the passage in advance. Will brass do?” edited by JimmyTMalice on 8/19/2016 -- 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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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 8/20/2016	(OOC) I unfortunately missed the dream sequence, so I hope you won’t mind me posting it now. If it messes up the flow too much I can delete it. Before me lies an endless city. It consists of alleyways that twist and turn and merge and separate. I lick my paws and yawn lazily; there is no hurry, time doesn’t exist here. Or perhaps all of time exist here at once. Besides me is a coyote, it is telling me about the conjoining of opposite themes. It bores me, and I set off. As I wander down the streets I am led by pure curiosity, following distant sounds and sights, chasing imagined rats. I will never get anywhere but it doesn’t matter, I am in complete attunement with the city and it will not hurt me irreparably. I fight a burning inquisitiveness and stay clear of the courtyard with the well. Suddenly I find myself stuck in a sticky substance; I turn and thrash but only manage to entrap myself completely. With one last effort I try to wrest myself free; there’s a sudden pop, my skin tears and I emerge. I am sitting on a web. The web stretches out endlessly in all directions but I can feel every single thread. I am in complete control. I sense a vibration and begin pulling the thread towards me; a cat has been entrapped and is struggling to escape. It is too late, I consume it. I can feel the cat growing and changing inside me, it will not fit. I burst and I emerge Before me lies an endless city. It consists of alleyways that twist and turn and merge and separate. I am sitting next to a cat. The cat doesn’t understand; he thinks he is in balance but he isn’t. Not completely. Control is not always malignant, and a time will come when he has to grasp power or let the world be torn apart. With sadness I see the cat depart; a spider is sitting in its fur. The Genial Gambler awakes. He hates visions; a person’s inner struggles should be his own, not be appropiated by mystical gobbledygook. He rises shakily not noticing the small black spider crawling up his neck. edited by Ozymandias, on 8/20/2016 edited by Ozymandias, on 8/20/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/20/2016	Lord Vaustus wrote: Infinity Simulacrum wrote: At the Darkgryphon Straits dock, where the Polythreme ship departed, Tuff waits patiently for the fellowship's return. As they slowly moor, the Mirthless Colonist quickly reunites himself with the Clay Man, offloading the mirrorcatch box with him and sending him back to the Reckoning Postponed. The Mirthless Colonist wasn't much for prodding, but he had a few theories on his Neathbow oddysey. As the other passengers set foot on land, however briefly, he picked out Lord Vaustus for a private conversation. "I is for Irrigo, none remember why. We haven't really talked yet, but I can see you're trying to forget. Make your burdens my burdens, Vaustus. Come, I know of a local bar we might visit." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/19/2016 "While I'm afraid I can't remember most of my burdens, I'll gladly take you up on the offer of more alcohol." Vaustus flashes his attempt at a winning smile, the effect somewhat spoiled by three-day stubble. "And, while it may have addled me beyond repair, I do know something of irrigo. If knowledge of that infernal color is what you need, I'd be happy to oblige." The Mirthless Colonist ushers the drunkard into a quiet little pub off the main road, only a handful of Presbyterate dockers are present at a table, conversing in a fiery and strange language. The Elder-continent man standing behind the bar is an acquaintance of an acquaintance and wordlessly serves strong, rancid drinks. The colonist speaks in a low, gravelly tone, "Irrigo covers the forgotten corners of home. Tell me of Irrigo, and of yourself, if anything is yet remembered." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/20/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 8/22/2016	[OOC: I don't think people are being negative so much as wanting to continue the story, since it seems to lull in activity quite frequently for days on end. I can't blame you for not knowing people wanted to speed things up a bit if you don't frequent the IRC, though.] -- 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 8/22/2016	[OOC: And we can't really be flooding the thread with OOC comments because that messed with things like page-count and general readability. We should probs stop and have more of the team enter the #argo on the IRC.] edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 8/22/2016 -- 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 8/2/2016	"Finally underway, I see." The Mirthless Colonist emerges, pressing a rag against a presumably unbandaged spot on his neck. "It's good that we've commandeered this ship, too. The Presbyters say that Londoners who step on Elder Continent soil at night catch terrifying diseases, animescense, for one." The colonist produces a ratwork derringer from a pocket in his overcoat and moves it to a holster on his hip, "We'll be reaching the mountain soon enough. Expect more Presbyters, keep a gun ready if you have one." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 8/2/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/30/2016	Vaustus looks at the now horizontal Ozymandias. This close to the mountain, the stuff won't kill him. He may temporarily forget his childhood, but such is the price you pay. After a few minutes, Vaustus slaps Ozymandias awake. "Good try, but this bet is mine. Anything you'd like me to try? I find betting on one's self a fascinating proposition. Oh, and..." Vaustus rustles around in his poket. "5 echos for not cheating. Good job on that!" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/6/2016	The Mirthless Colonist is in his element, here on this Polythreme ship. While he could stand the sloshing of waves against the hull of a normal steamer, he now feels more in touch with everything, feeling the rythmical breathing of the vessel underneath his feet. So, in an attempt to make good use of this rare lapse in his usually sombre mood, the Mirthless Colonist now wanders around, looking for someone to chat with. He felt so good, in fact, that he didn't even feel the need to get completely drunk on his absinthe. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/7/2016	Sketch glances up from the billiards table at the porthole opposite. The ship has stopped. As Sketch sets down the billiards cue, picking up his glass and downing another shot, a fanciful thought swirls through his head that he may encounter the skeletons of some of his old crew here. He picks up the decanter and pours the glass full of amber liquid. The effects of the whisky, of course. The dandy's journey south happened two lifetimes ago - there was nothing remaining of that voyage but Sketch, now. Even if they hadn't been lost to the zee, all that remained of the crew after the Aristippus crashed was burned to nothing by the sun. Sketch throws the shot down his throat. Of course, those on the beach were his second crew. Most of the first generation was lost here. Stepping off that burning, crumbling boat, onto this very shore, they simply began to disappear. They didn't die, they didn't scream, they weren't killed or stricken down. They just wandered off, one by one, til only the dandy and his most loyal zailors remained. He supposed they might lose some of the zailors that way now, but that didn't matter. Dynamo's crew was far larger than Sketch's had been - a few lost souls meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. He just hoped that after this was done, the tally of those missing wouldn't include his name. Sketch fills the glass again. He shakes his head. "Dutch courage," he mutters. The rake downs the shot, dusts himself off, and exits the sports room to head up to the deck. (OOC : Also, just realized that all the nameless zailors are basically our redshirts. Poor guys.) -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 8/11/2016	The Genial Gambler surveys the area around the boat. It is truly remarkable; The land seems to be brimming with some curious vitality, as though they were standing on living breathing body. Overlooking it all is the shining visage of their destination, The mountain of light itself. Ozymandias had heard many tall tales of the place, but truly none were as tall as the real thing. It’s light arouses feelings of awe, envy and burning desire. The genial Gambler gets the odd sensation that this must have been how Prometheus felt when he dared challenge the gods and steal fire from Olympus. Rousing himself from his thoughts, Ozymandias readies himself for the trip. Expecting to travel light, he packs only the essentials (food, clothing, seven different packs of cards, etc.) and heads of to start the adventure. (OOC) Sorry that I haven’t written in a couple of days; I’ve been dreadfully busy and without internet connection much of the time. edited by Ozymandias, on 8/11/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Barse Posts: 706 8/11/2016	"Not to my knowledge. Not much gets as close to the Mountain as we're planning to get." He wonders exactly what the Scientist did to the Devils for him to seek refuge in such a perilous voyage. Another secret to add to the list. It was getting very long indeed, now. [Off to bed now, Arcanuse. Will post more stuff in the morning GMT if you want to continue this conversation.] -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/12/2016	The Mirthless Colonist is at the head of the expedition, leading his zailors through the thick brush in a straight line towards the mountain. He didn't care much for immortality, but he WAS very keen on filling his mirrorcatch box with Stone's light. None were allowed to travel to the Elder Continent, and the beauty of Stone was something only daring zailors ever knew. A box full of it would certainly intrigue Penstock, if not the Bazaar herself. Thus, the Colonist merrily pushes and shoves his way through the brush. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/12/2016	"Bloody hell," Sketch mutters. The dandy lags behind, trudging forward in the wake of the zailors behind the Mirthless Colonist and somewhere near the end of the procession. It seems that the tomb colonist and the socialite have switched places since they traversed the rocks leading to the shore - as the Mirthless Colonist barrels bravely forward, the rake struggles through the brush behind him. It certainly doesn't appear to be his terrain of choice. Sketch grimaces, roughly pulling his leg free of a thorny vine and pressing further through the foliage. He can't wait till this leg of the journey is over - he hated this place the first time. Absence has not made his heart grow fonder. "By the by, Dynamo," the dandy calls out, "Once we're done ripping through Nature's underarm, have you a plan for what to do? Are we all going be drinking of this wound, then? Run me through the science, old chap." -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/15/2016	"I see," Sketch replies. He pauses, silently pushing aside another low-hanging limb of leaves. "A certain vitality, eh? And how much of this are we going to be drinking? What if we drank more? Exactly how lively could we get if we drank, say, a tankard? Or a barrel? I understand we're just here for the purpose of the journey, but as a man of science, surely, you must agree - we'd be missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity if we weren't to experiment a bit," the dandy says, "After all, and no offense intended, I'm certain you've never done this before - none of us have. We've no idea of the consequences til we test them." -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/15/2016	The dandy pauses, stepping out into the clearing. The Wound. A new god. A new sight. Though the dandy was sickly rose now, skin of store-bought, perfumed petals hiding empty insides, there was a time he was iron. A time he was steel. There was a time he would have grinned through a wind-swept, unkempt beard, Faroe eyes sparkling like showers of mine-dust, and knelt instantly down by the pool before any others could step a foot forward, taking a handful of the liquid and downing it like a shot just for the thrill of it all. There was a time he may have dunked his entire head under the surface. There was a time he wouldn't think twice about diving in. But those Faroe eyes sparkled no more. These London eyes glinted. "Anyone up for going first?" he asks conversationally. edited by Professor Sketch on 8/15/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/15/2016	"This doesn't seem entirely hygienic." The Mirthless Colonists flinches only slightly at the sight of the gaping wound in the mountain's side. The zailors excitedly run towards the mountain herself to scramble for whatever sherds they can find. "I'm going to fill this mirrorcatch box first. If I'm not mistaken, there should be a crevice somewhere up ahead where the light is pure." The colonist lingers until the zailors are out of sight and quickly adds, "If I'm lucky enough to find a significant sherd, those lads don't have to know, right?" And with that, the Mirthless Colonist heads up the summit of Stone. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Barse Posts: 706 8/11/2016	The Scorched Sailor looks rather sheepish as he introduces Ticking Scientist to the rest of the group and explains the circumstances of his arrival. What with the sudden bout of sunlight withdrawal he had quite forgotten about their most recent stowaway, and even Mr Dynamo is looking faintly incredulous. The Sailor turns defensive: Drake has been letting strangers join the expedition willy-nilly, and this gentleman had witnessed their (fumbling) assassination of the Gracious guard. Their only other option would be to kill him, and the Sailor found the idea quite off-putting. The Scientist is carrying a large bundle of notes, and looks incongruous compared to most of the others, all kitted out for hiking through undergrowth and mountainous terrain. They watch him warily, uncertain how this new presence will effect the fragile peace that has, for this long at least, just about held between the party members. For his part, the Scientist just looks vaguely confused. With a last, warning glance at the others - he felt oddly responsible for the fellow - the Scorched Sailor turns to the Ticking Scientist. "You're in luck. Your getaway boat hasn't got away at all. It has just headed further in." He waves a thickly-clad arm Mountain-wards. "That's where we're headed. You coming, or are you gonna sing the ship lullabies until we get back?" -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/9/2016	The gamblers feel the ship grind to a halt beneath them, but keep playing until the current hand is finished. The living vessel, now that it is still, seems to settle, timbers creaking and relaxing, the rhythmical movement slowing as it it was going to sleep. Vaustus wins the last hand, and nods in satisfaction as he collects up his cards and stashes them in a pocket. The Scorched Sailor has lost almost all of the money he entered the game with, but once again his hands have stilled and he can focus on the here and now. He hopes that the stress of the journey to come will not cause anything worse than he has just beaten. The three players collect up the detritus of the game and divide the winnings in easy silence. Something about the the meditative nature of the game has caused a comfortable peace to settle between them, however temporary. When the Sailor reaches the deck, he is confronted with a view, almost unfettered, of the Northern flank of the Mountain of Light. Blood pours from a wound in her side and winds down through the crags and foliage. She is almost blinding. The air thrums with life. He walks to a guardrail and stands next to Drake. "So, what's the plan?" -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 8/9/2016	The Mirthless Colonist walks up as he loads his Ratwork Derringer. A half-dozen menacing zailors follow behind him, rifles and clubs in hand. "These lads have volunteered to come along on our little expedition, I trust that that's alright with the captain, the ship only needs a handful of people to ready her sails, anyways." (OOC) Did we bring any crew along? I think we did? We must have, no? If we didn't, I'll just scrap this. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/11/2016	(Surely. No one objected when I mentioned the 'blur of passing zailors on the deck.') Sketch emerges onto the deck, his eyes instantly turning to the bleeding mountain. The Mountain of Light. You can feel it in the air, in each breath. The dandy stares at it for a moment. A smirk tugs at his lips. Alexander knelt not for gods familiar. Sketch strolls across the floorboards, over to the guardrail. A display of courage. That would be a good start, after yesterday. The rake grips the rusty rail and vaults over, boots landing lightly on one of the many rocks choking the end of the river. For one seemingly so pampered and leisurely, he hops across the stones with surprising ease. Even on the sharpest of rocks, his wax-hardened boots merely tap off their pointed tips and boost him to the next stone til he finally reaches dry ground. He turns around to face the ship, his stance exuding a satisfied aura as he waits for the Londoners. They'd either take it as cocky or impressive. Either way, it'd be a better reaction than the disturbed look Dynamo gave him the day before. (Hope that didn't seem Mary Sue-ish - there's a reason Sketch is dexterous on the rocks.) edited by Professor Sketch on 8/11/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 8/6/2016	The game had taken on an almost meditative quality; the betting and placing of cards becoming attributes in some primal ritual dedicated to chance. Therefore, it takes a moment for the usually watchful Gambler to notice the appearance of Barzelaar. It seems that another player has joined the game. Ozymandias answers with ascertainable delight. “It would be a pleasure, Game`s more fun with three players. And if Vaustus has no trouble with you joining us it shouldn’t be too hard to accommodate you. edited by Ozymandias, on 8/6/2016 edited by Ozymandias, on 8/6/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Barse Posts: 706 8/6/2016	The Scorched Sailor takes a seat and accepts the hand that Ozymandias deals out. It takes all of his concentration to still his shaking fingers so he can get a good look at the cards. It's a rubbish hand, but he's not here to win anything. He has always been an awful gambler. Slowly the rhythm of the game takes hold: deal, bluff, counter-bluff, trick-bet-play-deal again. His hands stop shaking as he becomes more immersed in the game, and while the terrible white yearning does not disappear completely, it fades, retreats and hides somewhere in the back of his skull, a problem for later. The three players descend into the gambler's calm, a zen state based in equal parts on careful calculation and wild hunches. Vaustus, who had looked a bit under the weather upon the Sailor's arrival, relaxes. There is little discernible change in the dealer's posture or manner, but the Sailor suspects that that's because already Ozymandias spends much of his time in the chancer's zen. Small coins change hands, winnings accumulate and are quickly lost. It is difficult to tell who is winning and who is losing. The Sailor looks at Ozymandias. "I can see why you like these games so much." edited by Barselaar on 8/6/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 8/6/2016	Suinicide appears behind the mirthless colonist. ""I hear you convinced this ship to work for us. I am not overly familiar with Polythreme, far too.." She hesitates, "Too much like the stories the claymen tell. And besides, there's always more secrets in London to whet my appetite. Can you share how you did it?" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 8/1/2016	To be honest, Ozymandias was not totally sure what he was doing; but judging from the flask of bottled oblivion and the talk of bets he had a pretty good idea. So he might as well roll with it. Just when he is about to propose a bet he is interrupted by urchin. It seems it is time to return to the ship. “My deepest apologies, but it seems we will have to postpone our little contest.” The Genial Gambler, finds himself in a pleased although slightly confused state of mind. It seems that he and and Vaustus shared a fondness for risky endeavours; This might turn out quite interesting. edited by Ozymandias, on 8/1/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 8/1/2016	Vaustus allows himself to be led away by the urchin. He smiles. Ozymandias seems to be a suitable friend, for the moment. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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Barse Posts: 706 8/1/2016	Barselaar runs down from the deck and looks up and down the dock. The strange new figure was the only one in sight. Grabbing the stranger by the shoulder, the Scorched Sailor thrusts him aboard. "You asked for it," he whispers in his ear. "Just get below deck, quickly, before anyone else sees you. We're in enough trouble as it is." The ship stirs slightly underfoot as the new passenger boards, but it seems like whatever the Mirthless Colonist did to get the vessel on-side is still in effect. For the past few minutes Barselaar, Drake and the Colonist have been preparing the ship as best they could, the ship itself cooperating and guiding them when they were unsure how to rig the unfamiliar masts and sails. Barselaar suspects that it could ready itself for zee, if it so wished. Now, the preparations to cast off were almost finished, and the Scorched Sailor is restless to be off, lest the Gracious find out what had been done. He silently wishes the rest of the expedition to return as soon as possible as he guides the newcomer below. One more fugitive, he thinks. What have we got to lose? "Stay down here until we leave, or make yourself useful. We need to go, now." he tells the nervous man. "You can explain yourself after we're out of this mess." The cabin door closes behind Barselaar of its own accord as he leaves to double-check the ship, running a hand along a wall and making reassuring hushing noises. edited by Barselaar on 8/1/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 8/4/2016	(Sketch is a delightful scumbag - you write him super well!) -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 8/4/2016	(Occ: Starting a slightly unrelated thing, down in the cabins. Hope its not a problem) In his cabin, Lord Vaustus stirs. He's been trying to sleep for the last few hours, but the groans of the living ship prevent him. He sits up, gropes around, and turns on the light. Sober. Thats not good. He scrambles out of bed, searching through his pack for his bottle. Oblivion can't come soon enough. But its not there. He rips the pack open, and begins to frantically search through his cabin. He stops. Oblivion can't help him this time. The weight settles down on him. Vaustus, sober for the first time in months, begins to weep. He is alone. He is always alone, and nothing he can do can stop it. He needs a distraction, something, anything. Stifling his tears, he grabs a pack of cards, quickly dresses himself, and leaves the room. Storming through the passages of the living ship, he finally finds what he's looking for. He opens Ozymandias' cabin door, without knocking, sits on the floor, and begins to deal. "Play." He manages to mutter. "I'll bet any amount of money, just play." -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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Vavakx Nonexus Posts: 892 8/21/2016	[OOC: Everyone's mostly just waiting for you two to wrap up on the boat, I think. We've been streamlining plans in the doc lately, so everyone's being kinda inactive to keep the story shorter. And I'm also not around, so I can't serve as your internet saviour.] edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 8/21/2016 -- 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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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 8/19/2016	“Capital! Let’s get to it then.” Malice makes ready to go. His Long-Suffering Footman struggles under the weight of multiple bulging suitcases. Drake waits by the door, glowering. Out into the bustling streets of Adam’s Way. The afternoon is crisp and fresh. The Gracious part at the mansion’s gates to let them pass. One guard cocks an eye at Drake, but Malice waves the concern away. Malice’s scars are beginning to twinge beneath his impeccable suit. Not now! He grins and bears it. They walk down to the docks. The Tree of a Single Day is blooming, its high branches green and leafy. Malice looks around for the Reck, and Drake shows him the berth where it still sits, main-deck barely above water level. Malice scowls. He had heard tales about the Reck, but it is rather less formidable than he was expecting. Up close, it simply looks like a very leaky, very battered yacht. Still, it had come all the way from London without any problems, and before that… (North. NORTH. The icy winds of the void. And the Gate, oh, the Gate. The places this vessel has seen, dear one.) He hadn’t heard her voice for a while. Perhaps he’d missed her. They had both lost so much, using others in their games. Perhaps she was what he deserved. Get out of my head, he thinks. The parenthesised voice falls silent, disappointed. Don’t worry. I’m going, but not yet. I need time. Malice realises that he has been standing still, staring at the Reck, for far too long. “Let’s get on board, shall we?” he says to Drake jovially. “I just need some time to get settled into my cabin, and then I’ll introduce myself to the rest of the crew.” -- 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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Arcanuse Posts: 89 8/19/2016	The Ticking Scientist was not having a good time. Bloody and torn, he wanted to just stay asleep on the cot he was dropped on. Get up already. You are not getting out of this that easily. Groaning, he sat up. The mountains light had done its work, if a bit poorly. The bleeding had stopped, even if the pain hadn’t. Stop whining. There is work to be done. Checking his pocket, to his great relief, the notes were still there. The same could not be said of the heart, but a new one could be made anyways. Convenient, that. “You there,” He gestured at some passing zailors, “Yes, you the one with the eye patch over a perfectly good eye, come over here. Give me a hand, will you?” Using the zailor for support, he stood up. “As for you two, fetch me a cloak or something, even out here walking around soaked in blood, doesn’t matter who’s blood it is, is not looked highly upon. “ The two looked at each other, shrugged, and left. Seems like a trustworthy sort, mmm? “Right then, are we back in Adams way?” The eye-patched zailor nodded. “Good, good, now I’m going to take care of one last bit of business, and you are going to help me do it. Probably help carry some of my things as well.” A zailor returned with the cloak. He gave the zailor his thanks, donned the robe, and hobbled with the eye-patched zailor to the hold. “Right then, it seems my possessions I brought were left alone. Here, take this suitcase, will you?” The zailor did so. “Now then, we have to head down to my… lodgings here. Don’t worry, this won’t take long...” Slowly, this odd duo left the ship, the zailor helping him walk as needed through the city… It was once said that fate sometimes needed a push. Laying in the dirt forgotten, a small piece of machinery was given a push by the breeze, slowly tumbling towards the river… edited by Arcanuse on 8/19/2016 -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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JimmyTMalice Posts: 237 8/19/2016	Malice pours another dose from the bottle, disregarding the lurid warning labels splashed across it. The cold sweats are upon him now, and the hand holding the tablespoon that the glutinous liquid trickles into shakes violently. The spoon slips from his hand, spilling its precious payload onto the floor of the cabin. Malice spits an acidic curse under his breath and begins the process again. He feels so helpless like this, trapped in withdrawal’s iron grip. Back in Veilgarden, when the pleasures of the Neath were still a novelty, he spent days binging on wine and honey and laudanum and was never the worse for wear. I was a young man then, he thinks sourly, although it has barely been a year. Now he is trapped in the cycle of addiction; each dose of laudanum is less effective and the pain worsens each day. He surveys the scars that will never close, revealed beneath his unbuttoned suit. There are seven, mostly on his torso, covered with bandages to soak the blood and pus that oozes from them constantly. He touches the dressing on his right hip cautiously. It will need to be replaced soon, soaked through with vital fluids as it is. He grimaces at the thought. The worse scars are the ones that cannot be seen. Laudanum is the only way he can sleep now. It brings on a deathly slumber free from the nightmares that plague him; dreams of manacles closing on his wrist, of a prison from which he cannot escape. He will never be free of the search for the Name now. The Reck creaks around him, mocking him with its title, but he knows that the reckoning will come. Seven letters will be written in fire, and only three remain now. The Masters will answer for their betrayal. His fumbling fingers finally finish their business. Malice slips the spoon of laudanum into his mouth and swallows. The bitter taste touches his tongue, sweetened by a hint of honey, and a wave of blessed numbness spreads through his body. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, letting out a sigh of relief. That will hold him for now. He re-buttons his suit and surveys his reflection in the mirror accusingly. It glares back at him, but there is no viric flash in the glass, no independent movement. For now, at least, he is safe from the marshes of Parabola and the strange dreams they bring. Out into the swaying corridor. Malice attaches his most congenial smile. It’s time for a little chat with the other passengers about where they’re going and, more pressingly, why. -- 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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Barse Posts: 706 8/19/2016	The Scorched Sailor pulls the woman around a corner and gestures for her to be quiet. She realises that he and the small cadre of people with him are on edge. A Gracious walks past, and they press themselves flat to the flank of the building. The guard walks past, and they all relax slightly. No one was entirely sure to what extent they were wanted: it hadn't seen like anyone had witnessed their murder and theft besides other members of the party, so they had all abandoned the living ship as soon as possible. Away from that, the Gracious have - hopefully - no way to identify them, but tension is still running high. The Sailor looks the woman up and down, and sighs. Drake could deal with this later. He whispers to her and scribbles on a piece of paper which he then hands her. "Drake's not with us. He'll meet you on board the Reckoning Postponed. You can't miss it." She looks at the scribble to find the Reck's mooring number. "You should go by yourself, though. We don't need any more conspicuous characters." He pauses just long enough to check that she understands, and takes off through the winding alleys of Adam's Way again, avoiding areas of commerce and crowded streets. He feels a faint niggling worry about Drake. He'd leapt to shore as soon as he could, telling everyone he was off to scout the area. When he hadn't returned, the Sailor had thought it best to just abandon the living ship - right now, that was the most dangerous place they could be. With any luck, the gentleman would be making himself comfortable on the Reck when everyone else arrived. If not... well, that was a problem for later. For now, the Sailor needed his ship. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 8/27/2016	"Adventure," Sketch says, "To both the first and the second question. We plan on finding more - storing it in journals and tales for grandchildren." The rake takes a drag. "And I've contacts in Frostfound I must see," he says, words riding on a train of slate clouds, "Pleasure, not business. I'm Professor Sketch, by the way. Quite certain that name was famous at some point, but wine and women get the best of us all, eh?" Another dazzling flash of teeth, an expertly brotherly chuckle. He begins cutting his steak. "So, an interest in the sciences?" he asks, "I used to be a bit of a man of letters, myself. What are your studies? I don't suppose they have anything to do with that business you mentioned in the Iron Republic?" Sketch closes his mouth around the fork. The meat is cooked well. Surprisingly enough, it's even spiced, dribbled in various herbs and sauces that glitter under the candlelight as stars in the meat's sheen. It's a gorgeous meal - a gleaming, dark, well-cooked layer of brown and black meat that hides the slightest salmon-colored insides - and an unexpected feat on a ship full of rough-and-tumble zailors. The food is elegant, but tough. The thickness, the tightness, of the meat is intentional, to let the eater savor the taste and flavorings layered on it longer than they would if they were able to chew it and swallow it quick. By the end of the meal, the recipient no doubt has a tired jaw, but also a sleepy head and delighted stomach. The dandy tears through the coarse meat in a moment. He swallows it, tasting nothing as it goes down. -- Straight outta Dahut.
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ForScience Posts: 69 8/27/2016	Professor Sketch? She might have heard of him, once. He doesn't seem too bitter about his apparent fall from grace, but then, he doesn't seem especially bitter about much at all. She does note how he devours his meal, though, even as Florence has barely made a dent in it. It is very good steak. Listening carefully to their conversation, she braces herself to try the port and regrets it immediately. Oh dear God. It's so horrible, her old poetic instincts (picked up from acquaintances in Veilgarden) resurface after months of trying to stamp them out. Her mind is flooded with tortured similes. She allows herself to briefly entertain the idea that it's like drinking broken glass before forcibly refocusing herself on the matter at hand and vowing never to drink whatever this stuff is again. "A fellow scientist! How fortunate. We'll have to discuss our findings, then!" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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ForScience Posts: 69 8/28/2016	Upon Drake's warning, Florence's eyes go wide and she nods gratefully to him. Why was Malice even allowed on board, then? Another mystery for the rapidly-growing pile. "While nothing would bring me more pleasure than seeing your research, I'm afraid I have I have a frightful amount of unpacking to do tonight. I've barely gotten settled into my cabin, yet." It's not entirely a lie, but in light of what Drake told her, she'd much rather find out a bit more about who this ominously-named Malice fellow is first. She then listens appreciatively to Drake's speech on time travel, nodding and asking questions at just the right times. To change the past would be to improve her life immeasurably. Without thinking, she rubs at the blotchy red burn scar covering the side of her face. Almost two years, and it still looks as fresh as the day she got it. And her sight hasn't improved since then, either. These cursed eyeglasses are getting to be a nuisance. The Ticking Scientist seems to be a more trustworthy individual than Malice, but his question took her aback at first. Erasing somebody from existence sounds much more violent than what she had in mind. She keeps quiet for now, though, and simply listens in on the discussion. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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ForScience Posts: 69 8/29/2016	There's something odd about the look Sketch is giving her. (Sketchy, one could say?) Or, rather, something odd about him in general. Even the most casual look on his face looks too perfect, too much like how one might expect him to look. Like he's not really Sketch but an idealized version of the man, always with a charming smile and a meaningful glance. Fascinating. Florence meets his eye and offers a smile of her own. She, too, can tailor a smile to suit her needs, but not her entire demeanor, like she suspects of Sketch. "Where aren't I from, that's the question. I lived just about everywhere back on the surface, though I did settle down in France for a while before I came down here, not quite two years ago. To the Neath." It was nice, there. In her mind's eye, she can still see the sunlight, and the flowers that she had loved so much. But staying wasn't an option after what happened. And now, neither is going back. Not after her life was temporarily ended. Returning to London was relatively easy; coming to terms with the knowledge that she could never hope to see the Surface again was not. But this expedition could hold the key to changing that. The smallest quirk of fate, however artificial, would set things right. It has to. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Teaspoon Posts: 866 9/4/2016	An ignored cabin hand, who has been diligently sweeping the deck of rat droppings and other nasty substances, suddenly pipes in. The voice is small and absurdly squeaky. "But what are you going to do if Orthos' man ever makes it back to London, then? He'd have a tale to tell and no mistake." (OOC: not really a RPer, just really wanted to know what Suinicide would say in response.) -- Truth lies at the bottom of a well. https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Alt%20Ern
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/24/2016	The Mirthless Colonist rises and prepares to make an appearance above-deck once the horn is sounded. In the airs of Adam's Way he looks towards Stone and wonders if the Mountain's Blood would ever stop flowing. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/27/2016	As Sketch approaches the other passengers the Mirthless Colonist quickly taps his cane against the pavement. "Everyone, may I please have your attention? We are now in Apis Meet, Elder Continent mainland. I suggest we move quickly and with care, seeing as it isn't strictly legal to be here after dusk. If you do manage to get caught after the tree's shriveled, bear in mind that Presbyterate law does not protect foreigners from violence, theft, or anything else that would constitute crime. Carry on." edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/27/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Barse Posts: 706 7/27/2016	"He's right." Barselaar nods in the direction of Ozymandias. "This is a port town. You won't be able to walk a hundred yards without finding somewhere that sells liquor. Just follow the sounds of music and punches landing, and you'll do right." He adjusts his scarf to cover more of his face, and walks to stand by Drake. "It'll be some strange kind of vessel that can sail in these waters," he remarks, at once wishing he could sail the Reck instead of some unknown replacement and thankful that his ship did not have to brave the crimson river. -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/27/2016	Sketch looks down at the masks, the knives. What an utter lunatic. He looks back up at Vaustus, fixing him with a scrutinizing gaze. He grins. This is an opportunity. "Of course," he replies, smoothly, "But first - do you see that cigar store down the street? With the statue of the Indian out front? I want you to go down there and buy me a box of cigars. After all, we need something to commemorate such an experience. After you're done, wait for me outside the shop while I go get the bag from the ship. We'll meet up and then begin our adventure, eh?" -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/27/2016	Vaustus pauses. He begins to laugh. "Oh my goodness. You think I'm actually going to fall for that one?" He pauses, brushing tears out of his eyes. "Look, if you insist on keeping up this insufferable charade with the others, I won't blame you. Just please don't insult me by lying to me. I may be a bit mad, but I'm not stupid." He sighs. "Tell you what. I'm going to go that way. I'll walk into the nearest pub and start to get stinking drunk. If you follow me, I'll assume you've taken up my offer. If not, I'll leave you alone for the rest of the voyage. Sound nice?" Vaustus walks away. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/27/2016	"Question," says the Mirthless Colonist, looking sceptically. "How do you intend to reach Stone without any of us dying horribly?" -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/27/2016	"Do you where the nearest pub is?" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/18/2016	(ooc: accidently reported a comment. Damn my slippery hands and unreliable phone!) -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/18/2016	(OOC) I don't see why they should contradict, let's just assume Drake's post takes place about five minutes after mine, after the Unclear Device's effects have worn off and we're taking inventory of who's dead and who's not. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/18/2016	The Mirthless Colonist takes the package and regards it with some admirance. "Fine quality, sir." He takes a single cigarette and tucks it into his breastpocket, and then takes out another one, which he hands to his clay man, Tuff. The Clay man looks at the cigarette with disdain, and starts loudly chewing on it. Then, the Colonist passes the package back to Sketch. edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/18/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/18/2016	"Saying you came back alive is hardly a recommendation, considering how hard it is to die down here." Suinicide turns back towards drake. "Do you have a plan to deal with the fluke again? I think its likely we'll encounter it on the way back. Unless you plan on crashing the ship, and just hoping it eats the venom first." edited by suinicide on 7/19/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/19/2016	(Not that this is too big of a problem right now, but just as a future reminder perhaps try not posing too many questions or other actions to a single player before he or she has yet to respond to one. It can get cluttered pretty quick.) -- Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/19/2016	"So, you're going on a hunt for lost Cantigaster Venom, eh?" Sketch asks, dragging on his Gypsy again and wiggling his eyebrows at the Mirthless Colonist, "Sounds exciting. I could help, if you'd like." He spots the wink out of the corner of his eye, but is unfazed. It's not truly a dinner party til at least a few winks are being passed around. edited by Professor Sketch on 7/19/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/19/2016	"In truth, I did not know this ships destinations when I snuck aboard. I'd been stranded in the port for weeks, so seeing a friendly ship was a huge relife. As is, I think I still might stick around. It may be a fool's errand but, hey" He laughs "I may just be a fool" -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/23/2016	This most certainly had been an interesting day; A narrow escape from a Lorn-Fluke followed by a dinner in pleasant, albeit quite unusual, company. Curiously Barzelaar had been absent, although one could hardly blame him for needing some rest after the tumultuous event. Speaking of the good captain, that seems to be him over there. Thinking that someone should fill him in on the matters discussed during the dinner Ozymandias decides to engage him in conversation; Who knows, he might even have some idea of his own on how to survive the passage through Adams Way. -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/23/2016	In his quarters, the Mirthless Colonist muses over a small vial filled with a bright-red substance. He struggles with his urges for several minutes before finally giving in and tasting of a single drop of the honey. "Memories." -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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The Atumian Sputum Posts: 137 7/18/2016	(I agree that the story is progressing at quite an astonishing speed. I'm used to writing dialogue and slow-paced stories, so if people want to slow the story a bit with a few scenes of life on the ship or longer conversations between the characters than the short little encounters we've been doing, I'm up for it. Some dialogue centered scenes always help build the characters.) edited by Professor Sketch on 7/18/2016 -- Straight outta Dahut.
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TheThirdPolice Posts: 609 7/18/2016	((OOC — didn't expect this to move this fast. I'll try to catch up and join in Monday or Tuesday.)) -- Excessive Corpse & Tender to Irreal Ravens Lover of Flawed Souls And with especial pride, Worst Screwup of the Decade!
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Barse Posts: 706 7/18/2016	The Scorched Sailor meets Drake out on the deck, both manic and out breath. He had seen the great spines beyond the breakers too, and sounded the great horn that, in better days, would have heralded a mealtime aboard the pleasure yacht. "I've been to zee a fair few times," he shouts to Drake over the klaxon, "but I stayed alive by avoiding trouble, not tangling with it." He pauses, and considers the one time he charged right into trouble. That had resulted in the sinking of this very ship. "Do you have any ideas?" edited by Barselaar on 7/18/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 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?" -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/17/2016	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 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 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. -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Barse Posts: 706 7/17/2016	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." -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/17/2016	“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 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/16/2016	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. -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/17/2016	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 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 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 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Barse Posts: 706 7/17/2016	He frowns, a tight bundle of wrinkles lining the visible section of his forehead. He keeps tight grip of the knife. "No. I don't know you. But you do know who Baphomet is, and you shouldn't." He turns to Drake. "He'll pay for the spillage, somehow, I swear it, but this man knows things that he couldn't possibly know unless he was involved with me in some respect." He takes the vial from the man - Vaustus can apparently see that to keep hold of it would be suicide - and hands it back to the violently angry Drake. The knots in Barselaar's forehead deepen. "This will sound hypocritical, after my complaining, but he stays here until I work out whether he is friend or foe. Then he will pay for your venom, before we either haul him into the deep dark below or welcome him as crew. Trust me with this, like I trusted you with the others." He turns back to Vaustus, an edge in his eye. "You. You're this close to dying. Follow me." He grabs him by the shoulder and takes him deeper into the ship. "Convince me," the Sailor growls. edited by Barselaar on 9/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Ozymandias, Posts: 31 7/17/2016	Ozymandias is making himself oriented with the ship and his fellow crewmembers, when suddenly, the sharp sound of splintered glass is heard from Drake`s suite. It seems that a blind passenger has snuck his way onto the vessel. judging from the shouting he has also managed to upset our usually jovial expedition leader something dreadfully. Ozymandias half expects the presumptuous intruder to be thrown overboard, but against expectation the situation ends with Barselaar escorting him somewhere. There is definitely some secret to be found here. But then again, the whole ship is brimming with them. It is a wonder the ship is not breaking apart under the sheer weight of hidden agendas. In these situations, it is generally best to remain the observer and not show one’s hand until one has grasped the rules of the game being played. He mustn’t get too complacent though or he might find himself the victim of another’s intrigue. Ozymandias considers some of his shipmates. There is Drake Dynamo, a man who has achieved true immortality, what could he possibly hope to gain from this expedition? The matter of the tomb colonist seems simple enough, he seeks passage to Fallen London, but there are several unanswered questions surrounding the bandaged figure. The Genial Gambler remembers that they have not yet been properly introduced, he really should get around to that. Manners should be kept, even while on sea. A man whom he is not quite as enthusiastic to meet is the Professor, sketch he is called. At first glance there seems to be nothing untoward about him, rather he strikes a quite magnificent figure, but at closer look there seems to be something dreadfully macabre about him. He is definitely very dangerous, but hopefully the danger will be turned towards a common foe. There is also another one, Suinicide. Ozymandias has seen her before; she occasionally frequents the same gambling tables as he himself does. He has heard a rumor about her and Mr. Apples and from what he remembers of her he is inclined to believe it. The gambler finds himself getting a bit nostalgic, while he has never talked with Suinicide before they might find some common ground reminiscing about particularly interesting games. Maybe they could find the time for a game of their own. The Genial Gambler sets off, half seeking this somewhat familiar face, and half being on watch for any other secrets that might reveal themselves here in the dark of the underzee. edited by Ozymandias, on 7/17/2016 -- Ozymandias, The Genial Gambler Always available for chess Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Barse Posts: 706 7/17/2016	"If you know who I am, and who I used to be, you know about the bottommost hold. Just saying his name doesn't prove anything." The Scorched Sailor pushed Vaustus roughly into an unoccupied suite and closed the door. "I could keep you in there for months and no one would know. Prove yourself." He removes his hand from the knife in his overcoat. "No need for any violence," he says. "Not yet. This is where you'll be staying. I'd advise you to stay away from Mr. Dynamo until you've proven your worth, to him and to me." Barselaar stalks out of the room, his head whirling. Vaustus' words had troubled him greatly. Baphomet was an old friend, and one whose existence the Scorched Sailor had tried to keep secret for a long time. Vaustus was one to keep an eye on, and if he proved himself, could be very useful indeed. He strides back to his quarters, head whirling too much to acknowledge the figures of Sketch or Ozymandias on his way. If there is other intrigue on his ship, he resolves, then it can wait. edited by Barselaar on 9/4/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Lord Vaustus Posts: 201 7/17/2016	Vaustus saw the tension. He saw Sketch's monster. He decided to poke it. Grabbing Sketch's arm with unexpected force, Vaustus restrains him. He wasn't certain before, but, with Sketch's reaction, he is now. "I know you understand me. I know what you did at port. I know you have the venom. And you know what?" Vaustus leans in close. "I understand." With that, Vaustus lets go of Sketch, completes a 180 heel turn, and strolls away, humming an old french war song. He's found his new friend. edited by Lord Vaustus on 7/17/2016 edited by Lord Vaustus on 7/17/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lord~Ivastus The heartbroken hedonist Pronounced "Lord vow-Stis".
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Barse Posts: 706 7/17/2016	The great horn sounds as the the Reckoning Postponed slips silently into the zee surrounding Port Carnelian, leaving the bustling London colony behind. The expedition party had all returned, finished conducting their various businesses. The Reck is filled with the whispers of small and personal activity. As the ghostly ship leaves the lights of the shore behind and cuts its path towards Adam's Way, Barselaar leaves the wheel in the hands of the One-Eyed Sailor and goes to Drake Dynamo's suite. There are matters to be discussed. He knocks on the door - Tap-tap tap-tap-tap tap- He pulls back from the last knock. Six will do, he thinks, as he waits for the expedition leader to answer. edited by Barselaar on 7/17/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Barse Posts: 706 7/14/2016	"Was never about the money," The Scorched Sailor says to Drake. "It's about the places themselves. I should warn you, the Reck is a bit of mess. You can use other ships, if you want, but I'm not going anywhere without her." He peers out of his clothes and taps out a rhythm on his thigh. He turns his gaze to Professor Sketch. "I don't care about your cheques," he says, waving a hand at Drake to suggest he take it up with the expedition leader, "but if you're wanting me to take my ship close to that place, I might need to know why." He sighs. "That's a long way off yet, though." He continues to tap out a rhythm, seven beats in quick succession then a pause, as the assembled party wait to see if anyone else will arrive. edited by Barselaar on 7/14/2016 -- The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Kylestien Posts: 749 7/15/2016	He walks onto the ship to speak with Drake "Good Sir, Welcome to Port Carnelian! I am the poor soul they sent after you left with your... Aquisition." You note a bit of anger in his voice at the last word, but no real malice. You get the feeling he's not the maliceful type. "I'm telling you it was rather a riot! The Tigers were calling it a breach of rights, the khanigans were mad at the tiger for blaming them, the Office wanted to do their thing... You threw me right into a nest of vipers sir! And I must say thank you for it! It was a lot of fun. Now, I have heard of your endeavor from a source in London. is it true you seek to make time itself your plaything? I can imagine no greater adventure! I have my... reasons, for wishing to go into the past, which I will make clear later. But for now I wish to know if you will accept me on your journey? Either way, know this: I hear you intend to go to Adam's Way. Well I have some rum news. Ships have been vanishing along that way, never to retuern. I sent a ship to investigate, but of course that went missing too, and if you keep sending ships it just becomes a morbid game of dominoes now doesnt it?" edited by Kylestien on 7/15/2016 -- I will accept all actions, though I hold the right to refuse for my own reasons. However, if you explain WHY you send me a harmful action like Loitering or Dantes,And I feel the reason good, I will consider it more. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Kylestien Persuasive patron. You want a lesson, send me a message asking for one.
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suinicide Posts: 2409 7/15/2016	(Ooc: sorry, I warned drake of this before. But I can only really respond in the morning, at night, or on sundays.) Suinicide darts from the room she had been hiding in, and stumbles down the walkway, leaving scattered empty bottles in her wake. A few of the obvious wounds have been bandaged, or otherwise hidden, leaving one bleeding reminder on her arm. She disappears into the crowd. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/sunnytime A gentleman seeking the liberation of knowledge, with a penchant for violence. RIP suinicide, stuck in a well. Still has it under control.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/15/2016	At a Port Carnelian jetty, a lone Tomb-Colonist sits, his Polythreme bandages writhing under the heat and moistness of the Elder Continent. He stares calmly at the sinking cutter that was supposed to bring him back to London. "Naturally," he firmly says to a distraught captain, "this means you won't be recieving payment." Then, he quietly turns around and heads towards the nearest tea-house. edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/15/2016 -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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A Dimness Posts: 613 7/16/2016	If the mirthless Colonist were to still have an eyebrow, he certainly would've lifted it. As gracefully as he can muster, he approaches the gentleman. "If I'm not mistaken, you're headed to the archipelago," he tactlessly says to the man, unwilling to invest time in a conversation, due to the sweltering heat. "I have rostygold, plenty of it. Secure a place on your ship for me, and some of it might end up in your hands." "I don't have much baggage. Barely any, in all honesty. Tell me when your ship zails, and I'll be there." -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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Arcanuse Posts: 89 11/25/2016	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.* -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Arcanuse
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ForScience Posts: 69 12/1/2016	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. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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A Dimness Posts: 613 11/1/2016	The captain Dynamo walks off, leaving the Mirthless Colonist to himself. He stands now in the corridor, bowed over the pearl. It doesn't look exactly like a pearl, more like a pearl-shaped hole. Staring at it hurts his eyes somehow, and the bandages touching it stand on-end, like the hair of an aggravated cat. As far as pearls went, this was an un-pearl, but he rolled it into his breast pocket with the rest of them, nonetheless. There is a need even for Gant. There was still business to attend to, no time for dallying. That Clay Man could still be on the zee-floor for all he knew! -- A truth so strange it can only be lied into existence
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To Do What None Have Done Before- A Neathean Argo