Barse
Posts: 706
3/3/2017
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The Scorched Sailor tramps up the half-familiar stairs to the Dynamo residence. Broken out of New Newgate, and by the Shade, no less? Interesting times. He is not quite sure whether he hopes the rumours are true or false.
It's been a long while since he first entered Drake's house, before they two even knew each other, and he feels the same reluctance now as he did then, the unwillingness to enter the house of a stranger. They're hardly strangers now, but even so he hesitates at the door, wondering if Drake will even be glad to see him after his abject failure to be of any assistance during the Dynamo's incarceration.
He steels himself, and resolves to be a better acquain- friend now than he has been. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Kno-
Drake Dynamo is ebullient, and pulls the Sailor into a fraternal embrace even before the front door is fully open, let alone before the Sailor could offer his hand for a handshake. "Glad you could make it, glad you could make it!" He ushers the Sailor inside with unusual haste, and does a bad show of hiding the brass candlestick that he's wielding in his right hand. "You saw the flyer?"
The Sailor finds his behind escorted into a deep armchair before he quite knows what has happened. From across the room Emma is testing the bolts on a window - why are there bolts on a window? - and idly fiddling with a hefty-looking paperweight. She raises an arch eyebrow at him. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
The Sailor blusters. "Flyer? No, I - prison, you're out? I thought I should -" A long pause. A long think. "Ah." He has a terrible suspicion that he knows what this is about, and, as the Dynamo siblings sketch out the details of their escape, the slow weight of dread settles in his stomach as his suspicions are proved correct. Another flyer. Another quest. This time, an obligation to a friend. He listens, settles in, and waits for the others to arrive, as he knows they will.
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 The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
11/11/2017
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Cowritten with John Moose.
The corridor surrounding Henchard is deep red, and quivers slowly, as if alive. Further away, faceless shapes enter from some side corridors and exit to others. Beside Henchard, a red mist solidifies into Noah. The doctor seems to have calmed down remarkably… Although something about him seems very off. His unseeing white-grey eyes seem to rest on Henchard, then the corridor, then his leg, as if seeing normally. The blood on his leg has ceased to flow out, now instead crawling back up his leg, like an armada of red worms. The wound isn’t closing, but the blood seems hesitant to leave. Henchard dreads to think of what his own neck is going through. Noah stands up slowly but steadily, and begins walking toward a small, dark corridor, leading downwards. He carries his cane, but does not seem to have need of it. On the floor, where Noah’s steps fall, shapes as if agonized faces appear, their screams unheard. “This way”, Noah says dreamily, not seeming to pay much attention to Henchard anymore.
So. Not medicine, but another mystery of the neath. Unfriendly as always. And hopefully over soon. A whisper floats past him, and Henchard looks back. The corridor is gone, replaced by a door locked with a mask. He turns his back on it and follows Noah.
“So” Noah remarks, heading deeper down the winding corridors, “What would you prefer? Love? Violence? The thrill of the chase? We have time to kill, and I’ve stored a good selection of memories down here. Is this your first time in the Chambers? I’m sure you’ll learn to appreciate it.” He stops, hesitating between two paths. Left, a golden glow shines faintly through the walls. Right, shadows of small, scurrying things are cast on the walls, without any clear source. Noah chooses the right one. “Distilled memories. It’s how I make my living, generally - extracting valuable memories from those without the ability to appreciate them, and painful ones from those who’d do better without them. You’d be surprised how much people will pay for utterly dreadful memories, in certain circles.”
“So you run a...memory trade,” Henchard says, stepping over a large face forming beneath them. Its mouth was open, hungry, salivating. “And people pay money to come here?”
“I… Operate a modest service under the watchful eye of my superiors.” Noah’s face is carefully devoid of all emotion. ”And no, not to come here, per se. To view the memories accessible from here, and sometimes to mingle with other… Enthusiasts. Although I must say, I personally find these corridors rather soothing in themselves. But generally what’s being looked for is… Say… The feelings of first experiences, true love for those who are unable to find any, how it feels to kill a person… Very hedonistic in general, you see.”
“I think so,” Henchard said, “There is nothing people want more than what they cannot have.” He stops in front of a door of a yellow star and knocks lightly on it. “So each memory is stored behind one of these doors-”
The door opens without warning, flooding the corridor with light. Henchard finds himself running through Flit, a high-pitched laughter bubbling from his throat. He’s holding the favourite hat of a fellow Fisher-King, being chased by the owner. The hat’s owner seems far less amused and Henchard knows he’ll get silent treatment for this, but he’s never able to resist teasing-
(Somewhere at the back of Henchard’s mind, he hears a young girl begging him to leave her memories alone)
-A ladder! Henchard scurried up, hat clenched in teeth. He emerges onto a flat roof, cluttered with junk and useless bits. Too useless or too big to even be stolen. A tilted flagpole hangs over the streets below, and an idea takes root at the sight of it. He can raise the bluest, hattiest flag London has ever known! Wave it from the top of the flit, a nice blue against the stars-
(A young girl is pleading, sobbing, to be left alone)
-He arrives out of breath, having looped back at the flagpole. The hat’s owner has fallen behind, struggling over the rooftops in the distance. Henchard waves, and turns to the pole. He scrunches out, inching his way along it until he reaches the end. One hand grips the pole with a too small hand, the other fumbles in pockets for a needle and thread. Carefully, carefully, he stitches the hat to the remaining rope-
(A young girl is screaming, incoherent with pain, alone, alone, alone)
-A hand grabs his foot! He squeals and jumps, twisting around the flagpole. The other person screams as the world blurs. Their hands wrapped around his foot hard enough to hurt. Let go Let go Let go LET GO!
-and Henchard is back in the corridor, Noah patiently waiting for him to resume the journey.
“I hope you liked it,” Noah said, before Henchard lunged across the room, his hands grabbing the front of Noah’s shirt.
“What was that voice?” He hissed, “The one screaming to be left alone.”
“Oh, that? The owner of the memory.” Noah’s expression is of mild surprise, instead of the usual fear - something about this place seems to be keeping him calm. “That happens, yes. It’s not a pleasant experience to have your memories ransacked. It’s handy, really - if the voice matches with the age in the memory, you know it’s fresh.”
“Fresh?” Henchard draws back a fist, and then lets it drop. “If we weren’t in a hurry to get back to the fight,” He pauses, “I’m not sure if I could kill you here, but I would certainly give it a try.”
Noah frowns slightly. “Hurry? We’re not in a hurry.” Noah cocks his head to the side, puzzled at why this man won’t just relax now they’re safe. There’s some choice memories he’d like to get to… “The dose I gave us won’t wear of at least for another half an hour. We’ll be safe and sound here until the battle is well over.” His face lights up a bit. Oh, he was worried we were going back… “Don’t worry, we’re not dying like the rest of them, I saved us. You can just relax now, and then we’ll find a good hospital to return to. I’m sure the Shade won’t keep chasing us as long as we lay low and don’t bother it.”
Half an hour. This wasn’t a temporary retreat to lick their wounds, this was a coward’s retreat, abandoning their friends and allies and leaving them to rot. Henchard looks at Noah’s vacant expression. Maybe not a coward’s retreat, but an addict’s. But either way, the result is the same. Henchard shoved Noah away and the man tumbled to the ground. Laughing and jeering faces grew out of his shadow, and he gazed up at Henchard, confused.
“No. We don’t have half an hour.” A strange fuzz grew downwards across Henchard’s face, and his hands twitched with the desire to scratch at it. Noah’s face was similarly affected, blurring him like water on paint, like memory after pain, like rot upon bread. “You will fix this. And you will get us back to the Shade in time for us to help. Do you understand.”
What Henchard gets in response is a honey-mazed laughter. “A ha ha, no, no way. Back to that? I like my blood on the inside, thank you very much. Besides, it’s impossible. The Honey’s in us now, and until it dissipates, no power in the Neath is going to take us out. If you figure a way to get out, be sure to let me know. I could publish.” At this, Noah breaks into open, roaring laughter. “Well I couldn’t! But still!” At the back of his mind, something is nagging him about this situation, but he’s having too much fun to stop.
Henchard kicks out at the laughing figure. Noah topples over onto his back, still laughing, the faces beside him cheering and sharing greedy smiles. Henchard stands over Noah, and places a foot against his throat.
“You left them alone.” He whispered, and stomped on the figure’s throat. “They trusted you and you ran, abandoned them. Betrayed them.” Noah coughed in response.
Henchard picked the figure up, resting him against a door locked with a mask. “And you dragged me into it too.” His hand shoots out, smashing the figure’s head against the door frame. The door starts to open, starts to consume Noah, and Henchard drags the figure away from the light. Noah screams, torn between dreams and memory. The door closes, the light fades, and the figure’s head is beaten into the doorway again. “You’re a monster.”
Noah only smiles in response. His mouth starts to move, to respond as the light swallows his arm. The figure is torn away with a scream. The head meets the door. The head meets the door. The head meets the door and blood crawls back inside the skull. The head meets the door and is pulled away with a deep sucking sound. The head meets the door and is torn away leaving a tendril of blood quivering, between the head and the door. The head meets the door, and Henchard drops the figure in disgust. Noah moans as the light consumes him.
-Noah is standing on the deck of a ship, eyeing the light of the buoy shining in the distance. It’s still five days’ zailing to Irem, and the supplies are dwindling. His first mate approaches him and opines “You’ve done and fucked up properly this time, Noah”. What-
-Noah twitches on the warm floor, feeling something sweet trickle in his mouth-
-warm morning in a Paris café, enjoying the beginning of the hustle and bustle of the streets. The sun feels warm on his skin. He casts his eyes on the newspaper, the cover exclaiming how “It’s real this time, boy, you’re dying and it’s in the hands of someone you thought was a friend, there’s no clever words that’ll get you out of this, Noah” Wait, that’s not what it-
-the warmth of the walls is gone now, that red light in his head that let him find his way as if he could see again, it’s all dark and confusion and pain pain so much pain-
-his lover grabs him by the hand, spins him around so his red dress flutters in the darkness, and leans in to whisper to his ear: “That’s cerebral fluid you’re tasting. Let’s find out what dying’s like, shall we? It’s ok, you deserve it, Noah”-
-his head is burning, he can’t breathe… No, no, what is this, why am I…
As Noah thrashes around on the floor, a small crack comes from his large coat’s breast pocket. A loud buzzing fills the corridor, as angry, red-shaded bees escape, swarming around him and crawling over his face. Noah tries to wave them away, but his arms aren’t moving properly.
“Now the screaming, Noah” the bees buzz in his ears. “They always screamed, didn’t they Noah, scream now, scream, there’s a good boy, scream, that sound’s coming from you Noah, scream, scream, scream” he feels the air grow cold, and something leaks from his head, from his mind, and water that tastes like mud flows over him, and suddenly he’s submerged in cold, cold water, the bees holding onto his ears and eyes and nose-
The buzzing comes first. Leaking from the door unlocked with a mask, seeping from the edges. Something has been angered, and Henchard waits.
The figure comes second. It stumbles from the door locked with a mask, and falls to the ground. It thrashes there, still lost in its dreams.
The bees comes third. As if birthed by the struggles, they spread over the figure, leaving it a red blur. The buzzing settles, almost to a whisper.
The screaming comes fourth. It floods over the buzzing, leaving only the occasional whisper to bob to the surface, friendly and drowning, clinging to life.
The screaming, the bees, the figure, the buzzing, they vanish. And Henchard is alone.
edited by suinicide on 11/11/2017
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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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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/15/2017
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(Part 2 of 2)
***Sgt Lyndon slowly backs away from the Shade. Bullets zip past him, heading hopelessly towards his foe. His left arm is a limp piece of flesh hanging from his body, and his shoulder is burning with pain, but he does manage to get some distance between himself and the fight...
... when he seems to be hit by a freight train! He flies through the air and smashes into the war memorial in the square's centre. The names of fellow soldiers who never returned from Hell loom above his head. If he doesn't make it, at least he will leave in good company, he thinks with a bitter grin. Even now the stubborn veteran tries to get up one more time, but the world tilts in a very unusual direction, and he cannot manage it. He collapses in a heap with a faint grunt, only vaguely aware of what happens afterwards:***
Some thing—for the life of him, he cannot put a name on it—has joined the fight, roaring like the end of the world. Utter confusion reigns. It is about 10 feet tall and its arms are about as long, the fingers ending in huge claws. Its face seems to be mostly mouth, and that mouth mostly teeth. Shreds of a violet garment seem to hang from its body here and there—is that a dress?
The beast rages in utter madness, but clearly veering towards the Shade, who takes a step back from Lady Orosenn, uncertain what is happening. A swing of the monster's claws takes a chunk out of the old pub at the corner, raining brickwork onto everyone. Edward Frye disappears under a mountain of debris. Noah Rache, who has unwisely tried to crawl away from the memorial, is almost tread on. Dirae Erinyes fearlessly darts forward then, pulling the blind man from the battlefield with their one arm, while Evensong and Azoth are frantically waving everyone—those who can still move, at least—to retreat.
The Shade's hesitation costs him: when he finally decides that, indeed, the time for retreat has come, it is almost too late. He only just avoids being grabbed by the monster: claws rake across his back, even that impact enough to send him flying into the front of the Bucket of Blood, that theatre so popular with the lower classes. Many are watching the battle from inside the sturdy old building—they are definitely getting some bang for their bucks tonight!
But at this point, something unexpected happens again: suddenly, the beast seems to lose steam (or whatever's fuelling it). It just stands there, sniffing and licking the Shade's blood on its claws. Then it seems to shrink. After a few seconds, a woman stands in its place, naked as a baby: but she's just skin and bones really, ragged dirty hair of indiscernible colour falling over her shoulders. She seems confused. Slowly, she turns around. She looks at the people lying on the ground, those few still standing, and finally at Dirae, who starts and takes a surprised step forward. "Don't... don't I know you?"
The woman starts to sob, apparently becoming aware of her surroundings, of her condition. "Oh my god—is everyone okay—I'm so sorry you had to... see me like this. I..."
And then she breaks down in front of everyone, right there in Seven Devils square, and she cries, cries, cries, like a polar night sky where every star has died.
Phryne Amarantyne's soul is crying—and now, finally, so is she.
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*** This part was co-written with Barren/Bertrand Lyndon.
edited by phryne on 3/15/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/15/2017
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Noah is crawling away from the screams, desperately trying to put some distance between himself and whatever is happening. His face feels better, Hamilton wrapped it up well, and he can think about moving again. His hands clasp the cane and his bag the bees, no one can find the bees as his elbows drag him away.
Then the voices change - rumbling, crunching, great, heavy things breaking. In the direction he's been crawling towards, something is coming. Something with very heavy steps.
He feels its pressure above him, now. Like the smallest cell under a microscope. Like an ant under a boot. The pressure builds up, and Noah curls up and whimpers. The scent of jasmine fills his nostrils. That's it, I'm dead, I smell heav
The street shakes, something crashes down next to him, and suddenly it's gone. Noah feels something warm spreading on his pants, and prays that it's not blood. Heavy footsteps come close and an arm like a tree-trunk picks Noah up. Still clutching his cane and bag, he spreads his arms around the giant and holds on for dear life, sobbing with his head pressed against his rescuer.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/15/2017
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Gideon watches, dumbfounded, as a hulking apparition catapults the Shade into next week.
WELL, THERE’S SOMETHING YOU DON’T SEE EVERY DAY, mutters Voice 2 in begrudging respect.
The gears in his head immediately begin ticking, crunching the problem down to size. What was that? Is there any way to replicate it?
More importantly, should it be replicated? Best to leave that question to the philosophers. There was science to be done, and the consequences could wait.
Regardless, the Shade seems to have retreated for now. Gideon gives the melted remains of the rifle a quick look over and finds nothing worth salvaging, then heads back down to street level.
As the adrenaline of the fight wears off, Gideon begins to notice a few aches and pains. He’s managed to avoid the worst of the exploding device, but a few components went flying into him and he’s acquired some nasty bruises and a few burns, particularly on his face and his fingers while they were covering his eyes.
He’s doing a damn sight better than his allies across the square, though. The Scorched Sailor’s arm lies on the pavement, dripping blood and what looks like wax. The doctor Noah is hanging from the hulking Dirae and weeping, his eyes bandaged. All the others who entered the melee are unconscious or clutching dripping wounds.
They were a sorry sight, but Gideon admired their bravery. Charging into an inhuman whirlwind to protect each other took serious guts that Gideon doubted he could muster. He was always the one lurking at the back, plotting some grand scheme and avoiding the worst of the damage.
He’d almost consider joining them in the next fight, except for the fact that he was probably more liable to injure himself with a sword than his foe.
It seemed they had acquired a new friend, too – a slight woman wearing nothing but a few shreds of a tattered dress after her transformation into human form. Gideon burned with questions for her – how did she do it? Was it controllable? – but he averted his eyes to preserve her modesty.
What had Drake been doing during the fight? He was here now, casting his eyes about as if he could find the Shade lurking behind a lamppost, but Gideon hadn’t seen him during the fight. This Shade was his problem, wasn’t it? The man was practically immortal and he just seemed to be flapping ineffectually.
GIVE HIM A PIECE OF YOUR MIND, growled Voice 2, and for once Gideon agreed.
Gideon went over to him. “I think I speak for everyone,” he said hotly, “When I say that was a disaster. What the hell is this Shade, anyway? It strikes from nowhere and moves like nothing I’ve seen! We’re lucky none of us died – and it was damn close! I’m not normally one to complain about pay, but this job is getting worse all the time, and it seems like you’ve recklessly endangered us without telling us the real risks. What’s your game, Drake?”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/15/2017
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 Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
 Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/15/2017
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Something was boiling inside Azoth. It was strange, feeling this ... anger. Looking around, all she could see was pain and blood. The battle had lasted only a few minutes, but it had been an absolute slaughter. Had the Shade actually been trying to deal lethal damage, she had no doubt at least half of them would be dead right there.
Her eyes were drawn to the sound of Drake's voice, and the anger only grew further.
"You're concerned about it escaping?" she said, glaring at the immortal. "Of all the things on your mind, that's what you're worried about? Not about the fact that half of us are at Death's doorstep right now? I expected better of you. You're the one who organized this entire hunt, and what have you done? Led us into a trap, stood by while we were cut down one by one, and now you're not even thinking about us poor, wounded mortals? Get a hold of yourself. We have bigger problems."
Without waiting for his response, she turned and stalked away. There was far too much on her mind to stay and listen.
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
 Hesperidean.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/15/2017
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The Shade's words snap Dirae Erinyes out of their pain but not back to reality. His words bring them back to the spit flecked rants of their parents. Against Death, true death. Of it's capricious cruelty, of how it pressed humanity down through out the ages. Everything about Subject 5 was their manifesto against the tyrant of death.
This slide into the past is not helped by Phryne's arrival. Dirae Erinyes swoops in to save the blind doctor but instead see them as their father as Subject 14 had another temper tantrum. Her new sibling whose nightmares shaped their body. A sibling whose mind was split, whose souls refused to fuse.
Dirae Erinyes tries to extend the their broken arm. It doesn't work quite right and the results are surely cringe inducing. They do not notice, trying to give a warm smile.
"Sibling 14, its okay. Come here."
Evensong's stomach drops as they draw close to the chaos. They did not need one of Dirae Erinyes fugue states at this moment, not with this new monster on the field. She grips her rifle in one hand, while searching for a very special music box in her pockets.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/15/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/22/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, perched on a high Watchmaker’s smokestack, drums his new fingers against a chimney, sending small stone chips and clouds of brickdust into the street below. The Clay Scholar might be a maniac but there’s no denying his work is good. A hand that is only slightly less dextrous than its flesh predecessor taps out the beat of patriotic war-hymn that had been popular in Mahogany Hall more years ago than he cares to admit. The pain is gone too, although replaced with an unsettling dysmorphia. Although it responds to his requests, the arm is not his, not really. Rough-hewn and inelegant, the Sailor has done his best to cover the arm up in reams of wrapped bandages, his coat and garments still sliced – as the limb underneath it has latterly been – clean around the elbow. A ribbon of white shale runs from elbow to palm like a vein. He is surprised whenever he sees it.
A low whistle from across the rooftops breaks reverie. “Oi! Mister! Sumfink’s strange, here.” A small urchin has poked his up from a few rooftops over. The Sailor makes his clumsy way across the tiles, wincing every time he hears the shattering of slate on the street below. More often than he would like. He is not as nimble as he was. The urchin regards him with curiosity, and stares without a hint of decorum at his badly disguised arm.
It hadn’t been hard to trace the party after he’d stumbled groggily from the Clay Quarter. Back in Seven Devils Square, stories of the massacre were already taking on the quality of bloodthirsty folklore, and a number of people – most deep in their cups – had been eager to tell him all about the group, bloody and stupid, who had fought the Shadow and limped towards Watchmaker’s Hill. An uneasy clamber to the Watchmaker’s roofs had followed, where he was quickly surrounded by a gaggle of fierce looking urchins bearing the insignia of the Regiment. His rookery password turned out to be a month or two out of date, but his information about a storehouse by the Docks where the Admiralty stores its ordnance was greedily accepted. The Regiment’s cannon is its pride and joy.
Now it looks like his little net of urchin lookouts has paid off. The urchin, managing to look away from the Sailor’s arm, points downward. “Not quite wot’cher asked fer, but mighty odd don’t’cha fink?” Below, a young girl is struggling with an oversized sack, pulling it along the ground behind her as if it contains an anvil. “She ain’t one of ours,” the urchin asserts. “And this time o’ the morning everyone else is usually asleep, drunk or dead.”
The Scorched Sailor nods. He’s been up here a while now, and this is the closest thing to suspicious activity any of the urchins have noticed in the area. Besides, he hates to see a child struggle. “Thank you. Try not to blow yerselves up.” The urchin chuckles, and a number of other small, grubby heads pop out from improbable perches to laugh at him as he makes an inelegant descent back to street level, leaving faint handprint-indentations in a few bricks on his way.
“Worry about yourself, you old sunnelcot!”
___
Rounding the corner, the Sailor approaches the young girl and does his best not to look threatening. It occurs to him that this is, perhaps, a doomed endeavour. He is bloody, heavily bandaged, his clothes are ripped and torn, there is something quite obviously wrong with one arm, and his unwounded flesh is still… well, hideous. Maybe the smile is not helping.
Still, she has not run away yet, and there is curiosity mingled with the wariness in her look. He gestures to her sack, which looks to contain all manner of improbable and heavy things. Time to see how strong this arm is. “You need a hand?”
edited by Barselaar on 3/22/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
11/4/2017
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Time is a tricky thing. It creeps up on you when you least expect it, and stretches out to infinity out of spite if you pay too much attention to it. Some would say Gideon turned up late to the climactic fight with the Shade. But, as our esteemed readership surely knows by now, an inventor arrives precisely when he means to.
One day early, in fact.
Gideon has always believed in turning up early, although circumstances often conspire against him. He was late to his own wedding – twice – thanks to a series of outrageous coincidences involving a friendly widower and a kidnapping plot. For once, though, fate has deigned to deliver him to the Bazaar Side-Streets with plenty of time to set up his most implausible invention. He hires a room for an eye-watering price (paid mainly in coupons) at a hotel overlooking the most sinister alleyway in the parish, and sets to work.
The grandfather clock, lugged by Gideon up three flights of stairs, lurks in a beige-wallpapered corner of the hotel room. As always, its hands resolutely refuse to move, stuck at seven minutes past seven.
What use a stopped clock when time marches on? Even a stopped clock is right twice a day for one sacred second. The trick is taking that second, stretching it, and slaving it to the will of the clock. Then you must learn to exploit it, moving like quicksilver between the tick and the tock.
Reject the Tyranny of Clocks, that Judgemental rule held at bay by the un-law of the Neath. Embrace the Treachery of Clocks. Time is unreliable. It can bend by your command, stretch by your command, stop by your command.
Gideon reads the notes stuffed into the cavity of the clock beneath the stilled pendulum. They are written in his hand, but he barely remembers writing them, caught as he was in the epiphany of the Truth. This is the closest he ever got to transcendence: one endless night flitting between dreams in a honey-haze, captivated by the closeness of the impossible, scribbling feverishly in his pocket-book until it was filled cover-to-cover with words of rapture.
Most of it was nonsense. He wrote of flying like a moth toward a flame, of wings melting like Icarus’. But underneath the poetic imagery was hard, solid Truth; the Truth that built the foundation of his works to come as he exploited the impossibilities of the Neath. He made wonders that no Surface scientist could ever create: the Paradox Engine, the Ninefold Cat, the Irrigo Bomb, the Folding Snake-Skinner Rifle, the Sunlight Projector, and finally the Tyrannous Timepiece.
The Tyrannous Timepiece broods in its grandfather housing. It loiters. It idles. The appointed time has almost come.
Gideon spends much of the next day tinkering with the Timepiece. Everything must be perfect for its final unveiling. It’ll be a real show-stopper.
The inner workings bear little resemblance to a clock. There are thin pipes laced throughout the interior to distribute hot water piped in from the room’s radiator. Previous iterations of the device had problems with ice build-up, which was at least a change from catching on fire like Gideon’s other inventions.
There is a second panel at the base of the clock which accepts metal pellets like the ones plucked from the late lamented Paradox Engine. Gideon feeds the Timepiece with all of the pellets he has left. It is a hungry beast.
By the time the day of the meeting comes, the window of the Tyrannous Timepiece is webbed with intricate patterns of frost. The device is calibrated for the temporal harmonics of the immediate environs and almost ready to operate. Effective radius: unknown.
There, just in his peripheral vision: someone moves across the tiled roof on the other side of the alley. Gideon’s blood runs cold. He pretends to be absorbed in his work on the Timepiece and watches the figure’s progress out of the corner of his eye, not daring to turn his head.
No, not yet! I still have more tests to run!
The figure is unnervingly familiar, clothed as it is in an exact copy of Drake’s body. But unlike Dynamo’s charmingly uncoordinated movement, the Shade steps with the sinuous grace of a predator, wicked scimitar in hand. It seems to be favouring one leg; is it just coincidence as it moves across the slope of the roof, or has the Shade lost some of its former strength?
Gideon tries not to look. He has never been so close to the Shade before, but he has seen what the creature can do. It can move faster than the blink of an eye, slicing like a dervish. Without his gadgets and a healthy amount of distance, Gideon would barely even register as an obstacle.
You could end it now, says the Voice of Malice. Use your device. Jump the alleyway. Stop it before it reaches the others. Take its blade and stab it until there’s nothing left to stab. It’s what I would do.
Gideon hesitates a moment too long at that last remark. The Shade moves out of view, and he finds himself able to move again. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his forehead, where beads of cold sweat have sprung up.
I knew you didn’t have the guts, scoffs Malice.
Gideon checks his pocket-watch. Twenty-three minutes past one. He reaches round the back of the Tyrannous Timepiece and sets the hands to twenty-six minutes past one, to allow for some leeway.
Shouts rise up from the alleyway, trapped between the walls. Swords clash. Guns fire. The Shade has begun its massacre. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, says Malice.
The Shade has been reading the Good Book as a light break between murders, it seems. It quotes scripture with the fervour of old Southwark himself.
"Man is like to vanity, his days are as a shadow that passeth away. Come down, touch the mountains and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them! Shoot out thine arrows, and destroy them!"
If nothing else, it certainly has a flair for the dramatic. Gideon walks over to the coat rack and puts on his warm coat – no sense in catching a chill – then retrieves a garish pink umbrella from the umbrella-stand. This is, of course, no ordinary umbrella. It is Unflippable. Thus equipped for battle, he slides open the window of the hotel room and slips out onto the cast-iron fire escape.
One minute and thirty seconds. Time is ticking, although that is a temporary state of affairs. Gideon is linked to the Timepiece now through his pocket-watch.
As he dashes down the stairs, he catches glimpses of the fight at the other end of the alley. The Shade’s scimitar is shattered now, but it packs a mean punch. Poor Dirae doesn’t stand a chance.
“Who would face me yet?”
As it turns out, the answer is Florence. Her backpack-mounted gant emitter is ingenious, and it seems to cause the Shade real pain, although it shorts out before long. Perhaps it is a unique property of the Shade that so repels all Neathbow-fuelled devices. This calls for further study, although now is perhaps not the time.
He watches in horror as the Shade recovers, slamming Florence into a wall.
Thirty seconds.
Gideon barely knows Florence, but he senses a kindred spirit in the scientist. He thinks of Arnold and Anna and what was done to them.
I won’t stand by while more of my friends are put at risk. You were wrong, Malice. I couldn’t have stopped it on the roof. Just look at what it did to Dirae. But the Shade is bleeding now. The gant has weakened it.
I couldn’t save Anna or Arnold. But I can save Florence. Maybe that will be enough.
He reaches the bottom of the stairs. The ladder down to street level is locked in place. Nothing for it, then. Gideon takes the plunge to the cobbles, dropping the last storey. The walls rush past him and he tries to drop into a roll, but he lands poorly and pain shoots through his left ankle as he hits the paving.
Sprained, probably. It doesn’t matter. I can’t stop now.
Gideon pulls himself to his feet and retrieves his umbrella. The Shade pulls itself up, advancing on Florence.
He counts down the seconds in his head. Ten. His heart pounds. His ankle burns. And his pocket-watch ticks. Nine.
Eight. Gideon breaks into a run, stumbles on his bad leg, crashes to the ground again. Seven. He leans on the umbrella to get upright again. Six. So little time!
He limps forward and sees the blood on the cobbles, trailing off to nowhere. Five. This was a mistake. You’ll die like the others, says Malice.
Four. Not far now. He can make out the shattered body of Dirae on the ground, gears spilling over the cobbles.
"And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in Hell." Three.
The Sailor, fallen. Dirae, fallen. Henchard and Noah, vanished. Drake, standing frozen like Gideon was not too long ago. And Florence, about to become the Shade’s next victim. Two.
“He beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.” One. The Shade smiles a bloody smile and draws back its jagged sword-hilt to strike.
Zero.
The ticking of the pocket-watch stops. In the hotel room, the Timepiece’s face ices over and its pendulum begins to swing. Gideon, protected by the time wound up in the old grandfather clock, moves between the tick and the tock.
The Shade stands frozen in front of him, face contorted in a red grimace. Its vaunted speed will not help it now. Gideon has found a higher mastery.
Do what you can. There’s no time to lose. He chuckles at the thought of time, but time is already running out for him. The clockwork in the Timepiece is unwinding. Already the temperature has dropped a few degrees around Gideon, his breath puffing out in clouds, and before long the gears will freeze together and time will begin to move again.
It’s a good thing I brought my warm coat.
Gideon steps gingerly toward the Shade and Florence. His footsteps leave crystals of ice behind on the cobbles. Frost begins to form on his skin.
Gideon unfurls the Unflippable Umbrella as he walks, sending a plume of cold vapour into the air. The umbrella, too, has begun to freeze. He places it gently in Florence’s hands. No mere umbrella indeed – this one is reinforced to be bulletproof. It is remarkably heavy, being reinforced with steel plating, but such prices must be paid to keep up with the latest technology.
The Shade is even nastier up close. Gideon dances around it, being certain not to touch any part of its body. Dragging the creature into his own time-stream would be disastrous, not to mention messy. Fortunately, touching it indirectly is still possible. With a set of clamps, he gently prises the Shade’s fingers open until the remnants of its scimitar clatter onto the ground, sending up a spray of snow.
He picks up the chilled scimitar and sets to work with surgical precision. It is bitterly cold now – an icicle has begun to form on his nose, dripping water that freezes mid-air into tiny hailstones.
Gideon is not much of a hand with a sword, but his brief tenure at medical school has taught him a few things about surgery. It’s much easier when your patient is perfectly still.
The Achilles tendons are the first to go. Gideon slices cleanly through them. The cuts freeze over even as he makes the incisions. That should slow it down, at the very least.
He considers slicing its throat cleanly, but the thought is forestalled when he finds the Shade’s flesh to be as solid as ice. Too cold! It’s too cold!
Inexorably the Shade turns to face him, slipping into stopped time as Gideon’s cuts take effect. In his pocket, the watch lets out a tick. Time is moving again!
The world around him stutters into motion. Florence is rather surprised to find an umbrella in her hands. The Shade moves like lightning, hauling Gideon up by his throat with one hand.
I wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry.
--
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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Azothi
Posts: 586
4/13/2017
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Postulate: Any murder by the Shade's hands is not entirely without meaning. It is the hunter, hunting the most dangerous game. Its humanity is a twisted one, born from an immortality unlike any known to the broader humanity. Why it would kill is not the right question: why it kills who it kills is a better one. The deaths and disappearances of acquaintances of Drake's acquaintances indicate a desire to attack at the father, at the being responsible for its birth.
"You squander death, when the rest of us have but one death." A memory, one from a yesterday that felt so long ago. "And with your death, we are one step closer to restoring the natural order."
Why would the Shade guard this natural order, the laws that rule what is? It was born from immortality, hidden away from the light and law of the stars. The words gnawed at Azoth, hinting at still greater mysteries. On one hand, it could have been nonsense, meant only to distract and occupy the mind in the midst of battle. Still, there was a certain showmanship it seemed to carry itself with, an almost-playfulness in the way it fought. It was the behavior of someone who'd won the battle before it begun, who would gloat for the satisfaction. If it were telling the truth, then it was no madman, killing for the sake of killing alone. No, it was an extremist, driven by philosophy and ideology, one who killed with a purpose.
If it truly hated humanity, or at least the humans of the Neath, it could do far more damage than it had done. No, every murder was a chance for exposure, a beacon that drew attention to its activities. Staring at the files in front of her, Azoth considered the potential within them. It was always nice, the last moments before a reveal, the last moments where there still was hope for a good result. She doubted that the files had much of use, but every morsel of information could be useful.
She took a sip of her coffee and began reading.
It was equally amusing and sad to see the pages of notes on how to best keep word from reaching the broader public. It seemed the constables really did not want this information disseminated. Still, there were pieces of good information scattered throughout, notes on the identities of the deceased, descriptions of the bodies, notes on their discovery. Most were unknowns, people with no known connection to Drake, though she would have to ask him to look over them just to be sure. There were some connections - the file on one "Jimmy Mariner" was colorful enough, and the disappearance of one "Mr. Mauvais" left much to the imagination - but there were people of all ages, factions, even nationalities killed. There needed to be other patterns, a different connection.
In her mind's eye, she captured London, with its intricacies and twisted streets, and began pinpointing the sites of each body. The deaths were likely part of the Shade's twisted game, either to goad Drake or simply to eliminate liabilities on the Shade's part. Either way, she began labeling her mind's map, looking at the distribution of discovered bodies. To the north of the city, murders were few and far between, it seemed. Few bodies had been discovered and the reports focused mainly on informants, who often gave conflicting accounts as to the activities of the Shade. Most bodies were scattered near the Stolen River, on the bank across from the Forgotten Quarter and south of the palace. Reports of bodies washing up by the House of Chimes were common enough, and it seemed there were even informant reports of bodies still undiscovered, sliced to pieces and scattered across the city.
A few pages in, a particular paper caught her eye. An internal report, classified and not to be released even to the constabulary, one describing an incident in a high-security cell high above the city. The Dynamos' jailbreak. No witnesses were left, but enough threads remained for the constables to connect it to the so-called "Shadow of London". Whispers in the underworld of dark-spectacled strongmen working with the "Shadow", preparing for something. And there they are again, Azoth considered, taking another sip of her coffee. The New Sequence. Not a word was spoken about them, of course. Even the mention of spectacles would probably have been censored for any broader release, but there it was nonetheless.
The Element of Dawn with Emma, along with the Shade's previous mention of her "employer" made her affiliation clear enough, but this? This was the Shade, working in conjunction with her employers, preparing to break her and her brother free. Perhaps it was merely a deal of mutual convenience, but even the possibility of alignment needed consideration. Maybe it was this that gave the Shade its will, its desire to impose order. Laws were laws, and perhaps even it could be subverted. Or perhaps this was a disruption that the Shade sought to eliminate, just as it saw Drake and his fellow hunters. There was much to be considered, and much to analyze.
She set the papers down. Names, places, and ideas swirled about her mind, pieces coming together and apart again, working to find the connections between them. The files were unnecessary now. Right now, she just needed to sit and ponder.
--
Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/18/2017
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Locke Lockhart holds the bottle upside-down, letting its last few crimson drops trickle out onto the cavern floor. Out of wine for the third time today.
He supposes he’ll have to do something about that.
Locke stands up from his cross-legged position, his muscles stiff and cramped after sitting there for so long. He leaves the bottle with the others; he seems to be amassing quite the pile. And yet it never affects him like it used to, back in the days when he spent every night out on the town in Veilgarden getting black-out, roaring, stinking drunk. It’s maddening.
He grabs a lantern and lopes off down the tunnel in search of the wine cellar. Perhaps some of the Black Wings Absinthe will stir something in him. It’s not the usual buzz, but at this point he’ll take thinking he’s a bat-person over being sober.
---
Gideon locks the door of the shrine behind him; the bolts slide home with a pleasing clunk. Out in the less stifling air of the tunnel, he starts to wonder if he’s done something very unwise.
After their little chat, Voice 3 has returned to its usual taciturn state. Gideon has a feeling that that won’t last long.
Now that everyone is getting settled in, the others will need something to alleviate the tension that’s been brewing ever since the carriage ride. If every moment together is spent in stony silence punctuated by angry outbursts, the team won’t have a chance of formulating a better plan. He’s seen it before in his more unconventional scientist associates on their occasional visits; put a dozen strangers with strongly-held views in a room together and sooner or later a fight will break out.
Gideon doesn’t consider himself a people person, but he’s not stupid. One more calamity might be enough to break this team, leaving them to get picked off one-by-one by the implacable Shade.
He reaches a junction in the dimly-lit tunnel and starts making his way towards the wine cellar. If there is one thing he can count on, it’s that alcohol is the great leveller.
One of the Ninefold Cat slinks out of a side passage and falls in step with Gideon. Like his other selves, he is a grizzled ginger tom with part of his right ear bitten off in some long-ago fight. He munches on a freshly-caught rat as he pads along.
“Not much to report, boss,” the cat says in a gravelly voice, mumbling around the remains of the rat in his mouth.
Gideon has told him time and time again that he’s not his boss and he’s free to leave any time they please, but most of him seems perfectly happy to skulk around the tunnels of the laboratory when he’s not out hunting secrets.
“You got quite the gang here at the moment, eh, boss? I seen ‘em all coming in. Trouble up top, is it?”
“You saw them coming in,” Gideon corrects. “If you don’t learn to speak properly, you’ll never reclaim your grandfather’s lost title.”
The cat rolls his eyes. “Why would I want to go back there? Bunch of toffs, the lot of ‘em. I’d much rather be Neath-side, hunting rats with tiny guns and listening for scrumptious secrets.”
The Ninefold Cat is something of an infamous figure among the feline inhabitants of London – a seemingly omnipresent and terrifyingly savage information broker. Until he turned up on Gideon’s doorstep he was just another scrawny alley mog willing to undergo any experiment in exchange for secrets. Now he is nine scrawny alley mogs with a single calculating mind, and that makes all the difference.
“Locke’s around here somewhere,” continues the cat. “Up to no good, as usual. If you’re going to the wine cellar, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s ransacked the place.”
Gideon frowns. When he gave his wastrel cousin permission to come round here in event of dire emergency, he didn’t expect him to actually take up the offer.
“Oh, one more thing, boss. One of me overheard a conversation between the grumpy woman with the harpoon and the slightly less grumpy woman with the funny accent that I think you might be interested to hear…”
---
The silent wine-racks loom over Locke, throwing shifting shadows on the stone walls in the light of his lantern. The cellar is draped in cobwebs – from what Gideon has told him, he only drinks on special occasions. What sort of life is that?
Locke peeks between the bandages on his face to get a better look at the labels on the bottles. There isn’t just wine here, of course – there’s mushroom beer, mushroom brandy and some rather disgusting mushroom port. He considers himself a connoisseur of all things alcoholic; it only seems right that he sample a bit of everything. The rows near the entrance are already depleted from his earlier expeditions, so he moves further in, holding the lantern high.
The contents of the racks become ever more alarming as he walks past them. In addition to the horizontal bottles of wine, there are transparent bottles standing upright with curious labels like “Sulphuric acid - WARNING: CAUSTIC”, “Methylated spirits” and “Fluke Extract”. Judging by the array of warning labels and the way some of them seem to be glowing, Locke decides to pass.
At last, he reaches the end of the wine cellar. Here are the truly strange drinks, the airag and absinthes of the collection. A connoisseur could really cut his teeth on these, provided they didn’t outright disintegrate on contact with the liquid.
There it is: a single bottle of Black Wings Absinthe sitting forlornly at the end of the row. Locke grabs it in a bandaged hand and holds it up to the light, watching the absinthe roil and bubble like something alive.
As he examines the numerous warnings on the label, he becomes aware of a change in the quality of the air. A faint draft tickles the hairs on the back of his neck. He whirls around and comes face-to-face with a figure shrouded in purest night.
Locke’s other hand is halfway to the sword at his belt before he hears a familiar acerbic voice.
“I wouldn’t try that stuff if I were you, cousin,” says Gideon.
--
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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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/22/2017
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(Co-written with Barselaar)
Jordan had thought she would have been alone and safe at such a late hour of the night, until the Scorched Sailor turned the corner and stopped in front of her. She looks up to the imposing figure with a mixture of awe and weariness. He – she thinks he’s a ‘he’, but she isn’t quite sure – is covered in blood, bandages and tattered clothes, but the bandages around one of his arms are loose and what lies beneath looks more like clay than flesh. Is he one of the Unfinished Men? A shiver runs down her spine: she has heard terrible stories about those who left Polythreme lacking something. Tales that often ended with dead girls. Her eyes dart around in panic: there’s no other people in sight to ask for help, and she knows she is an easy target even with a bag full weapons with her.
The Scorched Sailor doesn’t make any threatening gesture, but rather tries to… smile? Jordan isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be reassuring, but she doesn’t feel reassured at all. She feels tears welling up to her eyes, but she manages to stop them. The sailor points at the heavy bag behind her. “You need help?”
Jordan gapes in surprise. Is he really going to help her? “Y-You’re not going to k-kill me?” she blabbers, immediately turning as reed as a beet. She always ends up saying the stupidest things when she is scared.
The Scorched Sailor looks rueful and ashamed. “No. Why would I? Don’t make a habit o’ killin’ girls on the street.”
“Well, but you’re an Unfinished Man, aren’t you?”
Surprise turns to realisation on the shawled and bandaged face. “Unfinished Man. That’s a new one.” He examines the badly bandaged arm. “It’s… a long story, really. But I’m as human as you are, missy.”
Jordan lets out a sigh of relief. He looks scary, but he isn’t an Unfinished Man, and if he did want to harm her, he would have done it by now. “I-I’m sorry, really. It’s just that… London can be a dangerous place for a girl: you never know who you might run into.” She holds out her hand and smiles. “I’m Jordan, Jordan Farchild.”
The Scorched Sailor shakes the hand lightly, as if he’s worried he might break it – which seems very possible.. He says his name, too. It’s somewhat hard to say. “Barsal– Barzeel-” Jordan frowns. She cannot say it right. She gives him a sheepish smile. “Can I call you Bart?”
The Sailor looks down at her hopeful face, flustered. Most people take a lot more convincing of his good intentions, and even then regard him with suspicion and disgust, as if appearances are indicative of some deeper-seated evil. But he sees nothing in Jordan’s face but sincerity and worry, as if scared her choice of nickname might cause offense. He thinks better of attempting another reassuring smile. “Bart will do just fine.”
“Well, I’m in a bit of a pickle here, so I could really use your help, Bartie. I need to get this bag to Randy, who’s somewhere in Watchmaker’s Hill. I have a map, look.” Jordan takes out her map and hands it to the Scorched Sailor. It’s little more than a few crudely drawn landmarks joined by a dashed line. The line ends in a huge X with ‘Randy!’ written next to it.
The sailor looks at it with a frown. As far as maps go, it’s extremely poor, but he’s found his way to port at zee with less. Reorienting it a few times, he squints at the end of the street. “Well, this won’t be easy, but I might have an idea of where your friend is.”
§§§
Lyndon idly wonders whether or not he got his priorities straight as he slowly makes his way towards the wine cellar. He knows he reeks horribly and looks worse, but taking a bath without clean clothes would just be wasted effort. He can only hope that bat isn’t a slacker. He grins. A drink will make the wait more enjoyable.
The corridor becomes a bit cooler as he approaches the stairs. He can already smell a faint, but unmistakable aroma of mushroom vintage. It seems that the cat’s instructions are quite precise. Good news, finally.
As he descends the stairs, Lyndon hears some noises coming from the cellar. It looks like he’ll have to share. Fair enough, he didn’t plan to drink the whole cellar by himself anyway, and wine will make whatever company expects him there more bearable.
He arrives just in time to see a bandaged man – one he had never seen before – snatch a cup from Dynamo’s hands and empty it in one gulp. The fellow manages to remark the quality and strength of his drink before passing out.
“Well, I did come looking for a stiff drink, but I might want to pass on whatever he took.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/22/2017
--
 Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
 Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/22/2017
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For many hours, Phryne wandered the tunnels of Gideon Stormstriders "research facility". She was careful not to touch anything that looked like it shouldn't be touched, but she did poke her nose into every nook and cranny. She met a lot of cats, who all looked the same.
When the members of the Hunting party awoke one after another, she kept herself apart, leaving the main tunnels ever further behind. She did run into Drake Dynamo once, the man who looked like the twin of the thing she had fought the night before. She considered him for a while, but just when she was about to say hello, he moved on, looking unnerved. Oh yes, she remembered now: it wasn't considered polite to stare at someone like they were an interesting, rare specimen in an exhibition.
She also came to a locked and bolted door which she pondered for many minutes, quite intrigued, but she did not try to open it. She was a guest here, after all, and she had not yet forgotten all her manners.
Her mind was mostly elsewhere though. Something was bothering her: a physical sense of tiredness, of depletion. She felt like she was running out of energy, which was really quite surprising considering her body was already dead.
Energy. There was a lot of that, down here. Forms of energy that only existed in the Neath: the Light of the Mountain, the Irrigo of the Nadir, the Chaos of the Iron Republic.
Nobody really understood any of these forces. Maybe no one ever would. But as ever and always, humans had begun to work with them, to try and fashion them into new forces they understood even less. Hesperidean Cider. The Shrines of St Joshua. The Dawn Machine.
There is something here.
I don't care. Leave me alone.
The voices inside her head had been silent since Seven Devils square. She was not keen to welcome them back, especially not this one. It had a particularly persuasive quality which she found hard to ignore. It seemed to know things.
I can help you. If only you'd let me...
Well, look at the last time you 'helped' me. How did that turn out? I'm glad I didn't kill someone. Again. Also, I think the Mountain-Blood—or the particular mixture running through the Shade's veins—didn't agree with me. It is sucking... whatever holds me together out of me. I feel... more human. Which may not be a good thing in my current situation.
Take the left there.
Why?
There is... something that might help you.
Who are you, anyway?
I am in your head, who should I be? I am you.
Indeed? And who am I?
You are you, too. All of us, we're you. When will you accept that?
She then came to a small room at the end of a long and dark tunnel. Indeed, it was utterly dark there, but to her dead eyes it was clear as day. The room was a jumble of boxes and abandoned things, both mundane and esoteric. Gideon's junk room, apparently.
he sun the sun the sun the sun the sun the sun t
Do you feel it?
Yes. There, on the lowest shelf.
Such a small thing, but so powerful.
Even from here, I can feel its madness. Its hatred. I don't want this.
Together, we can deal with it.
Slowly, Phryne bowed down and took the battered, dusty cargo box from the shelf. She briefly wondered how Mr Stormstrider might have come upon it. A New Sequencer would treat it as a holy artifact, a piece of his living god, like the Southerners treated Mountain-Shards. But here it was, stored away—or hidden away?
She blew the dust off the lid and opened the box. Bright light flooded the cluttered chamber, and some of the tunnel outside.
HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
Such a small thing, but so powerful...
This should keep us going for a while. Long enough to deal with this Shade-abomination, if we're lucky.
Lucky... she couldn't help but smile at hearing that word, again. She was quite sure she once knew what it meant.
Phryne Amarantyne opened her mouth, far wider than any human being should be able to, and swallowed the Element of Dawn whole. What was one more voice inside her head?
edited by phryne on 3/22/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/15/2017
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Slowly, Timmel Orosenn's head clears. She can't remember much of what has happened after her attempt at skewering the Shade failed, but the others fill her in quickly enough. Her whole body remembers the jarring impact of hitting the cobblestones. Her face will remember the Shade's near-knockout blows for a while. There are still stars dancing across her vision, sometimes.
Of her heroic defence against the Shade's further blows, her harpoon probably remembers more than she does. At that point, she had been reduced to pure animal-fight-for-your-life mode—that has not happened to her very often.
She barely remembers the monster that apparently saved them all, and has to take the others' word that the crying naked woman and it are the same being. Interesting. Speaking of her, someone should find her some clothes.
There's one thing she does remember in all clarity, however.
"I have no quarrel with you, Emma Dynamo. Leave, lest I be forced to break my agreement with your employers."
"You do not control me, nor do they."
Yes, there were questions to be asked here. Serious questions. But not now. For now, she will return to her original part of silent observer.
She considers the still form of Sgt Lyndon, and Mr Henchard slowly un-bricking someone from under a heap of debris.
Constables' whistles can be heard in the distance. Of course, now that the action is over they'll actually dare to show up!
Lady Orosenn sighs. Quite a few people might have to be carried to whatever hideout they'll escape to now, and quickly. No matter. Even battered as she is, she'd consider it an honour to carry the brave Sergeant.
edited by phryne on 3/17/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/15/2017
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Henchard’s eyes shuttered open at the sound of collapsing brickwork. Something-sharp teeth large mouth- roared on the other side of the square. Shade lay ontop a collapsed wall. Isn’t that nice of him? Always nice to have company. Henchard closes his eyes again, smiling.
The smile transformed into a frown. Something was wiggling in his mind. Something important, sliding across his thoughts, a slimy trail of absence in its wake. Ah, his weapons.
Henchard opened his eyes again. The something was gone, instead a crying woman. Poor her, maybe the Drake killed one of her friends? Shame about the world, that. At least the Drake was gone, its rampage over.
Henchard ignored her, he had more pressing concerns. They were very important, he thought, swaying on two feet. If he looked at them, they became four feet. But his weapons. Yes.
His knife was nearby, and he grabbed it with both hands, pulling it off the ground like the sword from the stone. He stuck it in a coat pocket, the blade sticking out through the fabric, only prevented from falling by its hilt.
Henchard smiled, just one more thing. He retraced his path to the Drake. And re-entered the square after a time, far too long for such a short trip. But he had a rifle strung across his back, and a smile on his face, so he was probably successful.
He started making his way to Shade and the others, stopping halfway. Seems a wall had collapsed on a poor fellow. Henchard struggled to remember his name. Fried? Fred? His head throbbed, he could think of a name later. Right now it was more important to unbury Fried Fred. Henchard giggled. Fried Fred Fried Fred Fred Fried.
He sat down and picked up a brick, stared at it for a while, then put it down next to the collapsed pile.
--
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
3/15/2017
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When limbs start flying, Gideon doesn’t hesitate. He runs.
Voice 2 is very displeased about what it perceives as base cowardice. It rants and raves, but Gideon tunes it out. He’d take being a coward over being dead any day.
Besides, he has a cunning plan.
As he runs to the far side of the square the viric filter slides over his monocle, revealing reflective surfaces all around with a tell-tale green glint. It’s no substitute for the protection and utility of his old cosmogone spectacles, but the Bazaar made it quite clear what they thought about traitors to the noble Glassman profession. When the Special Constable squad came round after the truth came out, the head thug ground the spectacles under his boot with an ugly chuckle. Voice 1 was inconsolable.
Yet another abuse of authority. The Bazaar oversteps too far and too often.
But enough about that. His time as a Glassman hadn’t ended well, but he had kept a souvenir – one that he fashioned himself for Shroud business. The Shroud had little supernatural power to wield in the War of Illusions, or so it appeared to those aware of the hidden struggle. Gideon’s role was obscured behind veils of myth and superstition. He liked it that way.
Assassins, after all, aren’t known for their love of the spotlight.
He needs more height to make sense of the battlefield. The crowds in Seven Devils Square are thin and getting thinner, but they are still very much in the way. Gideon bounds up to a wrought-iron fire escape staircase attached to the side of a brick tenement building. The ladder dangles a few feet above the ground, so he jumps, grabbing on to the bottom rung with both hands and grunting under the strain of bearing his own weight. Then he climbs hand-over-hand until he finally reaches the first landing of the fire escape and collapses like a fish out of water.
EXHAUSTED ALREADY? YOU REALLY MUST BE OUT OF SHAPE, jeers Voice 2.
For once the voice is right, but he would never admit that. Unfortunately, it’s in his head, so it hears anyway and radiates insufferable smugness.
After climbing a few more storeys up – a little more slowly this time - Gideon licks his finger and tests the wind, and makes a show of judging angles for any passing employers who happen to be watching him climb up a fire-escape.
The device – he prefers to think of it as that instead of a weapon – is in his coat pocket. A tangle of long barrel segments, assorted vents and sprockets assemble into a very small rifle of burnished brass. He puts the parts together automatically, his hands moving from experience. The device looks more like a child’s idea of a gun than an actual gun – it is covered in vents and tubes that serve no obvious purpose, and there doesn’t appear to be anywhere to load ammunition.
Finally, he slides the scope into a long rail on the top of the gun. Voice 1 squeaks in anticipation – the scope is one of his finest, offering magnification far beyond the reasonable and fitted with a full array of flawless lenses.
The barrel is narrow, and if it fired bullets, its calibre would be a mild annoyance to anything larger than a house-cat.
Gideon doesn’t hunt big game. He hunts strange game.
Fingerkings are hard to attack on their home turf. When they enter the Neath, they’re usually puppeteering some poor human’s body. Where they don’t think to protect themselves is in their reflections. The Folding Snake-Skinner Rifle is designed to exploit that weakness. When a Fingerking is around, mirrors near them offer a glimpse at their true form in the Mirror-Marches – much like cats, though he has no quarrel with them – and the rifle can fire through a mirror.
The Shade doesn’t have any connection to Parabola that Gideon knows of, so mirrors won’t act as portals while it’s around. What mirrors are very good at, though, is reflecting. The rifle reaches its full potency when its beam passes through a mirror. Multiple reflections will amplify it further.
Gideon attaches the rifle firmly to the railing of the fire-escape and scopes in. Having a spotter would be handy, but there’s no time for that now. He’s surveyed the square – on the far side his colleagues struggle fruitlessly with the Shade, blood and limbs flying. In a square this size, the junction of seven separate streets (an inauspicious number), there are countless mirrors and reflections. The monocle shows them all in green.
All he has to do is get the right angle to reflect his beam from multiple mirrors, and the Shade will be struck down before it even knows what hits it.
It’s a little like playing pool. He has to judge the angles and the ricochets to strike the ball into the pocket. The only trouble is that, like so many of his devices, he only has a single shot. At the core of the weapon is a Ray-Drenched Cinder that can be excited to produce a burst of cosmogone – it may be a Neathy colour, but it’s the colour of remembered sunlight, and that memory of law is enough to kill a Fingerking.
Will it work on the similarly impossible Shade? There’s only one way to find out.
Gideon finds the first mirror, up on the second floor in the clothing department of a large shop. He adjusts a dial on the scope and the magnification ticks up, the next mirror lurching into focus – this one is further up, on the top floor of a tall building, but it’s angled down so its reflection shows a café down at ground level. He zooms in further and further until the Shade is in his sights at last.
Got you.
The melee is chaotic. The Shade weaves between attackers seamlessly, delivering a thunderous punch to Lady Orosenn’s jaw before clashing blades with Frye and tussling with Dirae. Gideon aches to pull the trigger, but while it’s engaged with those three he daren’t fire for fear of hitting them.
Henchard charges, and gets a knife in his back from Emma for the trouble. Then the Shade slams his head into the cobbles with a sickening crunch.
An opening. While his colleagues are reeling under the Shade’s assault, the Shade itself is unmolested for a split second. He has a clear shot. Voice 1 hums ever louder.
Gideon pulls the trigger.
The device lets out a fearsome roar of power, steam blasting from the vents all down the sides. A beam of pure golden light erupts from the barrel, visible to all around as it hits the first mirror, then the second, then the third, describing a triangle across the Seven Devils square. The beam strikes the Shade directly in the torso and continues blasting for several seconds.
Gideon observes it through the sights. Then it looks directly at him. It seems completely unharmed by the ray, and it holds up its shining scimitar into the beam –
no no no no no no no no, squeals Voice 1.
Gideon dives to the floor of the fire-escape a scant moment before the device is struck by its own reflected beam. He covers his eyes, not daring to look directly at it. He hears cracking and popping as the device’s metal warps. More and more steam fills the air as it overheats, and finally the beam stops firing.
When he dares to look again, the device is a mangled mess of components dripping from the railing and the Shade is unharmed far below.
--
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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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/15/2017
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(Part 1 of 2)
It has only been a few minutes since Phryne Amarantyne has alighted from her hansom and set foot into Veilgarden, excited like it was her very first time. The sights! The sounds! The smells! The people! Already, some have called out to her, recognizing her—some expressions turning uncertain or worried when she got closer, though—but she does not yet want to commit to any particular distraction or company, and so merely nods and smiles in what she hopes to be a friendly manner, passing them by.
Some people are running in her direction. They seem panicked. From what she can hear, there has apparently been a murder. A decapitation, which means the victim is permanently dead! Then, some people—not constables—had turned up to examine the corpse. And then—here the tales grow wild, and she has trouble to make any sense of them.
Do you smell that?
Something makes her push against the crowd, towards the noise. She nears a corner, around which a small battle seems to take place.
That smell...
I should stay away.
Then why don't you?
She wavers another moment, then her curiosity wins out (as it always does—some things never change). She turns the corner.
The decapitated corpse of a woman lies directly in front of her.
I... know this woman. Knew her. She was... a friend?
The smell...
She was known as the Bohemian Sculptress... sometimes she came to my salon... not particularly talented, but good company...
That smell!
She was one of the most harmless people you could possibly imagine. Why would anyone—
THE WOUND! THE MOUNTAIN'S BLOOD!!!
What...
Over there! He's the one!
I don't want to...
HE'S THE ONE WHO MURDERED HER!!!
She has not taken much note of the fight going on just a few yards away from her. She is not interested. All she knows is this: this is London. She remembers now.
An innocent woman, gruesomely murdered—why? Does it matter? She is gone. Gone forever. Gone to wherever it was the permanently dead went. To a better place? If she could only believe that.
THE MOUNTAIN'S BLOOD FLOWS THROUGH THAT ONE'S VEINS!!!
The smell... yes, she remembers. Long ago, a long voyage south, to a prison of flint. What had it been she was looking for? She cannot remember. But she remembers the Mountain, and the Wound. The Blood.
She focuses on the immortal man, who is just now fighting three people at once. That scimitar—undoubtedly, this is the weapon that killed her friend.
Anger starts to rise inside her. Why would this being—this incredibly powerful, immortal man—kill an innocent woman who had never so much as swatted a fly in her life? Because, that's why. It's what people do. How could she have forgotten? All she hates about this city. About the people living in it. About herself being a part of it, a part of them. The violence, the injustice, the poverty, the misery. The indifference. And her just like everyone else! Had she noticed the beggars in the alleys behind? Only now she remembers. So easy not to see them, with so many pretty things and pretty faces to look at instead.
This is what she had fled from, to a place without permanence, without consequence. Where you could saw off your head just for fun and put it back on. Where power and wealth were only jokes, achieved and lost within a day, and you could laugh about it. Hardly anyone understood how almost safe the Republic was—innocent, in a way—safe because almost nothing that happened there mattered... or so she had thought at the time.
KILL HIM! DRINK HIS BLOOD! SEE HOW HE LIKES THAT!
Yes, anger rises inside Phryne Amarantye. And before she even knows it, she is someone—something else entirely. One more time.
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edited by phryne on 3/15/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
4/15/2017
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(Co-written with Barselaar)
Henchard surveys the room, counting the damage from whatever happened while he was not asleep. Fortunately, the damage seems to be minimal, limited to the tomb colonist he didn’t know, and a newly arrived woman in a torn dress. Both seem to be managing quite well, and the growing unpleasantness over the new arrivals has been dispelled.
What he needs to take care of now was the growing stench of...something. A freshly burned well, the smell of drought after rain, of pain through rebirth. He pulls out the Sailor’s arm, which had managed to become unwrapped. Chunks of tallow flesh hang from threads of thickening liquid, clinging to the inside of his coat. Henchard made a note to burn everything he is wearing, and reaches inside his coat again.
A short time later, a neatly wrapped arm lay next to him, and he makes another note to burn his arm. It was probably the only way he’d feel clean again. He laughs quietly under his breath. Only to regret breathing, the smell was still lingering, soaking into the walls and into his lungs. A shudder runs through him at the image, remembering the feeling of curdling fluids under fabric as he tried to scour everything off his jacket, back into the bundle. What had he been thinking to put that in his coat? H__l, what had he been thinking to even grab the arm in the first place?
Henchard spots the Sailor near one of the machines, in conversation with someone else. More importantly, he has two arms. A strange thing for someone who recently lost an arm to have, but it didn’t matter. One way or another, Henchard is getting rid of this oozing mess.
The Sailor puts down the coffee as Henchard approaches. They share a moment of awkward silence, and Henchard is the first to speak.
“I think I’ve found something of yours,” he says, suddenly nervous. Maybe this wasn’t the right way to do this, but it was too late now. Never back down. He takes the wrapped arm from his coat and offers it to the Sailor.
Perplexed, the Scorched Sailor peels back the heavy wrapping, stony fingers moving slowly and deliberately. Whatever is inside is sticky, and strangely heavy. The next few moments devolve into a series of shapes - he can see what’s there in front of him, but not parse it. The object refuses for a long few seconds to resolve into anything comprehensible. Then it hits him like a punch to the gut. His arm. All wrapped up preciously like a Sacksmas gift, wetly congealing from the stump, gore-rimed and stinking. Unmistakable, scarred in ugly welts and whorls, his own skin and bone and tendon and tallow lying there like a paperweight.
More than anything he is struck by how… dead it looks, limp and grey. He notices the strangeness of the form of an arm in a way that one doesn’t register when it’s attached to the rest of a body. It’s impossible to ever believe that this thing, this hunk of almost-meat and bone, was ever his. He jerks his own, new, arm back in repulsion, and half expects the scarred, fleshy fingers to respond and move with him.
They don’t. The arm is still dead. The Sailor turns his horrified gaze to Henchard. What on earth could possess a man to take such a grisly trophy? His eyes, half-obscured by cloth and bandage as they are, do the asking that he is too shocked to verbalise. Why?
The question is written across the Sailor’s face. Even under the bandages, even in the dark, the question is almost blinding. He hesitates, mouth half open. Why had he grabbed it? He thought back, trying to remember. A pile unbuilding, gaping mouths, a screaming shape. A blur. He rubs his temples, why couldn’t he remember?
“What did you do for a new arm?” He asks instead, his tone perhaps sharper than he intended.
Heavy footsteps and darkness and stone and the soft crack of chisels, the Sailor thinks, still reeling. A dismemberment healed from nowhere merits comment, sure enough, but this man seeks to question him after dropping such a payload? “Myst’ry to me. Someone thought I needed it, thank Storm.” His voice is flat, but it slowly rises, getting louder and more agitated. “What in the hell possessed you to drag-” he struggles for a word “- detritus, morbid waste, all this way? You ain’t no physician. There ain’t nothin’ you coulda done with it.”
Henchard glares, his irritation rising with the Sailor’s volume. He opens his mouth, a sharp tongue rising to the challenge. How dare this half man, this abomination question a favor, how could-
Henchard bites down hard on his tongue. The sword of wit crushed by the teeth of a lion. The taste of blood spreading through his mouth as his eyes close. There was nothing strange about the Sailor’s reaction. Or at least, not as strange as returning their severed arm a day later.
“I...” Henchard says in a small voice, then he clears his throat. “I was injured during the fight with the Shade, and was not thinking clearly afterwards. For quite some time afterwards.” He swallows, blood flowing down his throat, and continues in a monotone voice, distancing himself from what he was saying, “I grabbed this in the hope something could be done. I failed to realize you were gone until we arrived here. Now I simply wish to be rid of it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I upset you, however I am,” he hesitates, then pushes out the next sentence quickly, “unprepared to deal with this scenario. I thought respecting your wishes on the matter would be the best way to deal with it.”
The Scorched Sailor feels the anger halt in his stomach and turn to bile. He’s surrounded himself with the criminal and the strange for so long that he didn’t see how much the last few days had affected Henchard, affected everybody. Henchard’s reply - sincere and reproachful - stalls him utterly. “You… Yer right. I’m sorry. This thing, this hunt… s’bad fer all of us. Couldn’t see past meself.” He reaches his clay arm down and covers old hand with new. “Thank ye. No clue what to do with it, but thank ye.” He makes to wrap the dead thing back up in the covers that Henchard had given it and looks the man up and down. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it. We thought we were joinin’ a hunt, and now we’re in the middle o’ war. Whole group’s like a powder keg. Glad you’ve got my back - our backs. Crack shot with that rifle out in Seven Devils.”
Apology and gratitude have never been his strong points, but he hopes he’s managed to defuse the situation a little. “Besides. Way it’s goin’, someone else might need a spare ‘fore too long.”
edited by suinicide on 4/15/2017
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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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ForScience
Posts: 69
4/23/2017
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(co-written with The Atumian Sputum)
The Advanced Gant-Aligned Spectrometer, Florence feels, is coming along nicely. A normal spectrometer wouldn’t do for studying gant. She tried, and bright spots of afterglow had clouded her vision for days afterward. She wasn’t even aware that that could happen. So, in order to continue her studies on light refraction, a special type of spectrometer will be necessary.
The design isn’t very different from a normal optical spectrometer’s, though it does make use of certain exotic components found only in the Neath. It’s also going to be about four meters tall, dwarfing the diminutive scientist. A precarious network of ladders and scaffolding has been erected in the lab to aid in its construction; in lieu of any other commitments, she’s been at work for almost two days. Florence has the curious ability to subside on seemingly nothing but very strong coffee for days on end with no ill effects. Her colleagues are used to her unique work ethic, and would surely direct anybody trying to find her in her office to her laboratory in the Institute of the Neathbow.
Of course, being tiny and built like a bundle of sticks, Florence isn’t actually doing the building. Mostly she just hangs around in the scaffolding and directs her assistant, Murphy.
“Just there, Murphy.”
The sturdier part of the two rolls his ladder over to the raw skeleton of what will one day be the collimator, hefting up the crescent-shaped piece of metal and setting it against the framework forming part of the outer hull. He begins to screw it in.
“Thank you, Murphy.”
“You know nothing makes me happier, Ms. Garrison,” the part-time guard, part-time lab assistant replies, voice accented with his homeland of Ireland.
Florence frowns as she studies her recently hired help. Though the response was obviously sarcastic - and many of Murphy’s responses are, she’s learned - she does note that the young Irishman rarely looks anything close to happy. He’s new to the Neath, still carrying the complexion of one who has seen sunlight and not the deathly pallor of the Neath’s residents, and though he does seem amazed, every now and then, the fascinations of the Bazaar’s city rarely seem to inspire any joy in him. Perhaps he’s just good at hiding it, or perhaps just bad at showing it - it’s hard to imagine that bony Gaelic face contorting itself into a smile.
Or perhaps just better not to, she notes with a wince, as she pictures the rather unpleasant image.
Oh well. At least he’s got rather ruddy, if terribly hollow, cheeks - they say that’s a sign of health and happiness.
Rain begins to fall. Murphy’s eyes look up from his work, looking across the web of scaffolding at the window. “You don’t mind, do you, boss?” he asks, casting a glance at Florence.
“Of course not. We can take a break for now,” the scientist replies, smiling kindly. The assistant slides down the ladder. He moves quickly across to his coat, which rests on a stool, fishing a book out from the pocket.
“Thanks, boss. I’ll see you soo-”
He pauses, looking back over his shoulder at Florence as he readies himself to go. The scientist looks nervously back, hands clasped together, trying to decide a way to get down from her rather precarious perch in the scaffolding.
"I’m sorry, Murph-”
“Christ,” he grumbles, hurrying over to the ladder, “Like the world’s ugliest kitten.”
The scientist gasps, indignant. “Well, it’s not like you’re one to judge!”
“Second time this week.”
“Forget it! I’m perfectly capable of getting down on my own!”
"And then we’ll both be off to win beauty pageants. Just wait a moment, Ms. Garrison.”
“... Thank you, Murphy.”
“Aye.”
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/11/2017
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(Co-written with Bertrand)
Dirae Erinyes guides Evensong away from glaring at Lord Gazter, and back to their now cold coffee mugs. There is a hushed conversation as Evensong recaps the conversation, ending with another glare at Lord Gazter. Finally, Dirae Erinyes speaks up.
“Love, I know you are just trying to watch out for us - but trust me Lord Gazter isn’t much a threat. It’s true he works with Hell, and some of the current trade negotiations aren’t going the best, but. . .that man is more of a windbag then a bagpiper on the cliffs of Mutton Island.”
“I still doubt he’s here for altruistic reasons - what interest does Hell have in all this?” Evensong speculated - more into her coffee cup then at Dirae Erinyes.
“Permanent death is bad for business - every person with a soul who gets killed is lost to Hell.”
“Maybe, he’s working with other parties. The Shade is from across the zee. . .” Dirae Erinyes could recognize this - old fears wearing new masks, the eternal hunt that Evensong saw salivating around every corner.
“Do you want some coffee, too?” asks a voice from behind their backs. Jordan is standing right there a broad smile painted on her face and two cups of steaming coffee in her hands. It’s hard to say if she has just arrived or if she has been eavesdropping for a while - maybe the Sergeant has taught her some of his tricks. “Is the new guy a problem? He seems nice enough to me. He says he wants to help. Why is everyone behaving like Randy all of a sudden?”
Dirae Erinyes accepts the cups gracefully. “Thank you - our own coffee resembles something found at the bottom of well than actual coffee. As for what’s going on - well I suspect Lord Gazter’s famous charm fell flat with this crowd. I don’t think he’s used to London outside of posh salons and fancy clubs.” Evensong studies the coffee before taking a deep swig - it has a warmth that never fails to help smooth the edges.
Jordan frowns a bit. “Yes, he looks out of place - just like me, I guess - but some other people here don’t look like hunters, too. You think he could be in danger if he helps you?”
“Well, first it’s all about how you carry yourself - even a mite like you can make a good impression with the rougher side if you have the right attitude. As for being in danger - possibly. I would insist that he takes no part in any actual fieldwork - both for his safety and ours.”
Jordan lets out an amused giggle. “You really think I could make a good impression? I don’t know: when I end up being in trouble for some reason, Randy always shows up to help me out. I never found anyone who was scared by me. Anyway, I think I understand. You can’t take care of him and fight at the same time. But then wouldn’t it be better if those who can’t fight remained here where it’s safe?”
“Nah, not with his agents having sniffed us out - who knows who was watching them? The safest place would probably be a trip out of London - there are many pleasant islands close to London and I doubt the Shade will leave while Drake is still prancing around here.” Evensong will comment, breaking their soothing pattern of sips.
Jordan gives the woman a long, appraising glance. “You really sound like him, you know? You must be someone who’s always trying to outsmart others as well. Don’t you find it tiresome? You should try to take a break from all that over thinking things sometimes. I mean, that kind of thoughts can keep you up at night and stress you out - I’ve seen it happening.”
Dirae Erinyes gives a laugh. “It’s a professional hazard and a b-----y annoying one as well. It’s a hard habit to break. We found that warm milk before bed and large snake around your house helps with those nights. Though talking about your paranoid ward, I’m surprised he remained as calm as he did.”
“Do you think he’s calm?” says Jordan, tilting her head a bit. “Well, I guess he might seem calm to someone who doesn’t know him well. But he’s not calm at all. He’s just trying to hide his feelings, piling them up inside until they blow up. I’ve seen him doing this before. He becomes… scary if he keeps this up for too long. More than usual. And he starts to have bad thoughts. I hope this will end soon: I don’t like him when he’s like this.”
“Maybe he’ll feel better once we get out of this shed and back into the occasionally fresh air of London. Being proactive about one’s problems usually helps. Afterwards. . .everyone needs a place, a thing or even a person that they can feel safe around. I think you might be that for him - which is another reason to move out soon.”
Jordan is about to say something, when the Sergeant’s voice cuts in. “Having a little chat, are we?” He glances at Dirae and Evensong. “I hope she’s not bothering you. She has a bad habit to pester people - even those she doesn’t know.”
“Not at all. She reminds me of my own daughter when she was young,” Dirae Erinyes responds, with a touch of melancholy. Evensong avoids choking on her coffee.
Lyndon raises an eyebrow. Is there a sense of tension in the air, or is he imagining things? “A daughter, you say? Well, the kid’s not my flesh and blood, but...” he pauses, struggling with himself. “...she is family.”
“Mine was adopted too,” Dirae Erinyes beams. There is a new tinge of respect in Evensong’s eyes as she glances over at Lyndon. Both of them can respect a man who understands the word fully.
“Anyway, I should I go, yes,” blabbers the Sergeant. His face has become a nice shade of red. “I must take a look at those documents before the Dynamos hand them to the cat-lady. Yes, of course I do. I… I’ll leave you with them, kid. Don’t overstay your welcome.”
Jordan watches him go before speaking to Dirae again. “He must like you a lot. You got him to say I’m family. He never says that. He usually says I’m a liability.”
“Must be the stress you were talking about. If you are worried about being a liability, I can teach you few tricks as those bookworms work. . .”
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
11/4/2017
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(co-written with Lord Gazter and JimmyTMalice)
After leaving the Boiled Toad, Phryne does not join any of the small clusters of their party slowly gravitating towards Drake Dynamo. A delightful aroma in the air catches her attention, and she drifts off towards a street vendor selling various kinds of Murgatroyd’s Burned Pretzels. She buys a large bag filled almost to bursting with a mixed assortment of flavours and drifts through the milling crowd while eating them. She doesn’t notice her associates disappearing into a narrow side-alley, but catches sight of Lord Gazter loitering near the entrance of said alley. Ah, here’s someone without suicidal tendencies for a change.
Approaching him as if they were meeting on a leisurely sunday afternoon stroll, she holds the bag in his direction. “Want some? You should, really. There are sweet ones, salty ones, and some that are both sweet and salty! The things they can do with mushroom dough nowadays!”
“Thank you for the offer,” Lord Gazter answers politely, “yet I must decline. I plan on saving my appetite until after we’ve dealt with this business.” He wearily waves a gloved hand in the direction of the others.
“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing. But to each their own.” Phryne doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle when the Shade suddenly attacks a few yards away from them. She does keep a running commentary though, munching pretzels all the while. The duo is relatively well-disguised behind a projection on the wall of an apothecary infamous for selling some kind of vicious snail-thing supposed to cure gout.
“Oh no! the little guy caught the first blow again. Poor unlucky sod,” she cheerfully remarks.
“Quite unfortunate,” Lord Gazter adds absentmindedly as he draws his pistol; an intricate device showing clear signs of rattus faber design.
“Ooh, too bad about your bodyguard there! Though I guess he’s been through worse...”
Lord Gazter aims his pistol in the direction of the Shade, but is unable to get a clear shot in all the bedlam. He isn’t quite as skilled in the use of firearms as Alexander, and he knows this. Lord Gazter lowers his pistol and curses under his breath, taking a quick look up and down the other monster next to him before returning his attention back to the fight in front of him.
‘The other monster’ lets loose a cheer when the Scorched Sailor wallops the Shade against a wall. “Now, that wasn’t too bad! Hey, they’re doing quite well so far. Maybe they don’t even need me. No, you’re right, I don’t believe that either.” None of them notices the disappearance of the two wounded men.
Passers-by are beginning to stop at the alley-mouth, trying to find out what the racket is about. Phryne and Lord Gazter are doing their best to keep up the appearance of a casual conversation.
"Man is like to vanity, his days are as a shadow that passeth away. Come down, touch the mountains and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them! Shoot out thine arrows, and destroy them!" the Shade shouts up towards the Roof.
“Now, what a load of tosh. Seriously, he deserves being killed for his bad lines alone. If I wanted to hear some fire-and-brimstone sermons, I’d go listen to the Bishop of Southwark. Incidentally,” she adds, brushing pretzel crumbs from her suit, “fire and brimstone, that’s who you’re working for, isn’t it? Or working with, should I say? Yes, I’m sure you’re quite the independent operative, no lackey running around taking orders. Now, I can’t help but wonder, what are you doing here? What is it you’re looking for?” Suddenly, the cheerful bantering attitude is gone, and she is gazing at Lord Gazter quite intently.
An amused smirk appears on Lord Gazter’s face as if Phryne had made some clever jest, or droll remark. “I can tell that you are not particularly the most fond of my dear friends in the Brass Embassy,” Lord Gazter returns with the mercurial speech commonplace to societal events, although there is tension underneath. He favours the woman beside him with a charming and friendly smile, but the grasp on his pistol still pointed at the ground tightens. “The more important question, dear friend, is why do you think I am here?” he inquires with suspicion in his demeanor if not his voice.
“I haven’t a clue why you’re here, dear friend,” Phryne answers seriously while keeping an eye on Dirae Erinyes who has finally entered the fight. The alley’s narrowness makes it nigh impossible for more than one person to attack at a time, and the Shade is obviously exploiting this. “That’s why I asked, you know. I could hazard a few guesses, of course. But the truth is, I’m not interested in any of those possibilities except one, and I’m going to make that one absolutely clear right here and right now: if they’ve sent you to make one last desperate attempt at my soul, forget it. And I mean, irrigo-like forget it. Bury that thought, or I’ll…”
She trails off there, as it is at this point that the Shade tears out Dirae’s heart, and then continues stomping the giant’s head to smithereens. “Gods Below,” Phryne whispers while crumpling the empty pretzel bag in a fist, “I honestly thought at least Dirae would stand a serious chance against it.”
A relieved sigh escapes Lord Gazter’s lips, and the grip on his pistol relaxes. “Acquaintances of mine deal in such matters, but I personally have no hand in them.” His eyes return to the carnage in front of him. “You need not worry, dear friend, about my actions. You have my word. The thought, which you wish so dearly to be forgotten, is already forgotten.” He grimaces at the violent dismemberment of Dirae, and again turns back to Phryne. “Shall we assist our colleagues? I do think that they might require it.”
Phryne rests her intent gaze on Lord Gazter’s face for another second, then nods. “Alright, dear friend, I’ll take your word for it. As for coming to the rescue, yes, it does seem about time, doesn’t it…”
“Who would face me yet?”
The Shade roars his challenge, and Phryne is about to move when the small voice of Florence Garrison echoes from the other side of the alley.
“Hey, are you wearing sandalwood perfume?”
“Salt’s Curse!” Phryne groans, “what is she doing here?” She and Lord Gazter watch in amazement as the plucky scientist starts spraying the surprised Shade with ghostly unlight. “That’s pure gant, I think. Not so very different from what the Constables use to get rid of the more dangerous kinds of graffiti. What does she think that will achieve?”, Phryne mutters under her breath.
Both—along with what are now several onlookers, growing more by the minute—watch breathlessly as Prof. Garrison moves over to examine the fallen Shade, and groan in unison when the Shade rises again, hurling Florence aside like a pesky insect.
All this time, Drake Dynamo has been standing motionless to the side, watching the battle unfolding before him as if in shock—a by now sadly familiar picture.
Some sixth sense alerts Phryne to movement from above. A figure hurries down the stairs of a fire escape. As it approaches, it becomes clear that the figure is Gideon Stormstrider—a little more singed around the edges than last she saw him. He makes the final jump from the first floor to street level with little regard for personal safety.
The landing is thoroughly undignified, but he is on his feet and moving again in a moment, straight towards the enemy, brandishing something in his left hand.
Phryne takes a few steps back. So the inventor has arrived after all, armed—with a pink umbrella?
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/15/2017
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"Hey, you ugly b_____d! How 'bout takin' on someone your own size?"
Henchard sighed. Was she trying to make this the most obvious distraction ever performed? No matter, that was his cue.
He stepped out from behind the corner. The shade had turned away, facing Emma. And they were...talking?
"I have no quarrel with you, Emma Dynamo. Leave, lest I be forced to break my agreement with your employers." That didn’t sound suspicious at all. The possibilities flashed through his mind. Trap, spy, belief, a new piece, a new game. He pushed the thoughts aside and hoped there was some context he was missing.
"You do not control me, nor do they." Emma responded. Oath breaking or loyalty? Sometimes it could be hard to tell. But it didn't matter, by now he was directly behind the Shade. He took a shaky breath and swung his knife. Fast-perhaps the fasted blow he’s given.
But the shade was still faster. Henchard’s legs disappeared from under him, He fell to the ground, knife clattering a distance away. No, no, no, he couldn’t lose that.
The Shade knelt beside him, saying something. Henchard didn’t hear, focused entirely on the knife, bouncing and flashing just out of reach.
Then the Shade was gone, replaced by a harpoon. Looks like it was someone else’s turn for a beating. He scrambled for his knife, heart rate calming as his hand closed around it. This fight wasn’t over yet.
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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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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/14/2017
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"IT'S A TRAP!" Bastet shrieked, shrinking deeper into Azoth's pocket's pocket's pockets.
"Thanks, I hadn't noticed," Azoth replied, trying to remain calm. Everything was happening so quickly. Barselaar had lost an arm, Dirae a finger. The phantom pain in her own right hand returned for just a moment at the sight of it. Lyndon was shouting now at Drake, and before she knew it, he'd drawn his saber and rushed forward. It was only a couple seconds until he'd gained an extra hole in his body.
Azoth stood still, grabbing her rifle and aiming at the Shade. She checked how many bullets she had left. Three. It was fewer than she was expecting, but it wasn't as if each would do her much good. The Shade was just too fast. Still, it would do her no good to stay there in the open. Her eyes darted back and forth. She could charge, but ... no. Call her a coward, but she wasn't charging in, guns blazing. There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity and she was not about to cross that. She could run, but ... she looked over at the rest of the group. Most were already incapacitated, but Emma and Timmel ... they were preparing something. Just a little bit more time.
If she fired, she'd be one bullet poorer. The sound would be enough to draw the Shade's attention, and she doubted it could -
No time for hesitation. She needed to buy time. The more the Shade focused on her, the less it could focus on any other threat.
She pulled the trigger. Two.
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/15/2017
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Lyndon wonders idly if he has passed out, and that is just an odd fever dream caused by his wounds. He has been tossed across the square like a paper doll by some hellish creature that proceeded to destroy everything in the path between itself and the Shade, and throw said Shade in a nearby building. However, right when their enemy seemed about to become a thing of the past, the monster that had so easily disposed of it transformed in… a woman, apparently?
He slowly tries to get back to his feet. A sharp pain hits him in the back and the world spins for a moment. That last fly must have cost him some more broken bones. He slumps back against the monument. His guts are aching, too, and he realizes that he’s bleeding much more than a human should. If he hadn’t been in the Neath, the blood loss alone would have killed him long ago, and even there he can’t carry on for much longer. His body is about to give in.
He struggles to get up, leaning against the memorial for support. A half-amused smile curves his lips. You can always count on fellow soldiers to get you back up. He stumbles towards the few members of the group who can still stand. He arrives just in time to hear Dynamo’s comment.
“Damn, it escaped!”
The shadowy lady immediately yells something at him, but the Sergeant can’t hear her words anymore. He makes a beeline to Dynamo, his mind set on a sole purpose. When he reaches him, the woman is already leaving. Dynamo hardly realizes Lyndon’s presence until the soldier’s right hook connects with his jaw with a loud crack. The punch is incredibly powerful, considering it’s coming from a man grievously wounded. Dynamo falls on the cold cobblestones, his jaw numbed by the blow.
“You f_____g maniac! Is this a bloody joke to you? You should have made them retreat forever ago! Maybe that cider of yours has made you forget, but we are risking our necks here. And make no mistake, life can become miserable even for a conceited imm–”
The Sergeant’s tirade is cut short by a powerful punch to the gut. Pain explodes in his lower body and he feels the bandages coming loose. He manages to get a glimpse of the Dynamo girl before passing out for good.
§§§
Emma hadn’t realized that the Sergeant was still standing until she sees him punching her brother in the face. She hears him yelling something at Drake, but she doesn’t listen to him. She had never liked that man to begin with, but now he has stepped too far. She runs towards them and hits Lyndon squarely in the gut, just a few inches above his wound. The Sergeant goes limp without a sound, and falls a few steps away from Drake.
Emma watches her fist stained by the Sergeant’s blood. Her gaze moves to Lyndon, and she takes a good look of him – the first since he had joined the hunting party. For someone sounding like a grizzled old veteran, he’s remarkably young – just past his thirties, probably. Emma feels a sudden pang of guilt for hitting a man so wounded, but she casts away the thought immediately. He had it coming. He shouldn’t have hit her brother, no matter his reasons.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/15/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/17/2017
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Noah tries to keep his breathing under control as he feels the liquid slide down his throat. The taste would be easy to appreciate in any other situation - like every sweet thing in the world together and yet none of them, like something that had been forgotten in a dry, hot cave for aeons, but instead of crumbling to dust had become tastier with every passing year. The taste of conquering, unstoppable life.
His eyes itch and burn, as the clotted blood is pushed out of the new tissue's way. As soon as the feeling ceases, Noah pulls the bandages over his head. His eyes feel whole, even though they're covered in dried blood. He turns towards Drake's sound and forces his new eyes open. What he sees is...
Nothing.
Not darkness, though. His eyes are filled with light, like a million fireworks going off all at the same time, again and again. But nothing of Drake, nothing of any kind of shape he would recognize. Noah's hand reaches up his face, finding everything as it should be. His mind is racing, through all he remembers of the impairments of sight.
"...Could you... What do my eyes look like?"
Drake's voice wavers, as if he's unsure whether to be joyous or weep. "They're... Blurred? There's a line of small blotches of black and grey going over your eyes." Drake swallows nervously. "Do they... Work?"
Noah does not answer. He stands by the door, eyes unmoving and expression blank. The only change Drake sees is Noah's knuckles whitening as he's grasping the emptied flask. After what feels like minutes, he replies: "My apologies, sir. It... Seems I've wasted your cider." Unseen by Noah, Drake's face contorts from grief and guilt. No, why didn't it work, the cider should...
"I smell disgusting. I will find the washing quarters, and ask Mr Stormstrider for fresh clothes. I'm sorry for wasting your time." By the end Noah's face is rigid, as if he was trying to bite through his teeth. He turns around slowly, and walks along the corridor with slow, hesitant steps, leaving Drake alone.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/18/2017
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OOC: Co-written between me and Phryne. Music box sound here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZsOOj643fA&list=PLmzkRW1Z2KvXXcsr5YNCr7T-IuHNM4asB
Evensong leans out of the carriage, giving instructions to the driver. A small detour, nothing risky. They are wary of losing the good faith of the generous Emma Dynamo, but Evensong’s jade is enough. Azoth is watching the proceedings without getting involved-so is Bastet, whose head can sometimes be seen poking out of a pocket.
“Don’t worry 14, I won’t tell our father about what happened. I know they made us, but sometimes I think they don’t understand us. They think you might turn into another 8, but I know better.” Subject 5’s voice tries to be sure, but there is underlying pleading that shakes that facade.
“Anyway, there’s people who can help, these disciples of Schlomo. He’s not in the library - I’m not sure where I heard of him actually - but maybe his hypnosis tricks and having you just talk might help. I know they say it’s a problem with your souls - but you feel it in the mind.”
“Anyway, look, Mother isn’t upset.” Evensong can’t hide a wince at being called Mother. But considering what’s happened, she decides to let this play out until they are out of distance for either to try to chase the Shade on their own. “Right, Mother?”
“Yes, Subject 5.”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“We’re not home.”
“It’s a test, seeing how well you do in society.” Dirae Erinye’s eyes grow wide, and they try to cover the parts of their skin -and cogs- that poke out of the battered clothing. They cast a worried glance at Phryne.
“They did what was needed. Don’t worry.” Evensong takes a deep breath, and squeezes the hands of worried Subject 5 and a non-responsive Phryne.
“That’s why she gets a present.” Subject 5’s eyes widen, not sure if they should be happy or scared. “Wait here.” Evensong departs, not even waiting for the carriage to properly stop.
“See 14, you are getting better. You’re going to be whole someday and not decommissioned.”
“14, please say something. Don’t go silent like 10.” Subject 5 waits for words, but Phryne just stares through them.
Evensong returns with a plain gray dress, with a sad attempt at a red trim. “Will this work?”, Evensong asks Phryne, gently touching her shoulder.
The friendly touch of a hand, the concern in Evensong’s voice, seems to bring her out of her fugue, a little. “Oh yes,” she mumbles, “thank you. Thank you so much. You’re being… very nice.” She quickly pulls it over her head, looking around herself a little more alert than before. She says “Hello” to Azoth who gives her a wary smile.
Subject 5 shyly touches the dress, marveling at the fabric beneath their fingertips, as if this commonplace dress was the queen’s own gown. Their errand dealt with, Evensong allows the driver to go back on track.
“Is this exciting, 14?”
It takes a few moments for Phryne to realize that the strange figure was apparently speaking to her. No wait - not “strange figure”, she knew this one’s name: Dirae Erinyes.
“Why aren’t you happy, 14?”
Phryne glances at Azoth, who shrugs her shoulders, then asks Evensong, quietly, “What is wrong with Dirae?”
Evensong’s voice drops into a whisper to Phryne. “When Dirae Erinyes gets a bad shock, their memories get a little. . .scrambled. Usually they come out of it on their own.” She watched Phryne’s expression and answers their unasked question. “If not, I have my ways.”
When they reach the hinterlands of Watchmaker’s hill, Evensong decides it’s been long enough. Not even Dirae Erinyes would be stupid enough to hike back in their current state, and she needed them on guard in case of rogue astronomers and amorous fungi. Pulling a music box out of their pocket, the following leitmotifs from Wagner play: Dragon, Magic Sleep, and Love.
Subject Five’s eyes close as they listen. When their eyes open again, it’s Dirae Erinyes who looks out. But the music seems to have had an effect on Phryne, as well: “That was… that was just beautiful,” she says, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “Especially the first one.”
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/18/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/25/2017
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Phryne Amarantye reclines on a bedroll, glowing softly from within, smiling like a Cheshire cat on opium, and showing a quite indecent amount of leg.
Everything is wonderful. Everything is just dandy. And even more important, for the first time in her life, everything is totally, absolutely clear.
She is not just feeling well, she is feeling—yes, 'orgastic' sounds about right.
The voices in her head are finally stilled, drowned out by THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN
All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Especially for her. She just knows it.
Energy, yes. The kind that could fuel but also destroy you. Never mind the missing heart—soon, she'll have no organs left at all: the Element of Dawn is burning her up inside, her skin like a papier-mâché housing for her soul. Or the thin crust of the Earth enclosing the undying fires inside it. The sheer unlikelihood of her existence makes her giggle. The true child of the Iron Republic, how many Laws has she broken by now?
But never mind that, either. Soon, she'll be done with this body for good. Not with the Law-breaking though. Oh no, far from it.
She has found that absolute certainty that only being one with a god can provide—even if it's just a mechanical god. Far to the South, she can sense the Dawn Machine crying out towards hE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN TH
Oh yes, surely her soul would feed it well. But she has other plans, thank you very much. After all, if you could become one with a god, what's stopping you from becoming one yourself?
Speaking of plans... Slowly, she gets up and makes her way to the hideout's bathroom facilities, softly humming along tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
Once there, she turns on all the hot water faucets, and waits.
The irony does not escape her. Having left the 'Great Game' disdainfully behind, she has joined a greater one. And she was going to win, too; oh yes, make no mistake. If she could destroy, or hurt, this 'Shade' thing along the way, all the better. But it didn't really matter now. Had people not always accused her of being a tad egotistical? Well, for once she was not going to disagree.
When the bathroom mirror is all steamed up, she writes a message on it, in reverse. Then she waits some more.
After a while, a vague shape materializes on the other side of the mirror. A hand becomes distinct, writing an answer below her own message—in reverse, so Phryne can read it. She smiles and quickly adds a few more words of her own, then wipes everything away.
It's so good to have friends.
Hours later, the shape housing Phryne Amarantyne's soul is still dancing through the tunnels of the hideout. Maybe she'll compose another opera when this is over. That tune was just sUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE S
edited by phryne on 3/25/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/27/2017
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Gideon untangles himself from the collapsed step-ladder, looking around to see if the hangover cure jar is intact. It seems to be getting quite crowded down in the cellar now. So much for all his fine vintages. The place may well be stripped bare by noon.
His head is throbbing, and there are some alarming bruise-like colours creeping across his vision. Perhaps he hit his head on the way down. He very much hopes he hasn’t suffered any brain damage.
COULD ANYONE TELL THE DIFFERENCE? mutters Voice 2. Since its natural tone of voice is roughly the same volume as a foghorn, it’s still louder than most people’s shouts, but it’s an improvement.
He leaps upright and shuffles over to Sergeant Lyndon. The man seems to be pouring out the jar of hangover cure into a glass! “No, no, that’s not how it works at all!” says Gideon, snatching the jar and glass from him. “This is for afterwards - you can’t cure a hangover that you don’t have yet!”
He pauses, struck by a thought. “Actually, I may need to do some more research into that.”
There seems to be a small girl standing next to the Sergeant. A child? In here? Surely he would have remembered one coming in with them. Unless something has gone terribly wrong with the Tyrannical Timepiece, and this is actually Emma… no, she’s just over there. Of course.
The girl looks at him sullenly with teary eyes. Gideon smiles, and holds up a finger in mime – hold on a moment – as he rummages through his coat.
His clenched hand comes out of the pocket, glowing blue from within. “Hold out your hand,” Gideon says. The girl frowns, but does so after a moment. Gideon reaches out and opens his hand, dropping a small faceted stone into her palm. Its soft blue radiance lights up her face, and she looks down at it, confused.
“It’s a piece of a false-star,” he says. “Or, at least, something very powerful and ancient. Think of it as a good-luck charm. Or, if you’re not one for trinkets, it’d probably fetch a pretty penny on the Spite markets. Either way, it’s yours now. Do what you want with it.”
The girl frowns, but she no longer seems to be on the verge of tears. Gideon looks up, hearing his name called by Emma.
“A communications system? Well, I suppose I have something like that, although he tends to be rather temperamental. He’s fond of fish, though.”
Gideon removes a tin of sardines from another coat pocket. He opens it with a curious red contraption resembling a knife-handle; it seems to contain an arbitrary amount of useful tools, including corkscrews, pliers and, appropriately enough, knives.
A few moments after he lays the sardine tin down on the floor, the Ninefold Cat slinks out of the shadows and begins eating from it. Gideon holds up a hand to forestall any protests from Emma and lets the cat finish his meal before speaking to him.
“Would you mind sending some of yourselves to inform the rest of our guests that we’ll be convening in the Scheming Chamber in ten minutes?”
The cat turns his head as if looking at something nobody else can see, and nods curtly. “Done.”
“And try not to scratch them too much.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
Gideon pops open another sardine tin, and the Ninefold Cat returns to his feast. Elsewhere in the tunnels, his other selves head out to give the remaining party members a potentially rude awakening.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/27/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/16/2017
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(OOC: Folks, something's missing here. Drake did a post about who went with whom into which cab, but it disappeared somehow. He'll rewrite and post it somewhere below.)
There is an awkward silence in the cab shared by the Dynamo siblings, Edward Frye and Lady Orosenn.
Mr Dynamo is still sniffling a bit.
"Did you hear what the Shade said?" Emma asks at one point, very quietly. "You'd been knocked around some by that time..."
Timmel, sitting across from her, just nods but stays silent. She is afraid of saying too much, or of saying anything right now. Diplomacy has never been her particular forte. She does want to speak to their new leader—very much so—but she would prefer to have this conversation in private. So she closes her eyes, feigning fatigue, and says weakly, "Not now, Emma, please. My head still swims."
Emma looks slightly disappointed—probably seeing through the feint—but nods, once. Maybe she is glad to postpone this conversation, too.
Mr Frye looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
-----------------
When everyone is finally assembled at the inventor's "research facility", Lady Orosenn has no eyes for the marvels standing and lying about every which where, or for anything really. She grabs a bedroll and retreats to a dark corner somewhere as far away as possible from the noise of the big steam-powered machine. She didn't have to feign too much, in the end, and actually did fall asleep in the cab. She cannot remember when she last was this tired. Surely, all the mysteries surrounding this strange venture can wait for their answers one more day.
edited by phryne on 3/17/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/31/2017
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"You really think bait is the best chance we've got?" The Scorched Sailor leaves his patch of wall and seats himself at an empty chair. Apparently a few too many people, having clocked that there weren't enough seats for them all, had found alternative seating arrangements, leaving one uncomfortable-loking high-backed chair empty. "Sounds like suicide to me." Most of the futile bandages have fallen away from the clay arm by now, and the Sailor leaves it, palm down, outstretched, as a reminder. "Now, I'm not entirely caught up, but seems to me that the only reason yer all alive right now is some lucky intervention by Phryne over here."
He looks around, serious. "If someone acts as bait, there's a very real chance they ain't comin' back again. Blasted creature is ungodly fast, and swings that blade like it's a part o' his arm." An idea niggles at the corner of his mind, which he files away for consideration later. He considers Lyndon, then Evensong, then Drake. "And usin' Drake here as bait? We have no idea of the Shade's agenda. Blood and cider and earth and shadow. Who's to say givin' it Drake - even for a second - isn't what it wants? Blood o' the Father, as it were."
He sits back, shrugging. "My tactical know-how ain't worth much off a ship, but it's worth consid'rin." I joined this blasted hunt to keep an old friend safe, and by Storm I'll not happily see my friends purposely put in the jaws of death.
edited by Barselaar on 3/31/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/4/2017
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What the hell are you doing, Azoth?
Ascending the stairway to the Spire-Emporium of the Dynamos, that one thought raced across Azoth's mind, leaving her heart pounding faster than she'd like to admit. She was a veteran of the Great Game, a Midnighter and an academic who had journeyed across the zee, yet she still felt afraid, climbing up a stairwell to answer a flyer of all things. The Dynamos -- their reputation preceded them. Whispers across London had spoken of these immortals, locked away high above the city. Without a doubt, they had the potential to be dangerous, and here she was, walking straight to their door? And for what? Hunting a "shade" -- the Shadow if she understood correctly? She shook her head.
No, she thought, you know what this is about. An open invitation to the lodgings of these immortals? The opportunity to learn from these admittedly dangerous individuals? It was worth the risk. It was worth risking death for. A few steps ahead stood the door to the residence. With a last glance out, as if to remind herself that she could still walk away, she knocked.
A stranger opened the door, and behind him, she could see several more people gathered. She said a few cursory hellos and stepped inside, moving off to the side to silently watch the proceedings.
Here we go.
edited by Azothi on 3/9/2017
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/4/2017
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Watching from the other side of the street, hidden in the deep shadows between two lesser apartment buildings, Lady Orosenn was despondent. It was just as she had feared: this hunting party would resemble a travelling circus very soon. She had no doubt that even more people were on their way here and that the Dynamos would accept most or all of them, probably believing in ridiculous concepts like "strength in numbers". She snorted. She had always worked alone.
It would be a new experience for her, at least, though not one she particularly looked forward to. And, of course, there was still the matter of payment. Obviously, Drake Dynamo had the means to pay for her services. If he should turn out a miser though, she'd be out the door again faster than he could spell her full name and title.
----
Another loud knock echoed through the Dynamos' residence. An armed footman answered it, and soon brought an exceptionally tall* dark-skinned woman into the drawing-room where everyone was gathering. Tall as she was, she moved soundlessly in her heavy Wrecking Boots. Her profession could be perceived at a glance, both by her peligin eyes and the notched bone harpoon slung over her shoulder (did it quiver ever so slightly? surely a trick of the light?). Black hair in long, thick matted braids descended far down her back. She was wearing full body armour of indiscernible colour—it seemed to blend in with the background wherever she moved. She spoke in a deep contralto voice:
"Lady Timmel Orosenn, Monster-Hunter. What exactly is this thing you're looking for, and how much are you paying?"
Her words carried a hint of foreign accent. Not a Londoner, then.
*not quite as tall as Dirae though 
edited by phryne on 3/5/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/7/2017
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Lady Orosenn waved away Mr Dynamo's apology. "It is perfectly alright. Should it turn out that the Shade can be killed by being exposed to abominable style, I'll be only too happy to oblige," she said, as usual completely expressionless and without the slightest inflection.
Make no mistake: even though her haughtiness alone could kill lesser beings on a bad day, she was not above admitting an error. Already she was re-evaluating certain individuals of the present company. Not that she thought any of them worth something in a fight—except maybe for that taciturn sergeant who very successfully kept himself almost invisible; and that towering presence called Dirae Erinyes—though they would be significantly hindered by concern for their fragile wife (whose nature was no secret to Lady Orosenn).
No, it was something else she had forgotten: that people, as ridiculous and silly as they often seemed, might be something more than they seemed. Yes, this was new territory for her. She had not seen Mr Dynamo's offer to reward her with a portion of his Cider coming at all, for example. She wondered whether he realized how close she had been to actually walking out? She did not care the least for his rostygold—she could build a b----y castle made of rostygold if she were so inclined—but the Cider: that was a worthy reward indeed.
Or his silly sister: American, was she? Maybe she could actually shoot straight with that derringer strapped to her leg then. Not that it would make her any less silly.
The description of the Shade worried her too, a little. Preternaturally fast and wielding a scimitar, was It? A close-in fight was out of the question then. She could wield a blade, of course, but no doubt It would be faster than her. No, the best plan would be to use someone else as distraction, until she could pin It down with her harpoon coming in as a surprise.
Which still did not address the one detail nobody in this company was happy to talk about, apparently: the most important detail of all. How could the Shade be killed, in the end? She suspected that the task of finding this out would fall to her. She also suspected that the longer she took with it, the smaller their company would become. That was not her problem though.
edited by phryne on 3/7/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/7/2017
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The Sailor sits forward at this. "At zee, you either kill the beast or you let it go. Harpooning a Behemoustache and holding onto it, keeping it "contained", is only goin'ta pull your ship to ruin. We need a plan, aye. But I've seen this thing. If we go after it and we can't kill it, then we're the dead ones. Nothin' in between." What was the name on the contract? Ah, yes - that was it. "Henchard is right."
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/6/2017
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Gideon’s mind reels. Forty-five hundred pieces of Rostygold! Imagine all the lenses that could be ground with that money!
excellent. excellent. marvellous magnification shall be upon us, and the prisms shall shine with the light of rainbows!
Voice 1 has perked up a bit. It’s always pleased when he thinks about optics. On the day he found a battered microscope in the skip outside Benthic College’s biology wing, it was practically catatonic with joy.
When the signing begins, Gideon hangs back, observing the procession of dour-faced hunters shuffling forth to scribble their signatures before melting back into the shadows of their various dark corners. The geometry of this room must be decidedly odd to afford so many corners; this merits further examination at a later time.
The darkness of the corners is no barrier to the cosmogone-infused enhancing lens, naturally! Gideon surreptitiously flips it into place in the apparatus of his clockwork monocle, and takes a good look at the brooding corner-dwellers. When he thinks nobody is looking, his jovial smile fades into a calculating frown.
Lady Orosenn, Monster-Hunter. Awfully gauche of her to bring the harpoon into the drawing room, but when one’s enemy could phase through the wall and strike without warning, perhaps it is wise to be wary. After her little outburst, Gideon decides to steer well clear of her temper.
The bandage-shrouded man stands closest to the Dynamos, and seems familiar with them of old. He’s taciturn, but the gentle seasoning of nautical ‘z’s in his speech suggests a zailor. Gideon dials up the enhancing power, attempting to catch a glimpse beneath the bandages. What little skin he can see looks red and raw, but perhaps if he increases the intensity –
B____Y HELL, Voice 2 mutters. A small fire appears to have started in the apparatus. Gideon calmly removes the monocle and smothers it in a ragged handkerchief. Perhaps the rest of the meeting can be conducted without visual aids. Some secrets are too inflammatory for polite company.
When his turn comes, he signs the paper without complaint, dipping the pen in his personal well of violant ink (this undoubtedly counts as a desperate treaty). Perhaps the Monster-Hunter rakes in the cash when she brings home spiny horrors from the depths, but for Gideon this is a generous addition to his dwindling research fund.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/6/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/9/2017
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“Could sir raise his arms please?”
“We shall just take the waist measurement… I say, have you lost weight since last you were here?”
Gideon responds to the salespeople with friendly chatter, his mind elsewhere. He buys his clothing exclusively at The Imaginary Hunt, but only because his scholarly acquaintance Normal Edgar ‘found’ him a ream of discount coupons. The staff are distasteful at best, and he is entirely sure the place is a front for some sort of illicit clothes-colony trafficking scheme; nonetheless, the bombazine is to die for.
I DON’T LIKE THE WAY THAT ONE’S LOOKING AT US.YOU SHOULD DISCOURAGE SUCH THINGS – YOU’RE A MARRIED MAN, AFTER ALL! WHAT WOULD THE BISHOP SAY? (Undeniably projection. Perhaps London would benefit from everyone having their own internal Southwark?)
He thinks back and quickly realises that the last time he saw his wife for more than a brief conversation and a peck on the cheek was their wedding day. Vela is always so terribly busy, though he cherishes the time they spend together. But lately she has spent all her time at her Baseborn & Fowlingpiece offices, working on some grand legal case that would apparently take far too long to explain. Gideon assumes it must be for a fabulously wealthy client – the poor rarely get due process, let alone representation. He would like to chalk it up to the Bazaar’s baleful influence, but the sickness of inequality has been eating at society for far longer than that.
There are exceptions, of course, such as the day he and Vela met. But that story can wait, for while Gideon has been enduring the attentions of the salespeople in the fitting room, a commotion has been brewing outside. At first he attributed the screaming and gunshots to a particularly vigorous urchin-fight, but it is starting to sound more like a war-zone out there. He has half a mind to complain to the manager.
“That’s enough, thank you,” he says, rising and shrugging off the salesperson wrapping a tape-measure around his wrist. “I very much doubt my wrists have changed size in the last month. I’m sure you have the rest of my measurements on record; send the suit to the usual place once it’s done.” He fishes some change out of his pocket, followed by one of his several hundred remaining coupons. “I believe this should cover the bill.”
And with that, he strides out of the room, rummaging in the inner pockets of his suit until he finds a small and unusually heavy metal ball with Correspondence symbols etched into its surface. If there’s a fight to be had, he would rather end it quickly and from a safe distance. Gideon is far too slight to be effective at close-quarters, and besides, he so dislikes the sight of his own blood. Others’ blood? He’s not so fussy.
Gideon exits the back rooms and beholds a scene of utter chaos through the shop window. Vagrants spew forth from alleyways like a Marxist simile, howling with rage as they swing dirty shivs and dirtier bottles at the bourgeoisie. The air is thick with gun-smoke and confusion.
Crouching behind a collapsed clothes-rack, Gideon holds the metal ball close to his mouth and whispers a word that crackles like flame in his throat. The sigils on its surface glow orange, and the ball unfurls eight spindly limbs. He places it on the ground and it wobbles unsteadily for a moment before scuttling off into the midst of the melee, its metallic legs clicking on the paving stones.
With a shirt from the rack draped over his head as camouflage, Gideon watches the battle from afar. The Scorched Sailor holds the doorway, planted solidly as a great oak and refusing to yield to his screeching assailants. Sergeant Lyndon, Emma and Lady Orosenn are all but surrounded, but well-timed shots from above pick off enough vagabonds to prevent them being overwhelmed. Dirae fights without regard for personal safety, intercepting blows meant for the others and thinning the crowd slowly but surely.
The supply of attackers seems inexhaustible. The fighters are an island of stability in a sea of writhing derelicts. More and more of them dash in from every corner.
Gideon’s device should take care of at least a few in a rather permanent way. He hopes this spiderling is the one etched with the Correspondence symbol for “a battlefield strategy in which one does not irreparably damage one’s allies”.
Just in case, he breathes out another word of the Correspondence, scorching his tongue. The spiderling abruptly changes direction, heading to the avenue where the flow of vagrants is thickest. Once it reaches a sufficient distance from his allies, it explodes.
Much as Gideon is an unconventional man, this is an unconventional explosion. Inspired by leaked designs for the irrigo-cannon of the infamous zub Irrepressible but unable to build such a cannon on his roof without being visited by stern-faced Special Constables (why does nobody appreciate the sciences?), he built an autonomous device capable of producing a hypnomnesic blast of irrigo. Results proved surprisingly effective when testing it on a gang of street thugs looking to liberate Gideon’s valuables. Those at the centre of the blast had their minds entirely wiped, while those at the edges found themselves confused for enough time for him to escape.
This spiderling is far more potent, its explosive core steeped in the radiations of the Nadir for a full week. He’s been saving it for a special occasion, but this will have to do.
The irrigo tide rolls forth from the spider, consuming at least a dozen vagrants in the colour of forgetting. At the epicentre, the unfortunate victims keel over immediately, their skin rapidly growing to cover their eyes and their memories utterly eradicated. The other vagrants within thirty feet suffer a less painful fate, consumed with confusion as they forget entirely what they are meant to be doing and look around at the unfolding battle. A handful of them simply turn and walk off in a daze or sit down on the cobbles to try and orient themselves.
Many of the vagrants near the blast turn to flee at this display of unnatural sorcery, but there are always more. Gideon can only hope that he has stemmed the tide enough to make a difference for the others. For now, he is all out of tricks.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/9/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/11/2017
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As Noah steps out on the street, the smell of blood, bile and gunpowder that greets him makes him stop in his tracks. It's as if a full-blown war was fought here, instead of a street fight. Tearing his eyes from the gold-speckled bloody corpses, Noah scans the scene for his allies.
He's delighted to see Mr. Hamilton caring for Mr. Frye, it's good to realize he's not the only medical professional present. Lady Orosenn and Ms. Dynamo seem to be healthy enough if they feel up to shouting; it's the other ones Dirae has brought to the shop front that seem to require immediate care. Dirae themselves seem fine except for superficial wounds, and can thus wait. Sgt Lyndon and the Sailor, however, both have things sticking out of them. Noah clicks his doctor's bag open as he rushes to their side.
Lyndon is bleeding profusely, especially from his head, and his stomach where the hilt of a shiv is sticking out. The Sailor, on the other hand, is barely bleeding at all. Noah dreads the worst, but they answer to his call, and seem to be breathing. How odd. After inspecting the shiv sticking out of the Sailor's shoulder to ensure it hasn't pierced a major artery or the lungs, he proceeds to help Lyndon.
As Noah grasps the hilt of the knife, the sergeant moves a hand to the hilt of his sabre and grumbles a threat to the effect of where the shiv will end up if Noah isn’t careful with it and the luminosity of said place, but Noah knows better than to respond with anything more than soothing platitudes - it’s not the first time a Spite doctor is threatened by a patient. Generally, people with ventilated guts don’t follow up on such threats. The removal goes smoothly, accompanied with enough curses and insults to make a zailor blush. Noah isn’t quite sure whether his usual pacifier of a swig of whiskey would be a good idea with a patient whose esophageal tract might or might not have a hole in it, but Lyndon makes the decision easier by yanking the bottle from Noah’s hand and starting to empty it at an impressive speed. All in all, Noah decides, getting the man happily buzzed will probably make life easier for all of them.
After the application of bandages and disinfectant, Lyndon seems to be wrapped up well enough to last until the party makes it to a safe location and Noah and Mr. Hamilton can do a more thorough inspection. There’s a good likelihood of concussion from the blow that tenderized the back of his head, Noah tells him, and asks to aim away from the bandages if he feels like he’s going to vomit. He also recommends a diet of porridge for a week as well as avoiding any bricks in the future. Lyndon replies with an unintelligible grumble - Noah thinks he can make out the word “nanny” - and a look that tells the doctor his presence is no longer required.
Moving on to the Sailor, Noah removes the knife as well as the tooth lodged into the Sailor's calf (great quantities of disinfectant are used here), notes the continuing absence of profuse bleeding, shrugs, and cleans and ties up the wounds.
As he's finishing up with the two human pincushions, Noah hopes there will be time to do a clean-up of Dirae's wounds as well. They're not in urgent need of it, but Noah has a strong feeling they're not entirely human, and he definitely wouldn't mind a closer look.
As he's pondering this, Noah realizes the shouting from the ladies' direction has subsided, and turns to look their way, about to ask whether they need help. He stays silent.
Edited to include dialogue with Lyndon, collab with Bertrand Lyndon/Barren
edited by John Moose on 3/12/2017
edited by John Moose on 3/13/2017
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/11/2017
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Azoth glanced out the window and surveyed the battlefield, lost in thought. This was the first time she'd seen the Hesperidean Cider in action, and ... well, that was impressive. The thought troubled her, though. These vagabonds alone had unnatural levels of vitality; if the Shade were any stronger, it could overwhelm them with sheer force alone. Looking around, she could see the wounded lying there. The doctors seemed to have it handled. She was tempted to go down and help herself, but she hadn't kept up with her medical skills since coming to the Neath.
Looking further, the situation seemed fairly normal: dead hobos, blood splatters, Emma and Lady Orosenn, shattered glass - wait a minute. Were they - yes, they were.
Huh, Azoth thought with a smile. Good for them. She had no idea how they still had so much energy after the battle, but some people were like that. She lingered at the window a little longer, watching them, being reminded of better days. It had been too long since she had such a liaison, and ... the smile faded from her face. She'd been a different person then.
Emma and Lady Orosenn were strong, but lust is a dangerous tool in the right hands. What would happen if one were to fall? Would the other just carry on, or would something worse happen? Or, perhaps, something better? I don't know, Azoth thought. If Bastet were here, she'd just say to be happy for them, that's for sure. Something about that thought didn't sound quite right, like she'd been caught up in the moment and forgotten something.
With a start, she remembered she'd sent Bastet down. That kitten wouldn't have entered the fight, would she? Taking one last glance out the window, Azoth raced down the stairs to find her.
--
Bastet was very confused. Very confused. Okay, she'd been sharpening her claws on the furniture, and she knew that humans didn't really appreciate that, but to grab her? That was just rude. And now the human wasn't even talking to her; whenever she tried to speak, he just hissed at her, and it was all very annoying.
"Hey, could you -" A hiss. "Alright."
She was starting to get really concerned, too. The others had already come down. The guy with the monkey was even busy shopping for a new coat right now. That confused her too. Why would he be thinking about clothes right now? Why did he even need clothes? These humans with their baldness; really, their fur was barely anything, they had no whiskers, and their sense of smell was appalling. What did they have going for them? Thumbs? She supposed it was an advantage. This human was using them particularly well to squeeze her insides.
Footsteps and a familiar voice. "Bastet?"
"Right over -" A hiss. "- here," she finished softly.
Azoth rounded the corner. "Let the cat go," she ordered. "There's been a slaughter literally right outside your door, I've spent the past few minutes firing out a window with a particularly unwieldy rifle, and I'm not in the mood to deal with a hostage situation. If she's damaged any furniture" - Bastet scoffed to the best of her ability - "I'm perfectly willing to pay for it. If you just ..." her eyes narrowed. "Oh, I get it. You wouldn't happen to have a mirror with you, would you? I'm feeling awfully vain right now."
No response.
"You realize she's an innocent, right?" Azoth asked. "She's played no part in your war, and she will play no part in it." She stepped closer. "And as I understand it, the Labyrinth is always looking for new prisoners. Let her go, and there'll be no more trouble between us. Please." She waited a few seconds.
A gunshot. For a second, the human released his grip, recoiling, and Bastet leaped out, running up to Azoth's leg.
"And I was being sincere," Azoth replied, a Rattus Faber rifle smoking in her hand. "You have a role to play here. Play it, and don't make me or her your enemy. Maybe if you could let go of that prejudice, we wouldn't have to deal with this anymore." She backed away, Bastet following close behind.
--
"You know I had it under control, right?" Bastet asked as soon as they were out of the shop.
"Yeah, right," Azoth replied, surprisingly unamused. "You don't even know what you were dealing with."
"I've dealt with crazy humans before," Bastet protested. "This one was just ... I dunno, crazier. Still, I could've - what are they doing?" Two of the humans seemed to be pressing their faces together on top of a dead body.
Azoth sighed. "When a woman and a woman want each other very much ..."
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
10/28/2017
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A thought niggles at the back of Gideon’s mind, the same one that the Voice of Anna sent through his head when this all began. It feels like months or years have passed since then, though it has scarcely been a few days.
The thought is this: We shouldn’t be here. Feels wrong. Feels like a trap.
The air in the Shed is still, expectant. The front door was not forced, yet it hangs ajar, spilling moonish light into the dusty interior. The trapdoor to the deeper chambers is also open.
Most tellingly, the myriad traps have been sprung by clumsy footsteps. The allotment outside looks like a battlefield with a hangover, flecked with gold-speckled blood. Even the sea mine has detonated, blowing a ten-foot hole in the earth. Finally, there is a struggling vagrant pinned to the door with a harpoon.
“Hello there!” says Gideon, sketching a wave. “Need some help? You seem to be a bit stuck.”
As usual, the vagrant is not the most talkative. She produces a howl like a cat whose tail has been stepped on.
“Fair enough. Thought I’d ask. So your folks just left you up here, did they? That was awfully rude of them. Would you like some toffee?” He fishes in his pockets and pulls out a crumpled paper bag, which he offers to the tramp. After some consideration, she pops a toffee into her mouth and chews it down greedily, wrapper and all.
“Isn’t that much better? Now, I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions, seeing as you’re trespassing on my property. Take a seat, if you will. Oh, how silly of me. Let me get you a seat.”
The silence is broken by the scraping of a small wooden chair across the Shed’s floor.
“There, that should be more comfortable. Now, my question: what manner of vandalism were you planning to enact on this, my one and only begotten shed?”
The vagrant mutters something. Gideon leans in to listen, then nods. “As I thought. Burning down the place. Rather unsporting, if I happened to be inside at the time. Fortunately, I’m not. But I suppose they’ll be about ready to be running off before setting their arson into motion, destroying all my hard work.” He sighs heavily. “I’d best deal with your friends. I fear they might find me rather more than they bargained for. Good day to you.”
The inventor leaves the bag of toffees by the chair, and heads below to put an end to the meddling of the Legion of the Shade.
More than they bargained for, indeed. They laid a trap for me, but now they are the ones who are caught.
***
Dishevelled hobos raid the wine cellar, their lanterns casting sharp shadows on the walls as they rummage through the shelves. Some of the liquor is taken out into the corridors to be used as fuel for the fire. The rest is gulped down greedily.
Unseen, an observer flits among the shadows, gathering bottles seemingly at random and unscrewing sections of the teetering racks, then vanishing into the tunnels. The next bottle removed carelessly from the racks sets the plan into motion. The racks collapse in a pile of screaming metal, trapping many of the vagrants underneath and blocking off the doorway for the rest.
The work continues.
The vagrants have fired up the Paradox Engine, although none of them know what to make of it. Its thumping and whirring fills the cavern while its pistons trace glowing sigils in the air. The observer stays low, avoiding the light from the furnace, adjusting the levers and valves that make the machine tick.
The rhythmic thumping increases in tempo until it pains the ears, and the vagrants abandon their destructive work to look about in consternation, but there is nobody to be seen. Finally the machine spits out a clutch of metal pellets of congealed impossibility and the observer darts forward to grab them from the slot. One of the interlopers yells out a challenge as he takes them, and Gideon breaks into a run, pursued by a dozen of the Shade’s army.
The work continues.
One last stop. There is no time to mourn the fine upholstery, the countless gadgets of dubious utility, the rare materials that took a decade to gather. There is only survival, and whatever is necessary to achieve it and destroy the Shade’s followers in the process.
The vagrants come from all directions in the maze of tunnels, shouting for their comrades to join them in pursuit, howling like bloodhounds. Gideon is pursued as a rat by countless cats, but this rat knows all the shortcuts. It may be a tangled maze to these villains, but to him the paths unfold in a straight line to his destination.
Along the way, he turns up the gas taps on the walls to maximum, flooding the air with an acrid smell. He had told the others the pipes were harmless, but that was just one lie among many. Even without the vagrants’ efforts, the Shed is one step away from erupting in the biggest fireball London has ever seen.
He laughs, exulting in the thrill of the chase. The tunnel walls rush past ever faster. Soon it will be impossible to breathe in the deeper tunnels, but he is heading toward the surface. To freedom, and to the artefact he could never leave behind, the one that could prove instrumental in the fight to come.
The shouts are growing distant now. The tunnels teem with murderous hobos like a wasp’s nest, but they have long since lost track of him among the twisting passages. At last, he reaches an unremarkable wooden door. From inside comes the ticking of a thousand clocks.
There may not be precisely a thousand - Gideon has never counted - but there are certainly far too many. The ticks and tocks echo around the small room, relentlessly counting out the moments. This is the Tyranny of Clocks: one moment after the other, in the right order, always marching onwards. A lifespan measured in precisely calculated increments of clockwork. But the Neath is lawless, free from these tyrannies, if one knows how to exploit them.
There are clocks of all kinds in the room: pocket-watches, wall-mounted clocks, carriage clocks, even some new-fangled wrist-watches. At the centre is a finely crafted grandfather clock. Unlike all the other clocks, its hands are not moving.
The work continues.
The gas permeates the Shed. Coughing hobos emerge from the depths. Their regeneration protected them for a time, but they have finally cracked.
Waiting above the entrance trapdoor is Gideon, the grandfather clock absurdly strapped to his back. Thick iron bars are clamped in place below the open trapdoor, preventing any escape.
“So, you thought you could destroy my life’s work, did you? Nobody can do that except me, and here I am! Once, perhaps, you were men and women like anyone else, but now you’re nothing but mindless pawns for the greatest nihilist London has ever known. The Shade brings oblivion to his victims, and tonight, that is your fate! It’s quite different from the other end of the sword. Enjoy the tomb you’ve created for yourselves.”
He pulls a matchbook from his pocket, strikes it to light and drops it into the gas-filled tunnel, then runs for his life, flinging himself into the blast crater of the now-defunct sea mine. Shortly afterwards, the sky blazes with fire. The detonation is sudden and complete. A fireball shoots up from the trapdoor, launching the burning remnants of the shed into the air. Further down the hill, the tunnels collapse under the wave of pressure one by one, causing sudden slumps in the earth on the surface.
When Gideon dares to look again, his precious Shed has been utterly obliterated, along with a substantial number of the Shade’s army.
And good riddance too. He picks himself up, adjusts the straps holding the grandfather clock to his back and sets off back to the city. If the hunters are to survive their final fight with the Shade, there are preparations to be made.
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Barse
Posts: 706
10/26/2017
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The Shade’s blade flashes like the false-stars. Fast as thought it arcs towards where the Sailor and Drake are stood, the Shade a flickering man-shaped scream. Time – treacherous at the best of times – refuses to slow its passage, even in these final moments. Flinching, raising his arms in pathetic resistance, the Sailor is gripped more intensely in this instant than ever by that panicked animal hindbrain that hijacks the self in situations of mortal peril, overriding all thought and feeling with its single imperative: DO NOT DIE.
The blade - forged on the Elder Continent to be sharp as the Wax Wind, the blade that, wielded by the Gracious, had wounded him, and later, wielded by the dark fury of the Shade, had hewn from him a limb – lands.
The alley rings with the scream of mistreated metal and a sound like the cracking of ice. The impact almost forces the Sailor down to his knees. For a long second, he cannot understand what has happened, until a small shard of metal cuts his cheek and he looks up. An inelegant bulwark of clay, messily fused to flesh at the elbow and beribboned with streaks of white shale, his clay arm has taken the brunt of the blow: like trying to dismember a wall. Shards of the ornate sword, shattered like a church window and thrown in all directions by the force of the blow, skitter to the ground. Some are edged with blood.
The Shade, wrong-footed, has stumbled and caught himself on the alley wall, clutching the elaborate hilt, still topped with an ugly, jagged blade-stump. There is something in its eyes which the Sailor recognises, an expression that he has seen on Drake’s face repeatedly throughout their travels together: surprise. It pauses for the slightest moment.
Long enough. Still alive, and flooded with enough adrenaline to make a dead man dance, the Sailor moves faster than he has in years, curling the fingers of his clay hand into a lumpen fist. Propelled by fear, anger and a fierce kind of joy, the Sailor’s punch connects with the Shade’s cheek before the last shard of metal hits the cobbles.
edited by Barse on 10/26/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
4/26/2017
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The University. Henchard remembers his brother. Always experimenting, pen to paper, taking notes on what this or that did. His strained eyes watching bugs crawl and fight in the mud, fingers twitching notes into life. He remembers his sister, convinced the truth had already been discovered, her long nights by flickering candles, her endless array of books. The Shadow of the Wind. The Gospel of Eve. The Book of Sand.
He remembers his brother's tattered skin as they stumbled towards each other, flaps of skin thrashing in the harsh wind. His eyes asking, not for help, but for Henchard to remember what went wrong. And to improve.
He remembers the weight of his sister’s hand against his chest. Lighter than air, pale as death. He remembers the cold well, the sense of betrayal. The scent of secrets crawling on the inside of his skin. He remembers abandoning her.
From what little he had seen of the university, it was a beacon for people like them. This place was bad enough, dull steel running to mystery machines, loud noises echoing from unknown sources. Perhaps this was what his brother would have made. Perhaps Henchard had no desire to find out how it would go wrong.
“I’ll leave the university to you,” he said, “I have no intention of interrupting a meeting with an old friend. I wish you luck."
edited by suinicide on 4/26/2017
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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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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
4/15/2017
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Lyndon watches the water turn red as he washes the filth and blood off himself. He had been meaning to do that for a while, but things kept piling up. The strategy meeting that led almost nowhere. The whole mess about the newcomer. The kid being annoying. The blind doctor’s odd request. The glowing woman revealing her suicidal tendencies. So many things going on in such a short time have almost made him forget about his basic necessities.
His head has ached all day, but now that he is finally relaxing, it is outright killing him. The water prickles at his wounds as it flows over them. He runs his fingers through his hair several times to untangle it from the clots of blood. He has been in worse shapes, but not by much. A wiser man would’ve forfeited the hunt by now. But wise men rarely go places in London.
Most pieces are on the board by now, and it would be difficult for any new addition to turn the tables either way. The arrangement of their side of the board is quite clear, but their moves have been amateurish so far, while their foe is clearly a master of the game. The other hunters aren’t giving the right value to their pieces: trying to save everything is a sure way to save nothing.
Dynamo is clearly their King: powerful and flexible in theory, quite useless in practice, but important nonetheless. However, the group isn’t ready yet to balance out the need to protect him with the necessity to use him as an effective bait. In time, they’ll learn the difference between a ‘check’ and a ‘checkmate’.
Oddly enough, the glowing woman is their Queen: powerful, flexible, and central in every strategy he can think of. She’s their best option to bring down the creature, but unleashing her on the mark thoughtlessly is more likely to waste her than anything else. No, she must be sacrificed for a purpose, or their situation will turn from dire to hopeless.
The monster-hunter and the hulking masked fellow are their Rooks: they’re both powerful enough to cut through most problems, but they only move in lines, since they lack the necessary finesse to do anything else. By themselves, neither is enough to bring down the creature, but they might accomplish something noteworthy if they start to work as a team. Unfortunately, they don’t seem disciplined enough to do that.
The madwoman and the inventor are their Knights: they might have their uses, but they must be moved carefully to be effective. The inventor isn’t a problem: he seems a pretty reasonable man, if one overlooks his penchant for the odd and explosive. The madwoman is a much bigger issue. She clearly doesn’t think things through, despite her high opinion of herself. However, she is also the key to move the monster-hunter. He should be more careful around her: he could do without her, but losing Orosenn would be a problem. Not that he regretted anything. He would hunt the creature alone before allowing anyone to put the kid in danger.
Lyndon himself and the other Canon are clearly the Bishops: the opposite of Rooks, they move sideways all the time and they reach the peak of their power when they strike from odd angles. The cat-lady is a somewhat more orthodox Canon than him, if such a thing even exist, but his own contribution to the front lines has been lackluster so far. It is quite clear that the creature cannot be defeated with brawn alone. It will probably be necessary to make full use of both their networks.
Finally, the rest of the group is made of Pawns: some more promising than others, but he can’t see any skill that make them stand out from the group. The blind doctor and the grumpy sailor can probably be shaped into something useful given some time, but time is a luxury they cannot afford right now. The remaining ones might have some hidden qualities he still hasn’t figured out, but he’s starting to doubt it. However, they can all be useful under the right circumstances. They are more expendable than the others, if anything else.
The kid is a piece he needs to get rid of, though. If there was a chess piece that gave advantages to one’s opponent, that would be her. He needs her out of the way as soon as possible, at least by the time they resume the Hunt. She has already caused enough inconveniences to him as it is.
Unfortunately, the opponent’s side of the board is much less easy to read. They have already met the Pawns, and they are not to be trifled with. The creature itself seems to play the parts of both King and Queen very well. It’s hard to say if it has any Rooks, Knights or Bishops. They don’t know enough of their mark. That is a problem.
Lyndon gets out of the tub and starts to dry himself. His head is still giving him trouble, but that isn’t an issue as long as he can keep his mind clear. He reaches for the clean clothes the kid has brought him. He frowns when he sees the shirt.
Of course she had to pick the b____y yellow one.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 4/23/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
11/5/2017
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Though she can't move, Phryne witnesses everything Gideon does in the frozen time. Clearly, her condition has moved her far enough away from the Judgement's laws that even an invention manipulating those laws doesn't affect her quite as it should. Still, she is very impressed by Gideon's effort, though she knows it won't be enough. She has no idea why he hands the pink umbrella to Florence—is it supposed to protect her? But already his hands are freezing over, as does everything he touches.
It won't be enough.
The Shade moves like lightning, hauling Gideon up by his throat with one hand—only to fall to the ground with an angry shriek, letting go of Gideon in the process, when its sliced achilles tendons can't hold its weight. Quickly, the inventor starts crawling away from it.
Still time for some famous last words.
"You're running a newspaper, aren't you?" Phryne whispers to Lord Gazter standing next to her. "I expect to be quoted exactly." Without waiting for an answer, Phryne starts walking towards the fallen Shade—who is slowly trying to rise again, its tendons already healing.
"I'm very sorry," she says to Gideon when she meets him halfway. "I caused this. I made sure the Shade would know of this meeting. I wanted a confrontation with it—in a weakened state. All of you—you did more than I could've hoped for. But I'm afraid it still won't be enough." She shakes her head. "You deserved better, all of you. I'm sorry." She walks on, picks up the remains of the Shade's scimitar and turns toward her enemy who is watching her very cautiously. Clearly, it remembers her from their encounter on Seven Devils Square. She walks even closer.
"It is an unfortunate but necessary prerequisite for rising from the ashes, that the phoenix first must BURN!"
And with these enigmatic words, she pushes the blade's jagged stump into her stomach, up to the hilt. It enters her body as effortlessly as if she was but a paper doll. Immediately, light begins to emit from the wound.
Looking into her enemy's soulless eyes from up close now, Phryne sees nothing there besides a vast emptiness all its rage can never hope to fill, and she feels stirrings of pity for the Shade even while knowing that it must be destroyed.
Poor soulless thing. An abomination never meant to exist.
Just like me.
And in those last seconds, blinding, raging light pouring forth from her body, Phryne reaches out to pull the Shade close and plant a single kiss on its lips, and tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
For a few moments, Fallen London is shining, and far to the south the Dawn Machine blazes in answer, issuing commands—and then raging over its loss. For a few moments, the whole western Unterzee is bathed in light.
It had not been enough. Of course it had not been enough. The Commodore wipes sweat from his brow. An old prototype, this Element of Dawn, far less powerful than the current ones. Most of its energy already used up to keep the abomination housing it moving. And that vessel had been less than cooperative. Still, a useful experiment. In time, there would be others.
Basically every Londoner awake at this time witnesses what soon becomes known as "the Sunlight event". Some cry out in joy, some in fear. Some are too stunned to react. Some shrug and say the first one was better. Some behave erratically, later finding themselves in places they have no memory of going to, with no idea of what they were doing there.
Newspapers and academic publications will propound theories about what exactly happened for months to come. The authorities will offer the usual explanation of a singular natural phenomenon, which nobody will believe. Certain sorts of preachers will use the event as fuel for sermons about God's Impending Judgement.
In short, business continues largely as usual.
Technically, there was no explosion, but there is now a crater in the middle of the alley where the unexpected kiss happened.
The Shade is lying in the centre, its body a horribly burned husk—or is it? No! it was only a false-sun, after all—poor competition for the Mountain of Light. Maybe the wounds were an illusion, maybe they healed in record time—only the Shade knows.
But it looks older: gaunt and shaken and impossibly tired. And along with everyone else, including Edward Frye up on the roof, it seems stunned, blinded, and maybe even otherwise affected by the short reign of Dawn Machine mind control. Of Phryne Amarantyne, nothing remains—
—except swirling, colourful streams of flaming light dancing in the air, crackling like Chinese fireworks, contracting and expanding as if searching for something; all the while emitting a haunting, keening sound as if mourning some terrible loss.
If souls are flammable, no one seems to have told this one.
Suddenly, a Khaganian lady appears as if from thin air and runs toward the dancing lights. Armed with a spirifer's fork, she soon begins—very tenderly—to coax and cajole the distressed soul into a large, sturdy-looking bottle; stoppering it when she is done.
She only glances at the Shade once—not her business—and nimbly darts away into the shadows, taking Phryne Amarantyne's coruscating soul with her.
Hardly more than two minutes have passed since the kiss.
The Shade stirs.
----------------------------------------------------
I'm leaving it up to you, dear friends, to decide whether some Dawn Machine command got through to your character, and how long the effect will last. 
This is the end of Phryne Amarantyne. But isn't every end is also a new beginning?
edited by phryne on 4/21/2018
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
12/5/2017
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The sun the Sailor staggers to his feet - something he's been doing a lot of lately - and the sun this time manages to stay there. Spots sun the sun the swim across his vision, as if he's been looking directly atHE SU- something extremely bright. The Shade is gone. Phryne Amarantyne is gone. The alley is a ruin. As far as victories go, this seems a hollow one.
There is a joyous burning in the far reaches of his mind. Phantom pains coruscate across his skin, the memories of wounds. The brightness the hunger the voracious incandescence the white and the light and the sun the suN THE SUN THE- He steadies himself with his stony arm - the only part of him that seems any kind of steady. Deeps breaths. Focus. Remember the pain of it, the unimaginable hurt, the ugly little dark thing that, when faced with a god, with something that toed the line between ecstasy and torment, wriggled and screamed and struggled for the peace of darkness. Hold onto the hurt. The light did that. It's like a mantra - the light did that. His breathing steadies, and the giddy feeling abides, although it's still there, thrumming in his second thoughts.
There's a crater in the street, and those of the hunting party that remain in the area are bloodied and haggard. No bodies, at least. To think it'd take sunlight to wound this thing. A cruel joke. Boxes of the stuff, piled up in the hold of the Reck, the Sailor's private shame. Untouched for months - the dark ugly self twitches in pride at this - but still, he'd been unable to throw it away, to sell it. And now it could have been of use - may still be of use - at the cost of him baring himself, his weaknesses and dependancies.
A shout. What remains of the hunting party is gathering, calling him over. In a slow, loping limp he makes his way over to them. Now that the painful euphoria of the light that had once been Phryne is abating - although he fears it will be a long time before its effects truly fade - the pain finally gets a chance to set in. He is hurt, and he's not the only one. He thinks he spies the Dynamo siblings, ministering Cider, and his hobble becomes more purposeful. There is still work to be done. His thoughts echo in his head - to be done, done, un, the s -
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
12/16/2017
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(co-written with John Moose!)
It wasn’t the pain. She had experienced worse. It was the feeling of helplessness as the darkness gathered in her vision that really - almost - frightened her. She couldn’t stop to try drawing in air through her crushed windpipe. And then everything went black.
It was impossible to determine how much time had passed when Lady Orosenn became aware of a sound. The sound of water, softly lapping against the hull of a boat. And whispering voices, nearby, but so low as to sound very far away.
She opened her eyes.
A tall figure, sitting on the end of the boat, clad in black and grinning without the hindrance of flesh or skin, is looking at her, its head slightly turned to one side. “We haven’t met before, have we? Welcome, I suppose.”
Only now realizing she’d been holding her breath, the monster-hunter exhales. Apparently, breathing is possible in this place. Not yet answering the Boatman, she takes in her surroundings.
She is not alone on the boat. There are a few indistinct figures, huddling together at the boat’s other end. They are the ones whispering. Her gaze travels further, trying to make out a shoreline at either side of her, but all is shrouded in fog. She faces the Boatman once more and clears her throat, slightly inclining her head to the skeletal figure.
“Hello there. No, we haven’t met before. It was just a question of time though. I knew that when I left my home.”
The Boatman answers with a dry chuckle, making a noise like small bones clattering in his skull. “How very prescient of you. I regret to inform you it was a question of time before you left, too.” The skeletal figure stretches a leg, ‘accidentally’ kicking a folded chessboard closer to Orosenn. He does not make eye contact - it is clear he will not be asking for favours.
“So, is this it, then? The end of your hunts, the last chapter? There’s some that have passed this way that would quite like it so. Some very recently, as it so happens. I imagine they’d love seeing you again.” His gaze returns to the Hunter, and somehow his permanent grin seems to reach all the way to his eyes, now.
The monster-hunter’s peligin eyes are as expressionless as ever. If these two were to enter into a staring contest, it could take a very long time… but Lady Orosenn obediently picks up some white chess pieces and begins setting up the board. Pointing over her shoulder, she asks: “Any of those you mentioned among the sorry lot over there? If they want another lesson, well, here I am.”
“Oh, no, no, these are a more recent haul. An orphan here, an elderly lady there, that sort of thing. Not sure if any have enough fire in them to go back.”
“Business as usual, hm?” Lady Orosenn asks rhetorically. “And what if they haven’t the strength? What happens then?” Her voice sounds disinterested, as if she were but inquiring about the weather.
“Then, my lady, they travel all the way. To the far shore.” He slightly adjusts his queen, waiting for her to make the first move.
The huntress chooses a random white pawn to start the match. She isn’t particularly preoccupied with the game yet. Unless things in London go really wrong, someone should administer some Hesperidean Cider to her dead body soon enough. But maybe there is a chance she can weasel some useful bits of information out of her opponent.
“The far shore. Hm. Sure, I’ve heard about that. No way back, eh?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know that, little one. But it is no great secret. No way back at all, and if you see those dusty moth-keepers from Tanah-Chook, you might want to pass that message on. Their pets bother my… customers.” The Boatman thinks he recognises a variation of the Hyperaccelerated Dragon, and stops to consider his opponent a bit more carefully. He responds with the Sicilian Pterodactyl, and now locks eyes with Lady Orosenn in anticipation of her next move.
In truth, Lady Orosenn is only a mediocre player. But successful hunters need an almost photographic memory: it is vital to recognize your prey’s moves. And just so, she can remember almost every move she’s ever seen used against her on a chessboard. However, right now she’s playing against someone who’s probably seen every move ever invented a thousand times or more. Come to think of it, he’s probably invented some himself. So, instead of choosing a particular line of attack - only to have that answered right away - she continues to make random moves and tries to see what the Boatman will make of that.
“Tanah-Chook, funny you should mention it. Not many ships stop there, but I do know the place.” She absentmindedly takes one of the Boatman’s rooks, just because the option presented itself. Could that have been a trap? “Where exactly does this river lead to anyway? The boat is definitely moving, but I guess we’ll never really get anywhere…?”
The skeletal figure is having some trouble figuring out the monster-hunter. She begins a very promising Pseudo-Demi-Slav-Offense, and then throws it all away for a simple rook. He decides to go for a more classical move to judge her habits. “Somewhat presumptuous to expect to know where we’ll go if you don’t even know where we currently are, isn’t it.” His voice is getting less cheerful as he concentrates on the game.
Ignoring the retort, the huntress ponders how to continue. She recognizes the Boatman’s move, even though she couldn’t name it, and knows what would be the usual way to answer it. However, she now recalls a match she once had in Apis Meet, during a long night when the Wax-Wind just wouldn’t let up. She had been playing against a Glassman who insisted the only way to unsettle even the greatest chess-masters was to play absolutely counter-intuitively - do the opposite of what seems reasonable all the time. It had served him well enough: he’d been winning all night, before throwing away everything in his last match. He insisted he’d planned it that way. On a hunch, Lady Orosenn now moves one of her knights deep into enemy territory, taking out two pawns in the process, with no hope of getting her knight back. Then she leans back, apparently very satisfied, looking out across the water.
“Well, wherever we are, I can’t help noticing some lack of variety in the scenery. Say, don’t you ever get bored of the view?”
The Boatman is now staring, unmoving, at the board. A Queen’s Continual Denied, Pro-Tartakower–Makogonov–Bondarevsky-maneuver? Really? Not that she wasn’t still losing, but he started to have a very uncomfortable feeling that she was simply gloating with these utterly obscure moves, and preparing something he might not have seen before. Growing irritated, he looks at the monster-hunter and responds: “Oh, it has its moments, especially when there’s someone to keep me company. There was a girl who very much looked like you not so long ago, come to think of it.”
At those words, the huntress freezes. She tries to read the Boatman’s expression, but this of course yields her nothing. Impossible. I would’ve heard. But he wouldn’t stoop to this, would he? Or would he? She forces herself to look at the board. It is an utter mess, enough to give chess enthusiasts a heart attack. Am I actually giving him trouble? Yes, I think I might. And even if not, I’ll rather go down with guns blazing anyway.
After a few deep breaths, she forces a smile and answers: “Nice try. But we don’t actually look that much alike, you know.” And with no further ado, she bends forward and puts her opponent within one move of a checkmate.
The Boatman is utterly frozen. Did she plan for this? Didn’t she? She’s reckless enough… But not skillful enough, surely. They were flukes. Surely. Surely.
A splash causes him to look up from the board, at a shape in the water. Lady Orosenn also turns around, only to gasp in astonishment.
“Oh ho! Talking of people you know.” There might be actual glee in the Boatman’s voice now.
In the water, the blind doctor from Lady Orosenn’s party is thrashing around in a panic, gulping water and doing his best to stay from sinking. For whatever reason, bees are crawling around his face, getting tied into his wet hair and taking flight only to return to him.
“Poor Mister Rache. It seems without his sight, he can’t even aim for the boat properly, can he.”
Shaking off her amazement, the huntress leans over the side of the boat as far as she dares, reaching out with her hand towards Noah. Realizing he can’t see, she shouts “Here! Doctor! Hold out your hand! In the direction of my voice!”
Barely avoiding drowning - whatever it would mean in these waters - Noah slowly splashes his way towards Lady Orosenn’s voice. His grasping hand finds hers, and as she pulls him aboard, he collapses in a small heap on the boat. He vomits out some oddly dark water, and tries to speak.
“...Uff… Hufff… Haven’t we… Met… NO GO AWAY! ...The hunter… NO NOT THE HAMMERS! ...NO! No, please not there, you’ve taken enough, please…” His voice keeps changing from exhausted but normal, to manic screeching. The bees are now calmly buzzing around him, finding rest on his wet, bloodsoaked clothes. “Help me.. He hit me, and hit me, and hit me… NO NOT MY EARS NOT IN MY EARS… Help… Oh, please help...”
The Boatman shuffles further away from Noah’s limp shape. “A friend of yours? How unexpected… oh no. Not now...” There is real disappointment in his voice when he sees a golden shimmer appear around the monster-hunter’s body. “Until next time then. We’ll continue the match where we left off.” And before she fully realizes what is happening, Lady Orosenn is gone from the Slow Boat.
The Boatman is left behind with the blind doctor, now weeping as the familiar voice has gone. It has been a while since the skeletal ferryman had a game as enjoyable as that one, even if it was all a most exaggerated bluff. He wonders when he’ll have another game like this, and when he’ll see the huntress again. She should have a good story or two on her next visit, be it a final one or not. She’ll come back; they always do. He looks down.
“We haven’t met before, have - oh for heaven's sake, stop crying on my pieces, will you!”
Coming to in her aching body, Lady Orosenn scowls up at Emma’s face. “You could’ve chosen a better moment for that! Ah well... thanks anyway.”
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edited by phryne on 12/16/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/8/2017
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It looks like Noah has the salespeople under control - the Sailor catches some of their conversation as sidles past them into the Imaginary Hunt. Some impressive on-the-spot fabrications. He senses the two of them relax a little as he shoulders - a hair more aggressively than he meant, perhaps - past them. Not easy to put people at ease like that. People surprise you.
The salespeople usher Noah, Drake and some of the others upstairs - presumably to speak to someone more senior - but the Sailor remains, mostly oblivious, sifting through the racks and rails of garments and fabrics. It's been a long while since he's bought any clothes brand-new, and you can tell by looking at him. Holes and patches adorn most things, including one glove darned and patched so many times that it's hardly the same glove now as it was when it started. Still, though, some of his tattered vestments were once expensive and grand. Time and a life of work are not kind, especially to delicate things. He ponders an exceptionally fine undershirt - just regular neath-silk, but tightly-spun, and hardy.
"Is that -" a delicate touch on his arm where a ragged shirt-cuff is just visible - "whisper-satin? My, my, what a surprise. Under such heavy wool and sackcloth, too." The low, sibilant voice belongs to the figure who, until just a few seconds ago, had lounged at the back of the shop and who has now appeared at the Sailor's shoulder without so much as a sound. Tall and slender, and with a suit cut to emphasise the fact, the clerk draws the Sailor away from the rail and towards a full-length mirror, sweeping up garments into their arms along the way. "We have much better wares than that spider-stuff you were considering. How about this?" They hold up a billowing black overcoat that they had apparently pulled from thin air. "Woven with silk and Heartwood fibres. Strong as leather, light as a shadow."
Something disconcerting flashes in the eyes of their reflection. The Sailor steps back so he can't see the mirror's surface - it's a beautiful coat, to be sure, and he can feel the strength of the weave as he takes it from the clerk, but one can't be too careful. "Get many of them around here?" A blank look. "Shadows, I mean." The clerk's blank look turns flinty. "Fine, I'll buy the coat. And," a quick glance to see who else is near, "any information you might have about..."
It doesn't take long to explain the situation with the Bombazine. The Sailor hopes he's made the right call: years of cadging information and dodging lawmen around Wolfstack have left him with good instincts as to who can and cannot be bribed, and something tells him the clerk is willing to deal. And if not, then still - it's a very nice coat.
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/8/2017
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As Noah is entering the store, he notices a mangy grey alleycat on the other side of the street. He's fairly sure he spotted the cat once or twice on the way; someone sent to keep an eye on him, probably. The cat's ears are flat on its head and its hair is standing out. What's that about? Something in the store it doesn't like? Hmm.
Inside the store, Drake seems to have been recognized, but the shopkeeper is clearly on the back foot. It seems that the Shade's mannerisms are rather different, for all that it is a copy of him.
"Please, excuse my friend. I am Dr Noah Rache." Noah hands his card for the clerk to inspect, and gestures towards Drake. "My patient here was recently found on an alleyway in tatters, having no recollection of the last few months. It is not certain what caused this; we suspect maybe a bad batch of honey, or black absinthe, or" Noah leans in closer and lowers his voice "a case of... Jack. You understand that, as my patient is a well-respected member of the society, covering up after any possible scandalous activity is of utmost importance. We would greatly appreciate any light you could shed on his deeds." The doctor smiles pleadingly at the employees, and gives a meaningful look. "We heard he'd been sighted in these parts. I'm sure my patient would be most grateful for any help." A wink would probably be taking it a bit too far.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/17/2017
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(OOC: This takes place between the two halves of Phryne’s last post)
Out here at the fringes of Watchmaker’s Hill the fog rolls low across the ground, obscuring the marshes beyond in the dim moonish light. The allotment is long-abandoned and overgrown with the ever-present fungi of the wastes. In the centre stands a shed of rotting wood. Its windows are smeared with grime; its roof is covered in grass and mushrooms.
In short, the place has seen better days.
At the edge of this scene of lush decay is the incongruous sight of a small fleet of sleek black hansom cabs. The horses toss their heads and whinny nervously, their eyes wide and staring. The drivers grip their reins tightly, as if the beasts are liable to flee at any moment.
The passengers disembark. They seem just as pleased to be here as the horses, though some hide it better than others.
As nobody else seems inclined to pay, Emma pulls out a purse with a sigh and distributes generous tips among all the drivers. As one, they exchange a grim look and whip their horses into action before anyone can change their minds, thundering off into the fog and back to civilisation.
Gideon leads the way at a brisk pace. “Come on, we haven’t all day!” Nobody seems inclined to point out that it is, in fact, night (or the closest Neathy equivalent).
The others follow, with more than a little grumbling. The seriously wounded are supported by the slightly less seriously wounded, trailing blood and curses.
When they reach the boundary of the allotment – it’s not entirely obvious, as the fences have long since rotted away and the fungi have spread indiscriminately – Gideon holds up a hand to halt the party.
“This field is trapped.” He speaks quietly, but in the utter silence of the night his words carry clearly. His tone is low and urgent. “On occasion, I’ve had reason to discourage prying eyes and deter… aggressors. When I start moving, follow my path exactly, or you may well suffer dire inconvenience up to and including extremely painful death.”
Gideon follows a weaving path across the allotment, eyes half-closed like a sleepwalker, periodically glancing back to check everyone’s remaining limbs are still attached.
He cheerfully points out the traps as he passes them. “There’s a bear trap. Watch out for that tripwire. Oh, that’s a nasty one – pit trap full of hungry sorrow spiders!”
Seeing a few of the group glance at a dark metal shape covered in spikes, he nods emphatically and says merely, “Sea mine.”
At last they reach the battered door, and Gideon motions everyone to stand to the sides. The lock is as out-of-place as the cabs were – a gleaming contraption of intricate metal, purchased directly from the side-streets of the Bazaar. A whisper-lock.
Gideon doesn’t touch the lock. That would trigger the final trap. He simply leans close to it and whispers a single word. With the tiniest sequence of clicks, the lock opens, and the door swings open of its own accord to reveal the loaded harpoon gun fixed directly behind it.
After the harpoon gun is unloaded to avoid skewering the incoming guests, Gideon ushers as many of the party into the shed as possible.
The darkened shed looks fairly ordinary, filled with spades, rakes and other gardening implements, but there is a conspicuous trapdoor lurking in one corner. Jammed in the opposite corner by the influx of grumpy associates and starting to turn red from lack of air, he gesticulates towards the trapdoor.
After giving Gideon a look that seems to say “Are you entirely sure this won’t explode or turn me into a frog or something?”, Drake reluctantly opens the trapdoor and descends a ladder into a rough tunnel lit by flickering lanterns. A slow, rhythmic thumping noise echoes from somewhere below.
A few minutes later, the entire party is assembled in the rough earthen tunnel, the shed’s door locked and the harpoon-gun primed once again.
“This is where the magic happens, ladies and gents,” says Gideon, spreading his arms theatrically. “Well, mostly science, actually, but there is a non-negligible amount of magic.”
He bounds through the maze of tunnels, showing the others his spectacular inventions as they pass them. They marvel at the Aether Reservoir, the Unflippable Umbrella, the Tyrannous Timepiece. The laboratory burgeons with wonders as varied as the bats in the sky. Optics are the theme of the day, but there is room for daring forays into chemistry and biology – mysterious flasks full of brightly-coloured liquids bubble (they are dyed, of course, to make them look more exciting) and strange creatures squeak and burble at the newcomers. Gideon sees the Ninefold Cat – or, at least, one of him – skulking in the shadows a few times, but he is wary of strangers.
“Now that you’ve seen but a small portion of the sights, I’m sure you’re all wondering where you’ll be staying. There are bedrolls packed in that cupboard over there, and there are numerous rooms throughout the complex which are available for sleeping. If you’re concerned about your ablutions, let it be known that the laboratory is fully plumbed in! There is a bathroom three right-turns from here, with clean running water and a flushing lavatory. No, I don’t know how the plumbing still works out here, and I don’t care to. Have an excellent night, and try not to think too much about today’s unfortunate events!”
---
The air in the tiny shrine is close and stifling, heated by a thousand candles dripping hot wax. Gideon finishes lighting the last candle and looks up at the cross mounted on the wall. The crucifix is fashioned from metallic gears and wires tangling like vines and leaves. Not as practical as his other creations, but when it comes to religion, Gideon is anything but practical.
He closes his eyes and prays. Not to God – he had stopped trusting in the wrathful figure of the Old Testament some time ago – but to the prophets, the scientists and engineers who brought the world closer to the Truth.
He bathes in the heat of the candles, inhales the heady vapours, and begins to slip into a state of mind that he seldom dares visit. The light flickers in front of his eyelids, and he hears a new Voice: sensuous, seductive, and impossibly dangerous. His nerves thrill, his mind calculates. If he ever wants to find a way to stop this terrible Shade with as many lives intact as possible, he will need its help.
It’s been a long time, croons Voice 3. Did you miss me terribly?
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/17/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/21/2017
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(Co-written with Bertrand Lyndon/Barren)
The Ninefold Cat studies the battered figure descending from the ladder that leads to the roof. He’s moving slowly and sometimes winces as if he’s in pain. Once he’s down, the cat can get a better look at him: a rather short, yet sturdy human with messy brown hair. He reeks of smoke, cordite and blood. His shirt is tattered and bloodied, and he looks like he’s just been trampled by a stampede of wild horses. The cat remembers seeing him being carried inside the Shed the night before, unconscious and wounded.
The human turns and finally notices its presence. He frowns a bit. “You’re not the woman’s cat. Do you live here?”
The cat closes in and stops at the man’s feet. “Yeah. You looking for the bathroom? It’s just round the corner. You look like you could use a wash.”
The man raises an eyebrow. It’s hard to tell if he’s amused or annoyed. “Good to know. Do you also know where I can fix myself a drink? I’m thirsty.”
“Well, there’s water in the bathroom. You apes seem to like it that way, since you’re so poorly equipped to groom yourselves.”
The human grins. “I’d rather have something stronger. Something bottled.”
“Ah, right, you’re looking for the wine cellar!” says the cat, with what could be interpreted as a sly wink. “Last corridor to the left, and then go straight until you see the stairs down.”
The human brings his right hand to the head, as if he’s searching for something that’s not there. The motion looks a bit silly. “Well, thanks.”
The cat looks him walking slowly down the corridor. “What’s your name anyway?”
The human raises a hand to bid the cat farewell, but he doesn’t turn. “I’m the Sergeant.”
---
Gideon slips through the shadows of the much-depleted wine cellar toward the faint glow at the far end, trusting in his bombazine suit to drink up any light that hits him. The stealth isn’t entirely necessary, but he wants to see the look on Locke’s face – or at least in his eyes, since most of his face is swathed in bandages.
The inventor pads closer and catches sight of Locke holding up a lantern to examine the more specialised vintages. He supposes he’ll have to stop the man before he tips over a bottle of something pyrophoric and sends the whole place up in flames.
“I wouldn’t try that stuff if I were you, cousin,” he says as the bandaged drunkard turns around.
There it is – the eyes widening in recognition. He’d like to think there’s some guilt in there for raiding his wine cellar, but that may be wishful thinking.
“Gideon! What a surprise!” splutters Locke. “Have you come to join my little party? There’s plenty of booze here for the both of us, I imagine, though I seem to have developed something of a tolerance.”
Gideon massages his temples. Talking to Locke always brings on a headache.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to waltz in here whenever you felt like a tipple. In fact, I said ‘emergencies only’. So what’s the emergency?”
Locke’s jaw works beneath the bandages. “Ah, that,” he says, drawing out the syllables. “Big emergency. Had a bit of a disagreement with the Pratt sisters at the Bomb with Two Necks – they disagreed with me living there rent-free for the last six months, I disagreed with their disagreement, then they brought some disagreeable blokes to eject me from the attic room. So I thought ‘who’s an excellent fellow, a loyal brother in the Cause and family to boot?’” His teeth flash between the wrappings in a grin.
“Could it possibly be me?” Gideon sighs.
“Actually I went to Normal Edgar first – he’s my great-uncle, see, and he’s got this great rapport with the L.B.s so he can get you pretty much any kind of drink as long as it comes in rat-sized bottles. ‘Course, you’ve got to get in with the rats if you live in a skip.”
“So then you came here.”
“Nah, then I went to the docks to see if anyone would give me somewhere to lay my head in exchange for blowing up a few warehouses, but the folks I talked to seemed surprisingly opposed to what they called ‘Bolshevik sentiment and gross vandalism’”. Locke shakes his head. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Did you at least avoid touching my inventions?” Gideon says despairingly.
“Well…” Locke avoids eye contact. “I may have nudged one of the mirrors in that sunlight thingy you keep banging on about. And it may have caught on fire, just a little bit. And just possibly, I might have tried putting out the fire with the only thing I had to hand. Which was a bottle of whiskey.”
deck him, mutters Voice 1. I CONCUR, adds Voice 2.
Gideon’s fists clench. He rounds on Locke, and his cousin backs into a wine rack.
At that moment, he is interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Gideon turns to see Drake grinning sheepishly.
“Uh, gentlemen, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Gideon frowns. Behind him, Locke makes a pleading look and nods frantically.
“I'm hoping we might find the others to discuss our plan of action. Perhaps you two would like some Cider?”
“Cider?” Gideon says. “Oh, of course, the Hesperidean stuff. Yes, if you could spare a little to mend my bruises, that would be excellent-“
Locke dashes past him and grabs a cup of Cider from Drake, gulping it down in one go. He pulls the bandages apart on his arm and sees a little colour begin to return to his pallid flesh.
Then the cumulative weight of a dozen hangovers crashes down on him all at once.
“B____y hell, this stuff has a kick!” he yells, and promptly collapses onto the floor.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/21/2017
--
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
3/27/2017
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"Glad yer not dead too, Sergeant." The Sailor hefts the bag and gets a grim satisfaction from watching Lyndon register, in sequence, the arm, the clay and the apparent ease with which it lifts the clanking sack. "Sounds like you got a lotta stuff in here. Sent this poor young lass across half o' London, luggin' this behind her. Let's hope it's good." He tosses the bag to the floor at Lyndon's feet.
The Sailor looks around at the assembled faces, ranging variously from shock to puzzlement to curiosity. "Thanks fer waiting up. Don't spose you killed the b_st__d after it...?" he wiggles stony fingers. A glance around the room confirms that no, they did not. "Shoulda gone back to the Reck," he mutters to himself, before swiping a drink - with his real hand - from the Sergeant and sagging against a wall. He downs the drink - whatever it is, he doesn't care - in one long, inelegant draught.
To Jordan, who still looks rather lost and on the verge of tears, he now turns and crouches so that the two are face to face. "We found him, lass! You did good. Brave, gettin' all the way here with -" a gesture to the bag "-all that stuff. But you look after yerself, you hear? Especially around... Randy."
edited by Barselaar on 3/27/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/24/2017
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(Co-written with Barselaar and John Moose)
Jordan slowly trudges along the muddy path following the Scorched Sailor’s lead. Even with Bart carrying the bag, the road is still hard on her feet. Maybe she should have worn more comfortable shoes. Her guide suddenly stops. “This should be the place, Jordan.”
Jordan squints. There’s nothing in sight except a small mound covered in fungi. “Are you sure, Bart? Randy wrote he’s in a safehouse. This doesn’t look like a house. And it doesn’t look very safe.”
The Scorched Sailor nods solemnly. “Aye, I’m sure. That, or your map’s wrong.”
Jordan makes an embarrassed smile. She wonders if maybe she hasn’t drawn the bat’s directions correctly. Well, she should have gotten most of them right. She thinks. “That… that could be.”
As they look towards the mound, they notice something small approaching from its direction. The shape turns out to be a black cat, walking from left to right, sometimes back towards the mound, but slowly making its way toward the travellers. As it gets close, it sits down and takes turns between looking at the pair with an expression of mild interest and washing itself. Before the two say anything, however, it breaks the silence by asking “Hey big guy, what’s your name?”
Rather taken aback by the cat’s forwardness, the Scorched Sailor simply answers. “Captain,” he adds as an afterthought. “Helpin’ the girl with a delivery.” He hefts the bag with his new hand, and the sack clanks and crashes in an alarming manner.
“Well then you’d better follow me, hadn’t you. Don’t step where I haven’t or you’ll blow up, see if you don’t.” The cat starts making its way back to the mound, in the same winding pattern as before, with Jordan and the Sailor following it as best as they can. Following his advice is made slightly difficult due to his paws being the size of the Sailor’s big toes, but in the end they manage not to explode.
Jordan looks up to Bart with an unexpressed question in her eyes. What’s going on here? She’s supposed to meet Randy, but the cat let them in without her even telling his name. Does he know Randy, too? The Scorched Sailor shakes his head. That is a question that is better left for later.
As they arrive, they see the mound is actually a very old and dilapidated shack. A young man with messy dark hair, a white wooden cane and oversized clothes stands at the doorway. “Captain Barselaar? That is you? ...I am glad to find you alive. How is the wound? Did you receive care? We have your arm, but I doubt attaching is even remotely possible anymore...” Noah gulps visibly, looking uneasy. The two notice the blurry texture of his eyes, and that he isn’t looking at them, but somewhere next to their feet without turning his gaze at all. “I… Thank you. Sir, without you, I doubt I would be alive today. I promise I will do all I can to help you, and… Well, if you ever need a favour, I believe I owe you rather many.” An uneasy smile flashes on Noah’s lips, but his eyes remain unfocused. Instead, he seems to be turning his left ear towards the Sailor and Jordan.
The Scorched Sailor grunts. ”Yeah, ‘m alive. Arm hurt like the Cantigaster had at it.” He fights the urge to snap at Noah - fat lotta help you were - but the man has clearly sustained his own injuries, ones perhaps irreparable. “Thanks, but don’t need favours. Need to be not dyin’.” He looks around the dilapidated exterior. “This where you all holed up?”
“Yes, Gideon had a hideout handy. I’ll show you in, the rest are recovering downstairs. Do be careful, mind, I think the place has more boobytraps than the Masters’ towers. The cat is a good guide, though.”
Jordan has listened to the two men without really understanding much. They were in a fight together, maybe? In any other moment she would be glad to know more, but she has a big problem right now. She tugs the blind man’s sleeve. “Sorry, sir. Do you know Randy, maybe?”
Noah bends towards Jordan and smiles. “We might, miss. There’s rather many people here, actually. Could you describe Randy to me?”
“Like, how does he look like?” Jordan’s expression becomes thoughtful. She raises a hand above her head, roughly at the level of the Scorched Sailor’s shoulder. “He’s this tall, more or less. He has brown hair, but he usually wears a cap, so I don’t know if that helps. Oh, yes. He’s, like, suuuupeeeer grumpy all the time, and he doesn’t like to talk to people much. And he has a sword!” Jordan smiles, quite proud of her thorough description.
Noah turns in the general direction of the Sailor. “What do you think? Lyndon, maybe? Or Henchard…?”
The Sailor shakes his head in disbelief. Madmen in the street preach about how accidents don’t exist, how chance is another name for inevitability, and right now he’s inclined to agree. He wonders whether fate is after his death or whether he has a more productive part to play this time. “Noah’s right, it must be one of them. I expect your Randy is inside, lass. Looks like we were both headed the same way after all.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/25/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/16/2017
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"Sounds good enough for now," Lady Orosenn concedes. "Though we'll need to organize some mode of transport to Watchmakers Hill, and quickly," she adds, hoping someone will have that covered. Walking is not an option here.
She very much appreciates the sudden shift of dynamics among the Dynamos (ha!), but is still determined to bring up her reservations at a later time.
She points at Phryne: "And someone find that poor woman some clothes, gods below!"
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/12/2017
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As the party hurries towards Veilgarden, Noah hangs back. It sounds like they might be on fresh trail, and in that case the back of the group seems like the place to be for those not keen on fisticuffs with a monster. Thankfully, the Sailor is also at the back. Noah prefers it that way, to have someone made of stronger stuff close by, in order to run behind them should trouble rear its ugly head. In this safety, Noah considers his last patient.
Dirae seems to be... Something else entirely. While they're certainly not the only, let us say unique, member of the hunt, they are... Noah has no idea what, exactly. The Sailor doesn't bother him at this point - he's probably just some kind of tomb-colonist - but with Dirae, Noah doesn't know if they were ever even human to begin with. It's not just the greenish skin, the glim-sculptor near Noah's practice actually has a similar tinge to his skin. It's not just the black blood, that could be explained by them being an over-enthusiastic monster hunter. It's the... Modifications.
An elbow that seemed patched together, with gears poking through the stitches. The skin being of different colour below and above the joint, like two arms had been stuck together. A flesh wound that remained shallow because the weapon had glanced away from metal wiring running over the muscle, under the skin. He hadn't dared use disinfectant on the wounds for fear of some unexpected chemical reaction. The cloth he'd used to wipe away the black liquid dripping out of the wounds smelled of oil. I'm a doctor, not a bloody locomotive engineer! It seemed increasingly likely that Dirae had, indeed, been built, not born.
I wonder what my employers would think of that. They were interested in the Shade, and witnessing the army of shamblers-turned-killers had raised a strong suspicion in Noah's mind that this wasn't for peaceful purposes. If whatever process had created Dirae was repeatable, it might be even more valuable for such uses. Now how to go about that... The giant had surely noticed his reaction. They - it? - had offered him a drink of something smelling of alcohol, apparently to put him at ease. It would have been wise to accept it with a smile, but Noah couldn't in all honesty trust whatever they drank wouldn't leave a bloody mess where Noah's stomach used to be.
Sneaking into their room with some bees and scalpels would surely end with Noah taking a trip to the Colonies. Well, it's never too late to apologize for his rudeness and strike up a beautiful new friendship. How are your wounds, oh great, I was so worried, by the way, how are your parents, oh that's interesting...
A small smile creeps up on Noah's lips. This might end up being a rather good day, after all.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
11/11/2017
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(Co-written with Shadowcthuhlu)
The apothecary is dark and silent, abandoned in a hurry during the commotion of the Shade’s attack. A white raven glowers from a perch in the corner, periodically screeching dire portents to nobody in particular. Preserved amphibians float in grimy jars on high shelves. The lower shelves hold bottles containing a cure for every malady and a poison for every occasion. The air is still and silent until two intruders burst through the door. A bell jingles cheerfully as it opens.
Gideon and Evensong carry the body of Dirae Erinyes between them, sadly reduced by one head. With one hand, Gideon sweeps the clutter off a large table in a clatter of metal and glass, then the duo lay Dirae down on the wooden surface.
“Bio-thaumaturgy was never my strong suit, I’m afraid,” says Gideon. “I suppose we don’t have the time to consult their original design specifications at present. Never mind. We have work to do, and precious little time to do it.”
“I’ve studied the notes before - the good news is that Shade didn’t remove everything important.” Evensong’s hands pause for a moment over her chest. “The scroll is not too badly damaged, and my Hebrew is good. What is most important is electricity - to get their motors running again.”
“I’ll see if I can get some electrodes from the back room,” says Gideon. “I have a spare battery on me, of course - never know when you’ll need something electrified - but I’m not well-equipped for emergency galvanisation. I know you’ll think me lax, but I really don’t do this sort of thing very often.”
Gideon sees the concern in Evensong’s face and his expression softens. “I’ll do the best I can, Evensong. We may not have known each other too long, but I like to think we’ve all become fire-forged friends. I’m not about to let a friend die on my watch, new or otherwise.”
With that, he wanders off into the back room. Sounds of rummaging are heard. “Electrodes, electrodes, my kingdom for electrodes! What do they teach apothecaries these days? You just can’t get the equipment!”
Evensong takes what remains of the head from her bag - not much at all. The mud-stained scroll sadly flops on the table next to the mangled mass of metal and bone. Looking over the shelves, she sees “Ms. Murgatroyd’s Anti-Sorrow-Spider Candles - Also Excellent in Deterring Stinging Insects in Watchmaker’s Swamps, and the Odious Pests Abroad.”
After requisitioning several packs and a pack of “Mr. Pompeii’s Most Vigorous Matches,” she returns to her spouse. She carefully wraps the shattered remains over the scrolls, before setting down the packs of candles. A moment of instinctual fear as she lights the match, and a moment of concrete fear about having it pointed the right way as gouts of flame sparked off the short lived match. (All experienced Londoners know that Mr. Pompeii’s Most Vigorous Matches see little use as actual matches, and much use in the pranks of both urchins and Stags alike.)
Brushing the wax away from the much-cracked eyes and from the mouth - at least, a gap where a mouth should be - Evensong recreates a face. It’s not much of one, but it will do until time and Rattus Faber mechanics can make full repairs. It’s not that Dirae Erinyes had much of a face to begin with. The Surface language chant heavy upon her tongue, Evensong carefully carves the חַי on the forehead. She wonders if this is how the Bishop feels in his prayers.
Gideon’s head pokes out of the back room. “Found them, along with a rather heavy-duty generator. Might take a minute to get it fired up, but it’ll prove far more energising than my dinky battery-pack.”
“I’ll help you - just give me a minute to crack open their chest.”
The Shade’s work has made this part easier, giving Evensong an easy way to bypass steel and muscle. With a sickening crack, Evensong opens up the chest cavity. Inside, the one remaining heart lies motionless, caught in a network of gold and ceramic. Evensong places its missing twin in its brutalized cradle. She forces the soft metal to grip the heart again, hoping that the delicate writing on the band was not too badly marred. Satisfied with her work, Evensong folds the metal and muscle back into place with another sickening crack.
A few tense minutes later, the flames roar as Gideon and Evensong shovel the last helping of coal into the furnace. The generator in the back room hums to life, expelling high-pressure steam through unseen pipes to drive a turbine and produce the necessary power for a touch of golemancy.
He takes a pair of thick insulated cables with metal clamps at the end and plugs them into a handy socket in the front room. When the ends come within a few inches of touching, arcs of electricity crackle between them. All electricity yearns to form a circuit, to follow the path of least resistance, to go to ground. The one Gideon has in mind will pass through Dirae to enliven their body. The spark of life has never been quite so literal.
“Sorcery most foul! Divine wrath beckons!” squawks the raven. Gideon shushes it and the raven resumes sulking, watching the proceedings with one wary eye.
Evensong takes a moment to clean their hands of coal dust and oily ichor before placing the electrodes. Most of them are stuck on Dirae Erinyes' chest, with a few stray ones trailing up to the extremities. The last one is placed on the now-waxy forehead.
“You are going to want to stand back - the twitching can be violent.” Evensong only steps back reluctantly, even as she warns Gideon. “Are you ready?”
Gideon nods and flicks the switch. As the current passes through their body, Dirae convulses violently, sending the few remaining implements on the table clattering to the floor. Static crackles from the electrodes. Leather straps binding us to the table. Electrodes, wires, transference. This is much like what was done to us, Gideon.
He shakes off the intrusive memory and continues the work, hands wrapped in insulated gloves. For the flesh and clay to reform, the damaged parts must be cut away. It is delicate work, but Gideon has steady hands and Evensong holds the twitching body as still as she can. Even as he cuts, the scroll does its work, breathing life into the rebuilt head.
“Full power,” says Gideon, dialling up the generator and standing well back.
The crackling lightning takes on a life of its own, crawling over Dirae Erinyes in waves. The white raven screeches and flaps its wings in agitation. The dingy room is bathed in an unearthly blue light. Hebrew letters flare on the golem’s forehead. Alive. The body shudders and jerks as if it is straining to get free, shedding the electrodes as the cables come loose from the strain.
Dirae takes a gasping, shuddering breath as the last of the electricity leaves them. Alive.
Evensong rushes to their side, something like laughter escaping from her controlled facade. A groan follows as the lungs struggle to get into rhythm. Evensong rushes to undo the leather straps as the breathing finally settles. The eyes flicker open, and a sharky hand rises up to grasp Evensong’s hands, fluttering over the leather strap over the neck.
“Thank you… we were arguing about whether or not the Lazy Lord variant was too political to play or not...” With that weak joke, Dirae Erinyes gives a stiff smile. Evensong falls into their embrace. “How is everyone?”
Evensong’s shoulders stiffen up, and she draws a breath before continuing. “Phryne is dead. Everyone else survived. Drake is dealing with their wounds right now.”
“I remember the sun...”
“She exploded when that happened. I don’t have enough intel to tell you more.”
Gideon unplugs the power supply and removes the last of the electrodes from Dirae’s shoulder with a soft pop. “That light… it was just like a device I had stored in my Shed. Not mine, unfortunately - I ended up with it due to a postal mix-up. It was… like the sun, but not. This requires further investigation. Imagine the power that could be harnessed…”
He trails off. “I’m sorry about Phryne. Perhaps if I had been quicker, she would still be alive.”
“I thought she would’ve survived…” says Dirae. “I thought I wouldn’t be the only one of my siblings...”
Evensong hushes them with a soft kiss. “You have me. You will always have me,” she softly half-sings, before humming a popular tune, hiding any sobs from Dirae Erinyes.
Gideon tidies up the last of the equipment and scuttles into the back room to put it away.
“Is the Shade still alive?” Dirae Erinyes asks, interrupting the humming.
“Yes, but badly hurt,” replies Evensong.
“Then we’d best be on our way,” Dirae Erinyes says, steel violence in their voice.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 11/11/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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ForScience
Posts: 69
4/15/2017
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Doctor Florence Garrison, for her part, has absolutely no clue that any of this is happening. The last she saw of the Dynamos, they were being dragged of to prison, but knowing them, they made their way out in short order. Of course, a visit from her friends would be lovely, but her career at the University has kept her terribly busy.
Right now, she's poring over a cramped notebook, scratching in her ideas about the unique lack of light reflection found in ganted objects. It's obscure, hypothetical work, and she loves every second of it. And her superiors at Benthic University are sure to love it, too. Perhaps they'll love it so much that they'll reconsider her bid for that professorship that opened up after the last fellow lit himself on fire in an experiment gone wrong, jumped into the river, and was promptly claimed by the Drownies.
Right now, her life is regular, organized, and above all, as safe as life in London gets. That will soon change.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/12/2017
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(co-written with Drake)
As soon as she enters the Scheming Chamber, Phryne seeks out Emma Dynamo. “Hello! I don’t think we’ve even been properly introduced yet. You probably have some questions, and I have a lot to explain.” She smiles tentatively.
Emma eyes the undead woman suspiciously. “I don’t know what your game is, but my work with the Sequence will continue, once I sort things out with my brother. So you can tell whoever sent you here that things are fine,” she asserts.
Phryne holds up her hands defensively. “Please, listen to me. I have nothing to do with the New Sequence whatsoever. I was feeling very exhausted earlier, and then I was drawn to a… source of energy that turned out to be an Element of Dawn. I... “ Here she hesitates briefly. “I… incorporated it, let’s call it that. My little problem earlier was a... side-effect of that. Anyway, I think I have it under control now. And I’m not going to take yours away.” She winks. “Oh, and I’m sorry for mentioning it to your brother. I thought he would know.”
Emma frowns and shakes her head. “That may be so, but you have jeopardized my standing with my brother by bringing that up. Perhaps, if you could, you might speak with him, and tell him you made a mistake,” she suggests.
Phryne smiles knowingly. “I can do that. Everything else I told him was complete nonsense anyway, so it’s surprising he believed that part. Now, something else: I don’t know what you’re planning exactly, but I think your party is relatively ill-equipped to deal with the Shade in a one-on-one fight. I might be able to help you out there, so… well, figure it into your plans. I’d be only too glad to help.” Now let’s see whether she buys into the good-samaritan act.
“I suppose, if you’d be willing to help, and you can control your… transformation, I would not be averse to your help. Perhaps it will take a force of supernatural power to defeat this abomination,” Emma says, thoughtfully.
Phryne’s (mostly singed-off) eyebrows are only slightly raised. ‘Supernatural’, am I now? Well, it sounds better than ‘monstrosity’.
“I think I’m well enough in control for now. Though I’d really appreciate a tiny sip of Cider - just the very tiniest, really, and watered down. Just to help with my healing.”
“Drake’s got the Cider, I don’t keep any on my person due to my line of work. I’m going to find Lady Orosenn now, so if you’ll kindly excuse me,” Emma says with a curt nod, before walking off.
Phryne looks after Emma for a couple of seconds. Well, she certainly doesn’t trust me, but I guess I’m officially on the team. Then she goes off to find Drake, determined to be extra-friendly with him to make up for their utterly confusing talk earlier.
edited by phryne on 4/13/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
4/30/2017
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(Co-written with Phryne and Bertrand Lyndon/Barren)
Hansoms are scarce on the fringes of Watchmaker’s Hill, but cabbies can smell a fare a mile off. Almost as soon as Phryne, Drake, Bertrand, Jordan, Gideon and the Scorched Sailor leave the overgrown allotment, they find two cabs bearing down on them.
Drake flags down the first cab and quickly gets into it, directing the driver towards the University. The Scorched Sailor follows him in.
Gideon flags down the second one, all varnished black wood with an embossed logo - GORCHETT AND SONS: FOR ALL YOUR EXPEDIENT TRANSIT NEEDS! - on the side, and beckons for the others to get in. The horses snort and toss their heads.
“Mind if I ride with you?” Phryne asks him politely.
“By all means, take a seat!” Gideon says, and offers a hand to help her up. To the driver, he adds “To the University, if you please, my good man.” The black-clad driver nods curtly and waits as Gideon gets in.
Lyndon approaches the hansom. He is carrying his bag in one hand, and he drags the kid behind him with the other. Jordan is trying to drag him towards the other carriage, but the difference in their strengths is just too big.
“Aren’t we going with Bart? I want to go with Bart,” she asks.
“For the last time, no. And that’s final.” The Sergeant turns to the other two. “Looks like there’s still some room on this hansom. Would you mind if we join you?” his tone is flat, but that doesn’t really sound like a question.
Gideon leans out of the cab and says “Hold for one moment!” to the driver, who seems to be in an awful hurry. Then, to Lyndon, “The more the merrier! There’s still plenty of space for you two.”
Lyndon gives the inventor a slight nod before pushing the kid on the hansom. He loads the bag in the back before getting inside himself. “Thank you.”
Jordan pouts, but she stops complaining: she can tell her guardian won’t listen to her reasons, even though she doesn’t understand why.
Phryne smiles at Jordan, but since she is not sure exactly why the girl is frowning, does not start a conversation with her. Instead, she turns to Mr Stormstrider.
“You mentioned something about bad blood at the University? Sounds familiar. I did not leave that place on very friendly terms either.”
With a tug on the reins, the horses pull away. The hansom is filled with the rumbling of the wheels over cobbles.
Jordan seems to forget about her sour mood when she hears the word ‘University’, but she doesn’t speak up. Her attention is quite obvious, though. Lyndon, on the other hand, seems lost in his thoughts: he has taken out a small notebook, and he’s scribbling on it frantically.
Gideon smiles hesitantly. The University is a touchy subject for him, but it might be good to talk about it with someone who understands the vicissitudes of academic life.
“I was kicked out of the University twice - once from the medical school, and once from Benthic College. In my, ah, misspent youth, I dreamed of being a doctor. Helping people has always been something I’ve strived to do, although it doesn’t always go as planned. As it turned out, the lifestyle did not agree with me, and the senior doctors seem curiously resistant to experimental treatments.
“I realised after I was expelled that being a doctor wasn’t the only way I could make a difference. So I formed my cabal in secret - I collected the scientists too radical for the Ministry of Public Decency, the rebels and those too poor to stand a chance of studying at the University. We had our differences, but on the whole I like to think we were a positive force for change. And we had allies on the inside, too. Eventually, I managed to pull enough strings through bribery, coercion and a little blackmail, and I was able to start my own department in the University. It was highly illegal, of course, and it was kept secret. We set up in an abandoned basement on campus and performed our own research. Students deemed to be trustworthy would come to my lectures.
“It was only a matter of time before it all fell to pieces, of course. The Ministry sniffed out unsanctioned research before long, no doubt through traitors in our little group. When they came down, they came down hard. They burned our facility to the ground. Many of my closest friends died that day. It was only through sheer luck that I managed to avoid the fire myself. I was out at Caligula’s at the time, and when I came back with some fresh pastries for the staff I found the place surrounded by a cordon of Special Constables.”
He pauses, possibly to take a breath after venting so much at once. Has he said too much? He seems to be doing that a lot lately. It’s been a while since he’s spent this much time with people. Gideon casts a glance at Sergeant Lyndon - he seems to be barely listening, engrossed in his notebook scribbling. Next to the Sergeant, Jordan is watching him intently, taking in every word. She seemed about to applaud his story before he mentioned the end of his Department.
“After that, I was no longer welcome at the University. Nobody connected me directly to the group, although many had their suspicions. There was no way we could start up again - the Ministry took precautions. So I left. I still try to fight the good fight when I can, but recruiting is too dangerous. I’m on my own.”
Phryne is surprised to hear such a long story, but listens to it with interest. She also notices that the Midnighter sitting across from her is not as caught up in his own thoughts as he pretends to be.
“Very interesting, Mr Stormstrider. Thank you for sharing all this. I’m afraid I never was a real woman of science, myself - my desire to study the Correspondence was mostly fueled by practical concerns, and I daresay there are many in London who are far more accomplished readers of that language than me. In fact, since you mentioned bribery and blackmail yourself, I won’t hesitate to tell you that whenever I was in danger of failing in my studies, I made sure to get the grades I needed via… unconventional means. I was already an Agent of the Great Game then, you see, and had no problems uncovering useful information about the staff.
“In the end, of course, it was all for naught. Just when it seemed that my intrigues were about to pay off and I would become head of my own Department of the Correspondence, I become involved in an unfortunate affair that involved several persons of standing. Just a few months later, as a Midnighter, I would certainly have come out the victor in this business, but back then my sphere of influence was still limited, the whole thing was hushed up and I was, sadly, forced to leave without ceremony.”
Lyndon becomes stiff for a moment when the word ‘Midnighter’ is mentioned, but he keeps writing nonetheless. However, his expression seems even darker than before.
Gideon nods in sympathy. “Political, eh? The older professors cling to their positions like limpets. A lot of them look a bit like limpets too. I’m not surprised they made you take the fall. Once you have tenure, you’re immune to all fault in the board’s eyes, especially with the right connections.”
Phryne grins and nods at the limpet comparison. “Well, I guess institutions are like that everywhere. Nothing one can do about it really.” Very suddenly, she shifts her attention to Sergeant Lyndon. “Are you sure you’ve got it all right? Or shall we repeat something? Oh, don’t look at me like that. Like I can’t guess what you’ve been scribbling there!” Her expression isn’t as vitriolic as her tone though; she seems to regard this as a light joke.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, lady,” retorts Lyndon with a calm, icy tone. “I couldn’t care less about your academic life… or lack thereof. Unlike yourself, I tend to spend my time in a productive way.”
Phryne doesn’t seem hurt by the retort. Her smile only widens. “I’m sure you do. You know, I can guess pretty well as to your occupation, and I can see you squirming at the prospect of talking about it. Don’t worry, we’re just making light conversation, aren’t we? But yes, I used to be a Canon. Fun game it was, the Great Game, for a while. Walked away from it all in the end. But you, you’re taking it all so very seriously, don’t you?” She provides the Sergeant with another languid, almost cat-like smile.
Gideon holds up a finger. “Hold on. You mentioned being a Midnighter earlier, and now you’re talking like you’re involved in some sort of conspiracy.”
He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “‘Midnighter’ puts me in mind of a sinister midnight ritual where you dance around a bubbling cauldron and sacrifice innocent blemmigans. Are you in some sort of cult? Not that I have anything against cultists, of course. Some of my best friends are cultists. Why, Normal Edgar is the god of his own religion, although he’s only worshipped by stray dogs and the occasional rat. They’re very devoted.”
If she were still alive, Phryne would have trouble keeping a straight face right now. But in her current state, every facial expression, every outward display of emotion is an effort; therefore, no one can tell that she is almost bursting with laughter inside her head. She can’t wait to see what Lyndon is going to make of this.
Stay calm. Stay calm. She’s your Queen. It would be a poor choice to make her mad. It’s not like she’ll be around for long anyway: all that glowing doesn’t seem very healthy.
Lyndon makes an effort to smile. He only manages to make a bitter grin. “Oh, now I remember you. You’ve changed, but you must be the Amarantyne. I’m sorry, but not all of us can be dainty ladies looking for a fun story to amuse Lord Boredface or the Duke of Snorting. Some of us have to keep the Game moving.
“And no, we Canons are not cultists, and we don’t make a habit of sacrificing blemmigans - or anything else, really. We trade in the name of Saint Joshua, but I doubt most of us are actually devoted to him. Think of us as Freemasons of sorts.”
A short, weird laugh escapes Phryne. Non-breathing people shouldn’t laugh. “Yes, indeed I was known as Lady Amarantyne. I’m flattered you remember me. But please, I am sure you’re aware there are many different ways of keeping the Game moving. Like sharing the same funny story with Lord Boredface and the Duke of Snorting and seeing who challenges whom to a duel first.” She makes a dismissive gesture. “Ach, how I’ve tired of those intrigues. But Freemasons, that’s a curious comparison. I certainly never thought of it that way. Though I guess it fits your approach to the work. Anyway, I’m sure we’re boring this young lady here. What is your relationship with her?”
“With me?” says Jordan, who had been waiting for nothing more than an excuse to speak up. “Randy takes care of me. He’s my... guardian, I guess. He said he was my uncle when he took me in, but I don’t think Mum had a bro-” she stops as soon as she notices the look on the Sergeant’s face. If looks could kill, and Phryne hadn’t been already dead, his glare would have struck her down for sure.
“This is none of your business,” says Lyndon with a sharp, vitriolic tone. “You just need to know that I look after her. You won’t get anything more from me. Or her.”
“Sure, Randy. I don’t mean to intrude on your private life,” Phryne says with an arched eyebrow, and a wink to Jordan. “Anyway, Mr Stormstrider, I can assure you I have never sacrificed a blemmigan - innocent or not - in a bubbling cauldron. The odd weasel, certainly, haven’t we all, but no blemmigans.” It’s difficult to say whether that last part is a joke or not.
Gideon seems flustered by the string of revelations, and pulls out a ragged handkerchief to mop his brow. “That’s good to hear, although I don’t know if I’m relieved by the fact that you’re part of a secret society of spies rather than a blemmigan-sacrificing cult. At least the blemmigans will be better off.”
Gideon looks out of the window in contemplation. The rumbling of the hansom and the clamour of the city streets fills the long silence.
“Do any of you know this Florence we’re going to see? Drake said she was a scientist, but I’ve never heard of her,” he eventually asks, just to break the ice.
“I’m certainly not familiar with her,” says Phryne. “But I’ve been out of the loop for a while now. Maybe Rand-- maybe the Sergeant has heard of her?”
Lyndon shakes his head. “Not really. I’m not a scholar of any kind, and I do little business with the University.” He glances at the inventor. “I guess people like you rarely need the kind of services I can offer.”
“Oh, I’m nothing like the people at the University,” chuckles Gideon. “But I see your point. Not many covert assassinations in academia. Although that would explain the Professor of Antiquities’ sudden heart attack.”
“I might disagree on the matter of covert assassinations. But let’s not get into that. Shouldn’t we be there soon? The campus is not that far…” Phryne peeks out of the window. “This area looks familiar.”
Lyndon sticks his head outside the window, and yells to stop. “This is also where we part ways. The kid must go home, and I guess you people can go on without me. We’ll meet up once you’re done.”
The Sergeant and Jordan get out of the carriage; he stops to pick up his bag, then they head towards Ladybones Road together. Jordan glances at the hansom one last time before they both disappear behind a corner.
“Well, I say! Couldn’t get out fast enough, like. Hope it wasn’t down to anything I said?” Phryne exclaims.
Gideon frowns. “I think I’ll add ‘doesn’t work well with others’ to my review of the Sergeant’s performance once this is over. It seems like a useful thing to know for his future employers.”
The hansom rattles on. The spires of the University rear their heads behind the well-to-do houses of Ladybones Road, and the cab pulls over by the grand archway at the entrance.
“It appears we’ve arrived,” says Gideon, peering out of the window. He snaps his absurd goggles back onto his face. “Let’s be about it, then!”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 4/30/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/12/2017
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(collab with Barren/Bertrand Lyndon and phryne)
Finishing his cup of coffee, Noah hears the thud a pile of papers might make were they slammed hurriedly on a table. Quiet steps pass Noah by on their way to the corridor, and a strong smell of blood, cordite and smoke wafts against his face soon after. The doctor sets down his cup, and follows the smell with steady and careful steps. Turning around a corner, he hears the flustered steps slow down as their cause escapes the sight of orphans and giants.
“Sergeant?” Noah calls after him. “I was wondering if you had a moment.”
What now?
Lyndon raises an eyebrow, wondering what business could he share with the blind doctor of all people. He’s not in the mood for idle chatter. “Of course, but try to be brief. What do you want? If you want to speak strategy, I’d suggest people who have more authority than me in those matters.”
“Not… Quite. Sergeant, I make no pretense of martial prowess; on the contrary, my usual approach to combat is to make sure it’s something that happens to other people. However, in my current condition running away is… Hardly an option. I fear I would end up on the ground within meters should I attempt to run.” Noah looks rather uneasy at this point. “Fight or flight, and flight is no longer possible. However, I do now have an excuse for always having this little poker in my hand. I was wondering if you could give a few pointers for a beginner on how to make sure the pointy end ends up in the other fellow, should push come to shove.”
Is he joking? He must be joking.
Lyndon suppresses a sigh. Most people there seem unconcerned by their lack of training, and the only one who is worried about it is unfit to be properly trained. However, that concern at least shows that the doctor isn’t just another fool with a death wish. He probably has joined the hunt without thinking of the risks, and it is obvious why he doesn’t want to back away now. Still, a blind man can’t be much of a fighter.
“Under any other circumstances, I’d tell you to keep yourself out of harm’s way and use that cane only to move around. However, I’ll make an exception this time, since you clearly won’t give up on this. There might be something even someone in your condition can learn. Something that will give you an honest chance in a fight.” Lyndon takes a few steps back and to the side. “First of all, can you poke me from where you are, following only the sound of my voice? If you can’t do even that, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Noah frowns. Concentrate. Don’t screw this up. Don’t hold back, he won’t appreciate me trying not to hurt him, and I can keep the sheath on the blade. Around… 2 o’clock… And it always sounds like they’re closer than they are… So…
Noah glides his right foot forward, putting his weight on it, and lunges with the cane towards the sound.
Lyndon grabs the cane before it reaches him. It’s slightly off-center, but better than he had expected. Maybe the doctor isn’t entirely hopeless. “Good enough. Too slow, though. You have to work on this.” Lyndon frowns slightly. “You are a doctor, and your knowledge can help you hone your fighting skills.” He moves the cane to put the tip on his heart. “Heart.” Then it moves it up to his neck. “Throat.” Finally, it lowers it to his stomach. “Guts. You must learn to find your opponent's vital points. Focus on those you think are easier to hit. Since you won’t have many chances to strike, you must make every hit count.”
“Yes, that seems reasonable. I’d say… Gut for stabs, throat for sweeps? There’s probably no point trying to go between the ribs without visual aid.” Noah raises the cane back to where he thinks Bertrand’s throat is. “Thank you. I appreciate that you’re willing to do this.” The cane moves half a meter down, ending up at Lyndon’s hip. The sergeant corrects the position. “I realise that a blind man will hardly be an asset in a battle, but at the very least looking like I know what to do with this might make the enemy pause for a bit.” The cane keeps seeking out its targets, slowly speeding up, as Noah slowly and carefully steps left and right, to and fro.
“You’d be of no use if you die,” states Lyndon with a flat tone. “Anyway, you have to make the most out of your first strike. As you said, most people will underestimate you, and give you a good opportunity to land the first blow. If you can strike them down in one hit, you’ll be safe. Otherwise, you’ll most likely be dead. Show no mercy, and aim to kill. Or at least to disable.” Lyndon pauses for a moment. “When you’ll be more confident about this, try to learn to hit every vital point you can think of. You can’t count on people offering you their throat or their guts all the time. Sometimes, you’ll have to go for less obvious spots. Being flexible is just as important as being precise.”
Noah keeps moving around, swaying a bit to attempted ducks and weaves, his cane now trying to seek out unorthodox angles. He’s enthusiastic enough, but it’s clear not seeing his surrounding is holding his feet back, and the cane is already starting to become heavy in his hand, and that shows. “First... Strike. Yes. Sensible.” A wide lunge attempts to be a strong one as well, but the Sergeant easily catches it in the air.
“Don’t overdo it,” says the Sergeant.“ You can’t learn to fight overnight. It’ll take time and practice. Keep working on it every day, and you’ll get good soon enough. There’s no other way I know of.”
Noah stops, out of breath, leaning on his cane. It takes a while for the wheezing to quiet down. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Honestly, just swinging around and hitting something is already quite a refreshing feeling. I don’t think I’ll lack motivation to improve.” Noah straightens out, his breathing more regular now. He continues in a hushed voice. “Especially in our current… Company. Sergeant, if I may ask… What do you think of the addition of this... Miss Phryne… To our party?”
“You mean that glowing woman, right?” Noah nods. “She managed to stop the creature, and probably saved our hides, so I’m glad she joined us when she did. However, she’s not the kind of ally I’d like to keep close to myself: she’s too erratic to be reliable. Personally, I think she’s our best bet to take down our mark. I’d rather not be near her when she does that, though.”
Just when he’s finished speaking, Phryne is approaching them. She has spent some time in the bathroom, primping her appearance as much as possible. She still looks like she just escaped from a battlefield. The glowing has almost completely subsided though.
"I'd like to apologize for my hurried exit, and all the hubbub it caused.” She smiles uncertainly. Both men are visibly disquieted by her proximity.
“Please, relax. I'm not in any danger of blowing up right here and now, honestly. I feel much better." She looks around, at all the people milling around in- and outside the Scheming Chamber. "So, have you formed any kind of plan in the meantime?"
Lyndon turns towards the woman. Was she listening to us? Is she angry? She doesn’t seem about to attack them, but that doesn’t mean much. Anyway, there’s nothing he can do about her, and it would be unwise to be rude. “Only in the most general sense of the word, I’m afraid. We are focusing on finding where the creature is hiding, but we still have no idea how to destroy it.”
At this point, Noah has mostly stopped shaking. He turns towards Phryne, attempting a polite smile. “I haven’t thanked you for saving us back then, have I? Apologies for that, miss. Your strength was quite awe-inspiring.” Breathe, panic isn’t helpful… “Should it come down to that… Miss, what do you think of your chances against the Shade, should we find it? Based on what I heard of the previous encounter, it seems like the rest of us might simply end up being in the way. Should we leave the fighting to you entirely?”
Phryne considers how much she can say without saying too much. “I’m… not sure I could pull that particular stunt again. I don’t think I’ll be much help in any real fight, but if you could manage to get me alone with this guy, I think there… might be something I could do.”
Something of a real smile creeps up on Noah’s lips. Well, that’s a better answer than I dared to hope for. “I see. We shall be sure to bring this up with the others. Your courage is admirable, miss. We are all in your debt.”
Lyndon has to make an effort not to grin. It wouldn’t be wise to show that much happiness now, but that is definitely good news. “Indeed, we appreciate your offer, and I’m sure the others will be equally grateful. We’ll try to find some other way to deal with the creature as well, but our options seem to be very limited right now. Your help might be necessary.”
Phryne smiles. Yes, her help would be necessary indeed, from what she could see of this rather drawn-together party. How much of a help it would turn out to be in the end, she couldn’t say, of course. She might not be able to kill the Shade, but she was quite sure of being able to hurt him severely. Finishing him up would then fall to the others. “I will be glad to assist. I hate murderers, even the rather tame ones who play Knife-and-Candle. Murdering permanently is abominable. But now I think I should speak with your leader, Miss Dynamo. I haven’t had the chance yet.” With that, she turns away.
As she vanishes into the Scheming Chamber, Noah slumps against his cane, cold sweat dripping down his chin. Funny how fast confidence can vanish into thin air. Time and practice, indeed.
“Honestly, I’d feel so much better if she’d just breathe once in a while.”
edited by John Moose on 4/14/2017
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/6/2017
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(Co-written with Phryne.)
Dirae Erinyes rushes through the tunnels, finally coming aboveground into the little shed where they meet Phryne who is sitting on a little stool. She is not screaming or crying, just calmly picking out shrapnel from her face. Looking up, she smiles at Dirae: “Hey, nice to see you. Do you think you can help me with this bear trap?”
Except for the smile, she doesn’t look too good—there are bullet holes all over her body (lamplight is shining through some of them); she has some pretty bad burns and a lot of things sticking out of her. The bear trap has nearly severed her left foot. For all that, she’s hardly bleeding (what little blood is oozing out of her wounds looks distinctly unhealthy and doesn’t smell very good), and doesn’t seem to be in any pain. The dress is beyond repair though.
“Sure Lass.” Dirae Erinyes’ hands pry apart the bear trap with no difficulty. “We should pick the rest of this junk out of you before going back for cider.” Dirae Erinyes remembers Phryne worries about her healing slowing down and places hope that the cider should work just fine. Starting at the back of Phryne’s head, they start plucking out shrapnel. “What happened back there?”
“Too many voices in one little head, I guess,” Phryne answers smiling. “I was... tempted. Your leader—she carries something very powerful on her person. Parts of me... wanted to take it. But mostly, I was afraid of what would happen if I did. And then I lost control… or nearly so.” She shakes her head, musing. “I guess I might try the Cider this time—but only a tiny sip, watered down. I don’t think I could make the effort to heal myself again, and still retain enough energy to face the Shade.” She shrugs and winks. “Not that it matters how I look. I won’t need this body much longer. But maybe it’d be more comfortable for the rest of you.”
Dirae Erinyes frowns. Nothing about this sounds good - too many voices in one head, not needing this body any longer... They don’t know much about the Dawn Machine. They had seen the fanaticism it imposed and that was enough for them. There was a mystery on how Emma was still sane if she’s been messing with their business... but that was not the matter at hand.
“What do you mean you won’t need that body for much longer?”
Phryne hesitates to answer this. Dirae seems to be genuinely concerned for her, which is sweet, but this limits how much she can tell them. “Well, as I already told you, it’s dead. Deader as dead. But don’t worry, I’ve got a plan. Well, maybe ‘plan’ is saying too much, it’s all a big gamble really. But I have a friend behind the mirrors, you know? I think it might work. It worked so far, so… I guess I’ll just see how it goes.” She tries an encouraging smile.
Dirae Erinye relaxes at this. This logic makes sense to them - upgrading to a better model is pretty much what their parents did, swapping souls from body to body. Nothing to do with riding to the far shore or flying away on moth wings.
“I know a thing or two about resurrections, if you want help.”
“Hm, I’ve never looked at it as ‘resurrection’ before. Interesting. And thanks for your offer, I’ll remember it.” She tosses her hair, realizing only then that most of it has been burned off. “Gah. If we really go back into London soon, I might visit a beauty parlour. No reason to look ugly at your own funeral.”
“And a new dress as well. There’s a reason that Evensong never uses the good ones for her emergency stashes. You can borrow my coat if you want - it’ll at least cover you until we get back to London.” Because apparently, that shapeless hooded thing with too many pockets is a coat. “Anyway, why are you bothering with a funeral?”
Phryne looks at Dirae’s ‘coat’. “Um, thanks, but I guess I’d just trip over my own feet wearing that thing. And the funeral remark, that was just sarcasm. Gallows humor. What do you think, should we go back inside and see how much damage I’ve caused? Also, now I remember: there were a couple of strangers in the tunnels. No idea how they got there, but I think I ran right over them.”
“Aye, we should go deal with them, or what’s left of them if they are more Shade minions. And sorry for not getting your joke - funerals... have a weird tradition in my family.”
Getting up, Phryne pats Dirae on the back. “Don’t worry. We all have our personal load to bear, and you turned out a nice enough fellow.” She is already sorry for what is going to happen, suspecting it might be tough for the big guy to accept. Well, nothing to be done about it now.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/6/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/6/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Barse
Posts: 706
4/6/2017
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The Scorched Sailor's coffee is cold.
Really, that should be the least of his worries, but he can't help but be disappointed. It's been a long day or two, and it taxed him quite enough trying to listen to everyone's suggestions, not to mention talk them out of hanging Drake over the lion's maw as bait, so he really could do with a pick-me-up. He may still have an arm, or a sort, but he's decidedly not fighting fit, and since the Sergeant brought him his coffee - the man might be sneering brute but it doesn't do to cause discord in front of children - many of the words exchanged in the Scheming Chamber swam past him in a haze.
He wonders idly what's causing his stupor - lack of sleep, loss of blood, residual shock... clay in the bloodstream? - when suddenly he is jerked out of it by the slight figure of Phryne storming out of the room, tearing the door clean off its hinges. Things thunder and boom in the near distance and a thin trickle of dust falls from the ceiling. The Sailor is not entirely sure what it is that has happened, but as Noah dives under the table and Gideon leaps nervously around, checking dials and turning levers, it is eminently clear that something is distinctly in the process of unfolding. Gideon, more agitated even than usual, executes some complicated sequence and shouts into the corridor. “Not one step further!" Something about gas?
He looks about for Jordan, and finds her crouched behind the coffee-machine. Has he always been so tired? When did he get so old? He does his best to nod at her, and gestures for her to stay. Luckily, it seems everyone else has things largely under control. Maybe. As much as they ever do.
He can't even muster the energy to be surprised when two strangers enter the Scheming Chamber. Gazter and Alexander. He registers their names briefly, before chuckling slightly to himself. Why bother remembering? Either he'll be dead soon enough or they will, the way things are going. The chuckle turns into a cough. He really does need some rest.
"D__n cold coffee," he mutters, before downing it in a long draught and forcing himself to his feet. It looks like Phryne and Gazter have caused a good deal of upset between them, and there may be work to be done.
[OOC: I've not been around as much I'd like recently - as the old curse goes, these are Interesting Times - for which I apologise, but if anyone wishes to use the Sailor in a post then feel free.]
edited by Barselaar on 4/6/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
10/26/2017
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Edward charges at the Shade sabre in hand as soon as he hears Noah’s scream, but then, remembering what happened last he recklessly charged at the Shade, thinks better of it. He quickly scales the wall of the alley, using windowsills and loose bricks as footholds. He is quite good at climbing from his time in the Flit.
When he reaches the top, the Shade seems to be telling the group to return to the Surface. Ha! So you can take more innocent lives for your evil schemes? Edward thinks, and then fires a shot at the Shade while the he is waiting for the Groups response. Then the Shade leaps upon to members of the group who Edward cannot recognize from the roofs. Edward quickly whispers an apology to the ones attacked by the Shade before running to a better position to continue his assault.
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My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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ForScience
Posts: 69
10/29/2017
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Florence can only think of one time she's ever been so terrified in her life. Last time, fear pinned her down like a butterfly stuck under glass. Right now, she's doing her best to channel her mind-numbing terror into pure rage at this thing. The shot of whiskey she downed earlier is probably to only thing keeping her from just giving up and collapsing in a little sobbing heap on the cobbles.
The whiskey is also what made her think that the line about sandalwood perfume was even remotely intimidating.
She steps forward, hands shaking. Lifts the nozzle of the hose attached the the machine strapped to her back and aims. It's emitting a very threatening hissing sound. The Shade is right there. Feet away from her.
Florence takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.
A stream of ganted light splits the air, almost exactly like the opposite of a lightning strike. A sizzling, crackling, popping beam of pure gant streaks towards the Shade, faster than it could possibly react.
It will work. This has to work. Because otherwise, she's out of options.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
8/21/2017
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Hammond wrote:
I have seen what lies on the far shore of the River (...) I have a fear of death once again. I can wander as far into shadowed places as I wish, but I must always have a body to return to... a nightmare awaits those who don't.
Feel the worm-fates crawling under your skin. Hear the chanting grow louder. See the expectation in their golden, shining eyes. Feel yourself blazing, raging, pining. Release. Let go. L—
Coming to with a start. No heavy breathing, no sweat upon her brow. Only glowing, pulsing light. Coming from her. No! Not yet!
With remarkable force of will, Phryne Amarantyne reigns in the powers surging through the empty husk that was once her body—one more time. Probably the last time. Isn't it nice how everybody wants a piece of me.
Looking around. Dining room. Empty, of course. A pang of remorse. She does remember food, remembers it well. What have I been doing in here? What brought on this episode? Not hard to guess. Melancholy, her old nemesis, come for one last strike. And failed again. I salute you, old enemy. But it had been close, too close for comfort. It was time to set the stage for the last act. Imagine this would've happened in Professor Garrison's lab...
An hour in a bathtub with ice-cold water and the pulsing glow subsides. On a spur, she decides to dress in a flashy riding-outfit, as if she were going on a foxhunt on the Surface. Jacket, trousers, boots, gloves, hat tilted daringly to cover the missing ear. Studying her reflection in the large walk-in closet's mirror. Reflection pouting back at her defiantly. I hardly recognize myself. I seem... smaller, as if I'm shrinking. Is that possible? And the short hair... reminds me of my Spite days. Hardly more than a waif then. Chimney-sweep. Always watching, listening, memorizing. Finding my feet in the Game. She allows herself a smile at the memory.
"Huntsman." The word barely above a whisper, but all the summoning that is needed. Reflection's surroundings no longer mirroring the closet but dark forest, jungle-like. Reflection moving aside, reluctant, sulking.
"I'm here." Khaganian woman. Facial scar. Sardonic smile, like that of her friend, her confidante, her would-be rescuer. "Is it time, then?"
"Yes." Maintaining eye contact for another second. A barely perceptible nod. Then, suddenly, turning to Reflection, smiling brightly.
Slitted pupils widening in surprise. Hope. A step forward. A mistake. Cudgel coming down against the side of her (its?) head. Crumpling to the ground. The Huntsman bends down, rope in hand.
"Make sure the knots are tight. You got a place to hide the body?" Rubbing her temple, though she can't possibly be sharing the pain.
"Of course." Finishing her work, she rises. "If your plan fails—"
"It won't. It's not based on reason, after all, so there's no reason why it shouldn't work."
A sigh. "Well, it's done. I can't go back from this. I've been insubordinate before, but this is high treason. If your plan fails, we're both done for."
"Regrets?"
"Countless. But not this, no. I can't stand this place any longer."
A smile. "And I can't wait to get back there."
A shrug. "You're welcome to it. So... what's the next step?"
"The Shade needs to know about our hunting party's meeting in the Side-Streets. Visit a few members of his shabby army in dreams and tell them about it."
"A few?"
"He might not believe just a single source."
"He'll still think it a trap."
"So what. He'll come. If he comes looking for a trap that isn't there, all the better. All I need is for the others to distract him long enough that I can move in close."
"Some of them might not fare well..."
"I don't plan to let anyone get killed permanently. If a few people go on a Boat Trip—shit happens. They all knew what to expect when they signed up for this."
That wry smile. "You know what's funny? How I can't even be certain it's you I'm talking to. After all, anything might have returned from the Iron Republic in your shape."
"That's a distinct possibility."
Horror. "You are not sure of this yourself?"
"I am. I have my memories, though they're far from complete. I look slightly differently. And I'm dead, I'm sure you noticed. But all that hasn't stopped me. And I think I know why."
"Because you're possessed by some hellish creature?"
"I think not. Possessed, yes, obviously, but I've got that under control. Just." Smirking. "Really, I do."
"If you say so."
"Have you ever heard of a place called Anthe?"
"Faintly, I think. People do weird things to themselves there, don't they? Why?"
"They call it 'going sharp'. I think what happened to me is somewhat related. Only I haven't gone sharp in the lungs, or the tongue (that one was always sharp enough, after all)... I've gone sharp in the soul, so to speak."
"Is that even possible?"
"Of course not. That's why it could only happen in the Republic."
"Then I guess your search for your Self proved successful after all. Though you had to die to find it."
"I was a bit mad about the death part for a while—in fact, I went actually mad, the real thing, not some woozy Mirror-Marches episode—until I realized how it absolutely didn't matter at all. This body—this shell, this carcass—doesn't matter. The soul is the only thing that matters, and I'm going to damn well hold on to mine—forever, or as close to that as possible."
"Not feeling honoured by the prospect of becoming fuel for some high-ass Judgement? How dare you!" Chuckling. "But if it's immortality you're looking for, why didn't you take the Cider your friend Mr Dynamo offered to you?"
"Cider—what poor excuse for immortality is that? Oh, you don't understand anything!" Angry now. "I pity those fools, those slaves to Hesperidean Cider. All they achieve is keep looking young while growing old and tired and bitter, and then older and tireder and bitterer. Look at the Duchess or the Widow, do they seem happy? Does the Manager of the Royal Beth look like a happy man? No, they've got it all wrong. Keeping your body immortal is a waste of effort. The soul is the only thing that matters! And souls can grow only a finite amount in one vessel. The number of vessels is irrelevant—the journey is the destination! Imagine, if you always had a body readily available to pass it on to whenever you grow bored of your current existence—preferably without any unsavoury Frankenstein-like science involved or whatever—imagine what your soul could become! Of course, nobody has found out how to do that. Yet."
"But you think you do."
"Well, I didn't bother finding a way—I just made one up. Because that's how it works down here, you know. I can't believe so few people realize that. It's what the Iron Republic taught me. The Neath is maybe the most lawless place in the universe right now! But humans can't seem to wrap their brains around that. They keep looking at things with their reason, their logic, their science—it's ridiculous. All you need is imagination—make something up, and then follow through with it! Easy as pie, especially with Parabola around the corner. You of all people should understand that."
Considering. "When our ship capsized, all I wanted was to avoid becoming a Drownie. I didn't really know what I was doing—"
"And it worked! That's my point exactly. You made something up on the spot, and saved your life." Seeing her friend wince, she amends, "Well, kind of. Halfway there. And I promised I'd provide the other half. I'm only sorry it took me so long."
"Don't mention it. Alright. You said it wouldn't have to make sense anyway. But why involve yourself in this Shade-Hunt business?"
"Well, you know me—I can never resist a grand entrance, or a grand exit. It seemed like a good opportunity for going out with a bang."
A long pause. Slowly, a smile spreads over the Huntsman's face. "Do you remember the night you first opened your salon?"
"Of course. I'd risen far in the Game and decided it was time to have some fun: make a splash in society, be the talk of the town." Smiling too, now.
"The evening's motto was: If you can Dream it, it is Real. And you called yourself..."
"... Phryne Amarantyne, the Once and Future Queen of Parabola. Yes. I put that on the invitations. Pulled every trick I've learnt from the Glass and the Shroud and had those gullible high society types gasping for air all night. It was hilarious. The tale grew in the telling and soon London's esoteric set was at least half-convinced I really was some kind of avatar from Beyond."
"Exactly. And, you know..."
Smirking at each other across the mirror-threshold. No need to finish the sentence when each knows exactly what the other is thinking.
After a long pause, the Huntsman says, "Well, good luck to you then. I have to visit some hobos' dreams."
"Good luck to us both, Apsalar. See you on the other side... or nevermore."
"... or nevermore. Damn, we should be drinking to that!"
"I'm not sure alcohol would be a good idea in my condition. It might serve as a combustive agent."
They share another chuckle, then the Huntsman leaves, dragging the bound and muffled Reflection after her. The jungle disappears, the mirror once again showing a woman's closet—but no reflection of the woman herself standing before it.
She enjoys this experience for a moment or two—gazing into a looking-glass without the distraction of your own damnable reflection: quite like having eyes in the back of your head—then shatters the mirror with one kick of a booted foot.
Showtime.
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
10/25/2017
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(Co-written With Lord Gazter)
Henchard is rolling before he hits the ground. The sound of cracking stone shatters the strained silence, and Henchard scrambles to his feet. The Shade is here. Tearing its way through Noah, who had likely saved his life. Then the screaming starts. Henchard runs, his rifle in his hands, whistling through the air as he swings it at the Shade. Who slowly, casually, reaches up and catches it. A twist of the arm and the rifle screams away, clattering to the ground. Henchard grabs for his knife, hidden in a breast pocket, backing away as The Shade gives chase. Henchard gives a spare look backwards. Everyone else has prepared or made themselves scarce. Only a moment’s glance, but it is over, and The Shade’s smiling face fills his view as he turns back. A hand rests against the arm grasping at the knife. The scimitar on his throat. The fingers begin to tighten, and the blade slowly sinks into flesh.
Two pistol shots ring out through the side streets followed by a third. The Shade throws Henchard to the ground and ducks out of the way of the first two bullets, but isn’t as skilled with the third. The bullet grazes the Shade, and it turns its attention towards its attacker. Alexander stands with his pistol in one hand and a unsheathed blade in the other. He aims at the Shade as it advances rapidly towards him with inhuman speed. A fourth shot is fired.
edited by suinicide on 10/26/2017
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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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phryne
Posts: 1351
5/5/2017
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The Investigation—Part 3: The Gratuitous Bathtub Scene™
(co-written with Drake Dynamo)
(Warning: slightly mature content)
Later that evening, in the generously furnished bathroom of Lady Orosenn’s penthouse…
Emma unbuttons her blouse. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a nice hot bath,” She says with a sigh. She casts her blouse off to the side, and discretely turns away as her partner descends into the tub. Emma removes her skirt, and slips off her undergarments before turning and approaching the tub.
Geranium- and sandalwood-scented water sloshes in the large tub, in which Lady Orosenn is already reclining, covered up to her neck in bubbly foam. She obligingly makes room when her companion gracefully slips into the tub behind her, then leans back and rests her head on Emma’s shoulder, looking up into her eyes—a change of pace for the tall huntress.
“This is pleasant,” Emma whispers, the aromatic steam coming off the water putting her at ease. Timmel reaches up an arm and runs her hand through Emma’s hair.
“How do you keep it so soft?” Timmel asks, and Emma merely shrugs in reply. “I wash it regularly. I brush it even more regularly,” she says, teasingly pulling on her lover’s woven locks before tilting her head and planting a kiss on Timmel’s forehead. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”
Lady Orosenn obligingly leans forward, and when Emma succeeds in getting all that hair out of the way, reveals a well-toned back, crisscrossed with scars and scratches. Emma allows her fingers to lightly trail along the already familiar path of scars arcing across the huntress’s dark skin.
“I wonder how many of these really are old battle wounds, and how many are souvenirs from past lovers?” she asks with a tinkling laugh.
“It’s not always so very easy to distinguish between the one and the other,” the huntress quips back good-humoredly.
Emma picks up a rather rough-looking sponge that rests on the edge of the tub, and dips it into the foamy water, before running it along the other woman’s back, who takes a deep contented breath.
“A nice lunch, a meeting with kids, and now this… I must say, this is not what I had expected our “investigation” to be like,” Emma teases further.
“Believe me, I know the difference between stalking a beast, headhunting a human being, or just plain detective work,” Timmel murmurs, not wanting to be distracted from the pleasant feeling of Emma’s ablutions. “Of course, since you enjoy getting dirty so much, I’m sure you always find a reason to do so.”
“Getting dirty is all a part of the job,” Emma replies, dutifully scrubbing. “Back in my zailing days, if you weren’t getting dirty, you weren’t doing it right.”
“Zailing’s different,” Timmel mumbles, totally relaxed. She doesn’t want to get into an argument over this. “When I’m in town, I try to live comfortably. By the way, you’re really very good at this. Never had my back scrubbed so well.”
“All I’m saying is, sometimes to get results you can’t always do the easy thing, or the clean thing, or the right thing. But it all balances out, the law of averages. Every wrong will be righted, the meek will inherit the earth, a reckoning won’t be postponed. I’m certain you know how it goes,” Emma rationalizes, making sure to keep the sponge moist by periodically dipping it back into the tub.
“Whatever you say, love,” is Lady Orosenn’s only answer, displaying a total lack of interest in philosophy. “Do say when you’re getting tired of this.”
Emma raises her eyebrows in indignation, before giving Timmel a playful pinch on the bottom, prompting a yelp in response, and passing the sponge. “Your turn to scrub.”
“Now, I say,” Lady Orosenn playfully admonishes Emma, trying not too hard to hide her amusement. After a quick, slightly awkward shift of positions, accompanied by much splashing, they sit down once more, this time with Timmel behind Emma, who glances over her shoulder.
“How does the water stay warm for so long?” she asks. “Correspondence sigils engraved in the bottom of the tub,” Lady Orosenn jokes. Emma rolls her eyes.
After a moment, the huntress tosses the sponge out of the tub. Gently caressing the shorter woman’s pale back, she says, “That thing is a mite too rough for your lovely soft skin. I think I’ll rather use my hands, shall I?” As expected, no complaint is voiced.
Gently, softly kneading and caressing, she works out tension from around the neck before letting her hands trail lower, running them along the curve of Emma’s spine, a silky foam of suds between her calloused palms and her sweetheart’s smooth skin. A rush of pleasure flows down Emma’s backbone, the electric thrill of the touch eliciting a series of contented purrs. At the waist, Timmel takes a pause from the massage to give a playful tickle, prompting a giggle and a splash in response. Finally, Lady Orosenn’s hands reach the base of Emma’s back, and she wraps her arms around her companion, pulling her back into a warm embrace. Emma laughs, and wiggles around so she’s facing Timmel, before giving her a large kiss.
What follows is not meant for the innocent eyes of our esteemed readership…
(to be continued...)
edited by phryne on 5/5/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
5/7/2017
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Lyndon quickly makes his way through Ladybones Road dragging the kid with him. The Amarantyne and the inventor were probably offended by his sudden departure, but he doesn’t mind that as long as it keeps them from wondering about his destination.
Luckily, the street is bristling with activity, and it’s fairly easy to blend in, even with the kid in tow. The Sergeant sees couriers dashing through the crowd to run their errands as fast as they can, eccentric gentlemen looking for a way into the Museum of Mistakes, agents from the Embassy scanning the crowd for gullible victims still burdened with their souls. A Dapper Devil seems a little too interested in the kid, until a venomous look from her guardian persuades him that she isn’t worth his time, after all.
“Why did we leave the others?” asks the kid as they approach Hangman’s Arch. “Was it because of the lady?”
“Hrm?” grunts Lyndon. “Not really. Although I don’t like her kind too much.”
“Her… kind?” wonders the kid with an inquisitive look.
“People who cause trouble for the sake of being troublemakers. They’re usually too much of a hassle, no matter what they’re worth.”
As they leave Hangman’s Arch behind them, Lyndon heads down a narrow alley, making sure that nobody’s tailing them – either on the ground or from the roofs. They’re soon welcomed by a dreadful stink of urine that almost covers the faint smell of blood. Small piles of junk and filth are amassed in the corners, and an eerie silence looms over everything.
“Where are we going?” asks the kid, mostly to break the silence. Her voice trembles slightly. “Home isn’t this way, is it?”
“We’re not going home.” says Lyndon, earning a puzzled look from his ward. “At least, not the house you usually stay in. You’ll stay somewhere safer until this mess is sorted out.”
“And where is that place, exactly?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Lyndon stops in front of a small door leading to a basement. It looks old, and its painting is missing in several spots. However, an intruder who tried to open it would discover that it’s surprisingly sturdy and the lock is very hard to pick. He opens the door and shoves the kid inside before closing it behind him.
The cellar is quite large, and filled with crates of all sizes. He doesn’t own the place, but the landowner lets him use it as a way to repay some old debts. Most of the goods there belong to him, although he wouldn’t admit that in front of a constable. He stops before a particularly large crate with a brand on top: ‘PROPERTY OF MR WINES – HANDLE WITH CARE’. The lid has already been opened, so he helps himself to a bottle of wine – Greyfields 1868, freshly stolen from Mr Wines’ henchmen. He puts the bottle in his bag and heads to the back of the room.
The trapdoor is where he remembered it, hidden in a corner behind the last row of crates. A gust of reeking air mixed with dust makes him cough when he opens it. Nobody has used that access in years – one of the reasons he chose it. Lyndon beckons the kid to enter the opening. “Come on, let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”
“What?” says the kid, making a face. “No way. That place smells like… poo.”
“Old sewers tend to have that smell, yes. Now move. We don’t have all day.”
The kid sighs before reluctantly descending the short ladder that leads to the sewer with her guardian right behind her. The conduit they reach has been damaged beyond repair by the Fall, but it can still be used to move around. Lyndon whistles a threnody that echoes for a while before fading down the maze of tunnels.
“Oy! Oy! I’m ‘ere, no need t’make all th’racket!” complains a voice from the ceiling. A pair of yellowish eyes glow from the top of a large pillar.
“Then come down, Graffiacane.”
A huge Rattus Faber sprints down the pillar, and it’s at their feet in a moment. Its body is covered with scars and the look on its muzzle is fierce. That rat must have been though a lot in its life, and it doesn’t seem to fear them in the least. “Follo’ me, apes.” it says, before darting down the tunnel.
No human could find the right path in the maze of tunnels and dead-ends Graffiacane leads them through, but the rat knows every corner of those sewers, and its smell guides it when its memory fails. They reach their destination surprisingly fast. Graffiacane stops in front of a rusty ladder and points at the exit at the top.
“’Tis where y’want t’go.” it says before disappearing in the shadows.
Lyndon and the kid exit from another trapdoor, ending up in the basement of a house. The Sergeant opens the door and heads to the living room with the kid behind him. When they arrive, they find a red-haired woman and a young urchin who were waiting for them.
“You’re already here, good.” says Lyndon with a sharp nod.
“It’s nice to see you too, Bertrand.” retorts the woman with a bitter tone.
“Good mornin’, Sarge.” mutters the urchin.
The Sergeant takes the message he had written on the hansom and hands it to the woman. “I have no time for your sass now, Maltese. This is what I need you to do. You, Kip,” he says, turning towards the urchin. “switch clothes with the kid, quick.”
Kip’s eyes become wide beyond belief. “W-Wif her, Sarge? N-no. I can’t. I won’t put on a girl’s fings.”
“Me too!” agrees the kid. “His clothes stink! I won’t put them on!”
“Yer sayin’ I stink, you snotnose?”
“Of course, stinky-pants!”
“Poophead!”
“Potato-brain!”
“Enough!” growls Lyndon. “You’ll switch clothes, and you’ll do that right now, if you know what’s best for you. You,” he says to the kid. “will do it because I say so. And you,” he turns to the urchin. “will do it because nobody will protect an oath-breaker but me. To the bathroom, the both of you!” The two children head to bathroom with a look of dread on their faces. They both give the Sergeant a dirty look as they pass him by.
“Don’t you dare sneak a peek while I change, blockhead.” mutters the kid under her breath.
“As if I’d e’er look at yer goods, flat-chest.” retorts the urchin, showing her his tongue.
“Is this really necessary?” asks the Maltese as the children exchange their clothes. “I don’t think anyone could follow you here, Bertrand, so why are you forcing them to do this? Do you enjoy making kids miserable? Or are you really this paranoid?”
Lyndon lights a cigarette and shrugs. “Better safe than sorry.”
The Maltese sighs. “There’s no hope for you.”
It takes a while for the children to exit the bathroom. When they do, they’re both as red as beets and they both wear the clothes belonging to the other. If it wasn’t for the different length of their hair, they could be mistaken for the other from a distance.
Lyndon turns to the Maltese. “Do you have what I asked for?”
The woman nods, handing him a shoddy brown wig - stolen from the Mahogany Hall, judging by its reek of cheap wine - and a hair tie. The Sergeant ties the kid’s hair in a crude comb and hides it under the urchin’s battered hat, then he places the wig on Kip’s head. He takes a few steps back and studies them. “Heh, good enough. We don’t have to go far anyway.”
“Why are we doing this, Randy?” complains the kid with a whiny tone.
“Safety.” answers the Sergeant. He turns to the Maltese. “Take her back to the other entrance, wait for a while, then follow my orders. Kip and I will head to the Dancing Satyr.”
“Understood.” says the Maltese. She takes the kid by her hand and guides her out of the room.
Lyndon picks up his bag turn to the urchin. “Are you ready?”
Kip frowns. “I really ‘ave t’go out lookin’ like this, Sarge?”
“Don’t worry: nobody will recognize you.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 5/12/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
5/16/2017
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The Investigation—Part 4 of 5: A Particularly Old Friend
Very early the next morning, Emma and Lady Orosenn leave Covert Lane for Spite; they're walking since it's not far, and no hansom would take them to the ill-reputed area they're headed for anyway.
They are both well-armed: apart from her ever-present harpoon (Emma already supposes she might start to feel jealous about it at some point), Timmel Orosenn has put several knives of various shapes and sizes into her belt, and provided Emma with ammunition for her derringers. Emma looks quite dashing with two cartridge belts slung around her slender waist. "I feel like Annie Oakley," she jokes.
Not far from the famous corner of Alley Alley and Blue Ghost Street, the two ladies turn into an unusually well-lit side-street, known to the locals as Exiles Row. Almost blinded by the abundance of gaslight, Emma soon realizes that this particular alley seems to be almost exclusively populated by foreigners from the Elder Continent—everyone she can see is dark-skinned, making the paleness of her own complexion almost compete with the streetlights.
At first glance, the cramped buildings look like everywhere else in Spite—dirty, shabby, derelict, barely holding together. But a closer look reveals that—while certainly dirty and shabby—they're not in very bad repair. None seem in danger of collapsing. In fact, she can see a few people engaged in repair works on the roof of a house not far from them.
"And here we are in another part of London you've probably never seen before," Timmel says, smiling.
“There isn’t a lot I haven’t seen in my travels, but this is certainly new—who are these people?" she asks. "I didn't know so many of your compatriots lived in London."
Timmel turns to Emma, an atypical expression on her face—melancholy? "Very few of them are my compatriots exactly. Umryg is small and has always remained fiercely independent. Who are these people, you ask? Why, outcasts, refugees, maimed ex-zailors. Adventurers, malcontents, stubborn pig-headed freedom-lovers who will prefer a free life—even if it's a hard one—over bowing their heads before anyone." She pauses.
"These people take care of each other. Those you can see selling mushrooms or their crafts are mostly maimed zailors, adventurers who lost limbs or eyes somewhere on the Unterzee and were too proud to return home thus disabled. But others—especially among the political refugees—are in fact quite well-to-do, though they don't dare settle in a more fashionable part of London. Afraid of drawing attention to themselves; the Presbyterate's reach is long. You'll even find the odd Varchaasi here. Rebels who were fed up with life in the mirrored city, caught in a strange mixture of pride and regret." She hesitates before continuing. "I expect you know about the Presbyterate's policy that no one shall live more than a thousand years. Well, not everyone succumbs to that gladly. Some of the people living here... they're so old, it's almost unbelievable." She chuckles. "They have few problems of making a living. With a life experience like that, it's easy to make a convincing fortuneteller, clairvoyant, or author. In fact, some very successful writers of exotic adventure novels live right here—they all publish under pen names, of course."
“And if they’re so ancient, how old does that make you?” Emma inquires.
“I’m still relatively young, all things considered. Just a little under one hundred,” the monster-hunter states nonchalantly.
“Well, that’s certainly something,” Emma remarks.
Lady Orosenn asks a passing woman something in a language Emma doesn't understand. The woman points up to the roof where work is being done. Timmel laughs, thanks the woman (supposedly), and then shouts something up to the roof. Someone answers.
"He'll be down shortly." This might be the first time Emma sees Timmel Orosenn looking a little uneasy at the prospect of meeting someone. "The Obstinate Nidahrian is one of those who've fled the Presbyterate—quite a long time ago in his case. The price on his head is astronomical by now. He has accompanied dozens of expeditions into the FQ." Both women have taken to using the urchins' abbreviation by now. "He actually used to live there when it was still called the Fourth City."
Emma raises her eyebrows. "Well, I can see how that would help him know his way around there better than most."
The Obstinate Nidahrian looks like a sprightly septuagenarian. His handshake is still strong, as Emma can't help but notice with a wince. He actually takes a small bow before Lady Orosenn, which quite embarrasses the huntress, who treats him with a respect bordering on awe.
In as few words as possible, Lady Orosenn relates the story of the Shade to the old man. She is tactfully enough to leave out the information that the man responsible for its creation is the brother of her companion. The Nidahrian had heard of the “Shadow of London”, but paid little attention to it, thinking it just another take on Jack-of-Smiles. He is horrified at hearing that this being originates from the Elder Continent.
“Things like that are what’s bound to happen with all these foreigners traipsing around there,” he says, shaking his head. “You think this ‘Shade’ hides in the Forgotten Quarter? I will help you then, of course. Do you want to leave immediately?”
They do indeed.
(to be continued...)
edited by phryne on 5/17/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
5/2/2017
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Excerpts from Agent Evensong's notes: Part 3 of 3
Not published with the permission of the Foreign Office
Any found with this material will be fined by the Ministry of Public Decency.
Profile of Friar Crowley
Current Alias: Friar Crowley
Past Names: Father Lloyd Hardy
Appearance: Middle aged man with a hooked nose. Has blue eyes, brown hair (balding), and a noticeable limp. Affects a high class accent. Not the easiest to impersonate but not impossible.
Personality: He is still an intelligent man, but most of his intellect is dedicated to feeding his paranoia and delusions of grandeur. He still dresses in his old professions clothes and often refers to himself as a religious authority. Neat and orderly, he keeps his personal lair clean. He spends most of his time working on his version of the bible – religious nonsense but maybe of interest to others in our department.
Past: A former defrocked priest. Previous posting was at St. Elizabeth’s Chapel for the Innocents. Friar Crowley claims that he had lost his position due to church being able to understand his “revelations.” Mere heresy is not enough of course. A brief investigation revealed that were a more complex scandal: a sprifer left to prey on the congregation, a tomb-colonist that was found buried in the walls and an angry hunchbacked bell ringer. The details are so far scant, due to church’s cover-up of the scandal and the current limitations of my current face. Before then, he was learning at seminary when London fell. His immediate family lives on Ladybones road, but they have not had contact with him in years. Apparently the shame was great enough for him to be cast out of the family.
Current Location: A shack near the Forgotten Quarter, five blocks from the murderous tea shop. It is circled on the map provided below.
Known Associates: The Shade, members of the Shade Cult, a devil by the name of Screwtape, and an agent of the Midnighter Aeon Madstar.
Known Goals: Unknown.
Resources: Mostly the bodies of the Shade Cult. He does not imbibe of the blood, so he does not possess the enhanced strength and toughness of his minions. However, his intellect his still intact. Beyond that, he has no notable material resources.
The last page is a map of the Forgotten quarter, with circled and crossed off locations.
The notes are simply: Following Crowley after the meetings, I have been able to ascertain that Shade’s lair is somewhere in the Forgotten Quarter. However, due to Friar Crowley’s paranoia and the disorienting intellect that rules the quarter, I lost him. Still, I have been able to deduce likely spots that would be safe for the Shade to rest.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/14/2017
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Lady Orosenn is at first completely flustered by the note slipped to her by Dirae Erinyes. She reads it several times, before guffawing thunderously. Everyone turns towards her. She tries to wave it away. "Nothing, really... none of your business." She fixes everyone not turning away quickly enough with a menacing stare, silently daring them to ask her anything. Only Emma hasn't turned around—she's holding a slip of paper, too, and has turned an interesting shade of red.
So, their bug guy was a funny guy, too? Fine with her. She could play that game as well. Later, though, because at this very moment, they have reached Seven Devils square with its old war memorial in the center. The place, usually teeming with life, is almost completely abandoned—surely due to the gruesome murder that has just happened, and the expected arrival of the constables. Only outside Dictums, London's oldest surviving pre-Fall restaurant, situated directly across from them at the other side of the square, a few people are gathered around a crumpled shape on the ground. That must be the Shade's latest victim.
The group hurries on.
---------------------------------
Some impulse—she has no idea where it has come from—has finally made her leave her bedroom. (Maybe it's just that basic human need for company?) She has decided to go into town. She has taken a bath, even washed her hair (it still complains a bit, but not as much as it used to), and put on her finest Strange-Shore Frock. She has contemplated her reflection for hours and is confident she has successfully disposed of all her more distressing physical features—though she does still look a bit too bony and lean to appear perfectly healthy. She will take a hansom into Veilgarden, and just stroll through the streets. Let's see who will recognize her, who will call her by her name.
Let's see whether there is anything—or anyone—in London that still means something to her.
---------------------------------
edited by phryne on 9/30/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/14/2017
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Mr. Hamilton's mind seemed to be failing him. What is happening, oh what is happening. Then he hears Noah's scream. Oh god, someone needs his help.
Mr. Hamilton charges through the chaos trying to get to Noah, lying on the ground. He has to get to him, he could never be recognized as a doctor if he fails. Eventually he makes it to Noah.
Mr. Hamilton is trying to not make himself a target for the Shade while getting out his medical kit. He gets out the kit and starts washing out Noah's sockets. This is gross, really gross but Mr. Hamilton is used to this sort of thing, he has dueled before and has plenty of experience with wounds and medical things. He gets out water from a canteen in his coat and tries to wash out his eyes.
Come on... yes! There! His eye sockets were, for the most part, cleaned out, however they are still bleeding a great deal. Mr. Hamilton puts bandages on, for now, this should stop the bleeding, but he can't be out in the open! He'll die! Mr. Hamilton drags Noah out of the open, behind the memorial in the center of the square, that should be good for now.
edited by Mr. Hamilton on 3/14/2017
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I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/14/2017
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Lyndon has followed the group without really realizing where they were headed or why they were heading there. All he can feel at the moment is the throbbing of his head and his guts squirming somewhere under the bandages. He knows he should keep his guard up, but he feels too sick and tired to do that. The uncharacteristic laughter and the weird look of amusement on the face of Orosenn doesn’t reassure him in the slightest: if she is as distracted as he is, it means nobody competent is keeping the eyes open and looking for threats.
His train of thoughts is interrupted by the piercing cry of – the doctor, he thinks?
Lyndon turns just in time to see the Shade slicing off the zailor’s arm with a clean cut. The bandaged man collapses not too far from the miserable doctor, who’s squirming on the cobblestones and crying for help. His hands are covering his eyes and blood is seeping through the fingers. That was obviously bad news: a blind doctor is hardly effective.
That's the kind of situation where the difference between a squad of veteran fighters and a band of amateurs becomes glaring. They should have stuck together, recover the wounded and pull back in an orderly fashion. Instead, everyone acted on their own accord.
The hulking masked fellow dashes past him, charging the Shade at an impressive speed. Lyndon’s hand move to his revolver to cover them, before he remembers that he ran out of bullets a good while ago. He can’t do anything but watch as the machine is easily dispatched by their foe.
He could leave them all there. It would be the sensible thing to do: the Shade would probably let him go, at least for a while. He owes nothing to them. He unsheathes his sabre. To h__l with everything. He’s not the kind of man who backs off from a challenge. Or maybe is the concussion speaking.
He sees Dynamo not too far from him with his own scimitar in hand. “Make them pull back, d__n you! Do you really want them all on your head?”
Lyndon doesn’t wait to see if the other has heard him or if he's going to follow his advice. The Shade won't wait for them for much longer. The Sergeant doesn’t delude himself: he’s gonna lose, and lose badly. Hopefully, all he has to do is buy some time.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/14/2017
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/15/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/15/2017
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When Noah screams, Timmel Orosenn realizes all her mistakes in a split second. Well, it can't be helped now.
She turns around, and the Scorched Sailor has lost an arm.
The Shade's speed is appalling. No way would she have any chance fighting this thing! If It would only stand still for more than a second, then It might become a target for her harpoon—
Five seconds after Noah's scream, Dirae Erinyes loses a finger, but she'd be very disappointed if that slowed them down much.
Suddenly, Emma is at her side. Their conversation doesn't miss a beat.
"You need a distraction." It is not a question.
"At least two, more like. Where's that inventor chap?"
"Hiding in the shadows, I guess. Probably run out of gimmicks already."
Lyndon goes down. Evensong and the cat-lady keep firing from a relatively safe distance—Mr Frye had to move a lot nearer towards the fight because of his insufficient short-range weapon—but all that's hardly even bothering the Shade. Where this battle is going is as clear as a bright summer day on the Surface.
"Dirae must keep attacking. Kick their arse if they slow down." Timmel nods towards Mr Henchard slinking away. "You'll be the distraction, he'll be the joker, I'll try to be the saviour." She hands Emma one of her large throwing-knives. "Don't die, or I'll be really cross."
"Same."
Lady Orosenn's already leapt up towards the small balcony on the first floor of the next building. A few seconds (and two disturbed boudoirs) later, she drops down behind Henchard in the shadows, a hand on his mouth before he can voice his surprise. "Wait for Emma to start her shtick before you attack. I think the Shade doesn't know where you currently are. You're the only surprise we've got left." Before he can reply, she's gone again.
All that jumping around was hell on the muscles, but you can't really tear or even strain anything when you're dressed neck-to-boot in skin-tight wire-meshed bound-shark leather. Only negative was the diet—she really couldn't afford to gain weight, ever. But she thinks it might keep even the Shade's infernal scimitar from slicing something off of her—not that she intended to give It a chance to try.
She is standing more-or-less directly above It now, on the roof of a pub, the Dry Wilmot. Down below, Emma steps forward, swishing her knife around like a circus performer.
"Hey, you ugly b-----d! How 'bout takin' on someone your own size?" That woman had such a beautiful way with words.
No one notices the figure of a lady kneeling beside the decapitated victim's body, not that far away.
edited by phryne on 3/16/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/15/2017
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Henchard joins the charge, last in line. They should be charging side by side, but no matter. There’s no time for planning anymore. Timmel is barely holding off the Shade and probably won’t last much longer.
At their approach the Shade stuns Timmel with a well placed punch. D__n, a fighter down before they even reached the fight.
Frye was the first to reach them. And the first down, the Shade tearing through him like butter.
Dirae was the next, and quickly subdued. The Shade gloating as it broke their arm over its knee. The air crackling with the sickening sound of-
A flower of pain blossomed on his back, distracting him from the strange noise. He clawed at it as he fell, his fingers tracing out the pattern of a small knife. D__n, D__n, D__n.
He twisted as he hit the ground, trying to see who had stabbed him. But not enough, no one was within his field of view. If he just tilted his head a bit more.. The Shade rested a foot on his ear, stopping him. Dirae’s broken arm rested once again on his knee.
“You are making a whole day of mistakes,” it said, bringing Dirae’s arm down once again, the force smashing Henchard’s head into the ground.
The world shook, blurred, and was consumed. Colors and darkness blossomed in his sight, obscuring even the shaking of the neath.
Despite it all, one thing was clear, miraculously so. Emma Dynamo stepped into his view. A small knife in her fist.
D__n her.
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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
3/16/2017
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Henchard stared at Frye. The colors before his eyes had started vibrating, filling his ears with bells and slides. What did he say? Oh yeah, what happened. Henchard shrugged and stood up.
After a few woozy moments, he realized it needed a bit more explanation. “I,” he trailed off at a sudden pain. “I was not awake at the end.” One of his arms flung out, pointing in the vague direction of Drake. “Shade..” he trailed off again, “His name’s not Shade, is it?” A beat. “Drake. Drake probably saw it.
He looked at Frye, eyes narrowing. There was only one of him now. In fact, most of London had stopped shaking. Though he's not sure the screaming was an improvement. “I think I need some help over there as well.”
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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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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/18/2017
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(co-written: most of this is John Moose's work, I only added Lady Orosenn's parts)
The hideout is mostly quiet, besides the whirr of what Noah assumes to be some manner of scientific contraptions, and the steady breathing of the sleeping hunters. He hasn't slept. He isn't sure if he ever will.
Noah knows how this goes. He has seen it before, a criminal that could no longer run or fight. The effect is like swimming in a pool of sharks with an open wound. The moment his employers know, he’ll stop existing for them. The moment his customers know, they’ll babble. The moment the rumours spread, he’ll wake up on a silent river while a gang of thieves take away everything that isn’t nailed down, and come back later with a crowbar for what is. The main thing, then, is to not let anyone know, and not let his employers think it matters.
Noah rises up from his bedroll, holding the sheathed cane-sword in his right hand. Whatever he’ll do next, whoever he’ll try to manipulate, at the very least he can’t afford to look as helpless as he is. So his eyes don’t work. That leaves four senses to work with. He breathes in deep, and concentrates. What do I still sense?
The soft fabric of his borrowed clothes. The glow of his skin from a scalding hot bath. The feel of the cavern air as it passes his throat. The faintest sounds around him, and the feel of the rough ground under his feet. He might as well start with walking. He takes a few slow steps, swings the cane like a pendulum in front of him—not scraping the ground, that’d be like wearing a bell - and starts walking through the tunnels. Step, step, clank turn left, step, step...
Suddenly, he bumps into someone. He had thought himself alone!
“Hey, look where you’re go—oh. Sorry,” says a deep female voice. Of course, the tall monster-hunter! Only she could move this soundlessly.
There is an awkward silence. “So, um… your eyes haven’t become better yet?”
Noah considers this. Lady Orosenn seems like a warrior through and through; she’ll probably respect someone recovering from a battle wound, less so someone crippled for life—which Noah was reasonably certain he was. “No, not yet. It seems a sip of the elixir wasn’t enough for such a deep cut.”
“Maybe you should consider visiting the Carnelian Coast for a while. Get as close to the Mountain as possible. That should speed up your recovery. You should have enough money for such a trip when Emma—um, when Miss Dynamo pays you out.”
'Emma'? Ah. Yes. Hmm. “Yes, that might be prudent. Thank you, I’ll keep your advice in mind. First, of course, we must catch the Shade. I will, of course, remain at Miss Dynamo’s disposal if she’ll have me. I think a stitch or two will still be possible, if someone describes the wound at least.” Noah smiles politely. “Thank you, my lady. It is good to have a moment to talk, just as it is good to have such a strong hunter with us. I have full trust you’ll get the better of the Shade next time. We all feel safe with you on our side.”
Noah should be glad he can’t see Lady Orosenn’s face right now. She is obviously not impressed with his fawning. “Well, thank you for the kind words. Excuse me now, I have to speak to Em—to our leader.” With that, she just leaves him standing there in the tunnel.
Hm. Maybe he really overdid the brownnosing this time.
edited by phryne on 3/18/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/18/2017
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The white is stained with red.
A figure lies face-down in the snow, motionless. A sword cane is a few inches from its hand, almost completely covered in white. He looks down. The gun at his feet is cold now, but the snow around it is still half-melted. It had shot not too long ago.
A black horse-carriage is waiting behind him. He can see the face of a young woman peeking from a window. She looks scared, and worried. He turns towards the young man next to him. His hands reddened by the cold are fidgeting. He stares back at him with his gray eyes that are so familiar. “T-This… I-I didn’t mean to… He...”
He nods, and picks up the murder weapon. “I know. All will be well, A____w.”
There’s a long, awkward pause, before realization dawns on the young man’s face. “No! I can’t let you do this, B_____d!”
He shakes his head and smiles. A calm, serene smile. “All will be well.” he repeats. “This is how it was meant to be.”
Lyndon wakes up covered in sweat. His head is still throbbing, but his thoughts are much clearer now. That nightmare… he hadn’t had it in years. It still makes him want to get horribly drunk, though. He looks around searching for a quick drink, and realizes that he has no idea of where he is. He sighs. His memories of the previous day’s events are quite blurred, and he’s not sure he wants to remember all of them.
He’s lying in a bedroll in an underground room. Since he’s not bound or otherwise restrained, he assumes the other hunters have brought him to some sort of safehouse. He tries to get up. His body aches everywhere, but he manages to raise to his feet without too much trouble. He stumbles to a nearby table. His coat has been left there in a heap, too ripped and bloodied to salvage. His sabre is also there, and in much better conditions, fortunately. He searches his coat for his Rattus Faber Rifle, takes the sword and leaves everything else there.
The earthen corridors are dimly lit and resound with whirrs and sounds of moving machinery. Is he in some sort of laboratory or workshop? It doesn’t matter. He has something to take care of before worrying about his whereabouts. Lyndon explores the place for a while, searching for a way to the top. He sometimes see other members of the hunting party in the various rooms, but he avoids them carefully. His head aches too much to chat with anybody.
He finally finds a way out, ending up on a flat roof. The landscape isn’t familiar, but it’s definitely somewhere near Watchmaker’s Hill. Good enough. There must be some of them roaming around here. He whistles part of a storm-threnody. The sound is somewhat faint, but the light breeze carries it far.
Lyndon lights himself a cigarette and waits. For a good while, nothing happens. Finally, a small silhouette emerges from the fog and flies up to him. The bat perches on a nearby railing and gazes up to him.
“Oh, it’s you. You’re quite far from your territory, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
Lyndon lets out a puff of smoke that blends with the fog. “London’s my territory.” he retorts. “Anyway, I need you to carry a message for me.” He produces a small notebook and a pen from his trousers and starts scribbling.
The bat flies on the Sergeant’s shoulder, trying to get a peek of the message’s contents. “Is it official business or are you using the network for your personal reasons again?”
Lyndon snorts and glares at the little creature. “You ask too many questions, considering you’re just a diminutive mailman.” He finishes writing, rips the page from the notebook and folds it a few times. “Deliver this at my quarters. Do you know where I live?”
The bat lets the Sergeant tie the note to its leg. “The official address? Ye.”
“You’re good to go, then.”
The bat leaves Lyndon’s shoulder and he looks it disappear in the fog before returning inside the safehouse.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/19/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/26/2017
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Lyndon is still appraising the quality of the dubious liquid his host has generously poured in his glass when a delighted cry echoes in the cellar.
“Randy!”
Lyndon manages to do a half-turn towards the source of the noise before he’s hit by something that envelops him in a hug. The sudden contact makes his wounds explode with renewed pain. He looks down at the small girl clinging to him with the same look he would usually give to a particularly slimy Rubbery Man. The kid looks up to him and smiles in blissful ignorance of his shock.
WHAT!?!
No.
Not the kid.
Not here.
Not the kid here.
Lyndon opens and closes his mouth repeatedly in a poor imitation of a fish. He can feel the curious stares focused on him. He can feel the blood rushing to his face and make it an embarrassing shade of red. However, his mind seems unable to articulate any meaningful sound. An awkward silence lingers in the cellar for a moment.
“What the h__l?” cries the Sergeant, as soon as he manages to regain a measure of self control. “What the h__l are you doing here, kid?”
The kid lets go of him immediately, as if he was covered in spikes all of a sudden. She pouts and hands him a crumbled piece of paper. “No fair! You asked me to come, Randy.”
Lyndon accepts the note with a look of horror on his face. He doesn’t need to open it to know what that is. He also realizes that he should have seen this coming, considering how nosy and meddling the kid is. He makes a mental note to strangle the particular bat responsible for this should he run into it again. “You know that… this wasn’t meant for you, right?”
“Yeah, but there was no one else home, and it sounded urgent. What was I supposed to do?”
“Anything that wasn’t coming here on your own and without what I asked for would have been great.” snorts Lyndon. “I swear to Stone, you should be dead by now. How did you even manage to get this far?”
Obviously, the kid is all teary-eyed at this point, and she’s about to cry. However, Lyndon’s frown doesn’t mellow. “T-That’s not true! I-I was with Bart, and I brought everything with me! Even more than what you asked! Guns, knives, swords… I took everything I could! It’s all in a big bag, and Bart’s carrying it.”
Lyndon is about to cry he doesn’t know any Bart and wonder how could she be so foolish to ransack his armory only to give it to a complete stranger, when the shambling figure of the zailor enters the cellar, carrying a huge bag in his hand.
Lyndon knows that the situation warrants a clever quip, but he cannot think of anything but obvious platitudes. He settles for the least meaningful one. “Oh. Fancy meeting you here.” he extends his free hand. “Now hand over my belongings.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/28/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/15/2017
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This could either be a turning point or bloodbath. Dirae Erinyes knows that if Gideon's mysterious invention has any chance of working on the Shade, they will have to box it in. If Gideon's tricks don't work, then Frye, Lady Oresenn, and Herchard will be left at the non-existent mercy. No matter which way, it went down they had to be there: Either as a wall or a pincushion.
Pocketing their finger, they charge at the Shade's back. They feel the cogs strain and whirl as their arms open wide for unwanted bear hug.
"Come on you poor man's Jack, is that really the best you can do?"
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/22/2017
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HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T -
Light. Light like the memory inscribed on her skin, the memory of the world before this darkness had become it. Her eyes bathed in white light beneath a blue sky, the air tasting of brine and salt as the ocean waves lapped against the shore. It was a picturesque scene, like one out of a painting or a postcard ... though, to be fair, paintings and postcards were all she really had to remember the Surface, wasn't it? If she closed her eyes, it would feel like ... no, home was too strong of a word. It would feel like the past again, when things were simpler, when things were brighter. When she wasn't trapped in a clockwork city, where pieces moved and all she could do was stand there and push as hard as she could against the tide.
Things had been simpler back then. Perhaps she could've lived a simple life, one ignorant of all the wonders she'd seen down here, all the hidden mysteries of the Neath and beautiful secrets found in the darkness. It would've been a life bound in its totality by light and law, one where she would've stayed bent and bowed ... but it might have been a life where she could be happy.
Closing her eyes, she felt the cool breeze rush across her skin, the chirping of birds filling the morning air. She wanted to linger there forever, alone in the nature of the above, beyond the false-stars and dark sky to the memory of a home that never was. But that wasn't to be. Only a fool would believe they could come to such a place, a paradise found only in song and story. No, this was a memory, that was all, and a false-memory at that, one born from longing and nostalgia. She wouldn't find that place anywhere the starlight touched.
She lay back with a new weight on her heart. This was but a dream and a dream was fleeting, but she would savor this dream for every moment it afforded her.
Seconds faded into minutes and minutes seemed to fade to hours and days until she next opened her eyes and there was darkness.
Azoth groaned as she sat up from her bedroll, stretching, the Surface-longing still heavy in her heart. I really should visit, just for a day, she thought, still groggy. I hear Naples is nice this time of year. Get out by the Mediterranean, maybe visit the rest of Europe too ... maybe Vienna. Always wanted to go there. Just enjoy the sunlight and the stars for a bit before they decide to kill you. Caution had done her good in the Neath. Her face was still an alien one to the Boatman, so as long as she didn't linger for long, perhaps she'd avoid the consequences of Surface travel. After the hunt, she decided. Once this is over, provided I don't die first.
Standing, she checked her pocket watch almost on instinct: five in the morning, precisely. Not that it mattered. Her plans for today had definitely been disrupted, but that wasn't too important. Provided that her associate remained sane and didn't decide to sell an orphanage's worth of souls to the devils on a whim, things would be fine. Looking around, Bastet was still sleeping soundly, curled into a ball beside the bedroll. Gently picking her up, Azoth slid the kitten into her pocket and left. This shed was an intriguing place; sure, it was a safe house, but either Gideon was the most paranoid person she knew or he was hiding something.
The Surface could wait. There was fun to be had here.
edited by Azothi on 3/22/2017
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/22/2017
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Noah wakes up soaked in sweat, lying mostly next to his bedroll. He feels as though he'd spent the night running or his life, but can't remember what, exactly, he dreamed of. His nose is full of the earthen smell of the floor he's had his face against as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He takes the cane-sword from against the wall where he left it, and rummages his pillow, also known as his doctor's bag, to make sure everything's still in there. He opens the small box with his tiny friends, and smiles as he hears the quiet buzzing. He gently pours some more honey on the small piece of rag they eat from and tucks them away. Carefully lifting himself up, he heads off towards the washing areas.
Fresh and clean, Noah walks the corridors quietly. He can hardly say he feels good, but walking seems to come a lot easier than he'd expected. Oh sure, he keeps bumping into things and having to stop and correct his direction before hitting a wall, but he'd expected it would take him weeks before he dared take such long strides. Curious but thankful, Noah is considering finding Gideon and asking for coffee, when a voice calls out behind him.
" You're going to break something soon, you know."
Noah freezes up; he hadn't heard anyone approach, and he'd been listening. "I'm sorry. I still have some getting used to all this."
"Not that I'd care," the voice continues. "But you humans seem to be obsessed with that kind of stuff." You humans, Noah thinks. Something about the way the voice sounds like it's not only bored, but wants you to know it's bored and think that this is probably your fault... "My apologies, sir, but mighty you possibly be a feline?"
"You're a snivelly one, aren't you?" the Ninefold Cat sneers. "Of course I am a cat. Do you have somewhere you need to go or are you just trying to see how long it takes until you break something?" Noah considers this; the cat seems helpful enough, and he's really getting sick of the stuffy air of the tunnel, now he thinks of it. "Could you lead me up to the shed we arrived through? I would like some fresh air." The cat chuckles. "Don't know how fresh you'll find the air up there, but sure. Make sure not to step on my tail, though."
The cat leads Noah onwards. Climbing the ladder takes some time, during which the cat deactivates the traps Noah would be most likely to otherwise trip on. How he does this with paws is anyone's guess. "Sit here," the cat calls out. "There's a stool and you can open the window next to it if you want." Noah thanks him and finds the seat he was offered.
The air that greets him from outside is moist and smells of swamp, but also cold and fresh, and goes a long way towards actually waking Noah up. He stays there for a long time, just listening to the cries of bats, the baying of marsh-wolves and the trickle of condensing water dripping from the fungus caps. He feels like he should be terrified, or in anguish over losing his sight, but honestly he's starting to just feel glad he's still breathing. That monster would have taken much more from him had the Sailor not stepped in, and now Noah was more aware of the blood that yet pulsed through his veins than he'd ever been. He needs to be careful, to plan things out carefully - maybe fake his death, adopt a new name - but right now, all he feels is a strange calm at having faced death, both razor sharp and jasmin-scented, and yet he lives. Fine. I can't see, so I'll listen. I'll think, I'll plan, and I'll get others to carry those plans out. I've heard a true player of the Great Game can stop and start wars without ever leaving his chair. Very well! Let's see how good I am at playing games, then.
A far-away sound of something trudging through the marshes, slowly approaching, brings Noah back to the present. "Is that..." he begins to ask the cat, who responds "Yep, people. A man and a girl, the man carrying something big. You know if they're boss's friends?" Noah considers this. The Sailor was still missing, he'd heard. Hearing the Sailor might be returning should have been disappointing, since the Sailor saving his life left him awkwardly indebted, but curiously all he felt was the lifting of a leaden lump in his stomach he hadn't even known was there. "A member of our team got separated - an old sailor going by the name of Barselaar. He dresses by covering himself in rags so that as little as possible shows, and should be missing an arm. Could you be so kind as to check if it might be him, sir?" he pleads his guide. The Ninefold Cat stretches, yawns, and starts making its zig-zagging way towards the approaching shapes.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/20/2017
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(OOC: Co-written with Shadowcthuhlu)
Evensong pulls their spouse along, trying to keep Dirae Erinyes' functional hand away from Gideon’s inventions. Claiming one of the may labs-turned-guest-rooms and with some borrowed tools, Evensong gets to work. Peel back the flesh on the finger, then find the severed joint. With some dainty work with a blowtorch and hammer, they reforge the finger joint back onto the hand. Some quick stitches on the flesh to hold it together while it heals. The tricky part is the arm - not only does its metal and bone need to be reforged, but the careful symbols of runes, Greek letters, and hieroglyphs need to be examined for any fractures. A few will need to be recarved after the forging is done. The muscles will need to be rewired before the skin is stitched together.
Dirae Erinyes ignores the pain, letting the moment of calm stretch on by. It’s rare that they get to feel the cool air of the neath on their sickly greenish skin. There will be work soon enough, especially with the woman who came with them.
“Phryne?”
“Hm?” She has been humming that Wagner piece about the dragon for a couple of minutes. Slowly, her eyes focus on Dirae Erinyes. She smiles weakly. “Yes?”
“That’s a neat trick you pulled there. Where did you learn it?”
“Trick…” A shadow falls over her face. “I don’t really remember much of it. I remember being angry. I found the corpse… the dead woman. She was a friend. Well, I knew her.” After a pause, she asks: “Who was that guy with the scimitar?”
“Drake calls him The Shade. Apparently it’s his shadow mixed with mountain blood and cider while zailing. It’s been killing people in London for half a year now. It seems to have an interest in Drake and his sister. Has an army of hobos for some reason.” Dirae Erinyes rattles off the information while Evensong’s brow creases in concentration. “A s--t philosopher. That answer your question?”
“By killing you mean, killing permanently? Over several months?” Phryne seems aghast at this news.
“Aye. The police don’t seem inclined or able to catch him. Thus, this rather patched together hunting party. But how come you know nothing about this? All of London’s been talking about it for months!”
“I wasn’t here for a while. I left London… I don’t exactly remember when, but sometime late last year. I was looking for a… different kind of place to live in. You’ve probably heard of the Iron Republic…?”
Dirae Erinyes frowns, and Evensong stumbles slightly in their work, dropping their tools. With a deep breath, she resumes. “We’ve been there once. Not eager to return. I take it you enjoyed your time more than I did. What brought you back to London?”
A maelstrom of emotion plays on Phryne’s face. It is a long time before she speaks. “Liked it… yes, I did. Maybe a bit too much. I…” Her voice changes, suddenly she sounds like an old woman. “I can draw no line between imposture and self-deception. It’s…” She spasms. “Shut up!” Now, that sounded a little too much like the beast from Seven Devils square! But shortly after, the spasms subside. A single tear flows from her left eye. “I know the ugly faces the moon makes when no one is watching,” she whispers. Then, as if waking from a dream: “I’m sorry… what were we talking about?”
“You remind me of myself when I was younger.” There is a dark chuckle. “There was a man on the surface much like Dr. Schlomo who helped me somewhat. Maybe you should visit him after we finish our hunt.”
Phryne snorts. “Psychologists! I don’t trust them. I don’t believe they have anything to give us. I’ll take care of my soul myself, thank you very much.” She looks at Dirae Erinyes curiously. “Say, do you have a soul?”
“At least one, but it’s as cobbled together as my body.” They give a self-deprecating grin. “I’m surprised the devils chased it as long as they did. Sometimes I’m many, sometimes I’m one.”
Phryne watches Dirae with genuine concern. “Cobbled together…” She shakes her head. “I guess I don’t have to ask why someone would do that. Some megalomaniac trying to create something perfect.” She basically spits that last word out.
“They didn’t want to build something perfect. My parents only wanted to bring their loved ones back to life.” Dirae Erinyes tone is sympathetic. “I can understand that.”
“Well, I guess I understand it, too,” Phryne grudgingly admits. “But the reason doesn’t always justify the means. Anyway, you seem to be holding together well enough,” she says with a wry smile. “You’re probably more ‘alive’ than me at this point.”
“You don’t think you’re alive? As for holding together, that’s thanks to years of love and practice. Some days are better than others.”
That wry smile again. “Evensong, maybe you should check my pulse, just to make sure I’m alright?” Evensong places down their tools with an annoyed grunt and rests a hand on Phryne’s wrist. “No pulse, cool to the touch.” Her tone is dry. “Ma’am, you seem to be a perfectly healthy corpse.” Dirae Erinyes gives a surprised expression. “Never thought I would meet anyone deader than me. The Iron Republic really did do a number on you.”
Phryne sighs ruefully. “Most of it I did to myself. The Republic, if anything, protected me. Still protects me. I was surprised not to fall down dead when I entered my ship to return to London, nor when I touched London ground. I should be dead. I definitely shouldn’t be walking around and talking to people.” She shrugs. “No one really understands how the Iron Republic works.”
“Well, count yourself lucky then. I’ve seen worse walking corpses before I came down to London and that’s saying something. Might want to be a bit careful taking a sip of the Dynamos’ cider. At least your body seems to heal up on it’s own. It’s awful to be trapped in a rotting, broken body.”
“Lucky… well, I guess that’s one way of looking at it. And I don’t heal on my own. I have to concentrate on it. And it gets harder.” The cider is an interesting notion. “Did the Dynamos promise you all Cider as a reward for taking part in this venture?”
“They promised the cider to those who got hurt. Though, you didn’t sign the contract. With Emma in charge, I’m sure she will be willing to pay whatever you ask for - especially since you did save her girlfriend. If the cider doesn’t help, there is always mountain blood to consider.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Phryne muses. “I’d still need a new heart first, that won’t grow on its own.” She seems unwilling to discuss cider, or blood, further. “But, if stopping this ‘Shade’ is what you’re all after, then I’d like to join. Maybe I can add an… unconventional approach to your tactics.”
“I’m sure Emma would be glad to have you on. Take care, little sister... sorry, I meant Phryne. I guess I’m not over my shock from earlier.” With that Evensong finishes her work and wipes away the sweat from her brow. They need a shower, and some tasty candles, but mostly they need sleep. As Phryne slips away, they curl up on the already prone Dirae Erinyes. Their eyes close, and their dreams are permeated by the strange lights of Gideon’s many inventions.
edited by phryne on 3/20/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/30/2017
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How would a military man approach this? He would employ a group of competent, disciplined men and not a bunch of suicidal wannabes for a start. Then he would find the beast’s lair and have them shell it until both the beast and the lair are no more. Hopefully, that would suffice.
Lyndon snorts. He figured he would get dragged in that particular argument, although he has no desire to speak of the matter at the moment. It isn’t a problem that can be solved easily. That group is mostly made of foolish amateurs who share an obvious death wish. Not the kind of people he can make a sensible use of.
He won’t deny that some of them have useful talents. Their host seems to have a knack for engineering and explosives, which is always a good thing. The cat-lady seems good enough at just whatever she puts her mind to. The mechanical man is a force to be reckoned with. Orosenn’s way of fighting is effective, albeit unorthodox. The glowing woman has… hidden talents, apparently. Maybe a few others are still hiding their true worth.
Unfortunately, their utter lack of discipline and strategy makes their combined efforts much inferior than the sum of the parts. What they really need to do is to weed out the weak links, and make the rest of the chain more cohesive in the process. Hopefully, time and losses will do that for them. It isn’t an ideal solution. B____y h__l, it isn’t even an acceptable one, considering the stakes. But he’ll have to make do with what he has, as he often does.
Despite what the blind doctor says, thinking like soldiers won’t help them, because most of them aren’t soldiers to begin with. They will have to think outside of the box to have a chance at destroying this creature. Luckily, Lyndon’s own understanding of military matters never was a very orthodox one.
The Sergeant takes a step towards the table and leans on the backrest of the kid’s chair. She’s still upset because of his earlier scolding, and she makes a point not look his way. He’d rather not speak of business in front of her, but it can’t be helped this time.
“Well, if you really want to know what I think, Doc, I’ll tell you. I said it before, and I will repeat it now: we’re thinking we’re the hunters, but we’re not. Right now, we are the preys. Our enemy is hiding from us, and it seems capable of striking us anywhere at any given time. For what we know, it’s nowhere and it’s everywhere.
“From my perspective, we need two things to stand a chance against it: a suitable bait to lure it where we want, and a secure way to dispose of it. Both these things aren’t easy to come by, especially the latter one.
“Since the conventional means of destruction seem to have failed us, we should use everything we have to destroy our enemy. The Element of Dawn may be powerful enough to end the creature, but it might as well destroy us in the process. The Cantigaster Venom would be a marginally safer option, but we should find someone strong enough to land a hit on the creature and crazy enough to ignore the risks. I think nobody here fits that description. Both these options are viable, in a sense, but neither of them is optimal. Ideally, we should use a controlled source of enormous destructive power, but I think our host might be more helpful than me in that respect.”
Lyndon stops for a moment and his gaze stops on the glowing woman. There is another solution he can think of, but he’s not so stupid to suggest a suicide attack to a monster that is sitting just a few steps away from him. The odds of being devoured on the spot are too high. Someone less wise than him will come up with that idea, hopefully.
“As for the bait, I think we all know that the creature is actually interested in only one of us.” The Sergeant gives Dynamo a meaningful glare. “We should make use of that knowledge.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/30/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/28/2017
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Jordan dashes inside the Scheming Chamber, leaving Randy lagging behind in the corridor with his heavy bag. He shouts something about not causing any trouble, but she doesn’t listen to him: he can be such a stick-in-the-mud sometimes. Actually, he’s like that all the time.
The room isn’t too big and the ceiling is quite low: if she stretches her arms on the tip of her toes, she can almost touch it. A large wooden table and some chairs are placed in the middle of the room and some people have already taken a seat: a smiling woman who glows softly like a firefly, another one who is almost as tall as the room even when seated, a beautiful lady, and two gentlemen.
Jordan is about to take a seat herself, when she sees something that makes her forget everything about that: in a corner of the room, a hooded figure is operating a large machine. The contraption whirrs and snorts loudly, then it coughs out a steaming hot dark liquid. A faint smell of coffee fills the air. The shadowy person fills two cups and heads towards the table, leaving the machine free.
Jordan takes place before the mechanism and starts to experiment with it, imitating the movements of the nice gentleman who operated the far lager machine in the other room. The results are quite bizarre: Jordan jumps around the small furnace spinning all the wheels she can reach, and pulling everything that even remotely looks like a lever. She flourishes the procedure with a lot of unnecessary jumps and spins to avoid flywheels that aren’t there and jets of steam that the machine isn’t likely to produce. When the furnace finally lets out some liquid, the girl squeals in delight.
She’s about to fetch a cup, when a hand reaches for a wheel just above her head and stops the flow of coffee before it goes out of control. She turns to meet Randy’s cold, disapproving glare. “I think I told you not to touch anything here. Salt knows what half of these things do. Most of them seem more likely to blow up than anything else.” He points at an empty chair. “Go take a seat.”
Jordan pouts, but she doesn’t complain and sits on one of the few empty chairs left.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/28/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/28/2017
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Timmel Orosenn frowns at Emma's near-panic. She looks over at Phryne and shrugs. "I don't know anything about her. Yes, she glows. And she seems... drugged. Maybe Gideon or one of the doctors gave her something? I have no idea what any of the others were doing while we were... busy." She smiles a little and puts a hand on Emma's shoulder, briefly. "If she's spying on you, we can worry about that later. Now calm down, I'll keep an eye on her. She saved my life, remember? All our lives, probably. Look, she's talking to your brother. Why don't you ask him what he thinks of her?"
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Phryne had not realized the room was full of people until Drake started talking to her. In her head, glass orchestras are playing symphonies no human mind could endure. Slowly, she becomes aware of her surroundings again, and finally focuses her golden eyes on Drake.
"Oh, Mr Dynamo! Yes, we... met earlier, didn't we? No need to answer, I know we did. I'm sorry if I seemed... unapproachable." She laughs; the nervous laugh of a debutante suspecting her jokes aren't really funny. "I have... rather a lot on my mind, you might say. Yes, you might. Or I might. Or not. But I did say it already, so there you go." She giggles like a little girl and waves away the Cider. "Thank you terribly much, but I think I shall pass on that. You see, I'm quite beyond any state where it could help me, and I rather fear it might do me no end of no good instead." She leans closer and whispers confidentially, "You must understand, I'm in rather... unusual... circumstances right now. Yes, very unusual. Medically, psychologically, philosophically, and theologically. Especially the latter." She giggles again. "What I mean to say is: I'm not really here. But don't worry! That doesn't mean you're crazy. No, no, it's me who's crazy. Utterly." She leans back, smiling her creepy all-is-well-and-all-manner-of-thing-shall-be-well-smile again. Apparently, she's very satisfied with her soliloquy.
Drake, however, whose face has taken on a mien of increasing befuddledness, looks over to his sister in a silent cry of desperation. What have we gotten into now?
He jerks when Phryne speaks again, unexpectedly. "Say... that woman over there. Yes, the one you're looking at. Why does she hide an Element of Dawn in her boot-heel?"
Now, now, little Phryne, don't be greedy...
edited by phryne on 4/2/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/28/2017
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Noah follows the others through a door, and as the steps spread out and chairs creak, Noah hangs back and leans against the wall next to their entrance. The small squabble would hardly get any better from him swinging around with his cane looking for a chair, and remaining close to the exit is always a comfortable position for him. He leans with his lower back against the wall and his hands against the cane, and listens.
The sounds are of the kind of general babble one expects in a meeting: chairs moved, quiet remarks, the whirr of a machine followed by the sergeant chastising the young girl who brought their new armament. There is talking, walking, breathing, rustling of clothes, clinking of coffee cups, someone sitting on something soft on the ground. Noah has a pretty good idea of where everyone is and what the room's like. He frowns as Drake offers someone Cider in a talking voice. No one's sitting with him yet, are they?
"Oh, Mr Dynamo!"
Oh. Someone was already in the room when they entered, it seems. He can't quite place her voice, maybe a friend of Gideon's or
They brought it here.
His heart skips a beat. It looks like a human now so they brought it here and Drake's having a CONVERSATION WITH IT. His knuckles whiten on the cane.
Noah struggles to keep his breathing regular. Well, he's far from it right now, there's people in between. If it wanted to kill them, it would have done so at night when they were oh my god we SLEPT around that sleeping, so a panic now would probably do no good. He pricks his ears, and listens. Its talking makes no sense for now, which makes sense. Listen. Learn. Stay close to the door.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/5/2017
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It is far too early in the morning for Gideon’s psychoses to be getting uppity, but there they are, at it again.
The first voice is quiet, timid, paranoid. we shouldn’t be here. feels wrong. feels like a trap.
The second voice is loud and boisterous. It sounds remarkably like a certain Bishop. Projection? Undoubtedly. WILL YOU SHUT IT WITH YOUR TRAP TALK? IT’S TIMES LIKE THIS I WISH I WASN’T A VOICE IN SOMEONE ELSE’S HEAD SO I COULD COME OVER THERE AND GIVE YOU A GOOD SEEING-TO.
Gideon kneads his temples. Voice 1 and Voice 2 are like a pair of squabbling infants at the best of times. He only hopes Voice 3 won’t make an appearance today.
He calls up a jaunty hymn to hum and drown out the voices’ bickering as he skips up to the mansion’s entrance. He is a fresh-faced young man in a crumpled black silk suit; surprisingly young for someone in his position, as people like to remark, although nobody is entirely sure what that position is.
He likes to keep them guessing. The Truth is out there, if one knows where to look.
NOT THIS TRUTH S__T AGAIN, groans Voice 2.
Gideon clears his throat and knocks on the door. When the doorman opens it, Gideon says “Good morning!” and shoves past, politely.
He barges into the drawing room, ignoring – or, more likely, oblivious to – the stares his proprietary clockwork monocle attracts. The device clicks and whirrs, zooming in on random objects in the room and causing his left eye to flick between a range of magnifications, each of which is more alarming than the last.
“Gideon Stormstrider, at your service!” he announces to anyone who cares to listen. “That’s right – the renowned experimental theologician and madcap inventor extraordinaire, before your very eyes! I’ve heard there’s a frightening apparition to catch, and by golly, we’ll give it a good drubbing with the help of my various occult practices!”
He strikes a suitably dramatic pose for a moment before sinking into a nearby armchair and rearranging the cushions into a more comfortable position for slouching.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/5/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/4/2017
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Dirae Erinyes' heavy knocks echo throughout the house. As the echoes die away, Dirae Erinyes and Evensong entered into the last round of a tired argument.
"You don't have to be here." Dirae Erinyes deals the first blow of this new round. Five rounds have already happened, with them the loser. But hope springs eternal in this argument.
"We have been over this before." A standard block, but not enough to deter her opponent.
"I'll be fine. I've been hunting men long before I met you."
"I am more then just prey." Evensong stops playing on the defensive. While her verbal right hook might seem to be glancing blow to an inexperienced audience, it aims for an old wound.
"What I meant to say is that this sort of business isn't usually the concerns of a Foreign Office. . .clerk. You're supposed to be dealing with Carnelian Coast imports and illegally smuggled unfinished hats, not cleaning up the streets of London." Now, the reigning champion is on the defensive, giving ground to Evensong.
"I can say with certainty that the Shade is a more dangerous illegal import then solacefruit or an aggressive Pentecostal Ape. Thus it's the concerns of a Foreign Office Clerk."
"Still. . ."
"Where you go, I follow." That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the knock-out blow. Dirae Erinyes' only hope is that the siblings get to the door soon and end Evensong's triumphant silence.
OOC: For all you new people, you can find a physical description for Dirae Erinyes and Evensong here:
http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=5
Feel free to add your own character description for the other rpgers.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/4/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/6/2017
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Dirae Erinyes will sign their name with a flourish. This will earn them a look from Evensong, who will sign their contract like a normal person.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/6/2017
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Lady Orosenn, who had certainly not been chatting with anyone, was flabbergasted. That rich b-----d! 45 Echoes worth of Rostygold!? That wasn't miserly, it was a slap in the face! Was she a common ratcatcher? Add the fact that the silly toff was himself the source of all this trouble with the shade, and it was just unbelievably rude. She considered running him through on the spot, immortality be d----d: it would surely hurt at least. But no, this was his residence. Her manners were better than that.
Ignoring the idiots running forward to sign the contract, she stood up from where she had sat in a corner and approached her would-be employer, slowly shaking her head. "Not good enough, Mr Dynamo. Not good enough by half. I suggest you improve your offer—significantly—or you can go find yourself another monster-hunter."
edited by phryne on 3/6/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/6/2017
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Lady Orosenn completely ignored the obviously retarded woman's antics. Those English toffs and their in-breeding! It was a shame. But apparently, Mr Dynamo at least could be made to see sense.
"I accept. This is only in case of success, of course. If I am no help, no need to pay me at all. Those are my usual terms." They shake hands.
"Now, it would probably be of great benefit to everyone assembled if you could elaborate a little on the peculiar characteristics of this 'Shade'?"
(OOC: Let everyone else sign first though. There have been a lot of posts within a few hours now.)
edited by phryne on 3/6/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/6/2017
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Lyndon gets up as soon as he hears the monster-hunter complaining about her fee. She is right, of course. The sum offered is indeed paltry, especially if you have to risk your neck to earn it, but he knows better than haggle with someone who’s so clearly being a cheapskate. If the Dynamos’ are trying to save up on their hiring fee, they might be saving up on other things as well. Security measures come to mind. Lyndon grins at his thought. There are many ways to earn a living in London, after all.
The Dynamo girl counter-offer is even more insulting – it sounds too much like an ultimatum. It’s never a good idea to threaten someone who might have to watch your back soon enough. Especially if that someone is currently wielding a huge bone harpoon and knows how to use it. Their alleged immortality must have gotten to the Dynamos’ heads. It was a good thing the monster-hunter kept her cool in the end.
Everything was progressing in a most interesting way. There might be room for acquiring something more than the nominal fee by the end of the day. Besides, some people would pay handsomely for a sample of the thing they were about to hunt.
Finally, Lyndon is in front of the paper. Most of the applicants have signed already. He doesn’t know any of them, but as he had feared, some of them had renounced the fee. A bunch of twats seeking a thrill.
Lyndon takes the pen, but what he does can be described as something more like ‘writing his name’ rather than ‘signing’. Sgt. Lyndon is all he writes down. No need to speak on a first-name basis with those people. Not with all of them, at least.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/6/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/9/2017
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Lady Orosenn can't believe her bad luck. Not only are they clearly surrounded by——something, and this store has probably been a trap all along. No, it has to be the silly American woman of all people who joins them now! Miss Dynamo should count herself lucky that Timmel didn't just slit her throat in reflex when she bumped into her. Surely, if you grabbed an urchin off any London rooftoop, you'd find someone more capable than this cowbrained would-be gunslinger? Though probably not with beautiful brown doe-eyes like hers...
... wait, where did that thought come from?
edited by phryne on 3/9/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/9/2017
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Looking behind her, Azoth felt Noah was handling the shopkeeper well enough, though she'd thought that the first time too. If things went badly, he'd need backup, though.
From the window, the battle seemed like utter chaos, and they were on the losing side. Without a second thought, she slid her ancient hunting rifle from her side and smashed it against the window.
I can just pay for it later, she reasoned. This was an emergency and she had no intention of jumping into the fray herself. The glass cracked, and Azoth was genuinely concerned that the rifle would go off on sheer accident. A second hit and the shards went flying to the ground outside.
Taking aim at the fighters below, she fired. A bullet went flying into an enemy, straight through the chest. He stumbled backwards, but strugged it off far too easily, even for a citizen of the Neath. Well, that's spectacular, she thought. Looks like the Shade can spread its vitality.
She kept on firing, trying to slow them down. They couldn't reach her at this distance, and it looked like everyone needed as much help as they could get. One enemy went down, and then another, but again and again they picked themselves up. She still had ammo, though, and she was not going to give up.
edited by Azothi on 3/9/2017
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/11/2017
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Gideon is still safely secreted amongst the soft, mothball-scented fabrics of the coat-rack. The whisper-satin garments croon dire secrets in long-dead languages. The sound of fighting and dying has died down now; all that can be heard outside is the groaning of the wounded as both sides shuffle to a safe distance. He fancies he can hear a chorus of tiny bells, the cheerful ringing that precedes the arrival of the Velocipede Squad. PUNCTUAL AS ALWAYS. IF YOU WANT A JOB DOING, DO IT YOURSELF!
Voice 2 has a point. The coppers always seem to show up when the job is beating up an unarmed suspect, but when there’s actual crime afoot they’re nowhere to be seen.
Gideon parts two murmuring coats and peeks out from his sanctuary. From what he can see through the window, the street is strewn with corpses and gold-flecked blood. Surprisingly enough, none of the bodies belong to the hunting party. Perhaps these brooding types really can walk the walk. It’s easy to make actions speak louder than words when you restrict yourself to a sentence a day.
Squinting through the clockwork monocle (now modified to reduce fire hazard by removing the offending parts), Gideon examines the aftermath of the irrigo blast. Some of the vagrants are still walking around aimlessly, muttering to themselves. The discombobulation is far more powerful and long-lasting than the last test, but considering the effort it took to steep the little spider in irrigo, the opportunity cost may be rather high.
At least the spiderling itself wasn’t destroyed in the blast. Gideon whistles a short melody, a snatch from a storm-threnody – spoken Correspondence doesn’t carry well over long distances, unless one happens to be in a vacuum. The spiderling trills an answering call and scuttles back, hopping into Gideon’s outstretched hand and curling into a ball which he stows in his pocket.
What now? Should he go and try to help the wounded?
no, no, no. it’s safe here. use your wonderful optics, watch from a distance.
Voice 1 was right. He wouldn’t know what to do anyway. The doubters at the University had seen to that, after they expelled him from the medical school for “unsafe practices”! What did they know about safety anyway? Last he checked, opening up someone to fiddle around with their guts and remove a perfectly harmless appendix wasn’t very safe, and they did that all the time!
So he remains nestled in the snug coat-rack. The next time he takes a peek outside, he catches sight of Emma Dynamo and Lady Orosenn, who are – goodness, his monocle seems to have steamed up mysteriously. He wipes it with his suit sleeve and decides to look elsewhere, blushing furiously.
Parting the coats on the shop side, he suddenly comes face-to-face with Drake, and freezes like a startled rabbit.
“Are you – “ starts Drake, seemingly just as surprised.
“Yes. It’s a good hiding place.”
“Did you – “
“Yes. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but that irrigo bomb was all I had to hand. I’m allergic to being bludgeoned to death with a brick, you see.”
Gideon ducks out of the coat-rack, banging his head on the rail. Once he has shaken off the mild concussion, he stands up as if nothing had happened.
“Gideon Stormstrider, at your service, et cetera. I believe we’ve met.”
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/11/2017
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Lady Orosenn looks down at Emma, trying hard not to grin back at her. By Stone, that woman had a mouth like a ratwork gun!
"Stoop to that level, eh? Well, it looks like I'd have to stoop pretty low to kiss you, too. I think there's a better way." With that, she picks up Emma and puts her on top of a hobo's corpse lying nearby. He had been a quite sturdy fellow in life and provides ample footing.
"Now, take a deep breath."
After that, it's quite a long time before either of them says something, again.
edited by phryne on 3/11/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/9/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, who had been poking around back rooms trying to find the proprietor's daughter after the clerk had disappeared amongst the racks and rails, starts violently at the report of the first shot. An ambush?
By the time he has fought himself to the front of the store, bashing over a good number of displays and mannequins, the shots are coming thick and fast, and the sounds of the fight show no sign of letting up. Rounding the doorway, the Sailor is met with quite a scene. Emma and Lady Orosenn are engaged in frantic melee, surrounded by a number of dead and bleeding derelicts, but seem to have the fight largely under control. The Sergeant is in a rather tricky situation, sabre drawn, foes approaching from all sides, but he too seems able to hold his own. There are, however, an alarming number of assailants, unkempt and grimy, and they appear to have no regard for their own personal safety, launching themselves at the party in frenzied, suicidal drives, biting and tearing and ripping and slashing.
Two more fall down as the Sailor gets his bearings in the doorway, sharp gunshots ringing out across the small square. Poking out from the sills of the upstairs windows are the barrels of two rifles, methodically picking off the attackers, and the Sailor ducks just in time to avoid a shower of broken glass as the figure of Dirae plummets into the fray from a third window, cracking a paving stone or two with their landing.
"Well, this has gone to Hell." A small group of derelicts, keeping out of Dirae and the others' way, has gathered just close enough to the shop to avoid the covering fire from upstairs, and advances on the shopfront. Their pupils are pinpricks, their lips stretched back over bared teeth, their nails encrusted with blood and grime. If they get inside the shop and up the stairs, the brawlers out here would lose their covering fire, and if the owner is attacked then the party lose any leads they might have as to the Shade's whereabouts. These are things the Sailor will realise later, but for now it is simple fear and anger that lead him to brace himself in the doorway, slipping one hand into a set of worn brass knuckles and curling the other around the hilt of a wicked flensing knife.
His focus narrows until the sounds of the other skirmishes seem distant and irrelevant. The vagabonds, who almost seem to be growling, leap forward as one, and the Sailor matches their roar with his own as blades and eyes flash.
edited by Barselaar on 3/9/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/12/2017
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An Interlude
(OOC: This ties in with what happened here.)
Phryne Amarantyne's soul is crying...
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... but Phryne Amarantyne is not.
She has been sitting on her bed, looking at herself in her bedroom mirror, for—oh, who knows how long? Who cares? She doesn't. She cannot make sense of time anymore. The concept seems ridiculous. Everything seems ridiculous.
Looking: looking at herself slavering all over her dress (it had been ruined before) and bedclothes.
Yourself?
Another ridiculous concept, right there:
your Self.
Your self.
It would be funny if it wasn't so sad.
Days might pass, maybe weeks. Maybe she has not been sitting here for longer than a minute, and it is only her perception of time that is warped, while time itself moves on as usual, unimpressed. Maybe none of this ever happens. Maybe nothing does. Can you prove that it does? Can you prove that it doesn't?
Stop asking me all these questions.
I thought it was you asking them of me.
You and me are the same.
Are we? The same?
The being (her?) watching her back from the mirror has a very large, forked tongue which sometimes slips out of her mouth seemingly by its own volition, probing the room's stale air; sometimes catching an unlucky fly mistaking her (it?) for a regular corpse.
She doesn't care about the air. Breathing had been just another false front and consequently she's given it up.
Is this her then? Well, a version of her, certainly. She could probably change it if she wanted to. It is harder here, but still possible—if she could only find enough will to make the effort.
Indeed, why make the effort?
There is the gaping wound in her chest, for example: barely covered by the remains of her ruined dress. The bloodless wound that would, if one were to remove that dress entirely, show to the curious examiner—nothing. Nothing but the empty cavern where her heart had been. Why hadn't she closed that wound by now? Was it an affectation, keeping it like this? A reminder? A memento?
Who cares?
Anyway, it might be a good idea to settle on a form before I forget how.
Forget...
Laughter echoes in her mind.
Forget...
If only I could.
There's a way.
Unreliable.
Everything is.
Yes.
So?
So?
So we wait.
There is someone inside her head, definitely. She's just not sure it's her.
~~~
Phryne Amarantyne's soul is crying.
———
edited by phryne on 3/13/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/10/2017
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Lady Timmel Orosenn is having the time of her life.
A brick in each hand, she's bashing in faces left, right and center. That had to hurt, even when you're high on Mountain-blood!
But that's not it. She is part of a group effort! The words don't really make any sense, but that is what is happening here. And it feels good.
As she thought, Dirae Erinyes fights like no regular human would be able to, with complete disregard for their own physical well-being. She briefly wonders whether there might exist more of their kind—with a handful of those, you'd be able to storm Nidah and give the Presbyter a good thrashing!
She has no idea who's doing the firing from the upstairs windows, but whoever they are, they know what they're doing. There, another hobo goes down with a leg-wound. She closes on him with a few steps, and just when he gets up again, BASH!—there goes his face. Good riddance to bad trash and all that. She is laughing now.
Even those quiet gentlemen, Messieurs Frye and Hamilton, have joined the fight outside. Ill-prepared, and already collecting wounds, but there was nothing wrong with their fighting-spirit. She was orienting herself in their direction, to give them some cover, when the Unclear Device hit.
She has no idea what it is and what exactly it does—for a very brief moment, she has no idea what she's doing here, herself—but it seems to have been deployed by someone from their party. The hidden talents of this group! She is almost giddy now. Then she sees Lyndon has gone down with a chest-wound and takes a step in his direction when she realizes that one person is missing from the battle. She stops dead, a single thought occupying her mind:
Where the f--- is Emma?
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Azothi
Posts: 586
5/3/2017
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The ease at which the hansoms arrived was rather troubling to Azoth. Taking the carriages here might not have been the safest choice, she thought, though under the circumstances, that was a necessary sacrifice. She stepped into the hansom, pressing a bag of moon-pearls into the driver's hands. No further words were exchanged. She gestured towards a stalagmite in the distance, faintly illuminated by the lamplights of London. Taking a scrap of paper out of her pocket, she wrote a quick message for him: THERE IS STRENGTH IN TRAVEL. GO THERE. With a cautious nod and strange look, the driver pushed the horses into action. No further prodding was necessary. None of the horses had seemed pleased to be there and were happy to depart.
Cloaked and silent, Azoth left no question as to whether this was a secret. There wasn't much use in keeping it a secret, of course, but it was good to keep the driver on his toes. Few dared ask questions to those whose very sight was meant to evoke dread. Even fewer in polite society would risk misidentifying her gender, and with the broad cloak and hood, there would hopefully be enough ambiguity to keep him silent and confused. Suffice to say, Azoth wasn't in the mood for conversation.
As soon as they were on their way, Bastet emerged, curling up in Azoth's lap. She opened her mouth to sleep, but a quick glance silenced her. Words were information like any other, and the less they released, the better. The journey continued on in silence but for the sound of horses and wheels on the cobbles with the occasional snort or whinny. Lighting a candle, Azoth took out a little red notebook, its cover grimy and torn. Not a word had been written in it, of course, but the signature mark of one of London's journalists would surely keep minds turning. Was she a journalist? Could their secrets be pried away at a moment's notice? A subtle sleight of hand, a flash of red for the eyes of a high society observer - that was a trick to keep them on edge. Keep their attention focused on her and the book, and they'd miss the real tricks around them: the hand sifting through their coats, the treacherous glances of one once thought a friend, the greater moves being made above them while the remain worried about that one tiny detail. Not that she was doing that now. She just needed something to write on.
She'd finished most of the messages by the time the hansom came to a stop. Bastet returned to her resting place as Azoth turned a couple pages ahead and took out another quill. With her left hand, she began writing a letter of thanks to the driver for taking her to such a remote place. With her right, she began scribbling what a layman could take as the Correspondence. Not moving from her place, she was sure the driver would come soon to find out what was taking so long. It was not uncommon for passengers to fall asleep in the darkness of the Neath, particularly those freshly come from the Surface. The thought sent a rush of emotion through her, carried on the back of old memories of light and the stars. Now's not the time, she thought. Later.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the driver stepping down onto the rocks below. She continued writing, glancing over to see him approach. He appeared unarmed, at least, and any frustration was well-concealed. Such was the life of a hansom driver. She finished right as he arrived beside her, so that he could see both hands moving. She slid the note into his palms along with an ostentatious diamond for his troubles. Normally, it'd have only taken her a moment to write, but she had to get the handwriting right: YOU ARE DISMISSED. NOW.
She immediately began walking away, taking only a glance at his expression. He remained remarkably stoic, with only a slight twitch in his jaw giving any indication of movement. Was it amusement, or was it fear, or was it something else? She hoped the diamond gave enough hint to make it amusement. She could almost see the gears in his head turning, processing this new information. No longer was she a strange, silent customer on secret business to a mysterious stalagmite. She became a fool or a lunatic, probably a drunken showman or something. Just a weird customer pretending to be something they were not. Or maybe the hint hadn't made it. Maybe the poor man thought he'd been ferrying around a dangerous, mysterious individual, or perhaps even ... well, it didn't matter much now that the hansom was pulling away. If all went well, no one would be visiting anytime soon.
She had to smile at that. I'm enjoying this too much, she thought.
As soon as the carriage was out of sight, she relaxed, and soon enough Bastet was nice and comfortable on her shoulder. There was still quite a walk to go. She sighed. Keeping secrets took quite a bit of effort, she had to admit. The ease at which the hansom had arrived here was convenient but slightly troubling. Taking the carriage here was the safest choice, and under the circumstances, that was a necessary sacrifice.
Whistling, she began the trek towards the lights.
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High above, the temple loomed like an ancient god, cast against the lights of London in a shadowy profile; a relic of ancient times and cities long since crushed, preserved on the unseen fringes of modern industry. A ruined statue marked the entrance, a feathered serpent emerging from ... well, some sort of fruit. It looked like a mango, but only if the sculptor had never seen a mango in their life before. Perhaps it was some strange fruit from the New World. It always bothered Azoth whenever she saw it, but there were more pressing matters at hand.
Ascending the carved stone stairs into the temple, the first thing that caught Azoth's eye was the scarabs. Scarabs everywhere. They gleamed in the darkness like the firmament itself. Azoth's first thought was that it was quite a pretty sight. Her second was that it would be a pain to clean up later. Either way, she continued on. Papers were scattered across the floor, dark with ink. So he's returned, she thought with curiosity as she proceeded up to her study.
Seven candles were lit by her cot, burning brightly in the darkness. He's definitely been here, she thought as she blew out two of the candles. Best to be safe with these matters. Approaching her desk, she set down her little red notebook and began tearing out the messages. Bats fluttered around her, drawn to her whistling signal, and she set the pieces into the motion. Informants in the Flit to try to find more about the Shade's covert activities. Spies in Spite to find more about the Imaginary Hunt and its ties to the Shade. More across London would sift through rumor and hearsay for information. It only could cover so much - her network was too small for a truly comprehensive search - but any information would do.
She put away the little red notebook, nearly the entire first half torn out now. It was only then that she realized how tense she'd become. What have I gotten myself into? she thought once again, the enormity of the situation striking her. This was a dangerous path she was treading. It had been too long since she'd truly fought; she'd let herself grow complacent in her high tower.
Where had she set her weapons again? She could've sworn it was right here - no, that was in her home, not here. She'd left it there ... when? She couldn't quite remember. And where was her ancient hunting rifle? She'd taken it to Gideon's place, she thought, or had she left it at the square? Why couldn't she remember? Was she armed? She grasped at her side, feeling the hilt of a knife in her palm. Yes, she answered, I am. But when had her breathing grown so quick? When had these emotions - no, she just needed a deep breath, a moment to compose herself.
I really need to relax, she thought, looking around. It was as if all the repressed stress from the past few days had come crashing down right in that moment. She glanced over at her desk, an idea entering her mind. If she was to die in this fight, then she deserved at least a moment of joy before then. Taking the key from her pockets, she unlocked the bottom compartment, taking out a small box. Mirrorcatch. A warning was written across the box: Cut with moonlight.
"Don't," Bastet said, her fur rising. It didn't take long for her to realize that the decision had already made, though, and in mere seconds she'd leaped into a drawer and closed it shut.
Blinding light engulfed everything, and just for a moment, the world seemed like the Surface again, bright and filled with sunlight. Shades of blue and green and yellow swam around her, and her breath caught in her throat. It was wondrous and beautiful, a reminder of days gone by. Smiling, she laughed and cried and shouted in a burst of suppressed emotion, longing and hurt and jubilation all joined in one burst of light. She remembered her days in the sunlight, the salt of the sea in the wind, the song of the birds in the trees. Her skin tingled and burned, yet the pain was only absorbed into the light, becoming one with it all. I am become Icarus, was her only thought. In one instant, there was light, and in the next came darkness, a black as pure as the abyss. Azoth knew better than to move. All she could do was wait for her eyes to adjust and to bask in the newborn memories of light. An empty box fell to the ground. The smile on her face began to fade, the vivid sensations fading away into the realm of memory, forever preserved by the sun carved into her skin.
Minutes passed. Light returned. The candles had gone out, but a mass of scarabs had found their way towards the light, illuminating the study. Stumbling a bit, Azoth straightened herself, pulling out the drawer Bastet had hidden in. The kitten crawled out, whimpering.
"I hate it when you do that," Bastet said, crawling back into place.
Azoth only sighed, still caught in the last minutes of the afterglow. Returning to the staircase, she began the descent. There was one last thing to do here. In the distance, she could already see the violet dancing through the air, and she hurried down to its source. There was a reason she was there, something that lay at the edges of her memory that she couldn't quite grasp. She just knew she had to be there, as if she'd told herself not to forget, no matter what.
The shrine rose from the darkness, shining with light. It was a simple place, veiled in irrigo, guarded by a lone statue of St. Joshua. It was the duty that Azoth had to do, her role within the Game. She was to be the redeemer, the performer of the rites of redemption in the name of St. Joshua. She believed in neither. Forgiveness and redemption was a long journey, one that could not be expedited by rites or rituals, and certainly not ones forgotten moments later. In the shrine, memory died, and with it everything to be learned there. Still, it was her duty, and this was the sacrifice she had to make to wade this deep into the Game.
She approached with caution, leaving Bastet behind. The familiar feeling of irrigo touched her skin, and soon it was engulfing her. The altar was before her now, dark and unadorned. It was here that she knew what to do. A whisper left her lips, a sound her memory could not hold, and from the altar she heard a familiar click, the sound of a whisper-lock unlocking. She approached as if in a dream, seeing the relics hidden in the altar before her. A violin and its bow, old and precious. An old reflecting telescope and shattered glass. Letters and correspondence dated back just over a decade. A pile of books on medicine and human anatomy. An old derringer, the name of a long-dead captain carved on its side. An iron necklace, a pearl embedded at its core.
No, that's not it, she thought, shaking. There's more than that. There has to be. She pushed these aside, looking deeper and deeper and - there. A stone that was more than a stone, tiny and yet the end of far greater things than the human mind could fathom. A weapon, a token. Punctuation. Such a tool was valuable, and such a word was dangerous. In other words, it was precisely what she needed.
Taking the stone, she looked again at the items and felt her memories resurface. Picking up the derringer, the shrine faded away around her and she was on the sea again, the old captain beside her. How many years had it been? It felt like a lifetime. There she was, young and naive, handling a firearm for the first time in her life, and -
- she snatched the memory before it disappeared, shutting the altar. The whisper-lock clicked and stood still once more. She stepped out of the altar, still clutching what she had taken. There. That was all. There was no more business to be done here.
She stepped out into the cool air, looking out at the moonlit London. The revolution marched on, and for a day, all light in the city had been extinguished, a tribute to the fallen who died to destroy the old, broken laws. Perhaps they would usher again in a season of revolutions, a new spring of nations to cast out the old regime and bring about the new. Perhaps tomorrow, the war in the streets could come to an end, and the reactionaries defeated. Perhaps -
- perhaps tomorrow, the Shade would make its move, take back the offensive. Perhaps tomorrow, there would be a breakthrough, and they would come just that much closer to victory. She blinked and saw London and its gaslights, industry toiling away under the watchful eyes of the Masters, ships docking with treasures carried from across the zee. Looking further into the darkness, she found her target, the dark markets of Spite. There was someone she needed to speak with.
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
5/17/2017
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Locke Lockhart’s Lamentable Legwork, Part 1: Lady Lavinia
Somewhere in London…
London teems with scents. The acrid smoke of the manufactories, the stink of the bustling crowds of hairless apes, the subtle splashes from other animals marking this place and that place as mine; they all add up to a cohesive whole, a gauge for the health of the city.
Today, London smells wrong.
The Ninefold Cat has the advantage of perspective. A strange smell in one location could be dismissed as an anomaly, but he can be in nine places at once.
The humans of London are struck by a silent panic. Walking through the streets, it’s scarcely noticeable, but watching and listening from the rooftops it becomes all too apparent. Whispered conversations drift out of windows. Sometimes a faint sob can be heard on the breeze. The city is under siege from within, and the Shadow of London is the culprit.
One of him finds a new victim of the Shade in the crooked alleys of Spite, one that hasn’t shown up in the papers yet. The corpse is not fresh. He smells the rot almost before he smells the blood. The young woman’s head lolls grotesquely, almost separated from her body, hanging on by a stray tendon. Permanently dead, then, like the others. Mortality does not suit these humans.
He is uncomfortably reminded of his own lives. As everyone knows, cats have nine lives. Thanks to Gideon’s experiment, the Ninefold Cat lives all nine at once. He is grateful for it most of the time – it has proved indispensable in his profession – but he does not know what will happen if one of him dies, and has little wish to find out.
The cat pounces down from his perch on a high fence to take a closer look. Rusty dried blood smears the cobbles around the body.
He is dimly aware of his other selves, going about their business of spying and eating and talking and occasionally fighting. The sensations are tightly knotted at the back of his head, ready to be teased out like a ball of wool if he needs to make contact with himself. For now, he shuts them out and focuses on his own surroundings.
There is little to distinguish the woman from the Shade’s other victims. Once you’ve seen enough dead humans, they all start to look the same.
Nevertheless, the cat makes an effort to notice distinguishing features. The gender is obvious from the long hair – why apes choose to differentiate their sexes like that he will never understand – but the clothing is important too. Her dress is drab and threadbare – clearly not a woman of means, then. The Shade may claim not to discriminate in the choice of its prey, but it seems to prefer those who won’t be missed.
From what he has heard, the Shade’s beheadings are usually done in a single stroke. This woman’s neck is a ragged mess; clearly the Shade had to give it a few tries before he got all the way through. Something is off here.
“Well, if it isn’t the Count in Exile himself,” says an arch voice from a nearby rooftop. The Ninefold Cat’s ears prick up and he whirls to face the speaker, an immaculately groomed tortoiseshell cat with a red leather collar.
He lets out a low, threatening growl, baring his teeth at the newcomer. “Lavinia,” he snarls, spitting the name out like a curse. “You seem to be doing well for yourself. Didn’t realise you’d gone native, though – the collar is new. Captivity suits you, apparently. Have you put on weight?”
Lavinia chuckles dryly, and begins making her way to ground level in a series of flowing jumps. “Captivity? Hardly. The Hampton family and I have merely entered a mutually beneficial arrangement. They give me a roof over my head, an exceptionally comfortable bed and an unlimited supply of tuna; in return I take my kills out to the coach-house where they won’t drip blood all over their nice carpets and occasionally sit in their laps and allow them to scratch my ears.”
She hops down to the cobbles and sits carefully out of pouncing distance, licking her paw. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the benefits of society, though. Your self-imposed exile made that very clear.”
“Is there any particular reason you deigned to talk to me, oh high-and-mighty Baroness,” the Ninefold Cat says, “Or did you just come to gloat?”
Lavinia tilts her head. “Actually, I do have a reason, although the gloating was certainly a perk. Word on the street is that you and that human you adopted – Gideon, was it? – are looking for the Shadow of London. Hence, I assume, why you’re sniffing around that dead human. Well, you should know that the Shade didn’t kill her. It was a nasty-looking tramp. Dreadful business, apparently.”
“A tramp, you say?” The Ninefold Cat has heard of the Shade’s hobo army, but he didn’t realise they were capable of such savagery.
“Indeed,” Lavinia smirks. “We had someone trail the wretch, of course. Secrets are the Council’s business, and this one is worth a pretty penny to the right buyer. You are interested in buying, no?”
He grits his teeth. He thought he’d got away from this sort of intrigue when he renounced his title, but such things always have a way of coming back to nip you in the tail. “Yes. Fine.”
“Come with me, then. The Council will want to oversee the transaction in person, and I’m sure they missed you just as dearly as I did.”
If there’s one thing he can be sure of, it’s that the toffs have a hidden agenda. Nevertheless, the Council doesn’t harm guests; he should be safe in body at least. Little good will come from entering that tangled web, but at least he no longer has a reputation to lose.
Lavinia pads off without another word, tail high in the air, and the Ninefold Cat reluctantly follows.
---
“I want to die,” groans Locke for the umpteenth time, slouched against a rack of chemicals in Gideon’s wine cellar. The Ninefold Cat regards him silently with what the bandaged bruiser assumes must be amused derision. Damn cats always look like they know something you don’t.
The Cat cocks its head, as if hearing something inaudible to human ears. “Hold that thought. You can die on your own time.”
“Guh?” says Locke eloquently.
“Grab your coat and your gun, and be quick about it. We are no longer safe here, and there’s someone I need you to kill.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 5/17/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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phryne
Posts: 1351
8/4/2017
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The Investigation—Part 5 of 5: Death in the Forgotten Quarter
(co-written with Drake Dynamo, Shadowcthuhlu and Wikipedia)
Smoke clears from the pistols. The fleeing homeless sentry lies dead at Emma’s feet. She nods at Timmel: “You get the next one.”
The Obstinate Nidahrian looks even more obstinate than usual. “Maybe try not to make so much noise,” he suggests. He points to a derelict building. “That’s the Shadowed Dome over there. Devils like to start their hunts around this place.”
“I’m sure we could negotiate with a few devils,” Lady Orosenn says absent-mindedly. “I’m more worried about running into the Waker of Snakes, or something like that.” She is in the process of examining a small reddish splotch on the ground, almost sniffing at it like a bloodhound, harpoon vibrating in her hand. “Mountain blood!” she says. “Just the slightest whiff, but there’s no mistaking that. The Shade came through here after that last battle. And now, we’ll follow its track.” She points ahead, past the Dome.
Their guide looks thoughtful. “The Holy Chasm… could it be? Anything past the Shadowed Dome was forbidden to foreigners and ordinary citizens in the time of the Khan—maybe for good reasons, maybe not. Still, I’ve never seen any proof for the rumours…” He goes on muttering darkly to himself. Timmel and Emma exchange a look. “Rumours about...?” asks Lady Orosenn.
Emma raises an eyebrow. “I hope this isn’t some silly superstition. Everything in the Neath can be explained by science. Strange science at times, yes, but science nonetheless,” Emma declares.
The Nidahrian shoots her a dark look. “Science, superstition… when you’ve lived as long as I have, it all kind of blurs together.” He stiffens. “There, did you see that?”
“No,” says Timmel Orosenn, “but I sure felt something.” She unslings her harpoon. “What did you say about a Chasm?”
“The Holy Chasm. It was rumoured to be the central place of worship of the Motherlings,” he answers.
“Motherlings,” Timmel sighs. “That means spiders. Big ones, probably.” She points to another small bloodstain on the ground, all but invisible to the others.
And all of a sudden, they’re standing at the edge of the Chasm. Emma immediately backs up and takes aim. “But,” she tries to reason, “this was several hundred years ago, right? I mean, even if they worshipped spiders here then, why should there still be spiders around now?”
After a few seconds, there is a gasp for an answer. Both women, who’ve been staring down the abyss almost hypnotized, look up to see the Nidahrian caught between the fangs of a very large sorrow-spider. “Behind you!” Timmel shouts at Emma, while going after the spider that attacked their guide.
“Oh f__k,” Emma exclaims, before darting to the side and firing at the approaching horde of small spiders, glad for the two cartridge belts slung around her waist. She won’t run out of bullets so fast this time!
The old man is putting up a brave fight, but already he is weakening. While the chelicerae of spiders are not particularly powerful, the venom dripping from their fangs is. Of course it would be going after him first! His eyes, with all they had seen, offered an irresistible prize for the cunning beast. “Help!” he manages to cry out weakly.
In quick pursuit, Lady Orosenn takes a wild swing at the sorrow-spider’s sensitive spinnerets with one of her long knives. That gets the beast’s attention! Immediately, it drops the Nidahrian and turns around to face its attacker. Despite its size, it is apparently not very experienced: it does not seem to regard the monster-hunter as a serious threat…
With the practiced calm vital to her profession, the huntress sidesteps waving pedipalps and jabbing front legs, taking a moment to size up her quarry. (All the time, Emma can be heard shooting and cursing in the background. When there is only cursing, she must be reloading.)
Without a warning or any prior hint as to what’s about to happen, Lady Orosenn springs into action. Neatly cutting off the front leg presently jabbing in her direction at the patella, she moves in close and, with knives in both hands, hacks off both palps, then jumps back just in time to be out of reach of the beast’s fangs. In a ballet-like move, she turns aside, severing another leg, and then uses that one’s stump to swing herself onto the spider’s carapace. Not wasting time, she plants one well-aimed knife into the beast’s brain, and then uses the other to sever its aorta right next to the pedicel. For a few seconds, she has to hold on for dear life as the poor spider convulses in its death-throes, and then it’s all over. Emma, surrounded by little spider-corpses, and very white in the face, looks at her companion with a mixture of terror and awe. When her gaze wanders to their guide lying on the ground a few yards away, his skin turned a sickly green, her shoulders slump. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Think he’s coming back?”
The huntress, retrieving her knives from the corpse, takes a look in the direction of the Nidahrian. “He’s still breathing. Sorrow-spider venom isn’t the deadliest around, but he’s had a heavy dose. Then again, I’m certain he survived worse. There might still be time to prepare an antidote…” Taking a large swig from her flask, she then spills the rest onto the ground and uses it to gather the faintly bluish liquid seeping from the dead spider’s body.
“Spiders have an open circulatory system, which means they do not have actual blood, or veins either,” she absent-mindedly begins lecturing. “Their bodies are filled with something called hemolymph, which also happens to act as a natural antidote to their own venom—conveniently preventing the spider from accidentally poisoning itself.” When the flask is filled, she takes it to the old man and, propping him up, begins feeding the liquid to him in small sips. “Might make the difference between a visit to the Slow Boat and the Far Shore,” she says when she is finished.
Emma looks quite horrified when her companion seems to prepare herself for resuming the hunt. “We… won’t just leave him here, won’t we?”
“He’ll understand. And if he does survive, I’ll pay him a significant danger bonus.” Her stoic features soften shortly when she sees Emma’s mien. “Listen, we’re already very late to the Side-Streets meeting. We need to get this over with.” Her face closing again, she points at the ground. “We have a spoor. I never turn away from a spoor.”
Painfully slow, the two women traverse the desolate emptiness of the Forgotten Quarter. Rationally, they know it can’t be this big—it’s just a small part of London, after all—but they know just as well that reason has no sway over geography in the Neath. “Treachery of Maps,” Emma murmurs once.
She soon notices that Lady Orosenn is hardly looking at the spoor, but is rather letting her harpoon swing slowly close to the ground, sometimes pointing at a spot that, to Emma, looks no different than any other—almost as if she were using the half-sentient weapon like a bloodhound, something Emma finds incredibly creepy. They turn right at every crossing, which seems to indicate the Shade definitely knew were it was going… until finally they are standing before the Shuddering Stones. And right behind them, a ruined, nameless temple.
The Stones—great, upright monoliths—aren’t shuddering at the moment, which is probably a good thing. Emma peeks around them at the temple ruin. “Doesn’t look like much. Where in there is anyone supposed to be hiding?”
“Maybe not in, but under it,” Lady Orosenn suggests. “Hey! Someone’s coming out!”
“Looks like another hobo,” Emma observes. “In particularly bad shape.”
Evensong is not faking her limp, thanks to unreliable masonry and heavy horsehead sculptures, as she hurries out of the temple. Cousins may be fast, faster than most, but right now Evensong does not find her speed sufficient. Not when there are mildly vampiric minions that could be still lurking about, or devils looking for a good hunt. Or in her case, one paranoid monster-hunter and one mildly manic American lurking around the same ruins.
“We should take her in for questioning!” Emma proposes excitedly. Timmel snorts. “Oh, why not? Since we’re already late anyway, we might as well make it count.”
Evensong squints at the source of the barely-heard whispers disturbing the entombed air of the Forgotten Quarter... whispers not heard in time for her to escape the ambush.
Aware of the hobos’ supernatural strength, Timmel and Emma aren’t going to take chances. Lady Orosenn remains behind the cover of the Shuddering Stones, while Emma stealthily moves around them, both pistols drawn. Only when her companion has a clear shot does Lady Orosenn step out in full view, harpoon raised.
“Stop right where you are! No matter how much of his blood you’ve drunk, this would hurt you. And I rarely miss.”
Evensong meets many strange people in their line of work; being threatened with a harpoon is not as unusual as one might think. However, that contralto voice combined with the profile in the ever-present low light prevents any mistake.
“Orosenn! What are you doing here?” Evensong hisses, dropping their accent for the first time in days (weeks?). Remembering their current face, she raises her arms in a peaceful gesture. “Agent Evensong.”
Lady Orosenn is surprised, which probably counts for something after the events of recent days. “Well… hello there. What are you doing here, if I may ask? We thought we’d found the Shade’s lair.” She lowers the harpoon a little, but not yet completely.
“I am putting my skills of a Foreign Office clerk to use, investigating his little cult. My intel confirms that the Shade’s lair is in fact this very temple. However, we have more pressing matters. The Shade has learned of our plans as well. He may be ambushing our companions as we speak.”
“What?” shouts Emma, who had remained hidden until now. “Oh my god, Drake…!”
After this revelation, they leave the Quarter as quickly as possible. While they have lost their original guide, Agent Evensong is able to lead them out of the maze well enough. After a while, Lady Orosenn asks her: “So, forgive my curiosity, but what exactly is it a Foreign Office clerk does?”
“A Foreign Office clerk represents London’s interests in the matters of other powers… formally and informally.”
Lady Orosenn shoots the small woman an amused look. “Say, have you ever considered running for mayor?”
“My spouse has, but they keep losing their paperwork. Myself, no. I prefer working in the backrooms. My family traditionally dislikes attention.”
A native of the Elder Continent herself, the huntress is quite aware of the nature of Agent Evensong’s “family” but chooses to remain discreet at this time. Since she’s also quite sure that the other woman knows more or less everything about her, she refrains from asking further questions. They hurry on, all of them painfully aware that they will probably be too late to make a difference...
edited by phryne on 8/7/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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phryne
Posts: 1351
9/22/2017
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Phryne Amarantyne was assessing the situation, and as assessments went, this one didn't particularly please her.
The lady in the striking outfit—dressed as if she was about to go fox-hunting—is not showing any outward signs of agitation. She has been sitting at her small corner table in the Boiled Toad for the better part of a day now, hardly moving at all. Every hour or so, one of the waiters—whose discretion borders on invisibilty—exchanges her cold and untouched cup of coffee for a new one. None of this raises any eyebrows. Firstly, the lady is considered a regular—though her presence hasn't graced this establishment in some time. Secondly, all the Toad's customers are so outrageously well-off that eccentricity is not only tolerated, but expected. The staff, one and all hired via the Triple Orpheus, are of unimpeachable discretion.
Few among the commonry have ever heard of the Boiled Toad, and the number of those who've actually been inside is even lower. As the saying goes, it's not enough to have money in the bank to reserve a table at the Toad; you need to own the bank.
The locale's popularity among those few who can actually afford its patronage is not down to its menu—though all the comestibles and quaffables on offer are of good quality, it is not usually counted among the Fifth City's most exceptional places dedicated to the joys of the palate. No, the Toad's singular specialty is its long full-length windowed front, which is mirrored on the out- but not the inside. Indeed, from the inside the glass is of a clearness rarely found in the Neath, allowing those inside to take detailed notice of all the comings and goings in busy and well-lit Dyett Street—without being seen themselves.
She had been amused by Edward Frye's cringeworthy encounter with the blind beggar a little more than an hour ago. He had been standing there with his outstretched hand for several seconds before realizing that he really had no business greeting beggars in public. After recovering his wits—such as they were—he then fished a coin out of his pocket and, while dropping it in the beggar's cup, mouthed something in his ear—again, painfully obvious—before moving on.
She did not think unkindly of Noah Rache. Here was a brave little guy—how many others in his place would have gone screaming mad after what happened to him? What exactly he was trying to accomplish with this blind vigil though, she couldn't tell. Maybe just trying to feel useful, to feel at least a little bit in control of the situation. She could relate. She knew all about wanting to be in control, had been obsessed by it. Maybe—let's be honest here—still was.
But something was wrong here. Or—and she grudgingly allowed this possibility—it was just that things were going on of which she was unaware. After all, if she had her own plans, why shouldn't any of the others? Why assume she was the only rogue element in this group?
The list of those missing was growing more and more suspicious with every passing minute. Where was Emma Dynamo, their supposed leader? Where the fierce monster-hunter, Lady Orosenn—next to Dirae Erinyes probably the only one who would actually stand a chance in a fight with the Shade? Where was that great curmudgeon, soldier-turned-spymaster Sgt Lyndon? Where his colleague Azoth, and the Foreign Office clerk Evensong? Especially the absence of all their party's professional spies was a niggling worry in the back of her mind.
Dirae Erinyes and the Scorched Sailor were impossible to miss, of course. They had arrived together, probably a coincidence, and were now standing before a row of shopfronts, engaged in halting conversation. She crooked a smile thinking of that conversation's probable awkwardness, and how it would be completely lost on Dirae. Messieurs Frye and Hamilton had not yet joined them, but kept loitering somewhere nearby.
Lord Gazter and his tomb-colonist bodyguard had arrived by hansom a few minutes earlier. They had surely seen the others, but apparently wanted to remain apart—which plan was quickly thwarted when they were joined by Mr Henchard.
It was quite obvious that everyone was waiting for some kind of leader figure to arrive. She had almost made up her mind to take on that role herself when Drake Dynamo alighted from another hansom—alone. Prof. Garrison had apparently decided not to join them after all, which only proved what a smart woman she was. But what had happened to Mr Stormstrider? She cursed inwardly. He was the one she most needed to keep an eye on! Any one of his contraptions could prove her undoing.
The lady in the riding suit calmly leaves her table and approaches the head waiter. After a quiet conversation, he fetches a large ledger, where he runs a finger down a long list of items, and stops at an eye-watering sum. Without blinking an eye the lady writes out a check, paying her whole long-running tab in full, including a generous tip which she advises the head waiter to distribute evenly among the staff. He bows and sees her out.
"Let the massacre begin, then. I've got nothing more to live for—I just emptied my last bank account."
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edited by phryne on 9/23/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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John Moose
Posts: 276
10/22/2017
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(co-written w/ Drake)
The group has moved to an alley off the major thoroughfare, large enough to hold them, but with no traffic going through it, save the periodic honey-mazed bohemian. This allows Dirae and the Sailor to keep an eye on the narrow corner the alley leads to, while the other way, opening to the busy street, is likely to provide a timely warning of screams and shouts should the enemy approach from there. The rest of the group has more or less converged into a number of small clusters around Drake, who is using a commanding voice and detailed instructions to regain control of the group, taking advantage of his sister’s absence.
As Drake begins giving out commands to the group’s guardians, Noah falls into conversation with Lord Gazter and Henchard. The three exchange news of what they found out since they separated in Spite - Noah having significantly less to share, besides a tidbit or two on the local comings and goings. As the two others talk, Noah finds himself distracted, frowning with his face downcast. There’s something out of place, nagging at the back of his mind.
Someone missing? Well, yes, many someones, but that’s just to be expected, whether because of difficulty arriving on time or people being too sane to turn up. No, that’s not it.
Something wrong with one of those present? Well, yes, It/Her is present… But it honestly seems less disturbing, not more. The difference in its unnatural presence to earlier is like a mad dog that’s been leashed and trained - still terrifying, but now calm and controlled, knowing it’ll get its quarry eventually, compared to the wild curiosity and restlessness of before. No, that’s not it.
Something outside the group? The sound of the traffic? No, all is as it should be, the hastened clatter of the carriages speeding up as the rush eases up, the interruption in the noise from a passing pedestrian every few seconds. No, that’s not it.
Something about the Urchin on the roof? Heavier than usual? No, it’s like last evening, when the raggedy man chased them away to have the spot for him and a bottle of gin. No, that’s not it.
What else can it be? The bat swarms above? But they’re always like that, with little rhyme or reason that Noah could discern. Chaos in the squeaks and flaps shouldn’t unnerve him. No, th-
Noah feels his blood turn to ice.
Raggedy man on the roof?
Raggedy man because the steps had been heavier than an urchin’s, and that’s it?
Raggedy man who doesn’t swear, belch, fart, or mutter to himself?
Not a raggedy man - someone adult-sized, then, who had been keeping a silent, unmoving vigil, as a Fisher-King on lookout for wallets would, for the past few minutes.
We’re all dead aren-
A roof-tile slides, and the sounds of bat-swarms die down above them, as if something was now in their way-
Unseen to Noah, Henchard’s eyes widen as Noah shoves his cane to Henchard’s chest, not knowing himself whether he tries to save Henchard or use him to gain as much distance to this doomed spot as he can-
Henchard falls down, and the falling shape changes targets-
A razor-sharp blade cuts through Noah’s clothes and skin, cracking his ribs, opening a wound in his leg and finally splitting his foot in half, as the Shade already scans the area for the next target for its sword-
Blood spurts from the wound, Lord Gazter and Henchard feel adrenaline rush into their blood-
Noah screams from the top of his lungs, from fear, or pain, or trying to warn the others-
The battle has begun, and the first blood sprays over Shade and the cobbles.
Life and death will be decided now, for everyone.
Ready or not.
“Time to die.”
edited by John Moose on 10/22/2017
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
9/7/2017
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Locke Lockhart’s Lamentable Legwork, Part 2: Loathsome Leeches
Locke trudges through the fungal swamps of Bugsby’s Marshes, cursing the string of poor decisions that led him to this wretched place. Scarcely an hour out on the fringes of London and his trousers are soaked through, his borrowed wellington boots filled to the brim with fetid water. His passenger, the accursed Ninefold Cat, squirms irritably in his rucksack.
“You sure this is the right way, cat?”
“How should I know?” The Cat scrabbles his way up Locke’s back to rest his paws on the man’s shoulder. Locke winces at the claws digging into him. “You’re supposed to be the expert tracker, Mister Lockhart. I can’t see a thing from your rucksack.”
“Tracking a single bloody tramp through a swamp is easier said than done, even for a fearless monster-hunter like yours truly,” says Locke. He stops on a muddy island rising from the ankle-deep water and surveys the landscape. The cat peers over his shoulder. Bugsby’s Marshes stretch before them, the muddy landscape shrouded in rolling mist. Ahead is a thick copse of tree-sized grey mushrooms enclosed on both sides by rocky cliffs. The wide fungal caps obscure the marsh ahead in gloom. An ideal place for an ambush, if you’re feeling paranoid.
Before moving on, Locke tries to get the worst of the mud and water out of his clothes, shaking like a wet dog. The Ninefold Cat hisses and clings onto his rucksack as he bends over to extract the fat leeches stuck to his thigh, tossing them into the reeds.
“If I didn’t know better,” says Locke, “I’d think you sent me out here just to get soaked. If this tramp is working for the Shade, what’s he doing out in the arse-end of nowhere? Nothing here but mushrooms and marsh-wolves.
“Bloke down at the Bomb With Two Necks said he caught a blemmigan in Bugsby’s Marshes once, but when he showed us it was just a sorrow-spider with a mushroom glued to its back. That’s how One-Eyed Phil got his name, you know. The bugger would have done for me too – no weapons allowed in that joint for health and safety reasons – but I had a knife in my boot for just such an occasion.” He mimes throwing a knife.
The Cat gives him a desultory scratch on the back with one of his claws and slumps back into the rucksack to sulk while Locke squelches his way into the mushroom forest.
“So are you the one of yourself that gets all the rubbish jobs, then? Do the other eight pick on you, or is it more of a drew-the-short-straw sort of scenario? I can get behind that line of thinking. Proper democracy, that’s what I’d like to see in this city - or failing that, a lottery. Fat chance of that with the Masters around, though. The whole Mayor job is a sham. As far as I can tell – the view from the streets, as it were – the only thing Jenny managed to achieve all year was starting up a posh school. It’s nonsense, I tell you.”
Locke’s squelching continues. The fungal stalks close in around him, the air heavy with drifting spores. It quickly becomes dark under the shade of the tower-caps. Locke stops to light his lantern, fiddling with damp matches in the dark; he continues on with a dim aura of candlelight casting deep shadows in the tangled undergrowth.
Under the shade of the mushrooms, all is quiet and still apart from Locke’s own footsteps and ragged breathing. The silence is deafening after the lively sounds of frogs and crickets in the marsh.
A soft voice speaks from just behind him. “I have the scent now.” Locke practically jumps out of his skin before he realises that it is the Ninefold Cat.
“Jesus, cat, you scared the living daylights out of me!” he whispers.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were supposed to be a fearless monster-hunter,” says the Cat sardonically. If it were a human, it would have cocked an eyebrow. Perhaps it’s doing it anyway, just to spite me.
“Well… just get on with it, okay? There’s a time and a place for sarcasm. Can you point me in the right direction or not?”
“I can smell the man we’re looking for about three hundred yards ahead. Stale sweat and staler wine; there’s no doubt. He probably doesn’t know we’re here yet, but don’t push your luck – the light’s a dead giveaway.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? It’s bloody dark!”
“Pah. I sometimes forget you humans have worse senses than a new-born kitten. You can’t see in the dark, but neither can he. I’ll be your eyes.”
“Brilliant. Do you want to go on ahead, Your Highness, or should I carry you on my shoulders so you don’t get your fur all muddy?”
Without answering, the Ninefold Cat scratches his way up Locke’s back again and curls around his neck. Despite his irritation at the wretched mog, he can’t help but appreciate how fluffy the Cat is. Like a living neck-warmer.
Locke shutters his lantern and creeps forward, wincing at every little twig snapping in the brambly undergrowth. The Cat directs him with whispered instructions. Before long, a dim orange glow can be seen ahead, tell-tale smoke rising past the fungal canopy – a campfire.
The Ninefold Cat and Locke look at each other. The Cat’s hungry eyes glow with reflected firelight. “The hunt,” he purrs, “is on.”
Locke nods and checks the weapons strapped to his belt. Debate at swordpoint is his speciality, but for tougher arguments he carries a revolver. The worst disagreements require a certain amount of overwhelming force, so he also carries a few spare grenades. Judging by what the Cat told him of the vagrants’ unnatural vitality, they may come in handy.
He parts the brambles ahead with a rustle and spies the tramp sitting at his campfire, a lone point of light in the dark clearing. The mushrooms loom low here; the campsite would be impossible to find if not for the Cat’s nose.
The vagrant would not look out of place on the streets of London. He has a long beard and ragged clothes which are covered in grime and still wet from trudging through the marshes. He is muttering to himself, also not an atypical feature.
Despite his wild and deranged appearance, he is not the most concerning aspect of the camp at present. It seems he is not the only one encamped in the arse-end of nowhere; there are a good dozen tents pitched behind him in the clearing. Boxes of weapons and supplies – and overflowing gunpowder kegs – are stacked all around. Not just a lone fugitive, then, but a whole gang of them on the warpath.
Locke ducks back behind the brambles. “This is bad. Properly bad. If they’re all as bonkers as the one that sawed off that poor woman’s head, there’s no telling what they could get up to in London. I’m all for a bit of rough-and-tumble, but these people are sick.”
“Indeed,” says the Cat. “This sort of thing is bad for business. This may be our only chance to deal with them. I can only smell the one man in there – the others must have gone off somewhere. If you’re half the fighter you say you are, you should be able to incapacitate the guard – preferably in a permanent fashion. Do you still have any matches left in that book of yours?”
“I’m not sure I like where this is going, cat…”
“Come on now. What sort of anarchist is put out by a few explosions?”
“Quite the opposite! It’s just a shame that I won’t be the one causing them for once.” Locke flashes a brilliant grin and passes the matchbook up to the Cat, who holds it in his mouth.
He pushes through the brambles and surveys the approach more closely, the Cat still draped on his shoulders. The clearing is raised slightly above the surrounding forest, with a reed-filled stretch of knee-deep water in the way. The tramp has his back turned to Locke, still babbling gibberish to himself.
Without further ado, Locke strides bravely forwards. Immediately before entering the water, his foot catches on something. A trip-wire! And so, bravely, he trips and falls with a yelp into the mucky swamp water, the Ninefold Cat following him into the trench as a yowling airborne ball of claws.
Once he claws his spluttering way out of the water, he is thoroughly drenched and dripping with cold, wet mud. Something is causing a great commotion beneath the surface, splashing and bubbling vigorously – he gingerly reaches in and extracts the sodden Cat. Fur plastered to his body, flailing and scratching with the most outraged look Locke has ever on an animal, the Ninefold Cat is thoroughly unamused.
“Do you think he heard that?” says Locke to the dripping Cat.
An incoherent cry bursts forth from the camp.
Locke chucks the cat off into the safety of the shadows of the camp – thoroughly appreciating the further caterwauling – and attempts to compose himself following his undignified fall. His weapons are, fortunately, still where he left them. He has just drawn his sword from its sheath when the shrieking tramp charges towards him, his hair and beard flying wildly and his mouth trailing spittle.
“Now listen here…” he begins, and then thrusts his outstretched blade into the vagrant’s stomach as the man collides with him, knocking him to the ground.
“I think there’s been some sort of terrible misunderstanding!” says Locke.
“For the Shade!” roars the tramp, seemingly oblivious to the blade stuck through his torso and jutting out of his back.
Locke rolls to one side, shifting the tramp’s weight off him, and stands upright while the man struggles on his back.
“Could you point me to the way out, my dear fellow? I fear I’ve become rather lost.” Locke’s hilarious banter fails to elicit a response from the vagrant besides a growl, so he tugs at his sword’s hilt and extracts it from the man’s stomach with a squelch. The blade comes free reluctantly, trailing gold-flecked blood.
The sword-wound is hard to make out in the deep shadows of the firelight, but its edges are wide and ragged. Not something that you can just walk away from, even in the Neath.
The tramp, however, does not seem to be aware of that. He merely stands up and roars again, utterly unimpeded. As Locke watches in growing horror, the sides of the wound creep together until the man’s body is whole again. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a silhouette padding towards the fire – the Ninefold Cat, still thoroughly bedraggled, with a match in his mouth.
“Nice trick, that,” he says, forcing himself to smile nonchalantly and keep the tramp’s attention. “Fancy teaching me? Might come in handy down at the Bomb on Friday nights.”
Behind the tramp, the Ninefold Cat has lit the match from the fire and is now making his way towards the tents, where a bright orange light glints inside some sort of small frame. How is that blasted cat supposed to blow up the barrels without scorching off his own hide?
The tramp stares blankly at him and chokes out the words: “Funny man, eh? You’ll not stop us. You’re too late. We found the shed where your friends fled after our Lord scattered them. The others went to burn it down. You… you’re the only one left. Now die!”
The tramp pulls a rusty dagger out of his belt and swipes at Locke. In the glow of the campfire, the shifting shadows of the men move in a deadly dance. The tramp is faster than his dishevelled appearance suggests – he is almost too fast for Locke to keep up a defence, even with the greater reach of his sword. He laughs, exulting in the challenge. This might turn out to be an excellent night after all!
The vagrant is relentless, jabbing and slashing with his dagger whenever Locke lets his guard down. The dagger may not have reach, but its wielder knows how to take advantage of underhanded tactics. Locke can barely keep up with the frantic stabbing, and he soon takes some skin-deep slashes. Any wounds he inflicts on his opponent soon close up. This is a losing battle, he realises. He hazards a glance over to the rows of tents and sees no sign of the cat.
“You’ve died before, haven’t you? You don’t deserve another life,” says the tramp. “The Shade is almighty, and he has but one life. This he told us when we drank of his blood. When I kill you, I’ll take your head.” He grins maniacally.
Locke’s arms are tired. The vagrant refuses to let him catch a breath. Every parry is slower. The feverish, hollow face of the tramp grins wider, and he misses a sharp jab of the dagger. It sinks into his right arm, severing tendons, deadening nerves. The arm hangs useless and his blade drops into the grass. Pain shoots through him and he sinks to the ground. The tramp walks around behind him and holds Locke’s head up by the hair. The pain scarcely registers compared to his arm.
The dagger glints in front of his eyes. I’m done for, then. This wretched tramp will slice me from ear to ear, and there is nothing left to be said.
BOOM!
The barrels of gunpowder erupt in a thunderous explosion. The sudden brightness of the fireball is eye-searing, spectacular. The whole camp goes up, and the tramp forgets all about slitting Locke’s throat. He gawps. He howls in anger and shock.
Then he does it all again when Locke stands up and kicks him between the legs.
It seems that even for undying nutjobs, there are some reactions that are universal. The tramp yelps and doubles over, clutching the affected area with both hands.
Sword? No time. Gun? Won’t do a thing against him. Only one thing for it, then. Locke plucks a grenade from his belt with his left hand, pulls the pin and slips it into the wailing hobo’s top pocket.
“Hold onto this for me, would you?” he says. Then he runs like hell in the opposite direction.
As he dives onto the muddy ground, a second explosion echoes round the clearing. The tramp is abruptly silenced as he disappears in a ball of flame. When the smoke clears, he is widely distributed across the campsite, and profoundly dead.
That takes care of that then. Locke picks himself up and considers brushing off the mud, but at this point he is so thoroughly sodden it doesn’t matter. Then a thought occurs to him. The Cat!
He combs the wreckage for a few tense minutes. All the tents and supplies are obliterated, leaving little but charred debris and drifting ashes. The campfire still gives him enough light to search by, but there is no way anything could have survived such a monumental detonation. Wait – what’s that? Something glints orange among the cinders. He bends down and picks it up. It is a triangular shard of a mirror – this must be the light he saw earlier, reflecting the campfire.
As he holds it up to his face, he does not see his reflection. Instead he sees a view looking upwards into a verdant jungle under a livid orange sun. Something peeks into view – a cat’s eye! Something seems oddly familiar about it. The eye draws back to reveal the face of a leopard.
“Good,” says the leopard in the voice of the Ninefold Cat. “You survived. And, as you can see, so did I, although I look a bit different on this side of the mirror. I’m afraid it’s too fragmented for me to come back this way, but I can make my way back to London from Parabola.”
“You travelled through a mirror… and now you’re a leopard? You know what; I’m not even going to question it. This is a mad day all round. Listen, cat – the tramp’s friends aren’t here because they’re going to burn down Gideon’s Shed! Can you get one of your other selves to warn him? He’ll get roasted alive, and that’s something I’d prefer to avoid if possible.”
The Ninefold Cat nods – “Consider it done, human.” – and withdraws.
Locke puts down the mirror shard and looks around the dark fungal forest. I suppose I’ll have to walk back by myself, then. This is simply not my day.
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
10/28/2017
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Hamilton runs out from a side alley, looking for an opportunity to attack with his knife. When he sees Barselaar advancing on the Shade, Hamilton moves forwards until he is standing next to the Shade. Knowing that he is less than inadequate with his dagger, Hamilton just wishes to stun the Shade long enough to make an opening for someone else to make a much stronger attack.
He slices the Shade in the shoulder, then backs off, not wanting to be the next target of the Shade’s wrath.
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
10/28/2017
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(Co-written with Barselaar and ShadowCthuhlu)
Henchard approaches the Shade, one hand clasped to his throat. Blood oozes through his fingers, but slowly, the Shade was interrupted before he could cause too much damage. Exertion could be a problem, but...Henchard looks back at the Shade, who is turning towards Hamilton. And his hand moves from his wound to his knife. Meanwhile, the Sailor sidesteps slowly around in an attempt to flank. He is out of breath, his mountain of coats and rags tattered and torn, but his clay arm is bunched into a fist and a flensing knife is gripped in his other hand. There is the briefest moment of silence before the pair launch themselves forwards. At the first movement, the Shade turns back to them.
The uncertainty in the Shade’s eyes has faded now, however, and the fires of violence are back; ready for the attack, it responds in kind. Wise to the Sailor’s new arm, it now uses the stony limb as leverage, ducking under the clumsily-swung flensing knife and grabbing the clay wrist. The jagged sword-hilt slashes across the Sailor’s back, opening a great rift among the layers of coats and jackets, before the Shade unceremoniously releases its hold, thrusting downwards. Still unfamiliar with the disproportionate weight of his new limb, the Sailor tumbles to the cobbles, narrowly avoiding taking Henchard out on his way down.
Henchard jumps over the falling sailor, knife flashing out at the Shade. It cuts through the Shade’s loose clothing, grazing the skin beneath. Slow, Henchard realizes, he’s getting slower. But still faster than him. A blur crashes into his stomach, and Henchard leaps back, coughing out the air in his lungs. Leaving the Sun Scorched Sailor alone with the Shade.
As the Shade stood over the fallen sailor, with his blade flashing downward - that’s when he was bowled into like a slow costermonger and an speeding hansom. However, in this scenario the speeding wagon was Dirae Erinyes.
“Bairn, with all this talk of Light’s judgement and death, a fool might actually think you know or a thing or two about them.” Dirae Erinyes took advantage of the bought time to draw their blades, joining Henchard’s side. “But we both know better - a mountain blood creature like you hasn’t even played a friendly game with the boatman… you passing judgement is a bloody farce.”
Henchard steps forward and swings his blade at the Shade, interrupting any possible conversation. The Shade, still off-balance, falls as he slides to Henchard. Not that it makes his blade any less sharp. Henchard winces as it cuts flesh, but it's closer to a graze than the Shade’s normal work. His knife scratches along the Shade's arm as it dances out of reach.
“Have you seen a sunrise over the moors? Or even bothered to look at the sky shrines?” Dirae Erinyes asks, as they pounce on the Shade. More cuts, and more dark blood, but the Shade slips out from underneath them, his parries bring his blade close to Henchard again.
Without warning, the blade strikes out at Henchard. Who was no longer there, instead ducking low to the ground to cut at the Shade’s legs. Knife reaching out to cripple, not to kill. The tip of the knife meets fabric, only to be interrupted by an forgotten fist. Henchard’s head snaps to the side, and the scraps of flesh holding the blood inside his neck snap. He collapses to the ground, grasping at his throat with one hand. His other hand a clenched fist around his knife.
“You don’t know how to read moths, or even been to a proper funeral.” Dirae Erinyes continues, stepping over Henchard to drive the Shade back. “But when I’m done, bairn, you will know a thing or two about death.” There is something new in that voice, as Henchard bleeds. As the rooms of memory unlock in Dirae Erinyes head, they throw all their might into their blows.
It’s not a comforting voice to hear when you die.
--
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
4/12/2017
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(Co-written with Barselaar)
Gideon takes a seat at the table and reaches over to grab some milk for his coffee. As he turns back to his cup, he catches the gaze of the Scorched Sailor. The zailor’s eyes glitter beneath the bandages.
Don’t ask about the arm, says Voice 3.
“So, about that arm…” Gideon says. D__n it all. You had one job.
The Sailor snorts a little. Everyone had been staring at it ever since he’d reappeared, so an outright question is refreshing. He’s used to the staring - he’s been dealing with it ever since his scarring - and honest curiosity is always easier to deal with than furtive horror. People are never as subtle as they think.
“You prob’ly know as much about it as I do. Clay Man takes me to the Quarter - Unfinished, I think - I pass out from the… y’know, blood -” He’s still not comfortable remembering the pain - “and when I wake up I got this.” He waves it a little. “Works a’right. Past that, I’m not sure what to think. Not much time fer any kind o’ thinking.”
Gideon nods along, listening attentively. “A Clay Man, you say? I’ve heard about the sort of things that go on in the Clay Quarter - there was that terrible business with the Comtessa - but I’ve never heard of clay parts being outright grafted onto a human.”
He pauses for thought. “You are human, aren’t you? Apologies, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. Regardless, I’d very much like to take a look at it, if you don’t mind. Is that a Correspondence symbol I see there, where the arm joins your body?”
The Sailor regards the inventor curiously. This is the first time these kinds of enquiries have come so completely without judgement - he can’t see anything but inquisitiveness underneath the questions. “Human? Yes.” He pauses. “Might not be much of one anymore, but this here is human down to the core.”
The bandages have fallen away from the arm almost completely, and the edges of a sigil are just visible. The Sailor remembers the irrigo bomb. “Good eye. If you think ye can make somethin’ of it, take a look. Try not to blow us up.”
“I don’t tend to make a habit of blowing things up - I prefer to leave that to my more combative friends - but I’ll do my best.” Gideon walks round to the Sailor and gently unravels the remaining bandages around his shoulder.
The join between flesh and clay is red and bruised - although that may just be the Sailor’s usual complexion - but there is no seam; they are truly fused together. Under his touch, several Correspondence symbols flicker to life - they seem to be a random collection at first, but a theme soon appears: amalgamy. The primary sigil reads “forever circling, never drawing closer, never drawing apart.” The union of two links on the Chain, forbidden by the Judgements. The Red Science must be behind this.
Gideon aches to learn more, but he knows a little of what the Red Science can achieve, and the thought chills his bones.
Still, he makes a mental note of a few of the sigils he hasn’t seen before. A good scientist keeps meticulous notes, and one as good as Gideon doesn’t need a notebook.
“Fascinating,” he says, and steps back to give the Sailor some space. He strikes Gideon as the type who values it. “This type of sygaldry is beyond me - biology was never my strong suit - so I don’t think I can make any improvements to it, but I may well be able to replicate it if our group is in need of any more replacement limbs. I’d make the new limbs from scratch, of course - we don’t want any more hapless Clay Men going about with missing arms, after all."
A thought occurs to Gideon. "I believe your old arm is around here somewhere, but I doubt it’ll be of much use to you now. Actually, that’s why I asked about you being, er, human - it seems to be made at least partially of tallow. I’d ask how it happened, but I imagine it would be a painful memory to relive.”
The Sailor allows Gideon his short monologue - it seems that once he’s seized by a thought there’s not much to be done until the thought reaches its end - nodding every so often. Correspondence, bar the very basics, is a closed book to him, but he registers the impossibility of reattachment with a pang. It’s been so chaotic that he’s hardly had time to consider his arms - old or new - but suddenly he’s hit with the realisation that this is him now. Another lost piece of himself.
At the mention of tallow, his mood darkens further. “There are places that curiosity should not lead you, even if yer a man of science. Obsessions…” A long pause. “You’re right. Painful. And it won’t help us now. But mind you don’t let yourself get taken over by ideas. Control is harder to regain than lose.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to with this… wreck, would it? I’ve heard Drake mention it, and I saw the flyers… how many months ago? I was tied up with a project at the time, or I would have gone myself.” Gideon lowers his voice. “From what I’ve heard, not many people made it back from that voyage, and many of those who did vanished shortly afterwards. Did their obsessions get the better of them?”
“Reck’s my ship. My home.” The Reckoning Postponed. He looks around the Scheming Chamber. “If I had any sense at all, s’where I’d be now.” Gideon is disconcertingly well-informed. “Bad business, that whole trip. Business that still hasn’t ended. Damn Shade.”
He sighs deeply, and makes a small attempt to regain control of the conversation. “Whatever happened is in the past. If I know anythin’ it’s that there’s no changing that. I’d be obliged if you could let it lie.” His voyage with Drake and the others, his humanity, all of it - even if there isn’t any discernible malice in Gideon’s prodding, the Sailor is uncomfortable opening up about things that he still hasn’t come to terms with himself. “Dwell on the past too much and the present’ll dismember ye.”
Gideon hears the pain in the Sailor’s tone. Perhaps it’s for the best if he leaves this subject alone. “Quite a turn of phrase you have there,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I prefer to always look to the future, myself. There’s no telling what I’d find if I turned around, and I have a sinking feeling that what I’d see in the past is nothing at all. Sometimes I remember things that I shouldn’t have any business knowing, and sometimes no memories exist where there should be some. It’s like my mind is a library with all the books shuffled around. Nothing is in its proper place, half of it is missing, and it’s haphazardly filled in with books from a different library. It’s maddening.”
He stops abruptly. Perhaps he’s said too much. The Sailor is hiding some trauma deep in his past, but he’s been honest enough that Gideon felt the need to reply in kind.
“Aye, I’ll drink to that.” The Sailor takes a swig of coffee before realising that it’s still the same cold cup he’s been hanging onto for far too long. The inventor is an inscrutable one, to be sure, but something about him inspires if not quite confidence, then something close. “It’s a mess alright. Still, could be a mercy. Ain’t nothing so awful as truth.”
“To the truth, then,” says Gideon, holding out his steaming coffee cup for the toast. It’s out there, if you know where to look.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 4/12/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Lord Gazter
Posts: 665
4/3/2017
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Two figures step out of the heavy, grey fog that surrounds the dilapidated shack. One of the figures begins to make their way towards the shack, but is stopped by the other. A finger is pointed at the debris and fungi surrounding the decaying building, and at the almost unnoticeable footprints that lead through them. The other figure nods and waits until the first has made a few steps before they follow in the others footsteps gingerly placing one foot after the other.
The figures make their way through the rot and decay without incident, and eventually reach the shack itself. The first inspects the grime and fungi covered shack, while other looks around watching for any signs of any trouble. The first examines the front of the building, but they stop for a moment. The door of the shack is just ever so slightly open. They wave the second figure over and begin opening the door. Something clicks.
A harpoon rapidly soars towards the first figure nearly impaling them as they narrowly avoid its path. The harpoon embeds itself into the ground with a squelch just a few inches from the figure.
The two figures share glances. Their is an uneasy moment of silence. The second figure steps over to the harpoon, planting their feet steadily on the firmest ground they can find among the half decayed waste and mud and yanks the harpoon out of the ground with another sickeningly wet squelch filling the air.
After waiting a moment to catch their breath the first figure again steps up to the door this time more cautiously than before and looks over the entryway more thoroughly this time for any traps before cautiously stepping into the shack. The second quietly follows the first through the door and into the shack.
edited by Lord Gazter on 4/3/2017
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Lord Gazter: a charming gentleman of noble birth and a person of significant influence.
Victoria Crow: a spirited la.. young woman and freshly anointed firebrand.
Get a copy of the Phlegethonian Gazette for pertinent and trustworthy news! Only five pence!
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phryne
Posts: 1351
5/1/2017
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The Investigation—Part 2 of 5: The Rooftop Conference
After lunch, they ascend via a trapdoor to the roof, from which Emma can see that all the penthouses in Covert Lane have access to the Flit. After climbing several stories on rickety ladders, they reach a well-secured platform. The view from here is as magnificent as a fall would be devastating. Across the Stolen River, the sigils flickering on the highest spires of the Bazaar are just at their eye-level.
The platform is filled with a gaggle of urchins from different gangs. There are Fisher-Kings, Naughts and Crosses (keeping a good distance between them), a Detachment of Eaves-Skippers from the Knotted Sock, and Colonel Molly herself with a few of the Regiment’s Irregulars, among them the older girl they first met in the kitchen a few hours ago. Peace is kept by the presence of Slivvy, the urchin’s—chief? Well, what exactly he is to them, nobody knows, but they all respect him.
“As you know, the Flit is always a good place to start looking for information about any shady activities,” Lady Orosenn elaborates. “I find it hard to get information out of the Topsy King’s courtiers though as they usually talk about as much sense as their ‘ruler’. I much prefer these lil’ guys, so I called for a conference.
“They can never hear enough of my Presbyterate Passphrases or Elder Continent Mysteries. Easy payment.” She shrugs. “They make their own passwords and songs and whatever out of it. You won’t believe how often I hear kids in London sing some garbled nonsense in one of the Elder tongues. It’s kind of uncanny.”
“I knew an urchin girl once. Her name was Cindy—she’s probably all grown up now. Clever kid,” Emma muses.
“Clever in any particular way?” Timmel inquires.
Emma shakes her head. “No, just bright. I helped her through hard times back in the day, when my brother Ernest still zailed the zee. Mid to late 70’s.”
“I zee. I see. Sorry ‘bout that.” Emma merely furrows her brows at Lady Orosenn, not dignifying the ‘joke’ with a response.
After Slivvy has managed to lower the general noise to an acceptable level, Timmel begins by asking the children what they know about the ‘Shadow of London’. Immediately, they all fall silent.
“They don’t like talkin’ about it,” Colonel Molly huffs eventually. “Many fink as it’s a ghost or sumfink. But I ne’er heard of a ghost lordin’ it over a bunch of unwashed loonies.” She glowers around her. The Regiment is fiercely proud of its standard of hygiene.
Emma leans forward, eager to hear more: “You know about his army?”
Colonel Molly shrugs. “Dunno whether they’re an army. I know there were some really weird guys came to the Flit a while ago. Good while ago. About the time we first heard stories about that Shadow or whatever it’s called. And these guys, they used to go on about their ‘great and benevolent master’. The Topsy King dint like ‘em, and they dint like ‘im back neither. Came to a fight ‘tween some of ‘em and some of the King’s, ‘n’ two of ‘em strange guys fell down from a great ‘eight. But quick as you know what, they come climbin’ right up ag’in, ‘n’ from thereon it gets really ugly. In th’ end, like almost a dozen of the Topsy King’s had to get at ‘em and cut ‘em to pieces cos they just wudnt die otherwise, ‘n’ they wudnt stop fightin’ neither. Loonies, like I said. Never seen any of that queer lot up ‘ere since.”
Lady Orosenn turns to Emma. “So, the Shade has been rebuffed before. And what did it do? Pulled back and went into even deeper hiding. It really values secrecy, and that kind of clashes with the arrogance it displayed in Seven Devils square. I think it’s not as strong as it would like us to believe. What do you think?”
“I suppose the assault in Seven Devils was a show—a display of power to drive us away,” Emma guesses.
“Could be,” Orosenn says, pondering. “But let’s not draw conclusions too soon.” She turns towards the kids again. “You said you haven’t seen any of these ‘loonies’ up in the Flit again. But what about down in the streets? You remember any beggars, hobos, whatever, acting in curious or strange ways?”
Several kids start nodding at once. Soon, stories are shared. Stories like the one about the thief caught stealing at a Spite market, who, when confronted by a patrolling constable, grabbed him and threw him through the air to bound away with great leaps, with nobody able, or willing, to follow. Interestingly, the same thief was then dragged out of the Stolen River a few days later, minus a head.
“Seems like the Shade didn’t like him drawing so much attention,” Emma whispers. Timmel nods. “Now we’re getting somewhere. The River, again! Seems like the Shade’s preferred method of getting rid of bodies. Meaning, they must be thrown in somewhere to the west of the city. Question is, from the northern bank, or the southern?”
Turning once more toward the assembled urchins, Lady Orosenn asks them whether they have ever observed someone throwing a corpse—preferably a headless one—into the Stolen River during the last few months. At first, she is answered only by shaking heads. But whispering starts among the members of the Crosses. A tiny, shy-looking girl is pushed forward. “G’wan, Mousy,” they say. “Tell that weird story you told us.”
At first, it doesn’t look like ‘Mousy’ will be able to say anything, now that everyone’s attention is so suddenly fixed on her. But after an encouraging smile by Emma, she takes a deep breath and begins to tell her ‘weird story’.
“‘twas like two months ago, when I acted as courier for a gentleman—and a very generous gentleman ‘e was, tipped me nicely, ‘e did—carryin’ a late-night message to the Bazaar Side-streets. When the job was done, I was sittin’ on a roof at the far end of that posh quarter, enjoyin’ a pie I ‘ad bought with me wages.” Pride and the memory of the pie visibly enliven her. “So I was sittin’ right across from the FQ—’s what we call the Forgotten Quarter—and I cud see somebody walkin’ towards me from quite a long way away, way deep in the FQ. Now, I wasn’t afraid cos ‘e was a sturdy fellow, and I was up on the roof. So I was curious. I mean, nobody ever goes in there, except for devils and ark-ee-ollo-jists. And when I discerned that ‘e was carryin’ somefink slung over ‘is shoulder, I bethought meself, ‘e musta been diggin’ up anteeks in the FQ. But when ‘e passed under a lamp-post, I cud see it was not a large sack ‘e carried like I thought at all, but a body! A dead body. Without an ‘ead.” She shivers, looking distressed now. Her English deteriorates accordingly. “‘e carries the ‘ead in one ‘and—was fair dangling it by its ‘airs, ‘e was!—‘n’ the body was slung over th’ other shoulder. Looked real grim, it did. ‘n’ I was scared some, but I’m always bit more curious as I’m scared, so I followed ‘im,” she concludes.
“Where did he go?” Emma prompts patiently, favouring her with another smile.
“All th’ way to the Stolen River! ‘n’ there ‘e throws th’ body and the ‘ead into the water, and a mighty splash it makes too. ‘e even watched fer a while to make sure it was sunk all right, and then goes right back where ‘e was came from. ‘n’ I followed ‘im all th’ way back ag’in, too, ‘n’ ‘e really goes right back into the FQ ag’in.”
“You didn’t follow him into there, did you?” asks Timmel. Mousy shakes her head. “Smart lass,” Lady Orosenn smiles. She leans over to the little girl and whispers an old Mystery of the Elder Continent in her ear. Immediately her face lights up and she silently repeats the words to herself over and over again.
Of course, now everybody wants some mysteries. The presence of Slivvy is invaluable here, as his word on which gangs deserve how much payment is accepted, if grouchily, by all. General happiness is ensured, however, when Lady Orosenn sends the girl from the kitchen down to fetch a few meat pies from the larder.
Leaving the hubbub behind, she says to her companion: “Seems your instincts were right from the beginning. Tomorrow, we’ll venture into the Forgotten Quarter then.” She shakes her head. “Like the proverbial needle in a haystack, only this haystack never looks the same from one day to the next. We’ll need an experienced guide, or we’ll spend an eternity walking in circles. Fortunately, I know someone who might be of help. But now, I’m going to have a bath.” She gives Emma a look. “You might have noticed the bathroom has a very large tub.”
Emma raises an eyebrow. “I think I might join you then.”
“Of course you will. Scrub my back and I’ll scrub yours,” Lady Orosenn says, beginning to climb downstairs. Emma hurries after her.
(to be continued...)
edited by phryne on 8/9/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
4/23/2017
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(Co-written with Bertrand Lyndon)
Doctor Garrison? The Scorched Sailor wonders what she’s been up to since he last saw her. All told, she had always seemed to him like one of the less deranged members of the old party. She’d been resourceful at zee, and her assistance will be appreciated. “Aye, I’ll come. Always good to see a friendly face.” He hopes they are not pulling yet another soul into a hopeless quest. “I’ll meet you on yer way out. Need some air.”
Lyndon rests against a wall, waiting in silence. He should be searching for the kid, but there’s something else he needs to take care of first. It’s something he’d rather not do, honestly, but it’s almost a duty. He won’t run away from that, no matter how unpleasant it is, but that doesn’t mean he’ll do that in public.
Finally, a sound of heavy steps approaches the door. The Sergeant has chosen his spot carefully, a few steps away from the door, so that the people exiting the room cannot see him. He moves forward. “Captain, I’d like to have a word. If you don’t mind, of course.” He waits for the other to face him, then he takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers one to the Scorched Sailor. “Fancy a smoke?”
The Sailor considers the Sergeant as he waves the packet away. “Obliged, but I’ll go without.” He’s not as good with fire as he used to be.
Sergeant Lyndon puzzles him. He had been ready to dislike the man and his brusque attitude, but increasingly he’s thinking that what he took for adversarial behaviour is simply how Lyndon lives, a general, untargeted bullishness. And the girl, Jordan… she seems to like him, despite it all. The Scorched Sailor sighs. It’d be easier for everybody if “nice” and “good” went hand in hand. He nods at Lyndon and his cigarettes. “You go ahead, though. I don’t mind the smoke. I’m listenin’.”
Lyndon takes a cigarette for himself before putting the packet away. Its smell is awful, its taste even worse, if possible, but he likes them. He takes a few deep drags before speaking. He’s a curt man by choice, and being at a loss of words is an unfamiliar feeling for him. “I didn’t lie when I said I don’t like you,” he blurts out. Ok, not the best way to go about this. “but I want you to know that...” Another pause, even longer and more awkward. The Sergeant bites down hard on his cigarette, and swallows a sizeable chunk of his pride. “Well, you helped the kid out, and I’m sure you didn’t know she was with me, so you must have done it because you really felt like doing the right thing...” Lyndon sighs in frustration. “Listen, I appreciate what you did for the kid, alright? I guess I owe you a solid for keeping her safe, so if I can do something in return, just say the word.”
Tendrils of smoke curl in front of the Sergeant’s face, saving either man from the necessity of uncomfortable eye contact. The Sailor wonders if this was on purpose. So he really does care about the girl. Good. He coughs a little. “Aye, an’ I’m not about to be your best man either. Don’t matter if we’re not friends, as long as we don’t end up lying side-by-side in a ditch. Yer useful, and I think you’ll help us kill this thing, and that’s good enough.” The horrible smoke reminds him of the seedier Wolfstack taverns, and he imagines the same conversation happening over a drink, both men leaning against the bar, staring at the same spot on the opposite wall. “There ain’t no one good that wouldn’t’ve helped her out, and if yer sense o’ honour, or whatever you’ve got instead, requires that I get a favour back from ye, then call it this: you look after that girl. War-room ain’t no place fer a child. Send her home. Lock ‘er in the broom closet. If she’s standin’ with us then she’s standin’ in one o’ the most dangerous places in all London. Don’t make me wish I hadn’t helped her here.” It’s a long speech; he’s spoken more today than he has in a long while.
Is he tel- no, he probably means no offense. Probably he’s just worried about her.
“You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve kept her safe so far, and I’ll keep her safe as long as I breathe. She wasn’t supposed to come here in the first place, but she likes to pry in my businesses despite my best attempts to keep her out of this kind of things.” The Sergeant looks down the earthen corridor. “I should go find her now. I won’t leave her here - this place is far less safe than it looks. I’ll move her somewhere secure as soon as I can, and this time I’ll make sure she stays there until this mess is sorted out.” Lyndon leaves the wall he has been resting on during the whole conversation and starts to walk away. “You won’t have any regrets about helping her, Captain. Not if I can help it.”
The Scorched Sailor watches the Sergeant leave, cigarette smoke trailing after him. As always, things had come out more gruff than he’d meant, but if anyone can handle gruff, it’s Lyndon. He wonders why he feels so fiercely protective of the girl. Food for thought.
edited by Barselaar on 4/23/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
4/29/2017
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It takes some time to find the kid. The corridors all look the same, and the cat is nowhere to be found. When Lyndon finally stumbles upon her, she’s in a room that might be a laboratory, tinkering with some kind of machine.
I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone.
“If you’re done experimenting,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “you should get ready. We’re leaving soon.”
The kid turns towards him with an eager look on her face. “Where are we going?”
“You are going home, of course.”
“What? No! Why should I?” she complains, as tears start to well up to her eyes. “I want to help you, Randy! You always say I don’t do anything to help you, so why don’t you let me help you now?”
“Enough!” cries Lyndon, with a sharper tone than he had intended. He takes a deep breath and bends on his knees, lowering his eyes to her level. “Don’t you understand that I can’t keep you safe if you stay here? This isn’t a joke. You have to go back home.”
“Then why don’t you come as well?”
Lyndon sighs. “It’s… complicated, really, but I can’t leave yet.” He leans forward to hug her. I really hope nobody is watching us right now. “Listen, I’ll be back soon, alright?”
Before she can say anything, another voice speaks up. “Sawge!” The Sergeant immediately pushes the kid away from him.
Oh, for Salt’s sake! Can’t I have a moment of privacy every once in a while?
However, that voice doesn’t sound like any of the other hunters. Lyndon looks around, but there’s nobody in sight.
“Down hewe, Sawge!”
The Sergeant looks down, and finally sees a scruffy-looking Rattus Faber standing right in front of him. “Oh, it’s you, Scarmiglione. What are you doing here?”
“The Chief sent me. She wants to know what yew doin’, and why the little miss is hewe.” says the rat, glancing at the kid.
“Big Sis knows I’m here?” cries the kid in horror.
Scarmiglione nods. “Suwe. Did ya weally think she wouldn’t notice you wewe gone? The Sawge told us to keep twack of you, and we do. You might have slipped away fow a while, but we found you soon enough. We only let you get hewe because the Chief told us to let you go on.”
“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” murmurs the kid. “She’ll be super mad now. I won’t get any spore-toffee for months! She’ll take away my scrutinizer! And my books!” She looks up at her guardian. “Please tell her you said it was okay. Tell her you told me to come here.”
“As if she would listen to me, kid.” says Lyndon with a cruel grin. "You made her look like a fool, and you know how much she hates that. You’ll have to make up to her somehow.” He turns to the rat. “Why do you show up only now? You should have come to me straight away.”
“’Tis not my fault, Sawge. Thewe’s a cat hewe… a nasty beast, that is. It chased me fow houws, and it seemed to be evewywhere. I thought I was done fow. Still can't believe I managed to get hewe in one piece.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, that cat can be… in many places. At once.” The Sergeant shakes his head. “Anyway, it’s good that you’re here now. I need to send a message.” Lyndon takes out his notebook, and jots down a short note. Once he’s done, he rips out the page, folds it, and hands it to Scarmiglione. “I’ll carry you out of here, then make sure this gets to her.”
Lyndon scoops up the rat, and exits the room with the kid in tow. “I’ll get you to the roof. The cat won’t follow us there. I think we will leave in a couple of hours or so. That should give you and the others enough time to deliver the message.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 4/30/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/23/2017
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The Investigation—Part 1 of 5: The House on Covert Lane
(co-written with Drake Dynamo)
Navigating the few remaining snares and booby traps around the Shed of Wonders poses no problem for Lady Orosenn. Soon, she and Emma Dynamo are threading a path through the outskirts of Bugsby’s Marshes towards Watchmaker's Hill. There is not much communication between the two at this point—the tall monster-hunter seems deeply in thought. Emma reads her companion’s countenance well enough by now to recognize when it’s better to leave her alone.
Lady Orosenn is still painfully aware of how ill-prepared she had stumbled into Seven Devils square just two days ago, trudging along with her head in the clouds like a lovestruck maiden. Never before had she let herself down like that, let alone the rest of the group. This would simply not do. She is determined to prove to herself during the coming two days that she is perfectly able to work efficiently and successfully, even—and especially—with Emma at her side.
Cabs can be hard to come by in Watchmaker's Hill, but being the first of the party to leave, they find one soon enough. Lady Orosenn directs the driver towards Wolfstack Docks, hinting to him that he might make good business today if he returned to the Hill soon.
During the ride, she finally addresses her lover. “There will be no alley-snooping, and no skulking in the corners of pubs to overhear conversations, nor following around every beggar we see. We’re looking for very particular information, and we need it fast. No point in trusting to chance. I promise to you, I will find the Shade’s lair within 48 hours.”
“If you insist on doing it that way. It’s markedly less fun when you don’t get to come home dirty and covered in other people’s garbage,” Emma remarks.
Timmel raises her eyebrows. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. It appears our tastes run in different directions there.”
“Oh, my dear, the most fun part is getting cleaned off at the end,” Emma says with a smile. “But, I suppose this works too.”
Leaving the cab at the outskirts of the Docks, between warehouses and factories, Timmel Orosenn wends her way through a web of narrow, dirty lanes with intimate familiarity. The further they go, the shadier the people they meet, the more dilapidated and oppressive their surroundings—when suddenly, after squeezing through a gap between two apparently abandoned warehouses—they happen upon a row of neat, clean houses in good repair. Surrounded on all sides by grey industrial buildings, nobody would expect their existence here. Grinning, Orosenn turns towards Emma.
“Welcome to Covert Lane. This is where I go when I don’t want to be found. The apartments in these houses are rented to gentlepersons with a desire for privacy, and the means to pay for it. You might guess the identity of the cheery landlord and protector of this place; no need to mention his name. Safest place in London, if you know the rules. You come snooping around here, looking like you don’t belong—you disappear. You start asking questions of the people staying here—you disappear, no matter if you’re a constable, neddy man, private detective or whatever. You start a fight, or make any kind of trouble—you disappear. I keep a top-story apartment over there.” She points to the last building in the row.
“Hm, a penthouse, eh? Living large, I see. Hunting fabulous beasts must pay well,” Emma notes.
Lady Orosenn smiles. “It does over time. I’ve been doing this job for a while. I’m quite a bit older than I look, you know.”
“So am I, love. It appears we’ve got that in common,” Emma says. She cracks her knuckles. “So who are we going to meet?”
“Those who see all, but are rarely seen themselves,” Timmel answers mysteriously. “But first, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.” They enter the building.
Apparently, these apartments even come with servants. Before going upstairs, Lady Orosenn converses at length with an unusually clean-looking and well-fed urchin girl they find lounging in the kitchen, and who soon dashes off with a list of errands. “I haven’t had anything at Stormrider’s place except coffee. We’ll have a nice lunch brought up in about an hour. Later, we’ll meet with some… well-informed people.” She winks at Emma.
“So, what’s your stake in all this, Timmel? Aside from the exceptional pay, that is,” Emma inquires, taking a seat on Lady Orosenn’s plush sofa.
Timmel sits down next to her and considers her answer for a time. “Basically, I’m learning how to work with a team. Haven’t done that very often, you know. But my survival will probably depend on it in the future. You see, I’ve travelled almost everywhere one can go in the Neath. You could say… that I’m looking for new, larger hunting-grounds. Have you ever heard of the High Wilderness?”
“I’m familiar with the Wilderness, to a degree. My brother probably knows more, of course. He’s always looking into the Correspondence, and the Avid Horizon and such. I prefer the mysteries of the Neath, though,” Emma replies.
“I’ve seen one or two people go through the gate at Avid Horizon. Stark mad, probably, but some of them have apparently come back—or sent messages. The big companies—you know which ones I mean—are all working on something. Ships to explore a sea more sunless.” She hesitates. “I’ve entered into a contract. Whenever they’re ready, I’ll go with them. Just imagine: they say there are dragons out there, and who knows what else. Dragonslayer, now that’s a title I wouldn't mind carrying.” For a while, she stares into the void, lost in a reverie. When she snaps out of it, she looks at Emma and says, “Yes, call me ambitious. But you see, I know I’ll get bored down here one day. And people do such stupid things when they’re bored.”
“To each their own. But I hear those dragons eat time. At least, that’s what the rumours are. They say there’s one in the roof, but he’s dead. I’d be careful if I were you. Wouldn’t want to see you gobbled up,” Emma says with a chuckle.
“With the cider, I’ll stand a much better chance of surviving,” Orosenn says earnestly.
“If you go out to the High Wilderness, I won’t be with you to give you Cider all the time. But, that’s a ways off, I hope. Your place is very nice, by the way. Charming,” Emma comments.
“Your brother promised me a small bottle of Cider. That’ll suffice for a few emergencies. It’s all the payment I’m interested in, really. I don’t care about the rostygold. And if you think this is nice, you should see my townhouse, where I keep my collection of trophies on display.” She waves expansively at the room around her. “This is just a hideout. I guess I’m used to a degree of comfort. I was born the daughter of a queen, after all. But that’s a story for another time.”
“I should very much like to hear it one day. What shall we do until lunch arrives?” Emma asks, with a rumble of her stomach.
“Distract ourselves as well as we can, I guess,” is Lady Orosenn’s prompt answer.
“I can think of the perfect appetizer,” Emma grins.
(to be continued...)
edited by phryne on 8/9/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/18/2017
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OOC: Inspired by Bertrand's tub post, I made my own.
The bathrooms were a pleasant surprise to Dirae Erinyes – previous experiences with mad inventors was that hygiene was usually low on the priority list, if it was on the list at all. What was an even bigger surprise was that the bathtub was big enough to fit them –- they had spent more of their life then they would admit breaking those fragile claw footed tubs so popular down here. Wading into the massive sunken cistern, they watched the water turn black.
Dirae Erinyes listen carefully during their harrowing ordeal of trying to empty out the tub and fill it with clean water as the worst of the grime was rinsed off. Through the frustrated sighs, cut-off curses, and that final SCHLORRRP, they could track their wife’s progress in undressing. Dirae Erinyes didn’t have the simplest wardrobe but petticoats and wax faces seemed like their own kind of hell. At least they finally relaxed enough to get a bath – with all the monster hunters and spies kept out due to battering ram proof doors and good old English manners.
Finally, Evensong slid in the soapy waters, resting their head against Dirae Erinyes and letting their limbs relax. Dirae Erinyes looked down at those blue eyes, the best part of Evensong’s face – no matter what mask she wore.
Watching the red brow furrow in concentration, Dirae Erinyes broke the gentle silence of lapping water. “An Echo for your thoughts?”
“The Thief of Faces.” Dirae Erinyes nearly dropped the sponge they picked up to scrub Evensong’s back. Snuffers danced around the subject of the Thief of Faces even more than a society matron over the Topsy King crashing their party.
“Why him?”
“I was thinking over the words that the Shade said, about bringing permanent death to the Neath.”
“I see.” Dirae Erinyes didn’t need any more. The memories were still fresh in their mind of the determined hunter with their stolen knife, vowing to take their game to the prison itself. The young snuffer, spending up prayers for mercy, made up of entrails and desperation. A family torn apart by the paranoia his name brought. The Thief of Faces and Murder walked hand in hand. The motion of scrubbing the dirt and sweat chased some of those memories away.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Are you still thinking about the New Sequence? I believe that the Dynamos made it clear that he wasn’t part of them – just a relationship of convenience.”
“Well, the information hasn’t been the best so far, and it would give me a good laugh if he was a Sequencer. The whole bit about death could be him deciding to reinforce the possible new laws of their sun.”
“Doesn’t feel right. New Sequencers want everyone to join them, and that doesn’t fit the Shade’s actions. Like the deaths so far – they do seem to be as random as Drake described.”
“Not the best for making a point.” Dirae Erinyes followed up, catching on Evensong’s train of thought. “He could’ve target some of the notorious offenders of cheating death: bored adventurers, drunk hedonist, or just the plain unlucky.”
“Yes, it’s not like your newspaper makes a monthly special of it or anything.” Evensong dryly noted. “Turn around, so I can get your back.” Dirae Erinyes obeyed, their mouth still tracing the path.
“There’s been no screeds send to some of the weirder papers, and it’s not like London is lacking for those. No manifesto’s hot from midnight presses.”
“Exactly.” In an ordinary day, quite a volume of non-Master’s approved literature crossed Evensong’s desk. If she hadn’t read it, then no one had.
“So, why would it reveal his motivation to bunch of anti-social hunters who he was about to kill before Phryne arrived? You might as well be yelling it down wells.” Dirae Erinyes searched their memories, using Evensong’s touch as a guide back to the present. The light taste of cider, the garden that grew in your head. How mountain blood managed to taste more like blood then their own ichor, the way it set the veins on fire similar to lightening.
“That’s because it doesn’t understand what death really means.” The memories came unleashed now: Their first encounter with death, as a sibling failed to thrive, their own curiosity halted by their parent’s disappointment. The setting of Morning Glory’s pyre despite the disapproving looks from the vicar and the muttered jokes about suttees – it was enough for them that the soul was beyond the reach of resurrectionists. They weren’t sure what she would find – life everlasting up in heaven or lives never ending on the endless wheel. They only hoped that she would be waiting. Turning away from the Far Shore at the last moment, too scared to see if Morning Glories body was among the wailing, writhing horde. Their vow as Death nattered on to return and empty those shores.
“Love, stop gripping the tub. You are going to pop one of those stitches and electrocute us both if you don’t.” Dirae Erinyes looked down to the holes their fingers gorged into the stone floors.
“Sorry,” Dirae Erinyes gently removed their fingers, trying to avoid further harm.
“What were you saying about it not understanding death?”
“It probably doesn’t think it can die – being that full of the vigor from the South. Not even a temporary death. All of this must be a game to it – a child breaking its dolls.”
“A child?”
“Yes – one with great innate skill but little experience. Easy pickings for the London’s greatest spy.”
“That’s a rather significant exaggeration.”
“Well, you’re London’s best spy to me.” Evensong couldn’t resist a sigh at the sheer corniness. “Listen to me for one more moment before you descend to total nonsense. If you decide not to go out on the town with Phryne or babysit another of our crew, go to the docks and chat with the sailors. Discover if anything like the Shade has been encountered before. I doubt that our leaders have decided to check that avenue of investigation, and we will need everything we can. Especially if have to abort this mission.”
“As you wish.” For anyone eavesdropping, all that follows is in-fact nonsense and a great amount of splashing.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/18/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
12/26/2017
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Henchard sat at a table, dressed in a hurry. An ill fitting suit several years out of date, only moderately torn. A generous description of a hat. A pair of shoes polished to a shine. And a torn, knotted smile across his throat.
A devil sat on the other side, dressed in its Sunday best. The standard suit. The standard hat. The standard shoes. And a bright, honey sweet smile on its lips.
“And here you agree to never open a package with a shepherd's crook on it.” The devil said, about three pages into the contract. “This one doesn’t come up too often, but we do require you to remember it...”
Henchard nodded along, not listening. The sounds of slamming doors and crunching bones echoed in his head, drowning out all other noises.
The devil tutted, disappointed. “You could at least put in an effort. There’s no fun if you don’t try and stop us.”
Henchard nodded again. “This will fix me.” He said, mostly to himself. “No more guilt. No more arrogance. No more hurting people.” He swallowed.
“So you’re one of those,” the devil said, “A disappointing end for anyone. No matter. The paperwork is all in order.” He stood up and walked over to Henchard. “This won’t take more than a second.” Something flashed in his hand, and Henchard closed his eyes.
The lion shall lay with the lamb, the priest had said. And he followed the tiger away from the party. Henchard did not stop him.
The gunner, not the most skilled, but the most brave. Placed their hand on the wrong tree. Within minutes they were pulled inside. The zailor, who refused to abandon them, and was caught in the same way.
The navigator boasted of her skill, but now she was gone. Just gone. And so was their map.
The cook, far too trusting, and the zoologist, far too hungry.
Noah, mixing bees with crawling blood, begging by laughter, and smiling the whole way.
And the eighth. Emptiness where guilt should be. And the rage over both their betrayals.
Each death was Henchard’s fault, and he didn’t care. A free man left the embassy.
edited by suinicide on 12/26/2017
edited by suinicide on 12/26/2017
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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
12/13/2017
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Gideon limps out of a side-street to see Drake and the Sun-Scorched Sailor attempting to hail a cab. Most traffic is giving the bloodstained alley of the Shade’s ambush a wide berth – surely nobody in the whole city could have failed to see the unearthly light from Phryne’s timely detonation. The inventor steps forward beside the pair onto the kerb, sticks two fingers into his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle. Almost immediately, a carriage begins to slow to pick them up.
“You’ve got to let them know who’s boss,” he says, and smiles weakly.
Gideon feels naked without an arsenal of gadgets in his pockets. There is nothing left now but the Shade and the hunters. Like a wounded animal, it flees the fight to return to its den. It’s caused far too much pain and loss already. Time to end this.
“If you’re going after the Shade, I’m coming with you,” he says. “My ankle is probably sprained, but I’ve come out of this better than most – Dirae will live, but they won’t be in full working order for some time. I don’t even know what happened to Henchard and Noah. And we all saw what Phryne did for us, to stop that creature once and for all.”
Gideon runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “It’s wounded. I saw that myself. We can stop the Shade, and I’d be remiss if I let anyone else get hurt by it on my watch. I don’t have any more mad inventions to stop it, but I have this.” He pulls a small derringer from his pocket – a last-resort weapon if there ever was one – and is surprised to find his hands shaking.
“Maybe it will be enough. One last blaze of glory. Are you with me, friends?”
--
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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John Moose
Posts: 276
11/5/2017
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Sergeant Driscoll curses heavily, and starts running towards where the blaze was brightest.
His certainty is unshakeable; this will mean Overtime.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/10/2017
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Dirae Erinyes ferocity belies their careful observation - they notice as Edward Fyre goes down, limp on the ground. Bertrand's desperate fight, and obvious need for relief. Time for a change of tactics. With a quick hand signal to Evensong - they hoped that none of the hobos had been former employees of the Foreign Office - they start their plan.
First was Frye. Bertrand could fight, sort of. Dirae Erinyes charges forward at the scabbed man standing over Frye's body, exacting a maneuver learned from the younger days playing at magic and deliver messages in the Spite. This is known-in those high crowds-as "Just mow the b_____y b_____d down." The hobo-still mostly man but now just a bit monstrous-looks on with eager anticipation at what seems to be a suicidal target. An anticipation that may turn to dread if ever notices their speed. An anticipation that mostly certainly turned to regret as their makeshift shiv glanced off Dirae Erinyes bulky hide and they were slammed into the ground. Dirae Erinyes finishes the maneuver with several powerful stomps as they keep running, feeling the flesh and skull yield under their heavy boots. Not considered good form up above, but occasionally necessary.
Still, it would take too long to simply run Fyre to safety. Thus, second courier trick two-the fastball special as that scrawny Yankee had called it. They picked up Eyre's limp body and form it into a ball, as if he was about to jump in the zee on the coast of Mutton Island. With that, Dirae Erinyes takes aim at the hobo menacing Barselaar, unsuccessfully trying to bypass that wall of zailor spite. A hobo now bowled over as they struck in the head by the flying form of Fyre. Dirae Erinyes does not worry if Fyre was injured in that. Years spent fighting, and drinking have taught them that a limp body can survive what an awake one cannot. They hope that the sailor pulls him in before their opponent regains their senses.
Now on to Bertrand. They make a beeline for him, grabbing a hobo in their massive arms. The women claws at them, but it hurts less then the wounds they would've gotten from charging into the crowd. Wounds that she now suffers in their steed. Discarding their battered shield, they cut their way past the next menace to Bertrand's good health before offering the man a hand.
"Need to retreat?"
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/10/2017
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The Scorched Sailor, flanked by the Imaginary Hunt's salespeople and the swaying figure of a young woman he assumes to be the proprietor's daughter, slumps against the shopfront, panting and bloody. The supine body of Edward Frye, unfortunate missile, stirs from just inside the threshold. The savage vagrants dissolve as suddenly as they arrived, slipping into the shadows of alleyways to answer the summons of whatever it was that had called them away. From various upstairs windows, shots whizz after them, pinging off lampposts and catching the odd runner in the leg.
None of them are in particularly good shape, but they're all alive. The Sailor thanks Storm that the Hunt employees had stepped in when they did; he could hold his own in a tavern brawl or dark-alley dust-up, but this was something else entirely. Without the three of them to spread the focus of the assailants, he doubts he would be still be standing. As it is, the three of them are torn up pretty badly; what the attackers lacked in ordnance and weaponry they made up for in numbers and animal wildness, biting and scratching like beasts. The proprietor's daughter, still half-mazed, her eyes clouded over, sports a long gash down the side of her face and myriad small cuts on her arms. One of the salespeople is supporting the other, whose left leg seems to have been torn to bloody ribbons, immaculate suit in shreds, but they flash a wan smile at the Sailor when they catch his gaze.
He makes a brief assessment of his own wounds, and realises with surprise that he's in especially bad shape. There's going to be a lot of pain when the adrenaline wears off: there's what looks to be a tooth embedded in the meat of his calf, and a rough shiv is sticking out from just below his left collarbone, having pierced clean through his overcoat - his new overcoat! - and all of the undergarments. He feels suddenly faint. Things are most certainly not well. Everything is, somehow, more torn up than before, and those items of clothing that weren't black or red at the start of the day definitely are so now.
The uneasy quiet that follows the sound of struggle falls on the plaza. Gunpowder hangs in the air. Blood dries on the cobbles, strangely golden. Everybody seems to be, if not alright, then alive, which, considering the circumstances, is a small miracle. The fight is, for the most part, over. So why does this feel like the calm before the storm?
--
The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/12/2017
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Henchard rested his rifle. The last of the..army? Minute men? He would have to find something better to call them. No matter, they were gone, and something told him they wouldn’t be back soon.
He dropped through the window, slipping slightly on a broken table leg. The attacker had managed to do quite a bit of damage on his way up. Splintered tables and chairs lay strewn about, stained by pools of blood. He could almost see the scene is his mind. Someone rushing backwards, throwing anything and everything nearby. The attacker, walking forward unflinching, ignoring. A quick stab when things got too annoying, moving on without a second glance. Behind, the victim struggling for breath, crawling away.
But not far. She stopped inches from the stairs, eyes shut tight. Henchard knelt down to get a closer look. Just stabbed to death, she’d be fine, given some time. Still… He shook his head, the constables would be coming, and being in jail would make it much more difficult to hunt down the Shade. He left some roseygold next to her and made his way downstairs.
He strolled through the front door, worried about his comrades. The last he had seen of them, they were covered in both enemies and the purple mist. He hoped-What were those two doing on that corpse.
Henchard decided to go out the backdoor instead.
--
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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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/12/2017
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At some point, much to her regret, Emma Dynamo has to come up for air.
"By the way," she says, gasping, "I meant every last word I said earlier."
"Sure," says Timmel Orosenn. "So did I."
Both are grinning madly. They're about to go at it again, when they hear someone clear their throat nearby, very loudly.
Oh, right. There are other people in the vicinity.
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/12/2017
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Lyndon gets up as soon as the doctor is done patching him up. That worrywart gives him a few final advices that the Sergeant doesn't bother to listen to. It isn’t the first time he gets injured, and he knows how to take care of himself better than any street sawbones. Besides, they’re in the Neath: wounds are hardly a matter of concern down there.
He inspects his sabre for the first time since the huge masked fellow – his name is Dirae, he thinks – pulled it out of the carcass of a wretch like he was f_____g King Arthur. The blade isn’t bent nor chipped. It looks like he won’t need to look for a replacement yet, which is a good thing. Quality steel isn’t easy to come by in Fallen London like it is in England.
Lyndon looks around, gauging the average condition of the other members of the hunting party. It seems he has drawn the shortest straw in this fight: nobody is quite as battered as he is, although one of the dapper gentlemen has gathered an impressive amount of cuts and bruises, and the grumpy zailor has a nasty stab wound in his shoulder.
The shadowy lady with the cat passes him by. She’s giving her pet a speech that sounds oddly like a parent explaining her child how babies are born. At least she isn’t spouting b______t about storks or cabbages. How did she end up having such an odd conversation with a cat? The answer becomes quite clear once he turns and sees what Orosenn and the Dynamo girl are doing in a not-so-dark alley.
Something churns painfully in Lyndon’s gut. Maybe he shouldn’t have chugged all that whiskey in one go. Oh, h__l, it’s too late for regrets now. He dashes to a corner where his stomach promptly disposes of everything he has eaten in the last few days. That dinner at Dante’s Grill seems a much worse idea now than when he had it.
(OOC: This is supposed to happen a few moments before phryne's post. Sorry to be late. :P)
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/12/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/9/2017
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Lady Orosenn is in full-on combat mode. She has fought beings that attack in packs or swarms before—more intelligent ones than these poor wretches, too—and knows that it's all about where and how you position yourself. Having two pretty good shots at her back helps a lot, of course. Still, two problems present themselves here:
One, these wretches are insanely hard to kill. The Shade must've fed them on Its own blood, that is the only explanation. She basically has to chop each and every one that closes on her to mincemeat to avoid him or her rising again. The ones hit by Sgt Lyndon's and Miss Dynamo's bullets drop down, shake themselves, and get up again. Certainly, they must already be running low on ammo! Constantly ducking the various bricks, bottles and whatnot their attackers are throwing at them is just a minor complication.
Two, there are just too bloody many of them.
Then she hears quick steps, running, from the shop's interior. Some of their party coming to help! Hopefully Dirae Erinyes will throw themselves into the melee. She has an inkling that the big guy is hard to kill, even by near-immortal zombie-hobos.
But then Emma Dynamo runs out of bullets and instead of seeking cover, or maybe asking Timmel for one of her knives, the impossible American throws herself at a random bottle-wielding attacker, screaming like the madwoman she obviously is! What does she think she's doing? Dismembering them with her manicured fingernails?
On pure reflex, Lady Orosenn leaves her long-knives behind in her two nearest attackers' brains, draws her harpoon and throws it at Emma's opponent. That her aim is slightly off doesn't matter, the half-sentient weapon fixes that in mid-flight and pins the hobo against a dilapidated shed, which promptly collapses around it.
But now their battle-order is broken: each of the three stands alone, Timmel and Emma weaponless to boot. The hobos howl with glee, closing in.
Timmel Orosenn picks up a brick.
edited by phryne on 3/9/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/10/2017
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The sound of gunshots echoed as Henchard pulled himself onto the roof. Not as safe as inside certainly, but a much better distraction. He smiled as he brought up his rifle. Produced in an impossible year, for something with more arms than him. He pulled the first trigger.
A scream of ripping metal echoed across the street. One man went down, clutching his leg, closely followed by another scream and another victim. Both were up again within moments, heads swiveled towards Henchard’s rooftop vantage point. So it was like that. Seems he wasted his surprise.
He stuffed a few more bullets into the chamber from below. Thankfully, the gun wasn’t too picky about the orientation. It jerked in his arms, screaming the broken fears carved in metal as bullets flew. They fell again, one clutching their head, the other, their gut. Still on the ground, they started crawling towards him.
Henchard fired a few more shots at the crowd in front of the shop, targeting hands, disarming them when he could. A few missed, the owners flinching back as the cobblestone cracked beneath their feet. Then turned his attention to the ones who split off to find him. They were sliding onto their legs, bones bending like melted brick, rags ripping against the cobblestone beneath them.
Metal tore, and one of them collapsed, joints broken and mending. The other ran into the shop beneath Henchard. The screams started as he forced his way up. Henchard flinched and fired his rifle, screaming metal drowning out screaming humanity. Bullet after bullet, cracking the cobbestone under the man’s head. Both screams died in time, the man below barely connected to his head. Hopefully that would keep him down. Footsteps approached from behind, followed by a bloody knife and a grim face.
Henchard turned, the knife swung, and the shot went wild. The bloody knife bit into the wood of the rifle, staining it a dull red. Henchard threw the rifle aside and drew his own knife.
Nothing seemed to happen. Gaps in movement appeared, as if time was being forgotten. And that face, whatever was behind Henchard, the attacker was frightened, confused, stumbling. Henchard took advantage, stepped forward, and slid his knife up through the ribs. A few moments later, and a body fell from the roof, twisting, trying to grab onto something.
Henchard picked up his rifle and looked back. A strange violet mist hung in the air, obscuring the area in front of the shop. He hesitated, then remembered the fliers. Drake wanted inventors? Looks like he got them. He hoped this one wasn’t too bad, and prayed they were less destructive.
He pulled the knife out of the rifle and settled down. Waiting for a sign of movement.
edited by suinicide on 3/10/2017
--
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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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/10/2017
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Mr. Hamilton runs downstairs (he was upstairs examining the clothing) with his rifle clutched in his hands. He crouches down by the wall and starts shooting through the window. He dodges a well aimed bottle thrown from one of the hobos. He runs out with dagger in hand and begins wildly slashing at the hobos. He gets slashed by a broken wine bottle in the arm and starts bleeding, he retreats back, but not yet stopping his relentless stabbing, jabbing, and slashing.
OOC: I didn't have wifi for some time so I couldn't make a post... this happens right after the battle starts.
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/6/2017
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Dirae Erinyes gives a too familiar slap on Emma's back.
"Lass, you don't have to worry about me. I'm here for the challenge rather then the payment," they add with a laugh.
"Not that we give up our payment," Evensong added quickly. "But other parties wish to see the Shade dealt with a permanent solution."
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/4/2017
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Edward Frye finds his way to the Dynamo's residence, armed with a short barreled custom made pistol and a sabre from Venderbright. He knocks on the door and them enters, "Hello! I heard this is where I go to contact you about this murderous shade thing. Forgive me if I've gotten the wrong address...". Then, noticing the Scorched Sailor exclaims "Oh! You're the zailor from the salon, Hello again!". Then he turns to Emma and Drake and says, "And you must be the Dynamos! I'm Edward Frye, at your service."
(OOC: This is my first RP (besides the salon) so I'm sorry in advance if it goes horribly because of me)
edited by Edward Frye on 3/4/2017
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My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/4/2017
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Mr. Hamilton walks into the residence armed with a long rifle (polished recently by the looks of it) and a short dagger. "I saw that flyer in the salon." he says, "I am considered a doctor by some and I've been dueling for a long time. Some also would say that I'm a scholar. I suppose some monster hunting (or whatever The Shade is) wouldn't do me any bad. Well of course I may lose an arm... but that's okay!" then noticing Edward, "Hello Edward! Good Evening!"
edited by Mr. Hamilton on 3/4/2017
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/6/2017
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Gregory Henchard turned up on the Dynamos’ doorstep, staggering slightly as he made his way to the door. Not drunk, he doesn’t touch the stuff, but clearly affected by something. He started thumping at the door, the flier in his clenched fist crunching with every blow.
By the second knock, the door had been opened and Henchard bustled inside by an armed servant. He stood in the room for a moment, watching the people cluster into groups. Inventors, scientists, fighters. Each chatted in their little group, or lurked in one of the many, many dark corners this room seemed to have. Some calm, some nervous. He wondered how many would be dead by the end of this. None, hopefully. But considering what they were hunting...a guilty smile stretched across his lips. It was never an adventure without a measure of risk.
A heavy hand came down on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. He turned to see the servant, gesturing for him to take a seat.
Well, he couldn’t expect the Dynamos to meet with every person, not with a group this large. He settled into the chair to see what would develop, eyes flicking between the door and the windows.
edited by suinicide on 9/17/2017
--
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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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/5/2017
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Perched on a high rooftop, Lyndon has a clear vision of the entrance to the Dynamos’ mansion and the nearby street. He strikes a match on the rough rooftop tiles and lights a cigarette – a glowing red point in the darkness. He is too high up to be noticed from the streets anyway. He smokes in long, slow drags while he studies the applicants who enter the Dynamos’ mansion. Those flyers had been more effective than Lyndon would have thought, and fortune-seekers from all around the city are already flocking to that house like moths to the flame. It’s easy to predict that some of them are going to get burnt before the end.
The candidates are dangerously heterogeneous: fortune-seekers, spies, zailors, hunters, and other curious exemplars from London’s varied fauna. It’s going to be difficult to keep such a mixed group cohesive, but that might work to his advantage: the confusion that inevitably accompanies a large group of varied people will draw attention from him. However, a smaller, more organized group would have probably been a safer company in the long run.
Lyndon shrugs. That isn’t his expedition, and he has no saying in how the members should be chosen. Besides, losses are to be expected during that chase. From what he has heard, the Shade is a vicious foe – the kind of foe one can’t hope to put down without a fight. He crushes the cigarette butt and quickly descends from the rooftop.
It’s time to join the hunt.
§§§
Lyndon stops in front of the Dynamos’ house. He knocks on the door twice with a loud noise, and soon he's greeted by a guard. He pays little attention to the man. “Sergeant Lyndon. I’m applying.” he says, before shoving the footman aside and entering the house.
The drawing-room is predictably crowded. Lyndon slides in unnoticed and takes a seat on an empty armchair in a corner. He lights another cigarette. There will be time for introductions, and he’s the kind of man who prefers to know about others rather than being known himself.
(OOC: I'll follow Shadowcthuhlu's advice and leave Bertrand's description for my fellow RPGers: Appearance. Backstory.)
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/5/2017
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/5/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/5/2017
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It was time to go, if Noah wished to be at Dynamo's on time. It would do no good to arrive late and give a possible new employer the impression of tardiness. The money would certainly come in handy; his practice had seen little customers lately. The rumours were probably starting to spread. Oh well.
He was wearing his usual suit of black tweed: expensive enough that toffs wouldn't mind associating with him, cheap enough that they wouldn't pay any actual attention to him, and good for staying warm and hidden while the police were trying to find out who was responsible for the toff's current condition. In his jacket he had a well-sharpened kitchen knife, in his vest pocket a a set of lockpicks, and in his sock a tiny rat-made revolver. The doctor looked himself up and down in the mirror and nodded. He took his doctor's bag and left for the meeting.
-----
Three precise, polite knocks interrupt the conversation at Dynamo's. When the door is opened, a young man dressed in black carrying a brown bag enters the room. He looks around with an uneasy smile on his face. His shoulders are rather broad, but so slumped that the general impression is that of a sheepdog that's not quite sure whether it's allowed to be in the room.
"Good evening. I do hope I do not disturb. An acquaintance informed me of a possibility for employment on an... uh.... hunting expedition, I believe? I am dr. Noah Rache, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I own a small practice in Spite. I'm confident that I'd be up to the task of giving care to any who should have the misfortune of sustaining injuries during the hunt. I also specialize in the treatment of maladies of the mind and the ill effects of traumatic memories, should any require" and here the more observant notice an involuntary twitch of an eye "help with such issues." As no one makes any objections or shoos him out of the room, he slowly proceeds to an empty seat. "Thank you kindly. At your service."
edited by John Moose on 3/5/2017
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/7/2017
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There is a glint under Dirae Erinye's mask, enough to tell that they have grinned. This if further proven from their body language as they happily beam. Evensong's face is calm during the explanation, a mask of quiet concentration that is broken when they raise their hand.
"Excuse me-before you two start fighting like palace cats-I do know of a place. It's called The Imaginary Hunt. While such wares are too. . .exotic for my wardrobe, one cannot avoid their name." Anyone who has seen her on the days that Dirae Erinyes picks out her clothes know that this is a lie. "They are located on a side street of the Bazaar, rather unfashionably close to Spite territory. That piece of territory is controlled by the Widow, which leads credence to the claim that Imaginary Hunt has been in business since the fourth city fell. It would be best to approach with some measure of discretion - I doubt the Widow would appreciate us marching, knives blazing."
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/7/2017
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Too fast? Henchard smiled, he would like to see how fast that was. But no, not when there were other lives at risk. A volley of rifle shots from a medium distance, that was a safer idea.
But something still bothered him, he thought back on what Drake had said, "The Shade was born of the blood of the mountain, hesperidian cider, and flint." Hesperidian Cider. The shade was born of immortality.
"Do you have a plan?" he asked, "Know of any weaknesses? You have described what the Shade has done in detail, but not enough on its characteristics."
--
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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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/7/2017
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Noah considers what he has learned. The party members seem experienced enough, and there seem to be a sufficient number of people who'd be eager to go head first into the fray. The calmer ones should make for proper cover to hide behind when the scimitars would start swinging.
Cider, then. Oh my. That would certainly do wonders for his next clinic's reputation, applied unknowingly to the right sort of toff with a seemingly incurable ailment. Maybe it is time to start contributing a bit, and gaining points in the Drake couple's mind.
"I'm not sure what exactly is meant here by 'immortal', but I would assume a sufficiently creative solution would prevail. If stopping its pulse is challenging, then I imagine we'd be best off concentrating on stopping its movement first, and worrying about finishing the job later. If it can be separated into pieces, those pieces can be locked up where they won't do damage. If it's too hard to be broken, or superior in combat... I'd assume it has a nest, or a hideout, for when it's not running on the rooves. A hideout can be torched and collapsed on it, a cave can be flooded." A wry grin creeps on Noah's face. "With cement, if we're feeling particularly nasty."
edited by John Moose on 3/7/2017
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/27/2017
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The lights were dead. Nothing Azoth tried did anything. Lighting a fire gave no light, though the heat radiated as usual. Burning beeswax left nothing but a rather annoying smell in the air. Even captured irrigo refused to shine, leaving no trace anywhere, or perhaps she'd merely forgotten if it had. Either way, it was useless.
Bastet whimpered. She'd never been in total darkness, not like this. In the Neath, there'd always been the false-stars or a stray candle or something for her eyes to capture. Here there was nothing. "This isn't right," she whispered, a hint of panic entering her voice. "No place should ever be this dark. We need to go back."
"Calm down," Azoth replied. "It's just shadows."
"Shadows need light," Bastet protested. "This is just -"
"You know what I meant," Azoth interjected, pressing forward, her right hand (the more useless of the two) firmly pressed against the wall. If there was a room to enter, she'd find it, and if there was a way out of this darkness, she'd reach there eventually. But this was a matter too intriguing to let go. An entire hall shrouded in Unclearness ... or did they just call it darkness? The semantics escaped her; the University hadn't cared for her previous inquiries into the topic and her revolutionary acquaintances were tight-lipped about their research.
It was a curiosity, indeed. Still, there was -
"I thought one of you'd found your way down here."
A cat, Azoth thought. In the darkness, it was hard to tell, but the voice had come from far too close to the ground to be human. If it was here, it was likely Gideon's, which would make it a friend, or at the very least not hostile. Still, it wouldn't do any harm to wait and see. Not stopping, she continued to move. The cat had her scent; he could track her. Still, why not see if he let anything slip while annoyed.
"Really?" the cat sighed. "You apes really make life difficult, you know?" By the sound of his voice, Azoth could tell he was moving, stepping from side to side, following right behind her. "And your kitten really needs to take a bath. She smells like an urchin dropped into a Relicker's scrap heap collected from the Young Stag's Club."
"Hey!" Bastet protested. Azoth only sighed.
"Anyway, have a nice day," the cat continued. "If you ever find your way out of here, you can join your little friends in the Scheming Chamber. Not that you'll make it on time. You probably have ... let's see ... five minutes or so, and no time travel allowed. Not that you'd know how to do that." It stopped at that point and Azoth assumed it was leaving the way it came. She turned around too, a map of the tunnels forming in her mind. She could probably make it if she ran. And if she didn't run into any walls.
"You have a nice day too."
--
Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/27/2017
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Gideon leads the way, marching through the tunnels. Their path twists and turns, occasionally turning back on itself or taking unexplained detours, but he never falters. Finally, they reach the depths of the tunnels, where the constant chugging of the monstrous steam-engine thrums through the air. The machine spins and writhes like a creature of iron and flame. The noise is pervasive and devastating. The boilers spew heat through their grilles, making the room uncomfortably hot; the steam from the engines escapes through some unseen vent.
“I’d stand well back if I were you,” he says. Then he snaps on his welding goggles and sets to work.
Gideon dances around the machine in an arcane ritual, spinning wheels and pulling levers seemingly at random. Terrible groaning sounds reminiscent of speech echo through the chamber. Previously unseen Correspondence sigils on the chaotic orgy of moving parts flare to life. The vents are no longer enough; steam begins to fill the room, rolling across the ceiling like clouds on the Surface.
The terrible machine pumps ever faster, flywheels spinning madly, its piston-limbs trailing fiery Correspondence after-images. Gideon yelps as he touches a hot surface, spinning around precipitously and narrowly avoiding falling into the crushing mechanisms. He pulls a bandage from his pocket, wraps his burnt hand and continues the work.
It must have only been a minute or two, but every second seems to stretch endlessly in the inescapable heat. The machine begins to slow; the boilers burn down. Gideon dances over to a small slot in what looks like a barrel fitted with velocipede wheels. With a clatter, something small and spherical falls out of the slot into Gideon’s hands. For a moment, he stares at the metal sphere on his palms as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Then he stands up.
“We’ll need this. The Paradox Engine may make a hell of a noise, but it churns out impossibilities like nobody’s business.”
Gideon looks at the others, who mostly seem to be in various states of shock and confusion. The Scorched Sailor is unreadable as always, and Lady Orosenn seems utterly bored by the whole spectacle.
“Come along now; we don’t have all night! Or is it day now? I tend to lose track of these things.”
Off they go again through the tunnels. Down this deep, they cut directly into bedrock. Strata of debris from older Cities run across the walls.
Gideon rounds a corner and the corridor abruptly ends in a large brass door that wouldn’t look out of place in a bank vault. It is pristine and gleaming, out of place in the rough-walled stone tunnel. Bolts run down the sides; a large wheel in the centre serves as a door-handle. This door is the very picture of impregnability.
He turns to the very small wooden door to the left of it, fishes a key from his coat to open it, then beckons everyone inside.
“Wait, what about the other door?” someone says.
“That’s a broom cupboard.” Gideon ducks low through the tiny wooden door and enters the Scheming Chamber.
The Chamber is a low-ceilinged bunker-like room dominated by a long varnished wooden table. A tangle of pipes snake across the ceiling. A small furnace-like machine with two taps protruding from it lurks in one corner.
When the furnace is lit and the boiler filled with water from one of the many mysterious pipes, the taps produce passable tea and coffee. The table is stacked with illegible notes in many different hands and littered with discarded cups and saucers – coffee is, after all, the fuel of progress.
A motley assortment of chairs huddles around the table – not quite enough for everyone, by Gideon’s count. Seated at the far end is the young lady who showed up unexpectedly earlier – Phryne; that was her name. As the group enters, she looks up at them and smiles unnervingly, glowing softly from within.
That one could be a problem, says Voice 3.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/27/2017
--
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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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/28/2017
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Henchard lay slumped over against a wall. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to fall asleep. It seemed the rest of the group couldn’t keep quiet for five seconds, always throwing something to the ground, or bursting into an argument, stomping their way down the corridor to their big fat room, or starting construction work because even that fat room couldn’t fit some of their egos.
His breath hitched, and he exhaled. God d__m concussion. He hoped a doctor or something would take a look at him soon. Be annoyed this easily was bloody annoying.
And another thing! Why did he have the zailor’s arm with him? It was wrapped in rags beside him, oozing a strange substance. If the man hadn’t seemed sane, Henchard would almost accuse him of being a seeker. A snuffer perhaps? Someone would need to keep an eye on him to make sure.
Henchard’s molasses thoughts were cut short by a quick tapping coming down the corridor. Questions' curls floated in front of his face, writhing like a snake. He blinked, bringing it into focus.
The question marks disappeared as the two ginger cats sat down. Henchard stared at them for a moment, smugness overlapping smugness. He focused, the cats colliding until they were one. That one bit him.
“Are you gonna stare, or are you actually good for something? Your friends are having a meeting, and of course, I have to escort you to it.” This cat was not helping his head, and he tuned out the rest of it.
Henchard slowly stood up, ignoring the cat’s cries of “Good lord, the ape can move!” Should he bring the arm? He hesitated (“Are you gonna eat that?” the cat said). He decided to take it with him. Probably give it to Drake, he seemed to know the zailor, perhaps he could return it.
“Shall we go?” he asked the cat, who turned and walked away, thankfully silent. Henchard followed.
--
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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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/2/2017
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The expression on Noah's face isn't one of someone angry, or someone afraid that their flaws have been pointed out. The closest you could get is to call it the pleasantly surprised face of a teacher who has been asked an insightful question, even if the answer is trivial.
"You need not worry. It will work, immortal or not. It is a question of scientific fact." Noah considers his next words. "I am not bragging, it's not about my skills, but he method I have been taught is not prone to failing, and resistance to pain or lied admissions are not a problem. They will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Noah draws breath. "I will stake my head on it if need be. The information will be gained and it will be accurate."
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/18/2017
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Later that night, Noah dreams of the smells and sounds of jungle. Oddly for a dream, he still sees nothing, but he feels the eyes of hungry beasts upon him. When he hears them moving closer, he brandishes his cane and shouts.
"No! Not yet! I'm still useful! I know you want the Shade. I'll get it! I don't need eyes, all I need is a mouth to get the rest moving!" He draws a breath, trying to stay calm. "The Stormstrider spook can stop it, there's no way he can't. He just needs information and time; I'll see to it he gets those. The Orosenn woman can find it if she wants. If she's too slow on her feet, all I need to do is make her think the Dynamo woman is threatened, that'll get her moving. And if I fix the relationship of the Dynamo siblings, I will have the gratitude of whichever leads us at the end, and I will get a share of the Shade." Noah straightens his back and draws his new sword, careful not to show any weakness. "Nothing has changed. Our contract is still in effect, I still work for you. Don't get in the way."
The jungle around him explodes with laughter. "Oh ho! The worm has teeth!" exclaims a jeering voice behind him. "Don't worry, blind little worm! You're still plenty of fun. Stay a good little boy, and we might even help you escape all the scary enemies you see in every shadow when this is all done." A low voice, directly in front of him grumbles: "But we do want our share of that beast, and we need to keep an eye on our investment. We'll follow you closely, now. And", Noah almost hears the grin, "we'll need to make sure you're better prepared for sudden assaults in the future." He hears a soft rustle, as if a dozen great cats lowering themselves for a pounce.
"The night is still young", grumbles the last voice. "Run."
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/15/2017
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After the Shade cut Edward, he jumped back and tripped on a stray brick on the ground. He then tried to crawl to cover, but the combination of his new wounds and his previous wounds makes this very difficult and painful. After a few moments, a very bright light shines from behind, he turns around just in time to see the Shade raise its scimitar and redirect the beam. Edward very confused as to were this light came from, but he was to busy to care at the moment.
After he finally reaches a little bit of cover near the pub, he rests there for a few moments. Then, suddenly, he sees a very fast moving figure hit Bertrand and launch him backwards into the memorial. Then he sees the figure hit a huge chunk out of the pub he's hiding behind, and he is buried in a pile of rubble.
The next thing he knows, someone is pulling him out of the pile of rubble. He sees that Henchard has pulled him out of the rubble, "Thank you for that Mr... Henchard? Anyway, would you care to tell me what happened while I was buried?".
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/15/2017
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Henchard remembers Drake’s words. “Its fast-too fast.” Back then he was curious about just how fast that was. Now he wished he didn’t know. The shade could dodge bullets, and even the thunderous stream from Frye and Azoth gave him little more than inconvenience as he carved the group into scattered pieces. Clearly guns would not work in this situation. And an actual fight would just add to the body count.
That left him with two options, and unfortunately he hadn’t brought enough explosives with him for the better one. Surprise attack it was then.
Henchard dashed off through a sidestreet, rifle clattering to the ground behind him. The noise made it useless for surprise, and it would only slow him down. He drew his knife, slowing to a crawl as he grew closer to where the shade should be. Strangely, his eyes were closed shortly before turning the final corner. He did not want to do this, this was little more than suicide. His eyes flew open, dragging the corners of his mouth up with them. He was smiling when he turned the corner. Sharp, wild, lost, he crept towards the Shade and its blinding movements.
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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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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/13/2017
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On the way to Veilgarden, Emma and Timmel are very careful to keep apart, and not to look at each other. In fact, they hardly make eye-contact with anyone. Who knew the tall monster-hunter could look so sheepish?
Under normal circumstances, Lady Orosenn would have spoken up against this idea of the party—some of whom have just been severely injured—charging after this latest lead to Veilgarden. Or, alternatively, she might not have said anything, but kept to the back of the group and watch them walk into the trap, to make a study of their enemy's methods. Because, if the shop had been a trap, then this would surely be another one.
Unfortunately, these are not normal circumstances and her hunter's instincts are currently drowned out by a whirlwind of emotions. So she just trots along with everyone, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular—at least, nothing visible to anyone else. Who knows what kind of scene she's contemplating in her mind?
Well, to be fair, we all know what kind of scene.
(OOC: If you want some information about the place we're headed to, have a look at our google doc.)
edited by phryne on 3/13/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/1/2017
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"As for discovering more about the Shade, maybe some of us could infiltrate his army of hobos. They are the closest thing we are have to confidants of the Shade. Maybe at least we could learn where he lives." Dirae Erinyes is roused out of their contemplation. "I know of a trap once we get bait. The thing is devlishly hard to hit, so we will use something that is hard to dodge - something fired out of a cannon! It's devilishy hard to injure, so we will fill it with honey. Once he's honey mazed, he should be a lot easier to deal with." Evensong struggles to keep her serious composure.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/1/2017
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Noah starts walking towards the corner with the coffee machine. "Little miss, could you help me to a cup? It sounded like you were awfully handy with the contraption." Jordan leaps up, eager at the chance to play with the gears without Randy stopping her. As he's waiting for his drink, Noah chimes back in to the conversation.
"I like the sound of getting to him through his servants, they might be privy to some vital information. Never mind infiltrating; all we need to do is capture one or two alive." Noah keeps a significant pause. "I'm loathe to admit this, but we're past the point of playing coy, I believe: I have some skills that might prove useful. Not all my work has been such as would bear the attention of law, and it would not be the first time I am required to have someone answer questions. I am not proud of that and would have preferred to keep quiet of it, but needs must. Bring me a servant, and on my table they will tell us all we need to know." He stands facing the others with a coffee in his hand, ready for a backlash from the more prudish members of the party.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
4/3/2017
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Lyndon spends a good deal of time looking over the kid, making sure she doesn’t blow anything up or burns herself while operating the odd coffee-making furnace. A curious piece of machinery, that. He has heard that something similar had been invented in Italy a few years back, but he has never seen something similar with his own eyes. He wonders if his host has imitated a design already existing or if that is entirely his own creation.
Finally, the kid manages to get the furnace to spit out coffee like it’s supposed to do. She fills a cup to the brim and hands it to him. He accepts it, slightly puzzled. “Thank you, but I’d rather have tea.”
“It’s not for you.” she retorts. The Sergeant frowns, but the kid sustains his glare with one of her own. “Get it to Bart and say you’re sorry for being a meanie.”
Lyndon is about to protest, but the kid has already turned to the machine, and she’s quietly filling another cup for Noah. He lowers his head in defeat and makes his way back to the table. He arrives in time to hear the cat-lady’s plan. He stops to ponder it, forgetting all about the uncomfortably hot cup he’s still holding in his hands.
It’s not a bad plan. It’s feasible, and it might even work, albeit he doesn’t really know how much the creature cares for a bunch of semi-insane wretches. Besides, he might have to call in some favors to mobilize the required manpower – some of those he has been saving up for a rainy day. Overall, he’d rather use Drake as a bait, since that wouldn’t force him to draw on his own resources. However, his main source of concern is another.
The Sergeant takes a moment to study the shadowy lady herself. It’s hardly a surprise that she’s a part of the Game, although he has to wonder how she figured out he’s a fellow member. He’s fairly sure he has never met her before, and that he has never heard of someone that quite matches her description – although it’s still possible, given how inconspicuous she is. He’s sure he has been cautious enough, and while it’s true that the Canons of St. Joshua have a sixth sense to recognize each other, her calm assessment that he’s a fellow spy is enough to make him suspicious.
I might have to keep an eye on her.
“It can be arranged.” he comments with his best off-hand tone. “It’ll take time, though.”
Lyndon walks up to the sailor and puts the cup of steaming coffee on the table in front of him. “Listen,” he murmurs low enough to keep the conversation between the two of them. “you don’t like me, and the feeling’s mutual, but the kid is concerned because we’re bickering. Here’s what we’re gonna do: whether you like coffee or not, you’ll take a sip from that cup and nod her way. If you don’t do that, she’ll bother both of us to no end. Trust me, you don’t wanna go through that.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 4/3/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
11/6/2017
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(co-written with Drake Dynamo)
When Emma Dynamo sees the first flash of light in the distance, she immediately recognizes it and thrusts her hands over her eyes, desperate to escape the attention of the Machine whose work she had once done. When the event is over, she turns to Lady Orosenn and whispers: “That was the monster-woman! I told you my suspicions about her! Now who knows what she’s done?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” the monster-hunter answers, stoically as usual. Both she and Agent Evensong were wise enough to not look directly into the light—what’s the allure of a false-sun to someone who grew up in Stone’s backyard?
But for the three latecomers, the Sunlight event served as a beacon at least, drawing them unerringly towards that narrow, unnamed side-alley. Still, what a remarkable coincidence for them to turn up exactly when the Shade stumbles out of said alley, about to hail a cab!
When Emma Dynamo becomes aware of the carnage in front of them, she goes stock-still—not so unlike her brother. From one alley-mouth to another, the siblings stare at each other, at a loss for words.
Agent Evensong immediately rushes towards where the wreckage of their spouse is still lying, and occasionally twitching, on the ground, muttering an impressive list of Elder Continent curses under their breath.
But in the very moment she becomes aware of it, Lady Orosenn starts running at the Shade full-tilt. Seeing her, its face registers shock—and for once, its reflexes are letting it down. Lady Orosenn jumps and, leaning on her harpoon, kicks the Shade in the chest with both feet. Flying several yards through the air, it hits the ground with a massive thud. Hardly a second later the huntress throws her harpoon—no human would have been able to roll aside quickly enough, but the Shade just manages and, quick as lightning, is back on its feet.
Orosenn snarls, draws two short knives, and when they clash a second later it is clear that there will be no prisoners today: both are prepared to fight to the death.
But the Shade is in a desperate state now, and so fights like a wild man, or a cornered beast, moving as fast as it can, clawing, punching, kicking, tearing, biting. If not for her body-armour, the huntress would have already suffered several broken bones. Seeing that she'll be unable to keep this up, she headbutts the Shade, adding a kick to the lower regions for good measure and is thereby able to get free from its grip. She throws the knives in quick succession, and the Shade escapes one, but takes the other one in the shoulder—before prying it out and throwing it back at Timmel, who in turn dives sideways in the direction of her harpoon and regains possession of the weapon!
Long since recuperated from her initial shock, Emma Dynamo fires a few bullets into the Shade’s back now that she finally has a clear shot. The Shade cries out in pain, and collapses. Gathering all her strength, the huntress leaps up with a scream of rage and crushes the Shade below her, before flipping it onto its back. Using the harpoon and her legs to keep it down, she draws her largest, most intimidating knife—the one she affectionately calls the ‘bonesaw’.
"You want to learn about death? I'll be glad to teach you," she pants, about to cut out the Shade’s heart. But using the very last reserves of its superhuman strength, the Shade manages to get one arm free and close its hand around Lady Orosenn's throat, choking her, crushing her windpipe. She still buries the knife in its chest, but misses the heart. Unable to breathe, her face turning blue, she staggers away from her opponent in Emma's direction, breaking down in front of her lover.
Emma screams for her brother and Cider, not paying any attention to the Shade now, who hobbles away and flags down an errant carriage. When the cabbie seems unwilling to accept this terrifying passenger, the Shade grabs him with one hand, throws him off the hansom, and takes the reins itself. Fiercely whipping the horses, it thunders off into the fog, away towards the Forgotten Quarter.
Constables’ bells ring out, and the Velocipede Squad is deployed. Such chaos so very near the Bazaar has finally garnered the full attention of the powers that be.
The fight in the Side-Streets is over, but at what cost?
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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John Moose
Posts: 276
5/1/2017
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Tour de Spite, part 1: Dira Erinyes, David Henchard, Lord Gazter and his companion, Mr Hamilton, Edward Frye and Noah Rache scour London's establishments of ill repute for news about the Shade.
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As the carriage rattles along on the badly maintained cobbles around the Hill, a polite silence reigns. Most of the expedition members are not well-acquainted, even if they’ve been through much since the hunt started, and small talk does not seem forthcoming. After the fifth cough in the span of one minute, Noah decides the ice needs breaking if anything is to come of this venture.
“Lord Gazter, I would like to take this opportunity to offer my regrets for your recent treatment. The situation may have been surprising and suspicious to a group still aching from the last ambush they suffered, but violence is hardly a polite response to an offer of help. I hope we can put that behind us and work together on this mission for everyone’s benefit.” He considers which expression would be best for putting Lord Gazter at ease, but gives up upon realizing that forced expressions that do not reflect those around him are unlikely to garner sympathy. His face remains blank, turned towards the nearest window.
There is a silence for a moment. Lord Gazter’s bandaged companion’s silence especially is overwhelming.The only thing that breaks this silence for some time is tomb colonist’s own fits of coughing.
“I graciously accept your apology,” Lord Gazter replies, breaking the uncomfortable silence, in a surprisingly friendly and nonchalant manner considering the topic of conversation. “Although our first meeting was less than amiable, I do believe we can move beyond it and assist each other in our goal to root out this monster, we are currently hunting. I am sure that I can in my own fashion assist you in invaluable ways. So let us not let any doubts or matters of such insignificant proportions affect our efforts in our current endeavor.” Lord Gazter’s gaze moves from Noah to the others in the carriage with a smile upon his face.
Dirae Erinyes gives an approving nod while watching outside the window for any threats. “If you thought that was bad, you should seen what she was like to door to door salesmen. The big snake is for their safety as much as ours.”
Noah breaks into a smile. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, Erinyes, I believe you mentioned you had business at the docks? Since that’s rather on the way to Spite, I suggest that’s where we make our first stop. Did you have a specific destination in mind?”
“The Sad Spider Hall. It should be safe enough for the whole lot in there - most of the zailors there are too old for casual brawling.”
“Ah. Excellent. I think we’ve all seen more than enough brawling lately. Now that we’re on the subject of zailors - could you tell me what, exactly, is this trinity of zee-gods they seem to worship whenever deacons aren’t within earshot? I have never truly grasped the finer points of the theology, I fear.” The rest of the ride is passed in idle chatter, the tension in the carriage decreasing from something you can cut with a knife, to half-smiles of those not expecting to need knives in the near future, but still damn ready to use one if one of the crooks present makes a sudden movement.
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(collab by me, Lord Gazter and Shadowcthulhu)
(Frye and Hamilton, I've sent you PMs with a link to the google doc for this trip, come leave your mark when convenient )
edited by John Moose on 5/1/2017
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/4/2017
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If Drake and Emma Dynamo are confused by Phryne's behaviour, it is nothing compared to the confusion in her head. A maelstrom of voices had assaulted her from the moment she had asked her—perfectly innocent—question. And the cacophony just won't let up.
Get it! Get the Element! Another one! Another one!
HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
No No No Don't I Can't I Won't Be Able To It's Too Much
Now, let's think this through first...
oh my god I'm Dead I'm Dead I'm Dead I'm Dead I'm Dead oh my god
HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
do it do it do it let's make the Liberation of Light hahahahaha
And why had she said "Not yet" of all things? They would expect an explanation later. She had no idea what to say. And even if, it seemed she had lost control of her tongue anyway. That load of garbled nonsense she had told Drake? Wasn't what she had planned to say at all. In her mind, everything had made perfect sense. Am I losing my grip, finally?
Why not take it from her? I can do it! The power! I'll be unstoppable!
HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
No No No I Can't I Won't I Will Lose What's Left Of Me
There's already nothing left of me...
not true not true not true not true not true not true not true not true
HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
do it do it do it fulfill your Destiny
She never even hears Dirae Erinyes's question. Shuddering and shaking, fingers clawing at her face—she won't be able to stand this much longer. Stumbling to her feet, half-blindly moving towards the door, shoving people out of the way, knocking over chairs. "Excuse me... sorry... I think it's... claustrophobia... I... I just need... a breath of fresh air, that's all."
Very funny.
Phryne reaches the door just when Gideon comes back in, wanting to lock it. He never gets the chance: Phryne rips the door clean off its hinges, lets it fall to the ground, and disappears into the tunnels... Oops, sounds like she's run somebody over there. Actually, it sounds like she's just trampling over everything in her way.
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Just a few minutes after two mysterious figures had entered the shed, its door is blasted open from inside, and spews out a glowing, fire-eyed madwoman looking like she's about to explode.
The harpoon has just been dismantled, and the more intricate traps are meant to stop people from getting in, not out. However, all the usual tripwires, mines and booby-traps can be triggered from any direction.
A lot of them are triggered now.
Within seconds of charging out of the shed, Phryne is hit by arrows, spears, bullet-fire, actual fire, and shrapnel. Her left arm is pinned to her side at an awkward angle. Her right ear is ripped off by a fireball that nearly takes off her head. She almost runs into the big Zee-Mine. Cut, pierced, battered, bruised and burned, she comes to a halt near the sorrow-spider pit and, with an orgasmic shudder and a scream, releases a pulse of light from her body (which seems translucent there for a second).
The sorrow-spiders about to swarm all over her retreat back to their pit, whimpering.
Nothing else happens. She is glowing only very slightly now.
"By Storm, that was just what I needed!" She looks around herself, then down at herself. "Damn—I've ruined another dress." Her left foot is caught in a bear trap.
There is utter silence in her head.
"Now this is just beautiful." She begins to awkwardly retrace her steps to the shed. "Let's see whether I've killed someone. If not, maybe someone will help me get these... things off of me and out of me."
edited by phryne on 4/4/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/3/2017
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"It's not a very bad idea," says Timmel Orosenn. "I agree that our current dearth of information puts us at a severe disadvantage. In fact, I don't see how we can put together a meaningful plan at all before knowing more about our enemy and the way he works.
"I have two objections though: first, do we really need—and want—to use the networks of the Great Game? Please don't take it personally, Azoth, Sergeant, but I generally don't like spies all that much. And we took on this job after all! I'm not yet willing to stand aside and delegate our work to outsiders, even your personal spy-networks, calling even more unnecessary attention to us than we already have. Don't forget that our stunt on Seven Devils square was a public event.
"My second issue is this: 'I'd imagine a wandering band of hobos would create quite a stir in London,' you said. But it hasn't! The Shade is definitely keeping a low profile whenever he's not currently murdering someone. We had no inkling of his army before it was unleashed upon us, and they were quite stealthy in their approach. I imagine they are either stationed all over London, or being kept together in some secret lair. I'm tending towards the latter, not least due to the hobos' need for their master's blood.
"Now, tracking down a beast's lair sounds like my kind of work. I'm well aware the Shade is not a beast exactly, but I'd be more than willing to return to the city posthaste and do some snooping around. Once we know where he hides, where his army is stationed, and how many they are, we'll have a far better chance of putting together a functional plan.
"However," here she pauses, "I certainly won't bring back any 'souvenirs' for Dr Rache to act his personal vengeance out upon. I may not like spies very much, but I detest torturers." Her voice carries significant anger during that last remark, but only Azoth sits close enough to notice the tension in Lady Orosenn's body and the way her fists are clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching again. Seems like there's a personal story behind that dislike of torturers...
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Azothi
Posts: 586
4/3/2017
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Another crack in the stoicism. A tension in the hands, possibly a tic, or perhaps a conscious effort to calm down discreetly. A distaste for torturers was only natural for living beings, creatures who could understand pain, and hatred was common enough, but there was a story hidden here; that much was obvious. To hunt the Neath's monsters was to master your body, to let every facet of your being work in harmony to bring down the enemy. For emotion to break through that discipline was a feat in its own right.
I'll have to keep an eye on this, Azoth thought. Tensions were rising and there was too much at stake to let it hurt them. It's a good thing the kid's here, though, she thought, looking over at the Sergeant and the Sailor. His dismissiveness was only natural, given that he had much, much larger problems at that moment, but she had little doubt he was dissecting her words for hidden threats or weaknesses to be exploited. He'd taken great pains to protecting his identity, and even with her spies working singularly on identifying Shrines of St. Joshua and their canons, at best she'd only been able to guess. A secretive sergeant who appeared near shrines was rather useless of a description when scribbled on the back of a napkin at Caligula's, but an acquaintance of the Sergeant's showing up here and now with weapons and supplies? That didn't happen on its own.
Still, her probe had confirmed a few of her suspicions. He hadn't ruled out her plan, so he likely had the resources to enact it. A man of such connection was most likely a canon, and she wondered how he became so deeply enmeshed, a soldier among spies. Perhaps she could ask Jordan later. So many stories to probe, she thought. It might as well be a novel. It would hurt to see all of these stories cut down, brought to an end at the sharp edge of a blade. With true death at the doorstep, they couldn't afford to risk losing one of their own.
"So long as we remain in the dark, tracking the Shade through the city will be dangerous," she stated. "Evensong's idea has its merits, but," she turned to address Lady Orosenn, "hunting alone would be foolhardy. The quarry is the hunter, and you've seen what the Shade can do. If it were to catch you in your sleep, that would be the end of you, forever. A party of two, at least, is necessary, if not more. A team, as she said, not a rogue." Perhaps, Emma would work, she considered. Lovers would fight to the death for each other, and the New Sequence's protection could keep them, or at least Emma, safe enough to gather data.
"In the end, though, one pair of eyes, even ones as experienced as yours, is still just one pair of eyes, and having a network behind you is worth more than you'd suspect. You'll need a way to communicate your findings to the rest of us, and the more eyes that are searching, the broader the area that can be swept. It's better to tap the resources that we have and let them work in the background, out of sight and out of mind." And if the Shade can leave a scar in the Great Game, she thought, who am I to stop it?
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
4/5/2017
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Oh, glorious. Our leader changed from an incompetent fool to a suicidal one. Well, I won’t sit though this quietly and let ourselves get killed by a madwoman.
Lyndon creeps up to the Dynamo girl without her noticing; it’s relatively easy to sneak up on someone whose mind is completely focused on something else. He snatches the lighter from her hand almost at the same time as the monster-hunter throws her knife. Knowing how to perform that kind of larceny quickly ans efficiently is a precious talent for someone in his line of work, and one he has worked hard to develop.
“I’ll be holding onto this until you all cool down a bit.” he says, pocketing the lighter. He ignores the mean look the madwoman is giving him. “I’d rather not find out if your cider can fix up being burned to a crisp, if you don’t mind.”
Maybe he’s being overly cautious. Their host has mentioned a bluff, so maybe he has filled the corridor with something that isn’t likely to kill them all. It'd better be that way, or he'll have to answer for his idiocy soon enough. However, you don’t survive playing the Game as long as he did by taking unnecessary chances.
He glances at the two figures who have just entered the room. “Don’t get any fancy ideas, you two.” he says, placing a hand on his sabre’s hilt. His eyes focus on the knife stabbed in one of their shoulders. That might have been a bit too much, but at least the monster-hunter knew how to hit the mark, unlike someone else. “As you can see, we’ve plenty of bladed weapons, and we have no qualms about using them at the drop of a hat.”
Whatever the intentions of those two are, their presence there is a bad sign. The safehouse has been compromised, and the glowing monster-woman dashing outside surely couldn’t help with that. As their host stated, she has probably triggered most of the remaining traps by now. They’ll have to find a new base soon enough – one with more reliable security measures, possibly. However, they’ll have to deal with the intruders first.
“I guess we should have someone patch up that wound. A stab to the shoulder con be nasty.” says the Sergeant pointing at the knife. He looks for the one doctor who isn’t currently blind, and finds him busy bandaging up the monster-hunter’s nose. That will have to wait, then. “But first, you must answer our questions. While some of us seem to know about at least one of you, they can’t vouch for the other. That issue must be addressed, as well as the question regarding your motives. Besides, I’d like to hear how you found out about this place and why you decided to show up just now. And try to be persuasive, since my patience is running thin.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 4/5/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/11/2017
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Noah raises his eyebrows at the loud smack. Oh well, that's one solution. I suppose there are merits to her direct feedback methods. If I'm ever out of line, my nose will surely know within seconds.
"Not at all. My Lord, a person might exist so devoted to public good that they would track a hunting party down and break into their heavily trapped hideout from only the goodness of their heart and a willingness to help, but you must understand that my battle-hardened friends find such a scenario unlikely to the extreme." Noah turns away and starts slowly making his way back to the coffee machine.
"The general consensus is probably that you have some ulterior motive in doing so. If that is 'revenge on Shade for a lost loved one', excellent. However, I fear my pessimistic friends here have surmised that 'slitting our throats as we sleep as Shade commanded you to do' is also a possible motive, and I cannot blame them for their healthy self-preservation instincts."
"Also" Noah turns to face Emma before resuming his quest for caffeine "as for interrogation, my offer stands, should it come to that. But I do hope we can settle this without such.... Unpleasantness."
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
10/28/2017
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Hands clinch the Shade's ankles and he is pulled down.
"A well-made tool doesn't not break easily." Dirae Erinyes rumbles as they tumble forward on the Shade. The scroll in their head falls out as they move, trailing hieroglyphs, Greek letters, and other forgotten languages. "And I long since stopped being a mere tool." They can't stand up straight, not after that beating, but they don't need to. The Shade is pinned, Dirae Erinyes nearly dead weight over them. "Devil. . .you really do speak nonsense. . ." the voice comes out, more mechanical as jerky fists rain down on the Shade.
"Death is never that simple."
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
10/28/2017
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(Co-written with suinicide)
Henchard stumbles back from The Shade, hand clutched to his throat. Too much blood. He tightens his grip, blood oozing through his fingers. Too much blood. He can’t even fight any more. The blood loss would be too rapid, he would be more of a hinderance. Merely a body to trip over. He’s losing too much blood.
Henchard limps towards a large crate, hoping for a moment of respite behind it. Noticing a trail of blood leading around it, he hesitates - but behind it is nothing more dangerous than a wounded blind man. Noah is writhing on the ground, trying to keep the wound on his leg shut with one hand, and fumbling in his bag with the other. Hearing Henchard, he stops. His voice is between a croak and a whisper. “Who’s there?”
“Henchard.” His voice leaned towards a whisper, trying not to move his throat. Extra blood flow through his fingers at one word, and he tries not to wince. He slowly eases himself to the ground next to Noah, trying to keep his throat as still as possible. His free hand reaches out to help hold Noah’s leg wound shut. Then he starts mentally through the checklist of medical items he keeps on him, before remembering they were all lost before this began. There wasn’t much either of them could do besides wait for a doctor. Perhaps a tourniquet would still work, but Henchard wasn’t going to cost a man his limb while there are other options.
Noah lets out a sigh of relief when he realizes he’s with a friend. But Henchard doesn’t sound like he’s doing well, and he also retreated. The screams and sounds of fighting continue. They’ve lost this, and they’re all going to die. The only way to escape…
Noah finds what he’s been looking for - a small bottle of viscous, red fluid. He opens it, and sniffs to confirm he has the right bottle. His left hand looks for Henchard’s shoulder, and shakes it, unwittingly causing blood to spurt out from the neck wound. “Gregory”, he says urgently. “Listen. You have to drink this. One sip is enough, leave the rest for me. It’s the only thing that can save us. Do it! Quick, before it finds us!”
Medicine? At least some people were better prepared than he was. Henchard lets go of his throat and takes the bottle from Noah. A quick sip and he handed it back. A beat passes. Smokey red tides sweep him away, drums beat somewhere below, brassy collisions of sounds clearing the smokey red. And then it is quiet. Except for the heartbeat.
Behind the crate, only a trail of blood remains.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
8/29/2017
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Noah shakes the cup, estimating how much he’s made today. Less than around this time yesterday, he thinks. Oh well.
Passers-by ignore him without a second thought. Whereas in Spite he’d have been stabbed in the throat by now for encroaching on someone else’s territory, the wealthy people of the Side-streets wouldn’t be caught dead interacting with a blind beggar in rags. All that do notice him simply wonder why the police hasn’t removed this vagrant already from darkening the facade of their beautiful city. If the officers’ standard issue boots wouldn’t strike against the cobblestones quite so characteristically and loudly, they might have.
As things stand, Noah has now a day and a half of experience on how this street sounds, what kind of people walk on it and who and when use the alley on the corner of which he’s sitting. He’s learned a thing or two about the baker keeping store next to the meeting place, and yesterday a passing cat told him all kinds of useful tales in return for some fish. Whether the tales were true or not, they were very informative.
Noah pulls his cane closer to himself, and adjusts his hood - so that it covers his hair to make recognition difficult, yet shows the bandage covering his eyes. No reason not to fill the cup with as many pity-pennies as possible, after all, and people here will be less likely to harass a poor cripple than someone capable of self defence. Noah smirks at this, thinking of the arsenal of small and easy-to-conceal weaponry he gained at Stormstrider’s hideout. Blind, yes. Helpless? We shall see.
He takes a sip from a pocket flask, and leans back against the wall. They should be here soon enough. Hope they found something useful.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
8/7/2017
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Malice’s imprecations echo around the shadowed depths of the temple. Gideon wilts, but stands his ground.
“ENOUGH!” booms the bearded man. “I’ve had it up to here with your whinging, Jim-lad!”
Malice snarls, his eyes flaring, but the other man continues undaunted. “If we’re to share this mind, the least we can do is get along! You’ve got nowhere else to go, in case you’d forgotten. Your real body is in the North, and God knows whatever happened to you there isn’t something you can come back from! You’re just a shadow. A ghost.”
“So are you, Arnold,” Malice spits. Sparks drift from his mouth.
Arnold gives a sad smile. “Yes. And I’ve accepted that. The man I used to be is with God now. The least this sad shade can do is try to help those left behind under the earth, like our friend here.” He nods to Gideon.
For once, the inventor has trouble finding words. Anna watches the conversation silently from her chair, lips pursed tightly, seemingly rattled by the shouting. Arnold crouches beside her and whispers soothing words into her ear.
She always was anxious, thinks Gideon. Then, when was the last time I had a thought that was entirely my own? This is certainly novel.
“Anna, Arnold… I’ve missed you. I never felt complete without you and the others. They may truly be gone now, but at least we still have each other.” says Gideon. He does not cry. The tears trickling down his face are simply an allergic reaction to the pollen in the swamp.
“And you…” he rounds on Malice. “I can’t forgive you for what you did to me. Some things should stain a man’s soul forever, and you have made more than your fair share of stains. But you’re stuck here now, and this time I hold all the cards.” Gideon advances and gives the candle-man a hard shove in the chest. Malice stumbles backwards and lands heavily on the stone floor. Hot wax drips onto his pristine suit from a candle far above.
“You think you command this place, little man?” says Malice as he sits up, his ruined face twisted in a leer. “The Drowned Man’s songs thrum in my bones! He walked Parabola before Babylon fell, and I am his avatar! It is you who have no power here!”
Twin knives flash from Malice’s sleeves and Arnold shouts wordlessly in warning. The first flies wide, thudding into a wall and clattering to the ground. The second flies true and hits Gideon in the heart.
There is no blood, nor does he keel over in that gratifying way Malice has become used to. Gideon looks down at the knife jutting out of his chest and laughs, opening his suit to reveal a copy of the Bible in which the blade is solidly lodged.
“You fell for the old Bible-in-the-pocket trick! Even by my standards, that’s ridiculous!”
Malice is speechless. “You… that’s impossible!”
“And that, my dear monster, is rather the point. This is the realm of all things impossible, and I know a damn sight more about being impossible than you ever will. Anna! The lever!”
Anna looks at him, bewildered, then notices a lever on the floor in front of her which was notably absent a few seconds ago. She pulls it. A section of the floor gives way underneath Malice and he falls howling into a dark pit.
Gideon crouches at the edge of the pit and shouts down, “You can have some time to cool down in there, and I’ll let you back up here when you’re sufficiently reformed!” He is met by a yell of pure frustration echoing from the bottom.
He stands up and addresses Anna and Arnold. “I’m afraid I may have dallied too long here, pleasant as it is to see you both again. There are monsters in the realm of the waking too, and the one I’m hunting is rather more frightening than our Lord Malice here. I will return, though – you can count on that. We’ll see each other in pleasant dreams.”
“Goodbye,” says Anna quietly.
“Aye, and good luck, Gideon,” says Arnold.
“Goodbye to you too, but not farewell!” Gideon says with a bow. “I leave this villain in your capable hands.”
And with that, he vanishes from the temple and returns to the Neath.
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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John Moose
Posts: 276
8/8/2017
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(co-written with Shadowcthulhu and Lord Gazter)
Dirae Erinyes gives an annoyed grunt and opens the door. “What’s the matter, officer?”
Behind the door stands a tall man with a buzz cut, cold blue eyes and an expression that signals utter lack of a sense of humour. He is holding his black hat at his side, the emblem of a burning book visible.
“Citizen, I am Sergeant Driscoll from the Ministry of Public Decency. I am looking for a group recently spotted on several crime scenes, and you match a description given by reliable witnesses. Could you describe your whereabouts last night, as well as this morning.” Neither a question mark or a ‘please’ is added to the end of the sentence, and this is not likely to be an oversight.
“Sergeant Driscoll. . .I don’t think I have met you before.” Dirae Erinyes adds after a thoughtful silence as they searched their memories. “Dirae Erinyes, professional Correspondent, unprofessional troubleshooter. I’ve done some work with your department as both.” They offer him a gloved hand.
Lord Gazter enters the room unperturbed by the current scenario. “Good evening, Sergeant Driscoll. How might we be of assistance to you this fine evening?”
The officer holds in a sigh. The hand goes ignored. “Citizens, I do not enjoy repeating myself. If I could come in, and you could recount to me your perspective on the events from last night to this morning.”
“Come in Officer, let’s discuss that matter where we don’t have all the Spite listening in.” Dirae Erinyes steps aside, letting Driscoll enter under their watchful eyes.
The sergeant enters the room, glancing around at those still seated. He places himself with his back to the empty kitchen. “Thank you for your cooperation. Now, I would very much like to hear where all of you were last evening, as well as this morning.”
“Oh, hunting the so-called Shade. I assume your ministry has taken notice of his particular murder spree?” Dirae Erinyes asks as they close the door.
Driscoll takes out a small notepad and a stub of a pencil, scribbling down the word shade. “We could hardly not. I’d be very interested in hearing what your involvement is, and why you haven’t shared any knowledge you may have with officers of the law.”
“Out of the public good mostly. Drake, learning of the creature’s existence performed a socially responsible action and gathered gifted individuals to deal with the matter. A hunt of sorts if you will. As for not alerting the police, I figured I enough sense to alert the Special Constables if we couldn’t handle it.”
Lord Gazter silences Dirae with a hand. “Sergeant Driscoll, we understand your position as an officer of the Ministry of Public Decency, and the responsibilities that entails. It is a difficult and dreary line of work, and one that is sadly a thankless one,” Lord Gazter adds sympathetically. “But as a friend of the Ministry of Public Decency, I can give you my personal assurance that we will do our best to assist you in understanding, these recent events.”
The officer stares with a blank expression at the notepad he’s been scribbling on. He draws a deep breath, and sets it down, looking from Lord Gazter to Dirae. “I wonder if you understand, I really do. This is no snuffer or Jack. We’re dealing with a rising death toll - almost exclusively permanent deaths, for heaven’s sake. I’m sorely tempted to simply arrest all of you and have you share what you know with actual professionals, and stay out of the way. What, exactly, did you sic on that creature on Seven Devils’ Square? So far, I’m having trouble seeing you lot as allies in a hunt, rather than thrill-seekers just making matters worse.”
“What you saw in the Seven Devil’s Square was a London citizen who just happened to spend too long in the Iron Republic. I’m not going to say she’s not a threat, but right now she’s more of a threat to this Shade fellow than to the honest citizens of London. Has very strong views on murder, that lass. As for professionals,” Dirae Erinyes stops their defense of their reckless actions with a quick search through the myriad pockets. Finding one of their many business cards (all with a different profession and title of address of course), they hand it to Driscoll. The card simply says “Dirae Erinyes. Troubleshooter of the Unusual.” “You can double check that with hunter’s guild and your own department if you like. I know many of them remember the affair with the Venus Person-Trap, the Devil Hunter, or that whole affair with the Spider-Parliament. I know that my political leanings don’t make many friends to your comrades that. . .work closely with the Masters, but nobody in your department should have a bad word to say about me.”
“And I, Lord Barnabas Gazter, can attest to the validity of my companions statements,”
Driscoll raises an eyebrow at this. ‘Gazter’ has shown up in more than one report that’s passed his desk, and with a small ‘R’ next to it. “My lord. It is an honour to meet you.” This would certainly complicate an arrest; a Reliable involved means there being a small chance the whole thing is some private plot of Pages. And… “Hold on… Venus Person-Trap? You don’t mean the mess at Hanged Man’s Hand?” Some of the older constables still use that story to scare the rookies into being properly paranoid...
“Yep, that would be the one. It’s a prime reason why drunk zailors shouldn’t take up gardening and mechanical engineering at the same time.” Dirae Erinyes will chuckle a bit, as if remembering a mishap from a party or a childhood prank.
“That is… Impressive. I suppose I have to take back my earlier comments about you not being professionals.” Driscoll is sorely tempted to just walk out, and leave the matter to those not on their seventh hour of overtime. He’s come here to check up on possible monsters and troublemakers, and found people willing to put themselves in harm’s way before any more coppers die on the case, with both the experience to possibly succeed as well as the fame to get away with blowing up a bar or two in the process. Of course, it’s not what he’s supposed to do… He rubs his eyes, feeling the exhaustion. “This is, still, a police operation. An officer can’t really just leave it to civilians without express permission from above, and I have my orders. I’m not particularly looking forward to being sacked for, say, pretending I never found you lot...” A meaningful glance is directed at Lord Gazter.
“Of course you won’t have to do that Sergeant Driscoll,” Lord Gazter reassures him. “I am sure that your superiors will understand the situation, after I explain the matter to them in greater detail after we have handled the matter.” Lord Gazter pulls out a card from his pocket, and hands it to Sergeant Driscoll. “And of course I will have to commend your dedication and hard work to Mr. Pages the next time I see him.”
The officer regards the nobleman suspiciously. He’s never appreciated toffs, having soirées in comfort as those that keep them fed and safe are being hunted by every kind of horror, when not too busy starving. On the other hand, a good word from a Reliable might make the old bugger think twice the next time he felt like piling all the overwork on Driscoll…
“Tell you what, gentlemen. Since you are clearly citizens of great standing and good reputation, on a secret mission to help the poor and the wretched of London, I will inform my superior as such, as well as advice him against wasting any manpower on chasing what are clearly allies of ours. However” The Sergeant’s gaze goes from Gazter to Dirae, and back “You will inform the constables of any future calamities in advance. You will keep the calamities to a minimum. And, should you require the assistance of law, or manage to capture the creature, you will contact me personally, instead of shoving this all on some unwitting officer unaware of the situation. Here is my address. Are we clear?”
“We do understand Sergeant Driscoll,” Lord Gazter assures him, “and we will be looking forward working in tandem with you to end this menace to the people of London.”
“Expect my report on your desk by tomorrow morning!” Dirae Erinyes tone is so cheerful, it’s quite scary.
Taking one last glance at the people in the room, the Sergeant walks over to the door. “Very well. Then I will look forward to cooperation, and wish you all the luck in your hunt.” Stepping over the scaffold, he places his hat on his head, giving Gazter and Dirae one last nod. “Citizens.”
After the door closes, a quiet ‘thud’ can be heard upstairs, as if someone slumping on the floor in relief.
edited by John Moose on 8/8/2017
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John Moose
Posts: 276
6/10/2017
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Sergeant Driscoll is not a happy man.
He is currently on a night shift. This fact might escape the less vigilant observer, since it happens to be early noon. The truth of the matter is revealed from the dark bags under his eyes, the uniform half-soaked from last night’s light drizzle, the broad shoulders slumped after giving up on appearances and just wanting to get in bed, and the expression on his face that signals the end of patience approaching, barring an intervention by caffeine - or preferably something stronger. All of these telltale signs, however, escape the old widow whose attic he is currently in.
“Ma’am, I understand that they remind you of your husband. It does us, too. As does the crater on Cake Street. That’s rather the point.”
“No ma’am, you really can’t keep them. Because they’re dangerous, ma’am.”
“Ma’am, not to speak ill of the dead, but your husband would go to New Newgate just for possessing these. I’m afraid ‘his little hobby’ doesn’t quite cut it. We won’t press any charges against you, ma’am, but we do have to confiscate these.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.”
“I will be sure to let my superior know, ma’am.”
“Good day ma’am, and thank you for your cooperation.”
As he makes his way to the Ministry, Sergeant Driscoll continues not being a happy man.
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Sergeant Driscoll enters the office to find it mostly empty. All the other night-shifters have finished their reports and gone home, while the new bunch is already on the streets. As he dumps the leather bag on his table, a dreaded call rings forth from the bowels of hell.
“Driscoll! Excellent! I have a lead someone needs to check as soon as possible, and everyone else is on their rounds. You can finish your paperwork later.”
Driscoll turns around. The Inspector is a large, stocky man with neatly combed hair and a clean-shaven, red face. He’s a veteran from the ‘68 campaign, and unlike most of his old mates, relentlessly optimistic and vigorous. Driscoll has a suspicion that he survived the experience by simply being too dense for the bullets to pierce through. This, and a tendency to work his constables much like a slavedriver might, has secured him a cushy position in the Ministry, ordering younger men and women around to keep London a relatively sane and safe city. No one would dream of promoting him further, but since he believes too firmly in authority to ever dare complain to his superiors, everyone is mostly content with the situation. Except the constables under him.
Driscoll draws a deep breath, and turns towards the Inspector in what he hopes passes for Standing At Attention. “Sir, my shift should have ended five hours ago, and these really do need filing. I think it might be best to wait for one of the morning-shifters to drop by, they’ll be a bit more alert for...”
“Nonsense, Sergeant!” The Inspector puffs out his chest as his brow wrinkles in indignant anger. “Don’t be a ninny, man! If you’d been in the heavy cavalry you’d know a few sleepless hours is nothing! You’ve got a good career ahead of you, Sergeant, don’t ruin it by talking back to superiors!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man! Now take a look at these.” The Inspector hands Driscoll a thin bundle of papers, with a photograph on top. “Murphy, from Velocipede Squad, asked us to look into this. It’s about that business last night on Seven Devils’ Square.”
“I thought we already had people looking into that, sir?”
“There’s been a new development. Taylor’s lads went to stop a bar fight in Wolfstack this morning, and they recognized at least one person from the reports about Seven Devils’. ”
“Don’t get me wrong sir, but why aren’t they following it? They can question witnesses well enough.”
The Inspector points to the middle of the photo. “This is the one they recognized.”
“...Oh. Unfinished, maybe?”
“You tell me! They caught up to the cabby, who says he left the group on the corner of Beetle Alley, in Spite. So since the Velocipede pansies are too scared, go there, find the giant, and ask what the hell it knows about the business and why it’s trying to tear down my city one bar at a time!”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Driscoll is, as it turns out, truly not a happy man.
edited by John Moose on 8/3/2017
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
5/17/2017
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Tour De Spite, Part 2 - a collab post done with I, Suinicide, John Moose, Lord Gazter, Drake, and Jimmy Malice. Edit: Also Hamilton and Frye were part of the post as well.
The Sad Spider Hall tries its hardest to do the name justice. A crooked inn, located where the business and money were some twenty years ago, welcomes the group with the creaking of a rusted sign in the shape of a spider, hanging above the door. The paint coating has missed its five last appointments with a brush, not that the clientele is likely to care. Outside the door a ragged pile of clothing with a beard and a pegleg sits on a stool, sipping from a bottle of something hopefully related to ethanol. As the group follows Dirae in through the door, the bearded apparition spits exceedingly loudly on the cobblestones, but few present know whether this is a deadly insult or the accepted local form of greeting.
“”Hail all you scoundrels and zee-devils! I’m hunting a mighty creature and want to know if you have met it’s kind before!”
“Sounds like a Jack to me,” puffed one of the scarred captains, his pipe the white of zeebeast bone. “At least it started as one. I know more about Jacks than any soft Londoner and mindless monster hunter. You might think they are a strictly London problem, but I can tell it it’s from the damned living shores of Polythreme! I was hauling a shipment of goods - including a crates of knives - when I lost my whole crew to them. No, not one Jack - they all went Jack at once. I can tell you, no lifeberg measures up to turning around from measuring the scattering stars to see that your trusted crew has circled around, knives in hand. It was a tight spot, dodging around their knives trying to keep my important bits intact. Lost my ear here, but that ain’t an important bit. I finally managed to lock myself into the brig, where even their damned fury couldn’t break down the door. It was a harrowing three days, listening to my crew slaughter each other in a frenzy. I’ll never forget those screams and laughter. Even worse was realising that I only had a nearly empty barrel of rum and handful of hardtack. My ship was eventually found by one of the Navy’s ships, which is the only reason I didn’t die from the the next Wax-Wind that came to sink the ship. So, that’s all you have there - just a fancy Jack.”
“Ha! You call that a story?” scoffs another captain, younger and skinnier but no less grizzled, hobbling forward on her peg-leg. “Pah and pshaw, I say! I’ve heard more tragic tales from a poet who never left Veilgarden in his life!”
She glares around the room at her crew, who were cheering and nodding along to the last story, and they abruptly put on scowls and raise a half-hearted jeer. A few small scuffles break out between particularly drunken zailors from separate crews.
“I’ll tell you a story that’ll chill your bones proper. There’s uncounted horrors out there that look like people, and scarcely two years past I ran afoul of the worst.”
“It was seven days north of Whither and we were running low on supplies. The old cap’n was consumed with a madness like none I’d ever seen. He had this notion, y’see, that he had to go North, and damn the consequences. He’d got half the crew to go along with him, and as we zailed North it just kept getting colder. By the time we realised what he intended, it was too late to turn back. The navigator scribbled over all his charts: NORTH. NORTH. NORTH. NORTH.
“Some of us tried to fight back. Some of us died, thrown out into the zee or crushed by their inhuman strength. Some of us were less lucky, and got eaten. There’s precious little to eat in the frozen North, and the madmen were consumed by hunger worse than anyone else. They ate and ate their old crewmates until there was nothing left, and then started in on each other.
“If I were bragging like the rest of you like to do, I’d say I fought them off single-handed. But I didn’t. I locked myself up in the hold and waited for death to come. If you haven’t been North, I don’t expect you to understand. The cold there seeps into your marrow. I just huddled there in the freezing dark, listening to those madmen screaming and feasting. There were some supplies left in the hold to keep me going, but they wouldn’t last for more than a week or two.
“On the fourteenth day out of Whither, the cap’n came for me.
“He wore fingers on his belt and toes on his hat. His beard was crusted with frost and matted with blood. His own fingers were turned black by frostbite, and he looked half dead, but there was a mad light in his eyes that kept him going. He still looked like my old cap’n, but he was something different by then. Something not human.
“The cap’n looked at me through the porthole in the hold door with his mad eyes, and then he punched through the glass with his bare hands and turned the wheel to open the door. I slashed at him with my sword, but it was like cutting ice. He kept coming, and I ran as far as I could, but there was nowhere to go. He pinned me down, and bit into my leg, tearing out flesh like a wild animal. I almost passed out from the pain, but I kept fighting.
“I don’t remember much after then. I think I got loose of him and ran to the deck of the ship. I think he came after me, and he was fast, but he was still half-frozen and I was faster. He charged at me, and I tipped him over the rail and into the frozen zee. And that was the last I saw of him.”
She thinks for a moment. The crowd is subdued. “I don’t know how I got back to London. The ship was stuck in ice, and there was no coal to start the engine anyway. I remember… an old woman in a little rowboat, on the twenty-first day. But that can’t be possible, can it?
“Anyway, when I got home, the doctors said the bite the cap’n gave me was infected. By that time it had been weeks, and the gangrene had spread throughout my whole leg. So they had to cut it off.” For all her bluster, the captain seems drained by telling the story. She returns to her table and nurses a pint glumly. “No monster like man himself, right? I don’t know what the cap’n meant to find in the North, but all he found was death.”
A haggard zailor raises his hand. He is missing his right eye and his left ear. Several fingers also appear to be gone on his left hand.
“I have seen something out of a nightmare. Have any of ye heard of… the Shiitake Death Cap?!?!” The zailor exclaims. There is no response.
“I see I will have to inform ye of this dread menace. The Shiitake Death Cap is a pirate ship, fashioned from an offshoot of the Uttershroom, and crewed solely by Blemmigans,” The haggard zailor explains, “and I’ve seen it with me own eyes. Aye, I was a prisoner aboard it for some number of weeks. Twas 20 years ago now, I reckon, when the steamer I worked on got dangerously close to the Uttershroom. Now, I ain’t one to discriminate, but them folks on that fungus have got some queer ways.” The audience is not even attempting to feign interest.
“Twas late, and we smelled it before we saw it: damp, and musty. Then we saw it: a massive upside-down mushroom! Stalk towerin’ into the air. We tried to turn and get away, but it was too fast, propelled by strange forces. And then, we they were close, they threw long tendrils onto our ship, and pulled us in. And then, they descended! Dozens of them! Blemmigans carrying pistols and cutlasses! And they cut through our crew, killing folks right and left. And then, once they had the captain, they stopped killin’ and took who was left prisoner. We was brought into the hold of their ships, and they started to- change us. Layerin’ spores into our skins, so we would become carriers, and bring the Uttershroom across the zee. But after a couple weeks, we staged a mutiny, and leaped from the ship. Most of the other crew drowned, but we that was left washed up on the shores of Mount Palmerston. We used the fire from the mountain to burn away the spores, that’s how I lost me eye, me ear, and me fingers. So I’m warnin’ ya- stay wary of them mushroom folk,” the Zailor finishes. He breaks into tears and shuffles off to a dark corner to weep. No one seems to care as it has nothing to do with the Shadow of London.
“Strange and terrifyin’ beasts o’ the zee be one thing, but one has nevar’ known true fear until ones seen a swarm o’ bats!” shouts old sailor wearing nothing but rags and with a speckled beard that reached down to his gut. Laughter erupts out of the zailors around him. The man scowls at them. “Oh, you be thinkin’ that I’m talking about them bats ye’ see around London. No, them bats is nuffin’ compared to the ones that I’ve seen.”
“We was a few days outta port headin’ for Venderbright, when they found us. Yah see, they came up outta tha’ zee around the ship. There was so many of em’ that they engulfed all of the crew, and these were no ordinary bats. I tell yah they was the size o’ a man and they started to take the crew and eat em’ while they was still kickin’ and screamin’. If it wasn’ for my cleverness I would a’ve never survived. Yah see, I knew that they didn’ seem to be in the water any longer now that they were outta of it. So I dived into the zee an’ waited for the swarm to disperse. In the end there were only three o’ us left.”
The old raggedy zailor takes a swig of his mug, and another zailor begins to argue the ownership of the mug. The old zailor tries to tell another story about how he obtained the mug from the Fathomking himself, but was unable to start his tale as the other zailor’s fist had impacted his jaw. A few seconds later they are at each other's throats and rolling around on the ground. The other zailors watching this began laughing loudly at the sight before them.
A skinny captain with an old and faded coat of the admiralty over his woollen jumper jumps up from his seat. His rodent-like face is frozen in terror. "Don't you see!" he screams over the stories. "It's here! The Thief of Faces! We're all dead and gone, you hear me! I have to.. The adm... The... Someone has to know!" At this, he runs out of the inn with a rather impressive turn of speed for someone his age, leaving a half-full pint behind. His table-fellows quickly adopt the poor lonely drink, being apparently used to such outbursts from the man.
“So” the bartender interjects, “were you lot thinking of payin’ for a drink, or did you come here just to rile up the old farts?”
Noah gives out a wan smile, and approaches the voice. “It seems like we’ll be here for a while, should we want to find out whether they truly know anything. Strangling Willow, if you would be so kind.”
As the zailors regale the party with fanciful tales, no one notices as Lord Gazter quietly walks out the door. Lord Gazter is not one to go into things blindly, and as such he had sent a message as the party was preparing to leave for this venture. He needed information. Lord Gazter makes his way to a nearby warehouse.
The outside warehouse itself was made of old, dull brick, many of which were cracked and chipped, and an oddly pristine roof, but Lord Gazter has no interest in the history of the warehouse or the state that it was in his business was with familiar gentleman leaning up against a sturdy section of the warehouse’s wall. As Lord Gazter approaches the figure grins and tips his bowler hat. Lord Gazter offers a cordial smile in return.
Henchard watched the crowd gather around them, each member boasting of impressive feats and battles. All lies no doubt. The real survivors, the ones with the true stories, would hang back, drinking their memories away. When a pair of overzealous zailors fell into blows, Henchard slipped away to find them.
Three zailors had stayed where they were. The first lurked in a shadowy corner, covered in darkness, only their hand was visible, and then only when they ordered another drink. Probably a teenager, hiding out to sneak some alcohol.
The second was a scarred lady. She saw his look, and returned a glare with her remaining eye. No doubt she would have some tales to tell. But it didn’t seem he would get them easily, not with how much time they had.
The third was an old man. Nearly bald, his remaining white strands hung down his chest, sticking to his skin as he brought a trembling hand to his mouth. A man that old had some stories to tell, no doubt.
Henchard sat down opposite him and hesitated, noting the tangy smell in the air. But he continued on regardless.
“Do you have any stories?” He asked, and the man set down the shaking cup between them. Now Henchard could see what he was drinking. Curdled milk. The man’s mouth stretched into a smile, teeth like a forgotten cemetery. Broken by time and vandals.
“Ay’ll ‘ave a story fer ya.” The man wheezed, saliva sticking to the tips of his hair. “When I were a lad, me crew stopped at an island, one not on ‘ny maps. ‘ere were food there. Food ‘ike you ‘ave never seen. Mounds of it!” The man’s hand slowly hit the table, not even rattling the milk. “An’ in a’ center of it all. ‘ere was a well. Pictures carved all ‘round it. Mountains. Strange buildins’. Nothin’ like Ay’ve seen befo’. When we ‘ad eaten ou’ fill, ‘ey came from the well. Grey slime, crawlin’ over ta’ walls. Crumblin’ in on themselves as ‘ey flowed towar’ us. ‘ey were disgustin’, ‘ike somethin’ you ‘ave never seen. Somethin’” He trailed off, lifting the curled milk, “like,” another pause as he readjusted his grip, “’is!” He threw the milk where Henchard use to be, who noticed what the man was planning a while ago.
“What was that for?” Dirae Erinyes whirled from hovering over drunk zailors, listening the stories that came up. Their heavy tread creaked the abused floorbeds as they approached behind Henchard.
The man’s bones creaked as he tried to look at Dirae. His lack of flexibility left him looking halfway between them and Henchard. “‘Nother one of you fellers, comin’ to bo’er an ol’ man lef’ in ‘is cups. Nothin’ better to do ‘an ‘eer at ‘em.” His lips curled as he tried to spit at them. It fell on the floor between Henchard and Dirae. “You can’t do anythin’ to me ‘ere. Nothing but ‘eer and laugh. Now git’ I’m gettin’ sick of you a’ready. You an’ your brigh’ eyes.”
Dirae Erinyes arms shoot out, faster then the man can respond. Instead of a punch or slap, they instead curl around his collar, lifting him out of his seat. Dirae Erinyes tone still remains that of annoyance.
“Look, I don’t know what bat got into your bonnet, but you ain’t going to speak to me like that. I’ve proved myself on the zee as much as any man here - Polythreme, the Iron Republic, Apis Meet, me and the Living Leviathan have seen them all.”
The old man laughed, a sputtering uneven thing. He poked a boney finger at Dirae. “Zailin’ the zee don’t make you a zailor, anymo’ ‘an me bein’ ‘ere makes me a barman. Now git,” the wet boney finger trembled on their neck. “Git befo’ ‘ey make you git.” He nodded to the rest of the bar behind Dirae, not that he could see them.
Henchard hovered nearby, torn on whether or not to intervene. He hoped Dirae knew what they were doing, and weren’t just giving in to their pride. He suppressed a shudder at the slimy spot he knew the man’s finger would leave. Everyone knew old men were either wise or mad. It looked like this one fell on the wrong side of that divide.
“Well then, why don’t you prove you’re a zailor then? Don’t think of I’ve heard of you before, Captain ?”
At the bar, Noah finished his drink and got up, making his way towards the front door while looking as blind and harmless as he can, hoping that punching him would mark the aggressor as a sissy. His left hand squeezed a knife’s handle in his pocket, in case it wouldn’t.
The man’s finger jabbed into Dirae’s neck, again and again. Wondering why the stranger hadn’t been thrown out of the bar yet. “I’m Captai’ Croker. An’ if you’ve seen ‘alf a wha’ you claim to ‘ave, you still wouldn’ta seen a quarter a’ wha’ I’ve seen.”
“Well, Captain Croker, I’ll show you how a real zailor fights!” Dirae Erinyes lifted him just bit higher and left him dangling from the tusks of a stuffed unsightly zeelarus head mounted on the wall. “Is that view good enough?”
Croker sputtered with rage, bony limbs windmilling as he tried to grab onto Dirae. “Put. Me. Down.” His eyes darted across the room, focusing on blurry shape after blurry shape in panic. Henchard stepped behind Dirae, ready to intercept the zailors that would no doubt be coming.
Dirae Erinyes turned to face the crowd. “Well, there’s no use crying over spilled milk. Which of you want to be first?” Their booming laugh echoed through the bar. Henchard is less inclined to gloat, nor does he have time since he is between Dirae Erinyes and the pair of bruisers who just took the bait. He jumps to the side, a low kick at the shins sending them crashing - the beer soaked floorboards are not doing them any favors.
Not that Dirae Erinyes has escaped attack. As the bruisers fall, a sailor that is more tree then man flies over their heads, his hook hand firmly wedged into the chandelier. “For the Fighting Cellapod!”’ is drunken warcry as he drops down, showing that his other fake arm is not a cheap hook, but a shiny scimitar. Dirae Erinyes decides not to use any of the weapons that they are undoubtedly carrying but instead go for something flasher. In this case, something flasher is large stuffed zee-marlin. (For those who do not know, a zee-marlin resembles a marlin just as much as a gecko resembles an alligator). The sound of metal on equally tough emblemed flesh sets the beat, as the piano player switched from the usual evening program of melancholy Irish love songs to upbeat fight music.
Edward turns from his wine when he hears Dirae’s cry, and subtly moves toward the door with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Though he normally doesn't run from a fight, he definitely would rather not be in a tavern brawl, being not very good at unarmed combat, and not wanting to do any permanent damage to anyone.
As Edward makes his way towards the door, a zailor notices him trying to sneak out, and charges toward him with bottle in hand. Edward draws and sword and clumsily slashes the bottle out of his hands. “You coward!” the zailor shouts, now trying to punch him, but instead just getting his fists scarred from Edwards sword. “Fight me with yer fists, you cowardly scumbag!”. Edward sheathes his sword, not allowing himself to be called a coward, and then get punched in the face and falls down, unconscious.
Mr. Hamilton has been mostly staying in the corners of the bar, while occasionally dodging blows from varied zailors or beating a few back as well as he could while getting as little bruises as possible. Now he sees that Edward has been knocked unconscious on the opposite side of the bar, being beat up by the zailor who knocked him out in the first place.
“Take this!” shouts the zailor as he hits Edward repeatedly in the back with a stool. Mr. Hamilton rushes over to Edward just in time to (barely) block a well aimed jab at Edward’s head by hitting the zailor in the back with a stool, then pushes the zailor back to a table. Hamilton uses his stool to hit the zailor over the head and knock him out.
Mr. Hamilton drags Edward out to the front of the bar, out of harm's way, then goes back inside to join the fight with the others.
Henchard weaves through the crowd, dodging sword blows and kicks as Dirae Erinyes and their partner leap on top of the table, sending curled milk flying through the air. Scanning for new threats, he is pleasantly surprised to see the shadowed figure bolt from their corner and out the door like Mr. Pages had a special squad of well-read Special Constables on them. He is less pleasantly surprised when he see’s the scarred women approach, adjusting her brass knuckles decorated with zee monster teeth. He barely has time to grab a battered platter as a shield before she explodes like a spring loaded bear trap. One where the springs threw a bear at the victim.
Defense was never Henchard’s style, but the lady’s constant attacks gave him little room to counter. No sooner had he deflected one blow, the platter nearly getting torn from his hands, when her other fist came flying at him. After several rounds of blocking and no signs of tiring or safer options, Henchard throws the dented platter into her nose, decades worth of grease sticking to it, and now, to her. It stunned her long enough for Henchard to leap to the next table and find a better weapon. The scarred women’s charge is stopped by the sudden impact of an object that finds rocks far too soft. A rain of ship hardtack. Miraculously, she was still standing by the third piece. Henchard swaggered over and pushed her over with one finger. She fell to the ground, and did not stir.
However, Henchard is not in the clear. A bundle of rags covered in anarchist slogans and posters, much like a more political Barselaar has stepped out of the riotous crowd. Emerging between the folds of screeds against the soul trade and the navy, a shining ratwork pistol emerges. Henchard does not see the deadly weapon pointed at him, too concerned with the crush of zailors surrounding him and his stash of hardtack, which he found to also work as a shield.
But Dirae Erinyes sees it. Seeing their sport turn unexpectedly serious. Deciding to finally settle the endless pattern of lunge and riposte, Dirae Erinyes catches their opponent in the wooden hilt of his sword with tip of the zee-Martin. Before he has a chance to twist off and press the attack, Dirae Erinyes heaves him and the Zee-Martin - the force causing their gears to audible strain, even over the piano music. It’s worst for the other duelist. He find his wooden arm firmly embedded in an abused dartboard. He vainly struggles against the mass of fish as Dirae Erinyes grabs the chandelier. Flying through the air, they give a flying punch to the mass aiming at Henchard. As he flies back, his pistol is crushed by Dirae Erinyes grip as they are sent flying, landing behind the bar.
Henchard was also chased out of his hardtack fort, thanks to a surprise from the maimed captain who told of the Shiitake Death Cap. While not a starveling cat in a box, a feral blemmigan in knapsack wasn’t much better, and had jaws sharp enough to almost eat hardtack. Retreating from the furious frenzy of beak and tendril, Henchard find himself behind the bar just as Dirae Erinyes crashed through. The bartender was too busy hiding that good stuff from the riotous patrons assembling a crude battering ram to pay attention to our pair climbing on top of the barrels.
Hearing the cries of the zailors, as they heaved against the bar, Henchard and Dirae Erinyes know they didn’t have long. With a understanding nod, Henchard dangled a handkerchief in front of the purple mass. As soon as it took the bait, Henchard jerked it up. Dirae Erinyes, borrowing the club behind the bar despite the protests of the barmen, hits the feral blemmigan with a solid thud. With a strange feeling of suddenly being a yankee, Dirae Erinyes was pleased to see the blemmigan fly through the air and land in an ostentatious hat worn by the self-styled “Captain Blood.” Their frantic wailings did little to hinder the efforts of the zailors spilling behind the bar.
Dirae Erinyes responded by sending the first few toppling by knocking the barrels down and sending them rolling through the ground. They also left their own barrel open for attack and quickly found themselves balancing on a rolling barrel after it was upended by a harpoon turned into a lance. Carried away by their own stubbornness, Dirae Erinyes is carried off into the crowd with reckless abandon.
Henchard chose to simply jump off the barrels and use the bartender as meat shield, where it is much easier to notice the soot covered clayman using an abandoned cigar to light a makeshift molotov cocktail. Not risking to find out how flammable his partner is, Henchard grabs an empty barrel. After a quick glance to measure trajectory, he jumps into the crowd, frantically stuffing himself inside the barrel, and manages to get all of his squishy bits in before hitting the shaking floor. He rolls his own path of destruction across the floor and any onlooker might be distressed by the amount of blades his barrel collects knives, swords, and the odd tooth.
Henchard dares only the briefest of glances and the slightest of adjustments as the barrel flies into the lumbering clayman’s path. With a quick hand around a chair leg, Henchard manages to send his barrel and the chair smashing into the clayman. Splinters fly through the air. Fire spreads over the soot, turning the clayman in a figure worth the Bishop’s nightmares before he tumbles into the aquarium. An aquarium that previously hosted its fish in a manicured sea garden worthy of any fussy English gardener, but now resembles the morning after a bohemian party. The clayman has only a slight frown at this predicament, his discomfort offset by admiring the fish up close. The fish nibbled at his damaged nose. Henchard’s barrel comes to a stop, swords, daggers, and a variety of other weapons stuck to, and in several cases, through, the barrel. Several zailors stop their fighting, somewhere, a hat is removed in a moment of silence. Which Henchard breaks, pushing the barrel outward with explosive force, splinters, planks, and weapons fly into the crowd. Henchard stands, brushing off dust and splinters but otherwise unharmed.
Dirae Erinyes own path has been stopped by a haphazard barricade, assembled of shark heads and poorly constructed chairs. As both the barricade and Dirae Erinyes went down, the remaining zailors jumped in. While they imagined themselves as marsh-wolves around a blind astronomer, that was not the situation. Despite the wrestling moves learned from years at Zee, Dirae Erinyes stood up, and batted the grapplers away. The first one was merely defenestrated and the second one had the presence of mind to try to grab a table to halt their flight. Their velocity was strong enough that the table did not help but instead was taken with them as they flew out the door. Passerby’s paused to watch the zailor slide down the street on the table, playfully waving her red bandana. An unwise decision for the passenger in the carriage, as he was promptly knocked out of it by a flying zailor and then watched as the panicked horse rode away without him. One could not tell who had it worse, the rich man suddenly marooned at the docks or the zailor being carried off to the richer streets of the bazaar.
Henchard grabs Dirae Erinyes arm as they admire the flying zailors and redirects their attention to the other zailors gathering around them. A tense standoff is interrupted by the sound of whistles and hoofbeats on the pavement. The patrons don’t wait for the declarative shouts of “police!” before flying the establishment, stealing whatever food and drink was still left while quickly giving promises of bail to their incapacitated friends. Dirae Erinyes escapes with a plate of rubbery lumps, while Henchard makes do with more hardtack, stuffed under his shirt like armor.
Noah had been looking unthreatening and sidling towards the entrance when a combination of zailor and furniture had flown past him, knocking him down as it sought to relive the door of its hinges. Currently Noah was lying in a fetal position, having given up on navigating the mayhem and prioritizing protecting his head with his arms, as he heard the police whistles outside. The well honed habits of a Spite-denizen made him leap up on his feet, and as he heard the thundering sound of a running Dirae passing him by, he reached out towards the giant.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt, Erinyes, but I believe I’d like to employ your serv- AAH!” He’s cut short as Dirae, without slowing down in the slightest or listening to the doctor’s babbling, yanks him off his feet and throws him on his familiar spot on the gargantuan shoulder. Noah attempts to do his best to dangle in a dignified manner.
The sound of fighting reaches the gentleman wearing a bowler hat. He turns his attention towards the direction of the clamour and instinctively reaches for something on his belt. He grasps at the empty air, before looking down at his belt and quickly realising that he was looking for had been left behind.
“Well I’m afraid I must go now M’Lord. I don’t want to be caught in fight here in this part of Wolfstack, at least not without a few of the lads. Gooday M’Lord.”
The man is already a good distance away as he finishes making his goodbyes. He nervously looks around to make sure that no one around them has noticed him and swiftly turns the corner.
With the sounds still coming from the direction of his party Lord Gazter makes his way back to Sad Spider Hall. He arrives just in time to see the rest of the party heading towards the carriage bruised and battered, a large number of patrons fleeing the seen, and the constables rushing in to handle the bedlam. Lord Gazter stands dumbfounded for moment attempting to comprehend the madness before him.
(To be continued. . .)
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/17/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/18/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/22/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/30/2017
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Good, good. Sunlight? That's not a bad idea. However, that's not what I need them to decide. Hmm... Let's see...
Noah's face contorts into a sneer as he snorts at the pair's suggestions. "Yes, and I suppose we will get him to stay still by asking nicely and offering a cup of tea?"
His gaze stays dead ahead, somewhere above the table and those seated at it. "I applaud you for abandoning the idea of us mere mortals engaging the beast in combat, and Mr Stormstrider will undoubtedly be pivotal in whatever plan we come up with, but the Shade is not an idiot and it is not an inanimate object. It is smart enough to suspect unfavourable circumstances when it finds us waiting as walking houses of mirrors, or dragging behind us something the size of a carriage. It will see that we are up to something, and either flee or worse yet, gut us all as we're trying to get the contraption working."
He lets out a sigh. "Could we leave the big picture of the strategy to those of us with some manner of experience? Sergeant, how would a military man approach such an operation, if I may ask?"
She's there, she's right there, one of you will suggest it... Come on....
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
4/1/2017
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“I brought your little lost lamb,” the cat said as it entered the strategy room. It immediately turned around, darting between Henchard’s legs as he entered. The cat smirked as he nearly stumbled, and Henchard shot it a glare. The door shut, the cat disappeared, and Henchard leaned against the wall.
A quick scan of the room showed he was one of the last to arrive. The cat probably took an extra long route. Even the Zailor was here somehow. Henchard made a note to give the arm to him after this meeting. Anything to get it out of his possession faster. Emma was by Drake, and Henchard shifted to keep her in easy view. Always hard to trust someone after a literal backstabbing. And was that...a child? Talking to Noah. Which idiot brought a child into this?
“-I am not proud of that and would have preferred to keep quiet of it, but needs must. Bring me a servant, and on my table they will tell us all we need to know." Noah was saying. Probably that idiot then. Henchard bit his tongue. No, no need to be cruel. They were on the same team.
“You speak from experience, I assume?” Henchard asked, “How many immortals have you interrogated exactly? Was Feducci willing to lie down on the table and let you prod around? Or maybe Drake?” Wrong track. Henchard bit his tongue again, letting a beat pass before he spoke again “Besides, As we saw in our little fight, the Shade’s servants don’t seem to feel pain. Do you have a plan to get around that little obstruction?” Why can’t he control himself? There was no need to make Noah feel worse.
“If you do have a plan for that,” Henchard’s mouth continued, “How reliable would that information be? These are not the steadiest people to begin with, and the Shade has been in their heads for who knows how long.” Keep it calm, keep it calm. “None of the information you would gain could be trusted.” Henchard lapsed into silence, biting his tongue, not trusting himself to speak again.
edited by suinicide on 4/1/2017
--
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
3/14/2017
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[OOC: For real-life reasons I've been barely-here for a few days and will continue to be largely absent for a few more. The Scorched Sailor - I hope understandably - will be taking a brief hiatus from the RP while he recovers, or attempts to recover, from his injuries, and he & I will return soon to see this slaughter to its close. For now, when the dust settles, consider the Sailor disappeared. Try not to die!]
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The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/14/2017
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Edward is firing at the shade with his short ranged pistol. Why did he have to bring a short ranged one? He isn't doing much from this distance, but if he gets any closer he knows the Shade murder him. So he stays where he is, wishing he could help more.
Then he sees Hamilton run off, Where is he going! Then he notices Noah, he makes a mental note to charge at the Shade (perhaps getting himself killed) if it approaches them.
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/15/2017
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Edward continues firing during the Shades Emma and Oresonn's attack until he's out of bullets. He brought extra, but he doesn't have time to reload.
He then decides it's time to become a distraction for Gideon. He draws his Tomb-Colonist sabre, and charges at the Shade with his head low (so he doesn't get decapitated).
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/15/2017
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Mr. Hamilton is done patching up Noah and comes, with rifle in hand, to help the rest of the group... without much success. He is running out of ammunition and he's not doing any damage. He keeps going on like this for a few minutes, shooting, reloading, shooting again. All the time he's muttering words that sound something like "Gideon" and "B****y coward".
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/16/2017
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Edward limps over and says to Hamilton, "You should go help that Henchard fellow, he seems to be a bit damaged in the head." who then nods and goes to help Henchard.
Then Edward goes to the rest of the group, "I have a landau I could call to give us transportation to Watchmakers Hill, but it can only fit four people... anyone else have any vehicles we can take?"
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/31/2017
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And here’s someone who’d like to build a house without nails and wood. What’s he even worried about? Dynamo is immortal, isn’t he? He can take a beating or two.
Lyndon is about to give the sailor a piece of his mind, but he stops as soon as his gaze falls on the kid sitting next to him. He knows he’d get an earful for ‘being mean to her friend’. That’s something he’d rather not go through. He’ll have to swallow that bitter pill and avoid being too spiteful.
Stupid kid and her stupid opinions.
The Sergeant shrugs. “It’s fine if you don’t agree with my methods, Captain, but I’ll have to assume you have a better, safer plan. I’m sure you and your friend there don’t want to drag us on another fool’s errand around London, do you?” Lyndon looks at the bare clay arm and sneers. “It didn’t end well for you the first time.
“The problem at hand remains. We cannot continue to let the creature make the rules of this game, so we need a sure way to bring it where we want it to be. Or at least a method to predict its movements reliably. If our employer doesn’t wish to take some risks, then we’ll have to find something else the Shade might want. Of course, you people know this thing better than I do, so I’m sure you’ll come up with some clever plan to save the day.”
Lyndon leaves the table to rest against a nearby wall. He lights himself a cigarette and waits for further developments. He doesn’t really care if the others have a plan or not: they clearly aren’t ready to make the necessary sacrifices to win that battle, so whatever they’ll come up with will most likely fail. And if it does succeed, he’ll get paid anyway.
I’ll just make sure to have a meat shield handy should harm come my way.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 4/1/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/27/2017
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"You. Yes you. Wake up already!" Evensong blinks at the ginger cat sitting on her chest and glaring down at her. She rubs all the dreams of jungles and zee voyages away from her eyes and wonders when she got so lax. Her family had words for when you grow lax - most of them were just synonyms for dead. Well, if today (or maybe it was the same day. . .) was anything like yesterday, her heavy sleeping wasn't going to kill her.
With some not very gentle prodding, Dirae Erinyes was stirred from their near death slumber, with a course of static electricity that sent the Nine Fold Cat off yowling, and simply made Evensong's face itch. They still needed a shower, but Evensong wasn't sure if she trusted Gideon's showers, no matter how much blood Dirae Erinyes stank off.
Having recovered it's dignity, the cat summoned the two's attention back to it, with an angry swish of it's tail and inpatient "Ready?" Evensong nods, wishing for tea. Dirae Erinyes nods, fingers still massaging the new stitches on their arm. "I will have to be your guide, because you would get lost otherwise, since nobody here believes in a sensible layout." With the last flick of it's tail, it disappeared into the long and strangely angled hallway to the Strategy Room.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/27/2017
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/27/2017
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Normally, Lady Orosenn would not mind standing through the meeting, but this room is so low that the idea is completely out of the question. She snatches the two next best chairs and moves them some way apart from the rest of the group, most of whom are hesitating—torn between the allure of coffee/tea and wanting to save a chair, no doubt. Well, Emma won't need one anyway, as leader of the party she'll stand up front. Now, for the coffee...
At this moment, the mysterious woman—what was her name again?—with the kitten enters the Scheming Chamber, fashionably late. Where had she been snooping around? No matter: Azoth, yes, that was her name.
"Azoth," she calls over, "I'll save you this chair if you provide both of us with coffee. Deal?" Azoth nods, and Lady Orosenn winks at her. Good thing some people in this party were quick thinkers.
She suspects that she's going to need a lot of coffee to stay awake during the impending bickering and squabbling. Hopefully, Emma would be able to cope. Otherwise, she might actually have to speak up herself... Ah, here's Azoth with the coffee!
"Thank you, lass. Can't say I'm looking forward to this very much. I wager it won't be five minutes before all the boys are shouting at and over each other. It will fall to us ladies to keep a cool head here."
Only now does she realize the presence of the weird monster-woman. Well, she seems to be doing all right... wait, is she glowing?
edited by phryne on 4/2/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/21/2017
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A girl prowls the paths heading towards Watchmaker’s Hill. She grunts and pants as the drags a huge bag behind her, covering it in dirt and scratching it on the sharp stones that litter the ground. The road is becoming more and more uneven as she moves farther from the Bazaar, and her feet are starting to hurt. She stops and sits on the ground, trying to catch her breath. She checks her hand-drawn map: her destination is still quite far, if what the bat had told her was correct, and it probably was.
Why did I think this was a good idea again?
She folds the map and takes out the other scrap of paper she has brought with her. A crumpled note scrawled by a familiar hand.
There has been a setback. I need more ammunition and a new set of clothes. Bring my carbine, too. I’m in a safehouse somewhere near Watchmaker’s Hill. Ask the bat for the way. -L.
P.S.: Don’t forget the coat.
When will he learn that people react better to detailed, circumstantial requests? He could be more polite, too. She sighs. He'll never learn. That note probably was never meant to her anyway. But Big Sis was too busy running his network, and he did told her to be more useful since she didn’t pay any rent since, like, ever.
She gives one last check to the bag. Yes, she has brought everything he has asked for with her, and even something more. She considers the idea of leaving the carbine behind – it weights like an iron anvil. He wouldn’t forgive her for that, though. He had held onto that gun since the War of the ‘82. It was like family to him.
Finally, her breath becomes even, and her feet seem to hurt a little less. She waits a little longer before getting up. It’s time to move on: he won’t wait for her forever. She grabs the huge bag and continues down the path, grunting and panting all along.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/21/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/7/2017
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Azoth considered the situation, seeing the discussion before her. Her fellow hunters were an interesting cross-section of the Neath's inhabitants - there was a breadth of experience and knowledge so rarely gathered in one place - but were they trustworthy? This was life and death, and she wasn't going to put hers in the hands of a stranger. She'd have to learn more, find who she could trust, who she'd need to keep an eye on. But that was neither here nor there. First, she had to find her place among them.
This "Shade" was dangerous; that was clear. They said it (he?) wielded a scimitar: a light blade, built for deadly slashing. If it truly was inhumanly quick, close combat would be suicide. A well-aimed rifle shot, or a harpoon perhaps - she cast a glance at Lady Orosenn - might be able to harm it, but the creature reeked of immortality. In all her research and dueling, she'd found nothing that could end Feducci; what vitality might this product of the Cider, of all things, have? She looked over at the Dynamos, trying to read them. Was this everything they knew?
The sound of the door opening brought her back to reality, and she looked up just barely in time to see Drake Dynamo walking out the door.
"Oh, good," Bastet whispered. "Here I was thinking you'd fallen asleep, and I'm the one who's supposed to be napping half the day." She purred, knowing that appearing adorable would help keep her on good terms with the human. Azoth only shook her head and left the room. The Imaginary Hunt was a familiar name; it wasn't her tailor, per se, but she'd known agents who frequented it. All the better if the Shade went there for its fabrics; maybe it'd hurt a few networks while it was there.
Walking quickly, she caught up to Drake and tapped his shoulder, trying to catch his attention. "So I take it that we can't quite stab the Shade to death or anything like that," she began, "but do you know if it could survive more ... dangerous options? Drowning in the zee, perhaps, or if necessary, Cantigaster venom?"
--
Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/8/2017
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Timmel Orosenn and Sergeant Lyndon are already dropping back from the group. They won't be entering the shop anyway. Both are not social, and happy to leave the detective work to others.
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/8/2017
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Mr. Hamilton walks up to Drake and pats the monkey on the head, then tests his blade, twirling it around and nearly cutting himself once or twice.
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/8/2017
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Lyndon comments the rather poor proofs of swordsmanship offered by the other hunters with a low, disheartened sigh. He’s hunting a deadly – possibly immortal – creature with a bunch of friendly amateurs. Not an ideal arrangement at all.
He starts to fall to the back of the group slowly but steadily, as he usually does. He won't follow a bunch of fools armed with swords in a small enclosed space if he can help it. He notices that the monster-hunter – Lady Orosenn – is doing the same. He acknowledges her with a nod and a tip of his hat. If he couldn’t remain alone, he wouldn’t mind to spend that time with her. She’s one of the few people he’d actually like to know better.
(OOC: phryne had already said everything that matters, but I couldn’t resist the temptation of writing this small bit.)
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/8/2017
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Outside, Lady Orosenn and Sgt. Lyndon have taken up positions near the door, watching the streets. You can't be too careful this close to Spite.
Sgt. Lyndon is smoking. Lady Orosenn is watching. Both are not talking.
They could do this all day.
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Barse
Posts: 706
3/6/2017
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The Sailor catches Drake by the arm after his altercation with Lady Orosenn. "I don't need the echoes. I left you to rot while you were in Newgate: consider this repayment." He hopes his look communicates the rest of his intention, as he does not want to start a war about fair pay. Do what you deem fit with my share.
He scrawls his name at the foot of the contract, scanning the names of the others. Not a single name he recognises. Are so few of the Argo expedition left?
--
The Scorched Sailor, up for most social actions and RP. Not as scary as he looks.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/6/2017
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Edward considers permanent death. He's not exactly afraid of it, but he would rather return to the living world. After a moment of thought, he walks up to the contract signs very quickly and fancily "I hope to see you all at the end of this mission", and with that, he returns to a chair.
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/6/2017
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After some people have gone over, Noah looks around and makes his way to the document. After reading through the contract over David's shoulder, he scribbles on it an utterly illegible signature neatly below the previous one. It's a rather handsome sum on offer, one that will not only cover his expenses for a while but also let him move to new premises to access utterly unwary clientele. There seems to be little risk involved; he'll probably get to stick to stitching others' wounds and stay out of harm's way. Just the way he likes it.
edit://(OOC) Seems like phryne posted while I was writing. Noah's signing takes place before the episode.
edited by John Moose on 3/6/2017
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/6/2017
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The smallest smile broke out across Azoth's face over Emma's forwardness. She always loved a good threat, and the smile helped conceal a twitch of fear inside her. Permanent death? She'd risked fighting in the Black Ribbon, but she'd had time to prepare and study her opponents for that. This was a threat she barely knew anything about, and if she were to face it ... well, she'd hunted in the past, capturing beasts across London, but this? This was dangerous.
You still have the chance to back out, she reminded herself. The thought seemed awfully appealing, but ...
This was serious. How many people had this Shade killed? She didn't know, and ... well, it couldn't be allowed to continue. Even if it meant risking her own life. She made her way over to the paper, skimming over its contents. Taking a quill from one of her many pockets, she tried to sign her name on the paper. Unfortunately, Bastet decided to wake up and crawl on her arm right at that moment. There was a weird splotch of ink at the end of her signature now, but she thought it was legible enough. Walking away, she tapped the rifle under her cloak, the one that had lasted her through all her previous hunting. Somehow it seemed inadequate.
--
Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/6/2017
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Mr. Hamilton gets up from his chair, walks over and grimly signs the document.
OOC: My backstory is here: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic1093-what-brings-you-to-the-neath--backstory--goals.aspx?Page=5
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/6/2017
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“Gregory Henchard,” the pen scrawled in blocky handwriting. “No fee necessary. Medical expenses still expected.”
edited by suinicide on 9/17/2017
--
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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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/9/2017
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Lyndon glares at the enemies in front of him with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. It is really quite embarrassing how easily they have surrounded them. If it hadn’t been for Orosenn’s sharp senses, they might have caught him by surprise. Not that knowing they were coming did them much good. He has riddled some of those b_____ds with enough bullets to give them lead poisoning and yet a few of them are still moving.
Orosenn is handling herself much better than him. She has dismembered a few of those hobos, and that seems to have put them out of commission for good. The Dynamo girl has proved to be a better shot than he would have thought, but her pistol has run out of bullets too soon. She is basically defenseless now.
“You there.” he cries at the girl. “Fall back, and wait for the others.”
Either the Dynamo girl hasn’t heard him – which is unlikely – or she has decided to ignore what he just said. Whatever the case, she plunges herself into the fray barehanded. Lyndon wonders whether he should feel awe or spite. He makes up his mind soon enough. The line between bravery and stupidity isn’t so thin as many seem to think.
Lyndon unloads the last few rounds he has in the heads of the hobos that are closing in on the Dynamo girl and Lady Orosenn, who has let herself open to help the foolish American. Not that it would stop those wretches for long, but that should buy the girls some time. One of the other f____rs tries to use that slip in his attention to try to disembowel him with a knife. He manages to land a flesh wound before getting impaled on Lyndon’s sabre. In Venderbight, that would have been a winning blow. Here, it’s just the beginning. The Sergeant lets out a low growl before pushing the hobo back and hacking him to pieces with a few aimed slashes.
In the meantime, the wretch’s friends have gathered around him. At least five, possibly more. It seems like the ladies will have to fend for themselves for now.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/14/2017
--
Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/9/2017
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Lady Orosenn may have wished for Dirae Erinyes to throw themselves into combat. Though probably didn't intend it so literally.
Shreds of broken glass rain down around them as they descend from the two story window, crushing an hobo upon impact. Even if that wasn't in incapacitating blow, it will take that hobo some time to regain their senses after hundreds of pounds of flesh and metal used him as a cushion. Dirae Erinyes isn't so much as winded as they pick themselves up. Drawing a double set of knives, they descend into the melee as a whirlwind of destruction.
Careful observers may notice that their path of destruction isn't entirely random. They are using Azothi's shots to help tenderize their targets, ruthless ripping into the partially healed shots. With this tactic, they are hoping to be a monkey wrench into the coordination of the hobo gang. Wedging themselves into the middle of the melee, they are hopeful providing a welcome distraction for Emma, Lady Orosenn, and Bertrand.
Meanwhile, Evensong gives the shop owner a measured look. "Put down that sword cane and watch. Once we are done, tell me if you find us insufficient against the Shade." With a that, they tug parts from under their dress, quickly assembling a finely made sniper rifle. They will not the maniac shot that Azothi is, but maybe accuracy will count for something in this fight.
OOC: I figured we will move to interrogate the shop owner after hobo attack.
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/9/2017
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After that strange man was hoisted off onto the daughter, the clerk turns his attention to an intruder in the shop. Grabbing a laundry bag, the clerk stalks towards Bastet, relying on the carpeted floor to hide his heavy soled tread. Following the claw marks on off the stands, he finds Bastet investigating the door to the basement. Then he strikes, with a smooth motion to capture Bastet! Will she notice in time?
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/8/2017
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Lady Orosenn has some doubts whether "he" is the best way to refer to "the masked fellow"—she's not even sure what's under that mask is precisely human—but keeps her thoughts to herself.
Actually, her thoughts are not with Sgt Lyndon anymore right now. There are movements in the shadows. Nothing particularly obvious, and probably no one but an experienced hunter would have taken notice. It seems to be just a bunch of homeless people shambling about. Nothing unusual for the streets of London, especially this close to Spite. But something about them seems... off. All her instincts have kicked in. Her harpoon quivers.
"Sergeant, draw your guns. I think we might be the decoy here."
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(OOC: Now you guys can do your thing inside the shop. When you're done, just mention gunshots being fired outside, and maybe come to our help )
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/9/2017
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Noah runs to the window in time to see Lady Orosenn do something rather unspeakable to an assailant who thought they could sneak up on her in the chaos. Yikes. The ones outside seem to be holding their own, but there are quite a lot of enemies, and they certainly seem at home in a fight as well.
Noah turns back towards the shop's owner; an old man with a sword-cane. It is not unclear which action a humble doctor is to take should he wish to avoid harm. He looks at Drake; the employer seems capable enough, and carries that impressive scimitar. This could be a good opportunity to ensure Noah gets to be in the part of the hunt that decides just what information goes to the other members, and maybe worm his way to something of a right-hand-man position. Besides, depending on how stubbor the old man will be, it might be a good idea to make sure as few as possible witness Noah's information extraction methods.
"They're under attack!" Noah yells with what he deems the appropriate amount of panic in his voice. "The owner must have sent for help, it's a small army out there! Our friends need help!" He looks at Drake. "Mr. Drake, I fear this is meant as a diversion to let this man escape. Let us stay here and get our answers, or this is all for naught."
Drake looks back with a frown, but eventually nods. "Very well. Everyone, downstairs! The doctor and I will come help as soon as this man has been subdued, we'll have time for questions after the smoke has settled."
Crud. Oh well. As the others rush downstairs and the shop owner and Drake brandish their swords, Noah pulls out his knife. "Sir, you say you obey the monster for fear of your life. Please do not force us to end it." Noah looks him in the eye, hoping from the bottom of his heart that the old man is as timid as he seems and that this won't come to actual blows. "Drop the sword."
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/12/2017
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Edward finally woke up, and wishes he hadn't. He hurts everywhere, but he is happy to see his friend Mr. Hamilton treating his wounds. "Hello Hamilton, how are my wounds", Mr. Hamilton replies, "Ah... you're finally awake. Your wounds are fine, you'll make it."
Edward then looks around the after-mass of the battle. It saddens him to see all the dead hobos, so many lives wasted. Then he scans the street for his allies, he see Noah treating Bertrard's wounds, and Azoth with her kitten. Then he sees Lady Oresenn and Emma, just a few hours they were threatening to kill each other! He doesn't understand them, but he's still happy for them
He asks Mr. Hamilton for some laundanum, he nods and hands him a bottle. "What happened while I was unconscious?" he asks, Then he lies down while Hamilton tells him.
edited by Edward Frye on 3/12/2017
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/10/2017
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Mr. Hamilton looks out over the wounded from his vantage point by the store, overall the battleground does not look good. Mr. Hamilton sighs and gets out a medical kit from his coat. His first patient is his friend Edward Frye, half-conscious. Mr. Hamilton gently pulls back Edward's hair, he finds the site of the wound that caused him to go down, not a nice sight.
After five minutes or so Mr. Hamilton has the wound fairly well patched up with bandages from his kit. By now he has stopped most of the bleeding from the head but he decides to stop there just in case he deals more damage than he heals.
OOC: Noah is probably a much better doctor than Mr. Hamilton (at least in this kind of stuff, Mr. Hamilton is better at medicine than physical wounds), so he can do more later if he feels like it.
edited by Mr. Hamilton on 3/10/2017
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/10/2017
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"You absolute lunatic!"
That was not, in fact, what Timmel Orosenn had meant to say to Emma Dynamo, at first. But when she turned around and saw her grinning, like she was actually proud of her head-first dive into battle, something snapped, and there was no backing out now.
"You're a good shot, I give you that much. But you haven't got half the brains of a Texas longhorn in that pretty head of yours! Think that Cider's gonna heal just about everything? That we can just put you back together like Humpty Dumpty after collecting your pieces here and there and everywhere? That someone's always gonna be there to look out for you?" She drops the brick she had still been holding and points at her last victim. "If smashing his skull can finish off this sad f___er, the same method would work on you. So have a care, for Stone's sake!"
Somehow, her heart wasn't in it. Turns out it's damn hard to stay angry at someone so pretty for very long. And Emma is still grinning.
edited by phryne on 3/11/2017
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/10/2017
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Lyndon watches the wretch approaching him at an alarmingly fast pace. His sight is a blurry mess of fireflies. He raises his revolver and pulls the trigger. The bullet flies way above the target’s head. The Sergeant breathes in. His sight seems to become a bit steadier. He lowers his aim and fires again. This time, the bullet shatters her knee.
Lyndon lets out a heavy breath. He has been counting the shots. He’s officially out of ammunition, and another b_____d is running towards him with a manic grin on the face. The Sergeant reaches for his last resort, hidden in a small pocket under his coat. Timing is of the essence. He only has one shot, and it must to be fired at melee range. He snorts. That was a f_____g ridiculous idea. It was a weapon that wasn’t meant to be used like that.
The wretch is closer and closer, ready to strike him. The Sergeant can smell the reek of cheap booze coming from his breath. With one swift motion, Lyndon takes out the Rattus Faber Rifle and fires it at point-blank range. Half of the wretch’s face is blown to smithereens, but not before he manages to dig his shiv in the Sergeant’s gut.
Lyndon collapses on his knees as the rusty taste of iron fills his mouth. Another wretch is rushing in. He is officially out of options; he’ll have to fight with the shiv he has been just gutted with. The Sergeant is about to pull the weapon out of himself when the charging wretch is thrashed by an enormous masked figure. What little remains of his foe after that trouncing is in no shape to harm anyone anymore.
Lyndon looks up to Dirae, who’s offering him their hand. “Need to retreat?” they ask.
A hunting horn sounds in the distance, and the wretches start to slowly pull back. The Sergeant manages a crooked grin and accepts Dirae's help. “Just help me fetch my sword.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/10/2017
--
Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/10/2017
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Edward Frye was starting to get extremely wounded, and as much as he hates to retreat, he will probably die if he doesn't leave. So, grudgingly he starts to retreat, but suddenly, something sharp hit him in the head. The world started to go black; right before he blacked out he thought to himself, they always said I was a bit daring. Then everything went black.
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/10/2017
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Barselaar will feel a comforting hand on his shoulder - it's the missing daughter. Her eyes still have residual honey blurriness, but she grips the coat rack tightly in her other hand. Next to her, the salespeople are securing their brass knuckles, not sharing a word between the two of them. They are probably ill-equipped to help with the army, but one must admire their dedication to their work.
The salesclerk is dedicated to his own work. Racing up the stairs during the commotion, he has found good perch through the attic window. His Master's find these strange events fascinating, but see no need to risk him defending this shop. He can escape through the window and use to sunlight if they manage to make it up here. For now, he relaxes and feels a hankering for roasted chestnuts.
As for the shop's owner? Well, you get to wait for that. . .
OOC: This short post is mostly here to placate my need to make sure I know where all the characters are at in this scene.
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/10/2017
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Lyndon welcomes the covering fire from above like a godsend. Whoever is doing that, they have his gratitude. The wretches slow down a bit, albeit momentarily. No matter how many times they are hit, bullets don’t seem to be able to stop them for long. And no amount of covering fire could change the fact that he was outnumbered.
One of the wretches closes in surprisingly fast, aiming a sharp half-bottle at his neck. Lyndon shatters the makeshift weapon with a bash of his sabre, turning the owner’s hand into a bloody pulp. The man pulls back, but another one immediately takes his place. A knife lunge. A quick parry, and a savage riposte. One last, merciless slash separates the scumbag’s head from his neck. Lyndon takes a moment to look for Orosenn and the Dynamo girl. He sees the monster-hunter savagely bashing a man’s head with a brick not too far from him. She seems to be doing good enough, and he has more pressing matters at hand now.
An iron grip blocks his sword arm from behind as yet another wretch draws in to exploit the opening. A swift stab to the leg from Lyndon’s own knife and the grip lets him go just in time to skewer the man in front of him. His impaled enemy gives him a bloody grin, and Lyndon realizes that the thrust has stuck the sabre in his rib cage. He frowns. “Is this so blo–”
Lyndon’s quip is cut short by a brick connecting with his head. The whole world spins for a moment and then goes black. All becomes still like dark, frozen water. He struggles to get out, but something is fighting to keep him down. That chilling zee is stealing his breath. The Sergeant squirms, and shoves, and kicks. A lighthouse on a shore far in the distance bathes him in purple light, and a sense of relief washes over his body. It is just for a moment, but his head is out of the water. He draws a breath as deep as he can.
When Lyndon comes back to his senses, he sees a wretch standing right on top of him: his leg is still bleeding from the knife cut, and his filthy paws are firmly clenched around the Sergeant’s neck. His head pounds like a huge drum and feels as light as a feather. His ears are filled with the buzzing of a thousand angry bees. The wound on his chest burns like hellfire. This is going to become very bad very soon, isn’t it? Lyndon doesn’t think anymore: he relies only to his instincts. His hand is still holding onto his knife, and he shoves it unceremoniously in the wretch’s ear. That proves to be enough to stop him for good, and he silently slumps down right next to the Sergeant.
Lyndon coughs and wheezes. He unholsters his revolver and searches his coat for ammunition. He only finds a handful of bullets. Right now would be a good time for someone to show up. I’ll settle for anyone, really. Well... maybe not the mad girl.
(OOC: Since most people is keeping to the sidelines, I assumed nobody is exactly close to Bertrand except for Timmel and Emma)
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/11/2017
--
Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
6/4/2017
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(cowritten with Edward Frye, suinicide, Shadowcthulhu, Lord Gazter)
The coach drives away with considerable haste as the police rush into the Sad Spider. A constable spots the cab and demands it to stop, but the driver is in no hurry to be involved in the case, and the officer soon stops giving chase to the speeding cab. Within the carriage, Hamilton is tending to the unconscious Frye, and the others are checking whether they still are in possession of all their teeth.
“I am by no means a professional in information gathering” Noah begins. “However, I feel obliged to point out that we gained precious little information, unless we were after a demonstration on how old zailors fight. Was this the intended result, Erinyes? Or is taking part in a gang fight our official party doctrine by now?” Based on the doctor’s tone, he’s having trouble deciding whether to be annoyed or amused.
Noah’s displeasure does little to rust the glean of Dirae Erinyes pleasure with themselves. “It’s helped us make friends. If we ever need their help if the Shade turns to zee matters, they will be willing to fight by our sides. If we couldn’t learn anything there, I thought it would be a complete waste if our group didn’t make a few friends.”
“...Friends? But you beat them black and blue, why would they… Ah. A zailor thing, then? How… Quaint.” Noah leans back, with the annoyance in his expression replaced by bewilderment, still laced with amusement. “I suppose that’s something, then. I’ll ask you to refrain from such antics in Spite, though - they tend to memorize faces and approach those faces later on dark alleys, with some pointed questions about which appendage one is least attached to.”
“Would it be agreeable to all if we stop by my apartment first? I feel like resupplying on medical equipment shouldn’t wait too long, in light of recent events.”’
“Fine by me. Do you want a lump?” Dirae Erinyes holds out the stolen platter.
“Don’t mind if I do, thank you.” Noah holds out a hand in the direction of Dirae’s voice. “And the rest of you sirs? Did you have something planned for our stop at Spite?”
Henchard stirs from his seat. “No,” he said, cracking one eye open. “I feel we’ve attracted enough attention on our trip. I hope to keep our time in the Spite to a minimum.” He pats the hardtack above his heart, assuring himself it was still keeping him safe.
As the carriage hits a bump in the road Lord Gazter places a hand on his hat to keep it from falling off his head. “May I ask as to what happened?” He asks. “I’m afraid that I am in the dark in that matter.”
Noah responds, smiling. “Ahaha, likewise, I suppose. But from what I could glean from the flying furniture, Erinyes asked the good patrons of the establishment whether they knew something, and the specifics were discussed by an intricate choreography of smashing bottles on people’s heads. I fear nothing of use was learned.” Noah turns towards Gazter, frowning slightly. “Where were you, if you missed all that? It was hardly something one fails to notice, should they be present.”
Lord Gazter moves himself into a more upright position, and rest his hands on the head of his cane. “I’m afraid that I was indisposed at the time meeting with a “friend” of mine to acquire some information as to the current state of affairs in Spite. He did not wish to be seen in this part of London so unfortunately I had no choice but to meet him alone.” Lord Gazter shrugs apologetically. “I was intending to return to the establishment once I had concluded my conversation with the fellow, but then that occurred,” he says as he waves a hand towards the chaos behind them.
“I see. I feel like I should reprimand you for not notifying the rest of us in advance, but honestly it just makes me happy to hear someone managed to do some information gathering. Anything of use?”
“Yes, I’ve learned of a few things that I learned are quite pertinent to our cause,” Lord Gazter responds as he leans back into his seat. “Fortunately it appears that the Shade has not been making any movements in Spite, although I would recommend that we should still be on guard on the rest of our journey. Also the neddy men believe that there are individuals that they deem as troublesome around Flowerdene Street and apparently the neddy men will be “sorting it out” today. So unless we wish to find ourselves in their path, I would suggest that we should avoid Flowerdene Street.”
Edward wakes up, looks around. “I see that the fight at the bar has ended,” he says, “thank you to whoever brought me out of there”. He gets himself in a more comfortable position, “Are we headed to Spite then? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I have a, er… friend up in the Flit who might be helpful against the hoboes if we, or another group of the party, were to encounter them again. So if none of you have need of me, I shall ascend to the Flit at the next stop. Do any of you know of a good place to meet up?”
“If it’s take to take a few days, you can meet us in the side street that we will be meeting everyone else in.” Dirae Erinyes answers, as they finish their plate of rubbery lumps.
“That sounds good, it may take a few days to find him.” Edward replies “If anyone would care to join me, they would be very welcome to come.” He looks out the window and says “I will be leaving when we get to Spite then.”
Henchard pauses when Frye starts speaking. “I’ll come with you. Can’t leave you alone with your penchant for head wounds.” He wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to a non-combat member of the team. Something beyond what they all suffered, at any rate.
“Ah good. I will warn you, we will be going through urchin territory, so I would watch your pockets.” Edward replies, “Which reminds me, I am sorry for getting myself knocked unconscious on so many occasions. Thank you Erinyes, Henchard, and whoever carried me out of the tavern, for carrying me out, or, in Henchard’s case, unburying me from bricks.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t a problem,” Henchard says, “If I actually remembered doing so, your thanks would be a bit more warranted.” He paused. “That isn’t to say it wasn’t important, I meant I was not in my best state at the time.” The words trail off, his mouth moving for a few more moments before giving up.
“Oh, I’m sure no one minds, Mr Frye. Just count yourself lucky to still have all your senses and appendages.” Noah opens the window slightly, and hears further off the familiar hustle of a marketplace full of thieves - quiet ones between the stalls, loud ones inside them.
“So Frye and Henchard on the rooftops, and me, Erinyes, Hamilton and Gazter on the ground. We’ll rendezvous at the agreed upon location, this also if something unexpected happens and we end up even more separated. We’ll avoid the fracas on Flowerdene Street, but if we get into another fight, that sounds like a good place to lose pursuers. Let’s begin by replenishing supplies at my place, and afterwards I have a place in Blythenhale where we may be able to purchase some information as well as hear the latest word on the streets. I repeat my request for not picking fights; the people here tend to have an astonishing lack of a sense of humour.”
The cart comes to a halt where a small alley diverges from the street. “Here we are. To our next meeting, gentlemen, and best of luck in your search. ” As the Flit-bound duo departs, Noah turns to the rest. “The small alley, apartment number twenty-six. If you’d lead on, gentlemen.” A short frown. “...Erinyes.”
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
7/15/2017
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At the appointed time Gideon heads to the Old Quad, munching a still-warm croissant in a paper bag from a nearby French café. Snails may not be to his taste, but the pastries are to die for.
The Quad is a small cobbled space hemmed in between austere stone buildings. The earliest parts of the University are not known for their elegance, and these days the walls are draped with hanging vines and infested with cobwebs. An aged professor’s voice drones from the high windows of a lecture hall. The Quad has served as a clandestine meeting place for centuries before the Fall; the only entrance is a rusty metal gate in a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Edgar has left it unlocked.
The gate squeals on its hinges and Gideon makes his way into the Quad. Left to its own devices, nature has run wild. Every available crack between the cobbles is filled with little red and brown mushrooms. The bushes around the edges have burgeoned into thorny tangles. The roots of the gnarled oak tree in the centre push up the paving stones; its branches stretch out to brush against the windows with spindly fingers.
“Were you followed?” says a bush. Normal Edgar’s face peeks out from it momentarily, looking for imagined pursuers.
Gideon looks behind him. Nothing but the closed gate and the alleyway. “Unless I’m being tailed by someone invisible, I rather think not. And besides, as I’ve told you, I’m incognito.” He taps his luminous Neathglass goggles.
“If I can recognise you, who’s to say that someone else can’t, Gids? They’re everywhere.”
“Incognito isn’t just a disguise, Edgar, it’s a state of mind. Would you mind getting out of that bush? It’s rather off-putting talking to a face surrounded by thorns.”
“Can’t. Stuck.”
FOR GOD’S SAKE, blusters Voice 2.
“What do you mean, stuck?” Gideon knuckles his brow. “Do you want me to get you out?”
Edgar’s face scrunches up. Given its usual wrinkled-prune state, it looks rather like it has collapsed in on itself.
“Fine,” he says, at length.
One extraction later, the vagrant-philosopher stands hunched in the Quad while Gideon picks out the worst of the thorns. Edgar winces at the inventor’s ministrations.
“You shouldn’t be crouching around in bushes, my friend,” says Gideon. “Not with your knees.”
“Ow! That bloody hurt!”
“Sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, Gids. You’re my best mate, y’know that?”
“Are you drunk? It’s barely past midday!”
“Drunk?” Edgar waves away the outrageous accusation. “Not on your life! I’ve just been indulging in a little… Libation of Night.”
“Right. Come on, let’s get you sat down.”
Gideon leads Edgar over to a wooden bench. Fortunately, it doesn’t collapse immediately when they sit on it.
“What was it you wanted to tell me, anyway?”
“Oh. That.” Edgar looks around surreptitiously. “Remember our little friend? Word on the street is that he’s back in town.”
Gideon’s heart lurches. In his head, all three Voices speak in unison. Father! Creator! Lord above all! He has returned to stride the streets, to exert his dominion! All shall be one, and he shall look upon his creation and call it good!
“Gids. You don’t look so good. Gids?”
Gideon catches himself before he falls off the bench. “How can he be back? There’s no returning from where he went… where we sent him... isn’t that right? That is right, isn’t it?”
Edgar frowns. “How much do you remember?”
“Not enough. Not enough by far. Why did it have to be now? We’re hunting the most dangerous thing in London, and he just comes back out of the pits of Hell to put the fear of God into me.”
“Gids. I wasn’t there for most of it, but after what he went through – after what you went through, too – he’s not just going to walk up to you in the street and say how-do-you-do. He’ll need time to rest. Time to set his plans in motion. And even though that’ll mean no end of ill for the rest of us, it means you do have time.
“Go and deal with your monster, Gids. I’ll get what’s left of the old crew back together. We’ll make him pay for what he did to us.”
Gideon summons up a careless smile, though his heart isn’t really in it. “Marvellous! When next I see you, I’ll have the Shadow of London’s head mounted on my wall! On second thoughts, that might be a bit macabre. Maybe I’ll just keep a finger or two. Regardless, thank you for the warning!”
Gideon bounces out of his seat and shakes hands with Edgar, then presses the rest of the bag of pastries into his hand.
Edgar accepts the bag with a nod. “Stay safe out there, Gids.”
"You too, Normal Edgar! And maybe lay off the drink, eh?"
edited by JimmyTMalice on 7/15/2017
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Lord Gazter
Posts: 665
9/22/2017
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Lord Gazter owned a few pieces of property one of which was the building that he and Alexander now found themselves in. The building itself was used as place to store away items Lord Gazter deemed unimportant enough to keep in his dwelling at the Brass Embassy, and not useless enough to be rid of. A few under his employ used the place from time to time, but other than that the building remained uninhabited most of the time. A layer of dust had settled on all but a few parts of the building. Alexander searches for any other implements or weapons that would help in dealing with the Shade among the stored belongings below, while his employer waits in the empty room above.
Lord Gazter is dressed in the best equipment that he could buy, his favorite blade at his side, a pistol on the other, and a glass in his hand to soothe his nerves. He knew that pursuing this venture was a fool’s errand since he first heard of it, and his interactions with this “hunting party” did nothing to alleviate his doubts. Once again Lord Gazter ponders the wisdom of dropping out of this venture all together. No, he had already put too much effort in now to let this opportunity pass him up. Lord Gazter drains the last of his glass. If he could not rely on the others he would have to rely on his own efforts. Preparedness and strategy were the best way to ensure that he would get out of this folly of an endeavour unscathed.
A rather large rattus faber with countless scars running down her the sides of her face scurries up to Lord Gazter. “What do yah’ want tus’ tah do boss?” she asks him.
“I plan on meeting with my colleagues near in the Bazaar’s side streets, and as such I’ll need you and the others to keep watch.” Lord Gazter turns and looks down at the rattus faber. “I don’t want to have an encounter any with any surprises. I will need you to scout out the area, and keep a lookout for anything suspicious, as we hunt the Shade. This creature is dangerous and the last thing it needs is the element of surprise on its side as well.”
“Should’n be a problem,” she answers back. “We’ve been able tah’ keep an eye on yer’ friends so far, and we’ve done a fine job at that.”
“Well see to it that no problems occur today then,” Lord Gazter returns icily. The rattus faber shrugs and leaves Lord Gazter’s presence to get the others together. After some time Lord Gazter hears Alexander making his way up to him, and prepares himself. The door now closed behind them Alexander and Lord Gazter leave the building to be uninhabited once more, and begin making their way to meet with the rest.
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Lord Gazter: a charming gentleman of noble birth and a person of significant influence.
Victoria Crow: a spirited la.. young woman and freshly anointed firebrand.
Get a copy of the Phlegethonian Gazette for pertinent and trustworthy news! Only five pence!
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John Moose
Posts: 276
8/2/2017
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(co-written by Shadowcthulhu, Mr Hamilton, Lord Gazter and myself)
None of the shadowy figures come further than lurking in the corner with Dirae Erinyes in the lead. However, matters were a little troubled when Dirae Erinyes climbed the narrow, and very creaky stairs. Much to the group’s surprise, the stairs held up under the weight of the group.
Dirae Erinyes only releases the lead to let Noah step forward and fumble with his keys. After those long and awkward minutes, the door is opened and everyone is lead inside. Noah disappears into the back of the shabby apartment, while most idle around in the front.
Dirae Erinyes eyes one of the second hand chairs with an appraising look - it would not be good manners to accidentally break one of the hosts furniture. They choose the floor, with the ceiling too low for them to comfortably stand. They sit facing their newly minted brother in arms - Hamilton.
“So,” their words break the dusty silence, “Have you ever been on an adventure like this before?”
“No, not quite like this, I mean, I’ve been on monster hunts here and there, also quite a few expeditions in the forgotten quarters, but nothing so big… only solo missions too.”
“What, no monster-hunting friends?”
“Unfortunately I can’t say that I have much knowledge in the matter of monster hunting,” Lord Gazter answers, “although I do believe Alexander does have experience in the matter.”
Lord Gazter’s stoic companion nods in assent.“I have some experience in the hunting of beasts,” He intones.
The conversation is interrupted by Noah, emerging from the kitchen with a dented pewter teapot and a handful of matching cups. “Some refreshments, if you please. I’m afraid upstairs is a bit of a mess, so it might be best if you wait here while I go fetch the medical equipment. I’ll be a while, so make yourselves comfortable - I’m in need of some freshening up, as well. Call out if you need anything, please.” With that, the doctor lays the tea on the table, takes his cane and bag and climbs up the steep stairs, leaving the rest to resume their chatter.
Sensing the dead end circle of monsters and The Shade from all the conversations from the past several days, Dirae Erinyes changes the conversation. “So, I just realized I know more about this shade fellow then my own companions. So, where are you from if you weren’t born just to hunt monsters?”
The tomb colonist twitches slightly. “Where I’m from is of little importance and nor do I care to speak about it.” He breaks into another fit of raggedy coughing.
Hamilton takes a long sip of his tea. “I’ve only been in the neath for a year or so… and mostly the only interesting part of my life on the surface was the orphanage I lived at. But I guess I should tell you that I have no idea who my parents are, or if they're even alive for that matter. Anyway, I only remember the later years of my life in the orphanage.”
Hamilton drifts off into silence, staring out the window.
“Orphanages are never good places to end up. Was it merely miserable or truly horrific?” Dirae asks Hamilton, the lightness of their tone at odds with the content.
“Erm… actually it wasn’t quite that bad, all the other children were nice enough. Of course the food was disgusting and the beds were terrible but… okay I did sneak out quite a bit and explore the streets of France. Why do you ask, have you lived in one before? Er, sorry if I’m being rude, I realize it’s a quite personal question.”
“No, I never left my family’s home while I was growing up. I think some might find that even more unconventional than an orphanage.”
“Our host is taking rather a long time,” Lord Gazter interrupts. He ponders over the matter for a moment. “I’ll go and find see if Noah requires any assistance. He might be having trouble with some of his things given recent events.” Lord Gazter turns away from the group and begins making his way up the stairs after their absent host.
--------
The bedroom is cluttered with empty wooden boxes, small empty bottles, piles of clothes on the floor and old newspapers. A path leads through the mess to a bed that hasn’t been made, and from there to a bathroom door. The soft smell of old honey clings to the room. Noah makes his way to the bathroom, not bothering to wave his cane around. He’s walked these steps often enough in the dark, with rather more clutter than a doctor’s bag.
In the rather big bathroom, he reaches for the rope that flushes the toilet. He pulls it, and the toilet flushes. Instead of releasing his grasp, he pulls further, until a click can be heard from the wall. Behind him, a trapdoor opens in the roof, and ladders quietly slide down on well-oiled wheels. A police search would hardly miss the attic were they serious about their business, but the entrance would likely elude them long enough for completely honest doctors to disappear without a trace before the officers would find anything that’d make them lose their sense of humour. The renovations may have been done without the landlord’s permission.
Noah is greeted by the frantic buzzing of his little pets, excited from human presence. Half of the attic consists of a cage of wire, tight-eyed enough to keep the bees in. The hives are surrounded by flowerpots containing roses of the brightest hue of blood-red. In the middle of all these is a sturdy wooden chair with shackles for the wrists, ankles and head, a contraption bought from an asylum that no longer had need for it. It is, currently, empty. All of this is lit by a small speck of white light attached to the roof - the source is small, but bright enough that it’s impossible to see just what it is.
The doctor proceeds to a small letterbox-like addition on the cage. He inserts the little box he has been carrying, allowing the bees to return to their kin. A fresh scented box is inserted, and less harrowed bees are eager to enter it, becoming Noah’s new travelling companions. The process is one he has repeated countless times, and brings him some comfort. No matter how horrible things are right now, his garden is still flourishing, and no one has learned of it. Some long term solutions and out-of-the-box thinking are needed, but there’s no reason things can’t go back to how they always were. Noah walks to the wall, pulling a rope that allows water to flow down a set of pipes to nourish the flowers. The garden tended to, he proceeds to a small desk containing a rather comprehensive chemist’s set, and reaches for
A creak of a floorboard cuts off his thoughts completely.
Noah freezes on the spot, feeling the lump of ice in his stomach as everything goes wrong. Someone’s here, someone knows, I wasn’t listening always listen, IDIOT, what do I do kill them with what you idiot stab you’re blind STAB ANYWAY if it’s Erinyes they’ll just laugh shoot you’ll never reach the gun in time but what
“Is, someone, there”, Noah asks, his voice hoarse.
“Well Mister Rache, you are full of surprises,” Lord Gazter answers back as he steps into the entrance of the doctor’s workshop.
Lord Gazter inspect the strange makeshift garden. He looks around at the buzzing bees, blood red flowers, and all the rest. He opens his mouth to continue speaking when his eyes fall upon a lone jar filled with a crimson substance. As he recognizes that substance, a hunger fills his eyes, and a light chuckle escapes his lips. Lord Gazter turns his gaze back towards the blind doctor in front of him with a pleased smile.
“What interesting discovery I have made here. If I’m not mistaken this rose garden is used in the production of the substance known as red honey. Am I not mistaken dear friend?”
“I… May have heard such a name used of it, yes. Purely academic interest, you understand. Trying to avoid unnecessary fuss. I hope I can trust on your… Discretion. My lord.”
“No need to be so cautious dear friend,” Lord Gazter answers amusedly. “I have no interest in hindering your production of the substance far from it dear friend.”
“Oh. I… See.” Junkie? Does he want to buy some? Noah frowns. This is sounding better than I thought… “I’m glad to find you’re so understanding of the more fringe areas of science. I suppose you wouldn’t mind extending your generosity to forgetting you ever saw this, would you, my lord?”
“Oh, I have a better idea than that.” He chuckles. “I have an interest in the procurement of the substance. I have friends of mine who would be overjoyed if they were able to acquire some red honey. Of course if you were to assist me in this endeavour, it would be remiss of me to not reward you in some way, for example helping you fund your ‘research.’”
“Well. That sounds… Reasonable.” Noah allows himself to relax slightly, and walks over to where he knows a small stool is waiting. “I have my own, well, friends, to account, but I think I could up the production to fill your acquaintances’, ahem, scientific curiosity.” The blind man turns towards the grinning figure. “To be frank, you know what this stuff is, and what is done to those who dabble in it. If I jeopardize my current arrangement to add another party to the market, I have to know it won’t end up with a loose-tongued customer and the Specials knocking my doors down. Have a lot of experience in black market dealings, do you, my lord?”
“You need not worry about this. I understand the niceties of the matter. I know how to keep the knowledge of this matter out of others hands. And of course I know how keep their tongues from wagging should they get that idea get into their heads.”
Noah remains quiet for a time, considering the words. Finally, he nods. “Good, then. We’ll agree on the specifics after this hunting affair is done with. I will reserve what I can of the next batch for you, and we can agree upon a fair price then. You know where to find me. Unfortunately,” he adds, with a wry smile.
“Oh one thing I would like to mention,” Lord Gazter’s tone changes to something more cautionary. “I do not like it when people spread vile lies about me, and as would happen lies tend create more lies. Of course certain lies can be quite dangerous in the wrong hands. These lies can be dangerous at the best of times, but they are especially dangerous to those, who are in your current state,” he says menacingly. “But of course you would never consider such thing would you dear friend?” he finishes in his usual mercurial manner.
“Ah?” Noah leans back, with a look of mild bewilderment on his face. “Well, yes, quite, a very reasonable stance. I’m sure I wouldn’t dream of such behaviour.” He stands up in the slow and careful manner he has lately adopted. “I’ll be sure to let you know of any vile rumours should I hear them. Now, let us return to the others, before they - ”
A sharp and loud knocking from downstairs interrupts him before he can finish his sentence.
“Ministry of Public Decency! Open up!”
Noah fights down the urge to scream and leap out of a window. Lord Gazter places a hand on Noah’s shoulder.
“No need to worry friend, I will handle this matter.”
Although Noah cannot see it, he can tell that Lord Gazter’s ever present smile is still there. The nobleman removes his hand from Noah’s shoulder and calmly exits the garden. His footsteps can be heard below as he walks over to the staircase. The wood creaks underfoot as he begins his descent. Step by creaking step can be heard until Noah is left alone.
edited by John Moose on 8/4/2017
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/11/2017
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Timmel Orosenn looms over Alexander, harpoon in hands. "If you want to make your situation even more unpleasant than it already is, go right ahead. I'm in the mood." She nods at Mr Stormstrider. "Where do you want us to put them? Does your lair come with a dungeon?
"As for these reports," she says to Emma, "let her have a look at them." She points towards Azoth, who has surveyed the whole Phryne/Gazter chaos without getting up, almost constantly shaking her head. "Smartest person in here, if you ask me. And I trust her judgement, spy or not."
edited by phryne on 4/17/2017
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Lord Gazter
Posts: 665
4/11/2017
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Lord Gazter pulls himself up from the ground leaving his spectacles on the floor. His hands still holding onto the head of the cane. It is now clear what emotion he was feeling few moments ago. Irritation gives way to anger. Lord Gazter's eyes look towards Drake Dynamo.
"It appears that you have let dullards take charge of your hunt Mr. Dynamo. Dullards who cannot tell friend from foe. I offer not my companion and myself to this hunt of your, but few of my resources like the ones that followed you here and told me about your whereabouts. Believe me when I say, if I can track this party down so easily than so can the Shade. You all left a bloody trail from Spite, to Veilgarden, to here. It is your decision Mr. Dynamo, whether or not fools ruin your chances of survival."
Lord Gazter eyes keep darting from Timmel to Emma.
edited by Lord Gazter on 4/11/2017
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Lord Gazter: a charming gentleman of noble birth and a person of significant influence.
Victoria Crow: a spirited la.. young woman and freshly anointed firebrand.
Get a copy of the Phlegethonian Gazette for pertinent and trustworthy news! Only five pence!
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
4/3/2017
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Something smells fishy. Leaving the bracelets and the activated metal beads on the table, Gideon looks up at the corner of the room with consternation.
A tiny pipe up on the ceiling sprays a mist of droplets into the air. As it does, the smell becomes more noticeable – it is, of course, the silent alarm. Someone has breached the perimeter of the shed, his sanctum sanctorum.
Best not to cause any undue panic. That is why the alarm is silent, after all. Gideon produces a grubby handkerchief and mops the sweat from his brow. It does seem to be awfully hot in here all of a sudden.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. No panicking. Panicking is absolutely not the right course in this situation. He has to set an example for the others, who aren’t aware that at this very moment an intruder, no doubt a vicious killer, is coming for them…
On second thought, it might be better to close the door, just in case. No cause for alarm. Just shutting out the draught.
Gideon leans on the flimsy wooden door after shutting it, breathing heavily. He hopes nobody has noticed that something is amiss. The silent alarm has done its work admirably.
Now he just needs to bolt up the door… oh, good grief! He’s on the wrong side of the door! Are those footsteps he hears sneaking down the corridor? Has the spectre of death come for him at last?
No, no. No cause for alarm. Just slip back in and hope nobody realises. The door will hold. The sturdy, sturdy door. Everything will be just fine.
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/25/2017
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"Of course I would come along Noah. Someone has to make sure you don't fall prey to roving bands of vicious urchins or angry-drunk poets. If we a chance, can we stop by the docks? I wanted to ask some of the old zailors if they've run into anything similar to the shade. As for getting a round, I do actually own a landau - it's safer then walking together as a big group.
So, Lord Gazter are you coming along? I doubt Gideon isn't going to let you hang around his private laboratory for too long."
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/30/2017
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Excerpts from Agent Evensong's notes: Part 1 of 3
Not published with the permission of the Foreign Office
Any found with this material will be fined by the Ministry of Public Decency.
Profile of Identity Used
Name: Maddy O’ Reilly
Appearance: Middle aged, flaxen hair, smashed nose, red birthmark on the left cheek. Dresses in rags, wears cracked spectacles. Favors bonnets with a floral theme.
Background: Was part of London when it fell, lost her husband to her a long illness that drained both her finances and her own health. Destitute and driven mad by grief, she took the streets. Has been an occasional face at the court of Topsy King, but that’s the extent of official affiliation that she possesses to any particular faction in London.
Contacts: Stanley Bowes, courtier at the Topsy King. Amanda Field, mercenary lockcracker for several gangs. Johnson Sharp, fence, Husun smuggler for the Gracious Widow. (Each of these have their own file, use those to refresh before donning the role.)
Outline of Group
Name: This group has no official name. The Shade Cult will be the title used in this report for the sake of clarity.
Nature: Religious – not officially affiliated with any church or counter church.
Membership: At the service, fifty people were counted. Upon interviews with other members, they indicated that the cult had been growing the longer the Shade stays in London. At the current rate, expect ten to twenty new members to join within the month if left unchecked. Membership is exclusively of the homeless population of London. There is no regard to gender, age, or physical health – they assume communion will strengthen the weak recruits.
Leader: Nominally the Shade, in actuality it’s the second in command Friar Crowley
Location: 4433 Sphinxwhisper. A small alley that trails off from the main street of Hangman Arch. It’s about two blocks away from the river and the edge of the occupied section of the Forgotten Quarter. The Shade Cult meets inside the basement of a rundown house – it’s been shuttered ever since the owner failed to return from a trip to the zee after months of madness and hunger. The Shade Cult avoids the main house, and uses the cellar door to enter. The door is not locked and there is no other security.
Purpose: To assist the Shade and his purposes, most notably the hunting of Drake Dynamo and friends.
Notable Resource: The communion ritual – to be detailed below.
The Communion Ritual
The main ritual of the Shade Cult is their communion ritual – not only is it display of their main theological point, and communal bonding activity, it also empowers the Shade Cult beyond their meager resources.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/30/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
4/10/2017
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Evensong is getting impatient. Such roundabout answers she expected in her normal line of work. However, being in a crazed inventor's shed while planning to take down a monster is not her normal line of work. Judging from the monster hunters in the group, they probably aren't amused either. Emboldened by the army behind her, she decides to speak up.
"One could argue that any party, ill or well meaning could have obtained those reports - however those actions do not concern me. The fact that you refuse to give straightforward answers after marching into our base is not helping your case. So, let's try this again.
Lord Gazter, why are you here?"
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 4/10/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/9/2017
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For as much as the man was hiding his tread - and he was hiding it well, for a humanoid - he couldn't hide his scent. It reeked of fabrics and moisture and ... something unfamiliar. Bastet couldn't quite put her paw on it. What it really reminded her of was the one time she'd sampled a bit of Azoth's prisoner honey collection, but that couldn't be it. This was the real world, big and imposing and fun. That was something from a -
A light breeze swept across her back ... but this was indoors. Thousands of years of hard-wired instincts passed down from her feral ancestors kicked into action as she leaped forward. Within seconds, the adrenaline was rushing through her veins as she took off. The human behind her glared and gave chase, but something was odd about him, like his eyes weren't quite right. Still, it didn't matter - there was a chase to be had!
She immediately dashed beneath the nearest clothes rack, but in mere moments it went flying. She tumbled through the pile of clothes that had fallen on her, scratching a hole in a particularly nice spider-silk jacket on her way out. She didn't even think about where she was running after that, as long as she kept on turning. Left, right, left, right - her head bumped into something.
Looking up, she saw the human's leg. His eyes turned to face her.
Whoops, she thought as the clerk lifted her from the ground, squeezing far too hard for anyone with a shred of love for a kitten.
And that was a perfectly interesting door, too ...
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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Azothi
Posts: 586
3/9/2017
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The Imaginary Hunt, from the outside, impressed Azoth; aside from the few Fourth City revivalists she'd seen from inspired architects and confused Bazaarines, there really wasn't much in London - at least, the populated parts - that held such a sense of archaicness, like a living relic of a bygone age. Of course, if Evensong was to be believed, that was because it was. Azoth was particularly impressed by the craftsmanship of the horses, standing dignified against vandalism and time itself.
The inside was considerably less impressive.
It looked no different than any other clothing store, with rows upon rows of shirts and pants and other fabrics. The doctor - Noah - was speaking when she first entered, and it seemed he was handling whatever situation the people ahead of her had gotten themselves into. The shopkeeper soon was ushering people upstairs and she began to follow. But first ...
"Bastet," she whispered to the grubby kitten on her shoulder. "You know what to do."
"What do you take me for? A mole?" the kitten meowed, scrambling down her owner's arm. The shop seemed like the perfect playground: full of dirty little secrets to find (or she assumed, at least; her owner had said there was no place in London without them) and place to scratch.
"Just come back in one piece," Azoth said as the kitten jumped to the ground, "or else I'll have to bequeath all your worldly possessions to the other cat, and neither of us wants that."
"The Naughts and Crosses will have made peace before I give up that spare bedroom," Bastet replied, and she was off.
Confident her second pair of eyes would be there to keep an eye on the ground floor, Azoth quickly followed the others upstairs.
--
In the meantime, Bastet had found a particularly nice clothes rack to attack with her tiny little claws. Eventually, she'd get bored and start looking for misplaced secrets. For now, though, she was content.
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Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/8/2017
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"The cellar is where we store those goods. You would need some to escort you who has a key. The daughter should be around to handle such matters. There's been a high demand for it lately, and thieves are always a worry. . ."
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/10/2017
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Edward, decides that he is more needed outside to fight the horde, than inside interrogating. He bursts past The Scorched Sailor and charges in following Dirae and finishing off any hobos left alive with his sabre and firing at far ones with his pistol. As he slashes and shoots his way through the crowd, he thinks of how he murdering innocent hobos possessed by the Shade. The thought made him even more angry at the Shade than before. Fueled with new fiery rage, he goes berserk slashing through every hobo who gets in his way, getting many wounds and apologizing in his mind to each one who goes down by his blade.
(OOC: Sorry if I was unclear, I wasn't saying he just killed all of them, he was just finishing off any hobos that Dirae didn't kiil. Sorry about that.)
edited by Edward Frye on 3/10/2017
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My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/8/2017
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Lyndon finishes his cigarette and stomps its butt under his boot. He immediately takes out another one and lights it. He could go for a good glass of port, but that isn’t the right time to go looking for a tavern: the others should be back soon enough. How long could it take them to interrogate a few clerks? Even without resorting to physical threats, it should be a quick business.
He glances at Lady Orosenn. She hasn’t talked yet, which is a good thing: he can’t stand blabbermouths. However, there is a topic they should discuss since they are alone. No need to beat about the bush, though.
“Most of them are hopeless. How many fighters do we really have, including us two?” says Lyndon, keeping his eyes fixed on the street. “Three? Four, maybe?”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/8/2017
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/8/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/8/2017
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Lady Orosenn hesitates a moment, then answers: "Maybe. If we're being optimistic."
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/8/2017
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Lyndon stifles a chuckle. Of course, he agrees. He takes a deep drag from his cigarette and lets out a small cloud of smoke. “There’s at least that masked fellow, the one that makes weird mechanical sounds. He looks like he can take care of himself. I wouldn’t vouch for the others.” Lyndon makes a long pause. The street is eerily quiet. “Well, they might be useful as decoys, if needs be.”
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/8/2017
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"We will take you to the second story."
"Much better to discuss such matters with some privacy."
"The owner is there, he will know all about this matter."
The salespeople, having decided on this course of action, will usher all interested up stairs. Narrow and rather steep stairs, an impediment to casual thieves. They will close off the stairwell with a mildly scorched screen showing a snow covered bazaar, before retreating downstairs. The owner was examining a shipment of gloves, and unbends himself with stiff pain. He peers at the group with suspicious interest.
"So, you've lost your memory?" His silence hangs there as Dirae Erinyes starts fitting hats on Evensong, despite her feigned annoyance.
Downstairs, the clerk watches any who stayed behind, dark things moving behind his eyes.
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/8/2017
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The Imaginary Hunt is a structure of decayed glory. The faded blue lacquer roof is decorated with statues of horses scarred by urchin misadventures. However, the locks are update and an unbroken shopfront shows off their wares. Then inside is clean and orderly, but the clocks are nowhere in sight.
The mismatched group is met by the two immaculately clad salespeople. They give practiced smiles-as if this was a gaggle of society ladies-not a group of hunters.
“What can we do for-“
“you today?” The other one answers. They look at the group for some reasonable answer. An answer that may not exist.
OOC: For those interested, there is more information that can be found on the google docs. Let me know if you have an questions about this location.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/8/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/8/2017
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/7/2017
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Lyndon moved back to one of the room’s corners after signing, where he has been listening to the last developments while finishing his cigarette. One of the other applicants has raised a good point, but most of them were generally beating around the bush. There’s no need to drag that conversation for too long. He steps away from the corner, moving a bit towards the center of the room. He would have preferred to remain unnoticed a while longer, but he had to speak up sooner or later anyway. He might as well do that now.
“It’s all good and nice, really, but I, for one, wouldn’t count my chickens until they’re hatched. We have to catch our foe before we can dispose of it.” says Lyndon, glancing at the last man who has spoken – a doctor, judging from his bag. His eyes move to Henchard. “That fellow over there is right. We don’t know enough about the creature we’re going to face. Besides, only a few of us seem to be able to handle themselves in a real fight.” He looks at the tall monster-hunter and the hulking masked man whose body sounds like spinning gears. “If that… thing is as dangerous as you say, we’ll either need a very good plan or more stopping power to pin it down.” He walks up to the Dynamo girl with a lopsided grin painted on his face and his hand on the sabre dangling from his side. “Otherwise, I hope you’re prepared to share that cider of yours generously.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/7/2017
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/7/2017
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/7/2017
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Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
3/7/2017
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"Catch it? With quarry this dangerous, catching and disposal must be the same step. There are too many risks otherwise."
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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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Bertrand Lyndon
Posts: 95
3/7/2017
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Lyndon raises an eyebrow. "What you say changes nothing. We still have to catch this being, no matter for how long; and to catch it, we have to stop it first: an endeavor we seem ill-prepared for at the moment." Lyndon pulls his cap down a bit more and moves back to his corner. "However, I do think we should have a plan to contain this being, in the case we can't find a quick way to destroy it. It's a better alternative than having it roam London."
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/7/2017
--
Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets.
(My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages)
Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward.
(I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay)
Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
3/27/2017
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Mr. Hamilton groggily stumbles to the rest of the party and sits down in a chair, then looks up at the rest of them, waiting for further instructions.
--
I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/29/2017
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Evensong and Dirae Erinyes make their appearance. Evensong makes a straight beeline for the coffee, while Dirae Erinyes settles into one of the few chairs left.
"Elemental of dawn, not sure what that is, but it could be useful if it's anything like sunlight." Their voice is a bit rough, as it the calibration on the voice box got knocked a bit loose. "We are going to need a trap for that thing - not feeling like running up and trying to get into fistcuffs with it again and I don't like the idea of just walking off and letting it follow me home. So, we need to lure into a vacent area and drop a sunlight bomb on it. I'm sure Gideon can build a sunlight bomb. The question will how to protect yourselves. Maybe, reflective armor?"
Evensong returns with two cups of what might be coffee and perches on Dirae Erinyes lap.
"Or we could leave that whole idea behind, and just borrow the devils, what did they call. . .vacuum cleaner? That thing," Evensong suggested, not looking enthused as the idea of sunlight.
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
3/28/2017
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Edward is woken from his dreams of large monsters and Egyptian mythology when he feels something leap onto his chest. He looks up and sees a cat sitting there, "Hello there! How are you today?" he asks cheerily. The cat glares at him and tells him "I'm supposed to escort you to the rest of the group, follow me". Edward get up and follows the cat, trying to teach it about manners along the way.
When they get to the room, Edward looks around the room and notices that the zailor is back, and a small girl, possibly an urchin, is walking to an empty seat. Edward goes to the coffee machine gets a cup full of whatever is coming out, it doesn't exactly taste like coffee or tea. Then seeing that there are no more chairs left, he produces a small cushion out of his rat-skin coat, places it on the ground, and sits down on it. He then waits for something to happen.
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/31/2017
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"Hm, and we could make multiple copies of the bait as is, if we need to lure the Shade into our trap. Does the Shade only know you by your face or by something more? How much does that cider heal?" Evensong watches Drake's face, hands steepled. "Granted, before we start planning our bait, we need to know our trap works. We can't risk our lives on another harebrained scheme."
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
4/2/2017
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Gideon sips his tea, and listens to the blind doctor talk.
It sounds like he’s more interested in revenge for what the Shade did to him than information, murmurs Voice 3.
He agrees. When a person becomes a victim of something terrible, there are two approaches they can take: the first is to take a stand and try to prevent such things happening again, and the second is to become the victimiser. Noah has clearly opted for the second. Or perhaps it was just in his nature before the Shade blinded him.
Gideon clears his throat. “I don’t think torture is the answer here. I’ve had occasion to be a… spectator… to such things, and in my experience the unfortunate victim will say anything to avoid further pain. I won’t question your expertise in the matter, but torture is an unreliable means to extract information no matter who practices 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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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/2/2017
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Noah draws breath for an annoyed response, but manages to catch himself. The offer has been made, and if they won't take it, that's up to them. Insisting further would be too suspicious.
"As you say. The question on how to acquire information on the Shade still remains. Any suggestions?"
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Azothi
Posts: 586
4/2/2017
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"We have ways of finding information without putting ourselves at so much risk," Azoth remarked. "The Sergeant" - And the child, perhaps? she wondered - "has his network and I have my own. The Great Game is built to endure, and its networks are difficult to dismantle, to say the least." I'd know, she wanted to add. but she restrained herself. "The passage of information through them is hard to follow and they can adapt to changing circumstances. The Shade might be immortal, but it's not all-powerful. It can't keep track of every bat or identify every one of our informants."
"Besides," she continued, "I'd imagine a wandering band of hoboes would create quite a stir in London. If they remain together, people will take notice and it'll be easy to learn more. If they separate, we can consider picking them off while they're divided. It's not a perfect solution, but having eyes all over London is better than being bl -" she caught herself - "being holed up here. And once the networks are mobilized against the Shade, we can begin thinking about pain. Apply pain to the right places, and a creature will run towards safety. Apply pain to that safety, and we can force it to come to us. We can't do that stumbling around alone."
And maybe some good can finally come out of the Great Game.
--
Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges)
Away to where the Chain cannot bind us.
Hesperidean.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/16/2017
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Gideon nods appreciatively at Emma’s tirade. Recriminations coming from Gideon and the others, who’ve known Drake all of a few hours, wouldn’t mean much to him. But hearing it from his own sister will cut deep. The slapping was a touch unnecessary, though.
A place to hide and recover? Gideon has just such a place, although he regrets the necessity of revealing it to so many people.
He clears his throat, raising his hand. “I have a… research facility on the outskirts of Watchmaker’s Hill that might do the trick. It’s rather well hidden and off the beaten track, so the Shade and its associates will have difficulty tracking us there. And if it does find us,” he allows himself a toothy smile, “I’d very much like to see it try to get past the traps.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/16/2017
--
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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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/13/2017
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Dirae Erinyes slips a papers to both Emma and Lady Orosenn. It's a Correspondent's job to critique, review, and analyze reality. And this part of reality that had a quantity of experience with. Hopefully, both of them should find the number categories and resulting notes useful for future encounters. While they are distracted, Dirae Erinyes sidles up to Drake.
"So, there's been about forty victims more or less, right? You've mentioned that some of them were close to you - but not all of them right? So far, I've only seen him kill two people - a zailor and Mr. Mauvuis. Can't see an obvious connection between the two of them. What do you know about the rest?"
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
3/14/2017
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Evensong had not dissembled her rifle, too wary of another attack. She swings it into her hands and aim's low for the Shade's legs - her first shot aims to be crippling since she doesn't know enough to be lethal. Dirae Erinyes charges in, willing to use their body to catch and twist the scimitar out of the Shade's reach. If the Shade doesn't take the bait, they will move in close enough to bind the sword with their right arm, while delivering a kick to the solar plexus. To a human, that would incapacitate them, but to the Shade?
Who knows how well bullets and force will help them here?
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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John Moose
Posts: 276
3/14/2017
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Darkness. Moist, sandy cobbles. Something warm dribbling down the face. The taste of blood. Pain. Searing pain.
Oh god. Oh god no. Oh god my eyes, it hurts so much. What did it - AHHHHH! No!
More cobbles, now wet. More darkness. Voices, sounds, yelling. A stick?
The cane. Yes, the cane. Oh god, my eyes. Where is everyone? What's happening? I need... Yes!
"HAMILTON! HELP! Oh please, someone help..."
edited by John Moose on 3/14/2017
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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/20/2017
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Noah has returned to the Scheming Chamber, covered in sweat and arms aching, but somehow very relaxed. He has stumbled his way to a rather comfortable chair, and listened with interest to the flow of the conversation. His mood is further brightened by the prospect of getting to move around a bit, without the encumbrance of the entire hunting party.
"Excuse me," he chimes in when there's a gap in the discussion. "I have some contacts in Spite I could check for news, if that might be helpful. Nothing like a network, but in my line of work one meets all kinds, and word travels quickly on the streets. I would also not mind dropping by my apartment on the way, to pick up some supplies, get a change of clothes, stuff like that." He stops to consider who he's so far heard talking, and spots a familiar sound, as if a large piston slowly hissing away. "I would naturally appreciate company, in my current state. Erinyes, might you feel like a stroll Spite-wards? I'll of course happily do any detours on the way and continue further anywhere you might have business. You do seem to have a knack for pulling me out of bad situations, after all" he adds with a wry smile.
"Mr Hamilton, if you could use new medical supplies as well, you're of course welcome to mine. Would you like to join in? Mr Frye too, maybe? A handful of people, not enough to attract attention but enough to subdue an assailant or two if it comes to that." Enough people to hide behind, and none too loyal to the leaders in case they see something I'd rather they kept quiet about.
"How about it? Of course," he continues, "if Lord Gazter and Mr Alexander feel like it, I'd be happy to welcome them as well. I'm sure a chance to get to know each other better would clear any lingering bad tempers after the... Entrance."
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
4/21/2017
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(Co-written by Mr. Hamilton)
Edward, who has been listening from his spot on the floor, responds to Noah's question. "I would love to join you" then glances at Hamilton "and I'm sure Hamilton would as well". To which Hamilton responds "Ah yes, I seem to be running low on bandages and such". Mr. Hamilton takes one long, last sip of coffee before getting up from his seat and putting down his cup while saying "Also I regret packing such a small amount of medicines, I've learned recently that I'm going to need a lot more medicine in my bag to help everyone else beat this foe".
As Edward packs, up Hamilton takes out his medical bag out and takes out a long sleek white weasel. He whispers something to his pet and the weasel scampers off. Edward finishes packing ans says to Noah, "How are we planning to get to your residence, are we going to walk... or do you have other means?", while Hamilton begins polishing his rifle (from supplies in his bag), and sharpening his knife.
--
My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
5/1/2017
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Excerpts from Agent Evensong's notes: Part 2 of 3
Not published with the permission of the Foreign Office
Any found with this material will be fined by the Ministry of Public Decency.
The Communion Ritual
The main ritual of the Shade Cult is their communion ritual – not only is it display of their main theological point, and communal bonding activity, it also empowers the Shade Cult beyond their meager resources.
Their service and theology draws from not recognized Church, or counter church (neither High Infernal or Low Republican). While I was worried that the Shade and his cult were being manipulated by foreign powers, there is no evidence of any of the usual culprits, such as the Dawn Machine. There is a smattering of elder country influence but nothing more then what the average Londoner would learn from yellow broadsheets. Of course, despite some similar themes, there is none of the Well Cult’s self-destructive tendencies that would mark them as such.
The ritual begins with the ceremonial “Eating of the Light.” This is done with barring the cellar door, shuttering the windows and covering any cracks (of which there are plenty due to the poor condition of the cellar.) Then, there is the “Light on the Mountain,” which is lighting a candle inside a torn red paper lantern that was salvaged from the Gracious Widow’s neighborhoods.
After the candle is lit, there is the “Airing of Weakness.” While this might start as a variation of a call and response confessions practiced in some churches into a frothing screed from the Friar Crowley, blasting the rest of London for wrongs committed against the congregation. Once the congregation is on the verge of a frenzy, he reins them back in with “The Cleanings of the Zee.” This involves having buckets of zee water splashed over you. It’s as pleasant as it sounds, no matter how badly you need a bath.
The next is the “The Arson of The Righteous,” a welcome relief after being doused in cold zee water. Friar Crowley lights braziers to pass around the congregation, only allowing you to enjoy the heat after vowing your eternal allegiance to the Shade. A more disturbing aspect of his the vows is a gift of a doll to burn. Dolls – made from scraps and stolen hats – that bear a crude resemblance to our hunting party. I made sure I was the new recruit that received the doll of my spouse. A rather superstitious and sentimental gesture in the field, but one must account for such eccentric impulses. The veteran members keep their silence during this ritual, watching the new recruits, seeing if any shrink under their glares. No one faltered, but old bloodstains on the floor did excite the imagination on the fate of those who did.
After the new recruits were accepted, and the congregation well-warmed, Friar Crowley began. “Unveiling of the Alter.” The cloth over the alter stands out from the rest of the grimy room, sucking in what little light there’s in the room – mostly likely a discarded cloak that Shade obtained at the Imaginary Hunt. Underneath the cloak is less exciting. The alter is a collection of junk that wouldn’t look out of place out of a relicker’s cart. A few items manage to stand out from the general chaos: the personal bible of Friar Crowley, a candle mountain made from melted down stubs, a rusty scimitar stolen from a drunken zailor, and six eyeless skulls.
With a brief blessing, Friar Crowley announced “The Consumption of the Mighty.” The congregation abandoned their seats, crowding around the alter, only kept from snatching the skulls by Friar Crowley’s own personal authority. Holding the skulls, Friar Crowley holds the skull out for each participant, making sure not to let them drink too deeply, lest they destroy their minds and bodies through blood and irrigo. Even the small amount of blood that was imbibed was a destructive combination. It was invigorating, making me feel like I just drunk a bottle of Broken Giant in a single swallow. I could feel it strengthen my body, even a body as frail as mine. In contrast, I could feel my mind weaken under the residue irrigo stored within the skulls. If it wasn’t for my long experience spent learning how to handle these mind-numbing effects, my mind would’ve been cracked open. Giving pleasure while corroding other memories creates a power addiction for those whose lives they prefer to forget. An addiction that leaves them open to be rewritten by The Shade’s right-hand man.
I have never been so grateful for Dirae Erinyes absurd expeditions into Cave of the Nadir.
As the congregation was still reeling as the last of the skulls are drained, Friar Crowley gives “The Words of the Master.” These are rather florid orders given to the congregation and rewards are given to those who stand out from the crowd. Most of these rewards are just rats on the string, but through the eyes of the Shade Blood it might as well be diamonds and rubies. With that, the euphoric crowd is released to continue the Shade’s work.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/1/2017
--
https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
4/3/2017
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At the mention of splitting up and heading out into the city, Gideon nips off to the broom cupboard next door. He returns shortly with a contraption that looks like the offspring of a magic lantern and a phonograph, which he sets up on a side table to point across the main table at the broad opposite wall.
With a little coaxing the lantern flickers to life, projecting a bright circle of light on the wall. Gideon adjusts the lenses to make the circle cover more of the wall. Voice 1 hums appreciatively.
“The lights, if you please,” he says, nodding to Jordan, who happens to be near the gas valve attached seemingly at random to one of the many pipes running down from the ceiling. After a bit of back-and-forth gesticulating indicating which way to turn it, the gas lamps on the walls gutter out. The room falls into darkness, leaving only the lantern-light illuminating falling dust particles as it streams onto the wall. The light is no longer a circle; a head in portrait seems to be forming in shadow…
“Heads down in front,” says Gideon, and the perpetrator ducks out of the way of the projector.
Gideon removes the metal sphere that the Paradox Engine made earlier from his pocket. He releases a clasp on the side and the sphere opens on hidden hinges, spilling metal beads into his hand. Then he snaps the empty sphere shut again and rolls it down a chute in the projector. The image on the wall blurs and changes, resolving into a cluster of city streets seen from above. As the view zooms out, it becomes clear from the distinctive S-bend of the river that this is an image of Fallen London.
“I know what you’re thinking, ladies and gentlemen: it’s a map. And you’re not wrong. But this is no ordinary map. “
Gideon places the metal beads in an empty teacup and picks one out. He fishes a bracelet from another of his many pockets and puts the bead into an empty socket. Immediately, a dot of green light flares to life on the map at the fringes of Watchmaker’s Hill.
He spins some dials on the projector and it zooms in on the dot. At this magnification, it is clear that this is no ordinary map; smoke can be seen streaming from chimneys a few blocks away and dark blobs – people – are moving around.
“As I said: no ordinary map. This is not a daguerreotype slotted into my projector; it is a true picture of London as it is now. A bat’s-eye view, so to speak. And the green dot is where this bracelet-“ he holds it in the air- “is located right now.”
“Anyway, the point of all these theatrics is that I’ll be able to coordinate everyone’s efforts as we split up by giving each of you one of these bracelets. With this map, I can check where everyone is, and if you need help you need merely press this button.”
He presses the button on the bracelet and holds it up to his mouth. “Testing, testing.” After a few seconds, the phonograph on the projector spins to life and produces a crackly and over-amplified version of Gideon’s voice. “Testing, testing.”
Gideon grins. “Exciting stuff, isn’t it? This is the future, folks. Not literally, of course; I’m still working on my time machine. But you get the idea. Go forth and gather your information! I’ll be working on a new idea I’ve had for trapping the Shade, and keeping an eye on all of you from here.”
THE GAME IS AFOOT! crows Voice 2.
--
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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John Moose
Posts: 276
4/4/2017
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A bruised blind man calls out from beneath the sturdy table. "Mr Stormstrider, if you have some manner of panic room in here, may I suggest we retreat there? I believe I could use somewhere to hyperventilate for a bit."
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
4/4/2017
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Gideon takes Evensong's hand gratefully to extract himself from the wreckage of the door and dusts himself off. “A panic room? What cause could there be for panic? I’m not panicking. You’re panicking.”
It’s definitely not his imagination this time; there is someone – or rather, two someones – advancing down the corridor, shoes clicking on the stone floor. He peeks out and sees them approaching. At least one of them has a gun drawn.
No time for subtlety. Gideon spins a wheel on a pipe running out of the room, and the hiss of gas escaping fills the corridor outside.
He steps back into the Scheming Chamber and shouts into the corridor, “Not one step further! That corridor is now filled with natural gas, and the slightest spark will blow you sky-high, so don’t even think about firing your weapons! Go back the way you came, and perhaps I’ll let you live!”
In a low voice, he adds to the rest of the room, “Don’t tell them this, but that would blow the rest of us up too! Before you get any ideas about my rash and suicidal behaviour, keep in mind that this is in fact a cunning bluff!”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 4/4/2017
--
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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Lord Gazter
Posts: 665
4/5/2017
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(Co-written with Drake Dynamo)
"That will not be necessary," says a voice from the hallway, presumably the owner of is one of the pair of footsteps outside. "I can without hesitation assure you of that. We have no malicious intentions towards any of you.”
“Do not step any further. State your business.” Emma commands.
“I assume that you all are Mr. Dynamo and his hunting party if I’m not mistaken?” the voice responds back. “Am I correct in this assumption?”
Emma hesitates briefly before responding.
“Who is inquiring?” Emma calls out.
“A friend.” the voice calls back in a surprisingly cordial manner.
“A friend wouldn’t sneak about like a thief. Your name, profession, and interest in our party. Now.” Emma demands. Lady Orosenn is at the doorway now, watching Emma intently.
“I do apologize for my rather uncouth entrance. I sought to get your attention from outside, but since I was unable to receive a response and since the door was left open, we let ourselves in. Again I do wish to apologize for this impertinent and I do imagine rather startling encounter.” the “friend” responds back. He pauses for a moment to clear his throat.
“To answer your other questions my name is Lord Barnabas Gazter and my interest in your group is to assist you and your party in the capture of this shade of yours.”
Emma tilts her head towards the room.
“I’m inclined to listen to this man, if any of you know him.” Emma states, awaiting a response.
edited by Lord Gazter on 4/5/2017
--
Lord Gazter: a charming gentleman of noble birth and a person of significant influence.
Victoria Crow: a spirited la.. young woman and freshly anointed firebrand.
Get a copy of the Phlegethonian Gazette for pertinent and trustworthy news! Only five pence!
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
4/5/2017
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Gideon tilts his head as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. His hands are still shaking a little. “Hold on, hold on. The door was left open? Who the b____y hell did that?”
As nobody seems forthcoming, he continues: “While normally I’d say ‘the more the merrier’, I have to admit I’m disappointed with your manners, Lord Gazter. Did nobody tell you that it’s polite to knock before entering?” Gideon frowns in a pantomime of concern at his frightful etiquette.
“I shudder to think of the state my painstakingly placed traps are in now. Ms Phryne has doubtless done more harm with her rampaging, though – I will have to send her a bill for the damages. Did you happen to see her on your way in?”
--
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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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/5/2017
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In the commotion of Phryne's exit, Timmel Orosenn had a chair knocked into her face, and now her nose is broken again. While trying to staunch the bleeding, she still watches Emma intently. She's not quite sure this is all just a bluff, and she's really not in the mood for charades right now. Losing patience, she draws a knife and throws it accurately into the shoulder of the person holding a gun, causing them to drop it. "There," she says to Emma. "Now you can put the lighter away and talk to them." Then she returns to the Scheming Chamber, wanting Mr Hamilton to take a look at her nose. No way is she letting the creepy blind doctor/spare-time-torturer anywhere near her.
edited by phryne on 4/5/2017
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Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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Lord Gazter
Posts: 665
4/8/2017
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The tomb colonist furrows his brows underneath the cloth wrapped around his head. He looks over to Lord Gazter, who gives him a nod. Alexander grudgingly removes his sword and its scabbard as well as his pistol. He places them down on one of the room’s tables and moves next to Lord Gazter. If the party was still suspicious of the duo, it appears that the tomb colonist trusts the party even less. Several eyes look at Lord Gazter expectantly, but he only chuckles.
“I think that you’ll find that I am not carrying any weapons upon my person.” Lord Gazter says as he empties out his pockets.
He pulls out several pieces and a few scraps of paper out of his pockets.
“To prove to you without a shadow of a doubt that my intention are in no way malicious,” he states as he places the papers down upon a table, “I have brought with me all of the constabularies’ reports on sightings of the Shadow of London, as well as the reports on the murders throughout London that are believed to be connected to it,” he finishes as he places the last of the papers on the table.
Lord Gazter’s hands return to the head of his cane and looks up at the party with a cheerful smile on his lips.
--
Lord Gazter: a charming gentleman of noble birth and a person of significant influence.
Victoria Crow: a spirited la.. young woman and freshly anointed firebrand.
Get a copy of the Phlegethonian Gazette for pertinent and trustworthy news! Only five pence!
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phryne
Posts: 1351
4/6/2017
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Timmel Orosenn walks over to Alexander, while keeping an eye on the Bertrand/Emma situation. "Just collecting what's mine," she says, pulling her knife from the tomb-colonist's shoulder. She doesn't say sorry, or show any remorse. Tomb-colonists probably don't feel much pain anyway, and you've got to expect some trouble if you walk into an underground lair unannounced.
--
Accounts: Bag a Legend • Light Fingers • Heart's Desire • Nemesis • no ambition
Exceptional Stories, sorted by Season and by writer ― Favours & Renown Guide
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
7/16/2017
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Murphy is jogging across London, old London, to catch up with the gang when suddenly a rabid rat kills him in the blink of an eye.
His mother misses him dearly and his father regrets lending him that money that he's never getting back now.
He had a wife, too, I suppose, but she was rather short, so no one noticed her very often, and the rats got to her soon enough, too.
Eventually, the rat ends up vomiting his remains into the zee after a rowdy night out with the boys, and Murphy finally gets to explore the Neath as a wandering pool of bile and intestines. He makes good friends with the bloated, floating corpse of a dandy, to whose shirt some of Murphy attaches. They have a wonderful un-life together.
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Straight outta Dahut.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
8/2/2017
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For Gideon, home is a cosy townhouse just off Elderwick. The Shed may be a wonderful place for inventing, but it is no substitute for a real house with walls, windows and soft furniture. He moved there with his wife Vela just after they married; this house holds plenty of warm and comfortable memories.
Right now, it is a little chilly. Gideon hangs his suit jacket on the coat-rack, takes off his shoes and makes his way to the living room. The place is empty, as expected – Vela is still all but living at the office while her big case is going on, and the cleaners aren’t due until Monday.
The living room is more of a library – bookcases cover most of the walls and yet more books are piled on every available surface. The volumes range from pristine to thoroughly devoured – legal tomes for Vela’s work, scientific tomes for Gideon’s work, and varied fiction for the enjoyment of all.
Once the gas-lamps are switched on, Gideon gets down to starting a fire to stave off the Neathy chill. The fireplace is well-stocked with logs – with a bit of poking to stir the embers to life, he soon has a merry blaze going.
Gideon settles into his favourite armchair after evicting a hefty copy of the first volume of the Principia from the seat. Handmade paper tabs mark the most worthy sections – he doesn’t speak a word of Latin, but the diagrams are fun.
The chair’s upholstery is ghastly and the stuffing is leaking, but it has sentimental value. He pours himself half a teaspoon of honey from a glass bottle. The amount is precisely calculated - just enough to sharpen the mind, but not enough to maze him for an inconvenient amount of time. The best inspiration, after all, is found in dreams.
He sits back and watches the fireplace for a time. It burns happily, warming his extremities pleasantly. Then he pops the spoon into his mouth. In an instant, he finds himself –
- elsewhere. A livid orange sun beats down on the murky swamp. Gideon splashes through the knee-deep muddy water in his wading boots, trampling reeds in his wake. Clouds of buzzing midges swarm around him, nipping at exposed flesh. A toad regards the inventor sullenly, belches an accusing croak and dives into the water.
Gideon adjusts his pith helmet and squints off into the distance. The view is obscured by the tall reeds, but it doesn’t feel like wherever he’s going is far away.
The passage eases as he continues, the ground rising until he walks on solid – if muddy – land again. The reeds part before him. Rising from the swamp are the overgrown ruins of a once-mighty ziggurat. Inside, his rendezvous awaits.
He ducks under the hanging vines of the crumbling entranceway and wades through ankle-deep water into a long corridor. To his right and left, stairs lead nowhere; the lower levels of the temple are flooded, the upper levels collapsed. There is only one way to proceed: forward. His dreams are being rather direct today.
The corridor ends in a pair of doors carved with intricate maze-like patterns. They are slightly ajar; a quiet hum of conversation drifts from the chamber within.
“We’re alone. Abandoned. Nobody’s coming,” says a quiet female voice.
“Don’t you worry!” says a cheerful, booming male voice. “If we truly are stuck here, we’ll show those dream-beasties what for! Isn’t that right, old chap?” There is no response. “See, Anna! Nothing to worry about.”
Gideon freezes at the name. He recognises the voices; how could he not? But it’s been too long since he heard Anna’s name spoken aloud.
With a hefty push, the doors creak open. The vast central hall is brightly lit through a hole in the ceiling, but still every table and ledge is covered in lambent candles dripping hot wax. There are three people inside. Two sit on wooden chairs opposite each other with water lapping around their feet: a man with a great ginger beard in a tattered frock-coat and a woman in a sober grey skirt and blouse with pale blonde hair tied back in a bun.
The third person is not a person at all. He dresses the part, in a fine parabola-linen suit and top hat. He sits atop the cold stone slab that served as an altar, dangling his loafer-clad feet in the water. His face is the ghost of someone who was once handsome; now his cheeks are sunken and his flesh is waxy, lit from within by flame. His eyes burn. He is a candle.
“So, mine host, you finally decided to show up. I’ve been so b_____y bored here,” he says acidly. “These two make for frightful company – beardy there won’t shut up about his dratted God, and the woman… she won’t even look me in the eye.” He smiles, baring teeth like a furnace grille.
“What are you here for, Gideon? You woke me up not so long ago, and for what? It’s a crowded place, your little psyche. And you came to me. Do you really need another Voice in your head? What, precisely, is the point?”
Gideon looks upon Malice, upon this mockery of a man, and has no answer.
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Gideon Stormstrider, the Esoteric Gadgeteer
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.
A Tale of Two Suns - Meeting Your Maker - A Squid in the Polls
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Edward Frye
Posts: 263
8/14/2017
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(co-written with Suincide)
Frye leads Henchard down a dark alley with a makeshift ladder, which looks very unsafe. Edward starts to climb the ladder and beckons for Henchard to follow. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but this ladder sometimes does break” Frye says as they climb, “If a rung breaks loose all you need to do is grab a window sill, hopefully no one will notice”. He says all this quite cheerily despite what he’s saying. After a few more minutes of climbing in silence, Edward looks down at Henchard and asks “So what brought you to the Neath?”.
“Family. Both siblings gave a reason to come here. A death. And a new life.” Henchard’s eyes flit around while he debated about saying more. “I suppose,” he hesitated, “I suppose I owe my sister something more. But she’s gone, so I am left helping the place she loved.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that” Edward says, then continues to climb in an awkward silence.
“No, no, don’t be sorry. She was not a good person.” Henchard pauses, “But I would like to know why you are here. And I don’t mean in London. No offense, but you don’t seem like the adventuring type.”
“No offense taken, I don’t my public appearance seem very adventurous, not sure many high society folks would approve of my hobbies”. He hesitates for a moment before saying, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I do enjoy a good bit of thievery every now and then”. Edward pauses as they reach the top of the building they’re climbing, “A few minutes then we’ll be to urchin territory. Anyway as I was saying, I enjoy thieving. I don’t mean to brag, but a month or so ago, I took a few illegal street signs from The Bazaar. That’s pretty adventurous if you ask me, of course, I’m the one who did it. Anyway, I’m getting off topic, another reason is because this is no Jack, it’s permanently murdering people, I want to stop this monstrosity before it gets out of hand.”
As the two approach urchin territory, Edward gives Henchard a brief history of the urchin gang the roofs here have been claimed by, The Rod and Cannons. “They’re a group of outcasts, mainly from The Fisher Kings and The Regiment. That’s where they’re name comes from, as you may know, The Fisher Kings use fishing rods to snatch handkerchiefs from passing spite traveler, and The Regiment has cannons. I helped organize the group, a few months back, so they are a very new group.”
“Did they manage to keep any of the canons?” Henchard asks, his eyes lighting up with ideas for dealing with the shade. To which Edward replies, “Only one, which they smuggled as they were leaving The Regiment”.
As they approach the camp, whistles and shouts can be heard, and tiny figures can be seen running and climbing. When they come close enough to distinguish more details, the children seem to calm down. Then a group of three urchins approach Frye and Henchard. “‘Ello guv!” shouts one of them “Who's that chap following you?”. Edward replies “Don’t worry William, he’s a friend. Me and him are coming for George.” As Edward says the name, William visibly shudders. “Jus’ don’ let em’ get yer weasels. Ee got one of mine a week ago.” he shudders again. Edward chuckles and says “Don’t worry, I didn’t bring any of my weasels”. “Well, sorry, we can’t stay long fellows. Me and Henchard here better be going”, the urchins groan and one asks “did you not even bring the lil’ kitten?” to which Edward replies “sorry, not this time”. Then they continue towards the Urchin camp.
Only one cannon. Henchard shakes his head. It wouldn’t be right to take their only cannon, and if the shade was following them even more so. Still, the idea was tempting, even if it would only delay the shade.
Drifting in and out of thoughts, Henchard watches the stream of urchins flowing past them. No uniform, no distinguishing markings, too many people to remember. Henchard rests his hand on his knife, eyes watching each urchin as they approached. But he follows Frye through the crowd, his unease growing with every step, his impassive expression trying to mask it.
The camp is a village of makeshift tents and children. There doesn't appear to be any system for the layout, but none of urchins never seem to be lost. The members of the gang can be seen laughing and running, as well as “fishing” for handkerchiefs, and hauling crates standing guard by the entrances to The Flit. They wear rags and over half of them don’t have shoes. Most are very thin, but still seem to be in good spirits.
Edward notices Henchard’s hand on his knife, but doesn't say anything. As an attempt to distract Henchard from any unpleasant thoughts he might have, Edward suddenly brings up the topic of clay men rights, and begins to rant about how the Masters are corrupt and evil to clay men. Henchard stays silent, giving Edward an occasional nod or slight smile at agreeable points.
As they exit the camp, Edward finishes his speech and they continue toward their destination. After a few more minutes of walking, a tiny shack appears in the distance, so small it looks as though it would only fit one or two people inside. When they reach it, Edward produces a set of keys on large brass ring from one of his inside pockets. He finds the key he’s looking for, and unlocks the door. The inside turns out to just be a hole in the floor with a ladder, leading down to a much bigger abode. Henchard raises an eyebrow. As the two descend the ladder, Edward explains that this was his first home in The Neath’, but now his formerly urchin friend lives there. Once they reach the bottom, Edward calls out “George! Come here! I am in need of your assistance!”.
Suddenly, Edward feels a tap on his back and he whirls around to see a small child, standing there. He appears normal at first glance, but there is something strange about him. Henchard, still on the ladder, gestures for them to move.
The child says, “Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to startle you”, but he doesn't sound very apologetic.
Edward asks the child “No need to apologize George, how much progress have you made?”
“I’ve killed about a dozen.”
“Permanent?” Lacking in patience, Henchard flips around to the other side of the ladder, and hops down, landing with a slight stumble.
“Of course not sir, just as you asked”, but the way he says it indicates that he very much wished it could have been permanent. Edward turns to Henchard and explains “The killings we are referring to, are the deaths of the Neddy Men rampaging in Spite. It’s quite awful, they take so much from people who already have so little. Anyway back on topic”, he turns back to George and says “I have a new job for you though, have heard of the Shade?”
To which George responds “Can’t say I have sir.”
“Well anyway, there’s a Shade creature thing that’s rampaging through London and killing people, and he has a group of hypnotized hobos who are trying to kill the group I joined who are trying to kill the Shade. What I want you to do, is track down those hobos, and do what you can with them”. George looks confused for a moment, as he takes in all the information, then smiles at the prospect of killing things and nods, “yes sir, I will go immediately.”
“Good, also remember, do NOT kill anyone who is not a hobo. Specifically do not kill a very tall woman with a harpoon, and a shorter woman with red hair, those are the ones tracking the hobos right? Well anyway just don’t kill anyone who isn’t acting like an evil possessed hobo. Good, we must be going now, so farewell George!” And with that they the descend a different ladder that leads to the streets of spite.
“Who was that?” Henchard asks the moment his foot touches the ground.
“He was an urchin of The Regiment, but he was quite troublesome, so as soon as I became a trickster they kicked him out and made him come with me. When I became a conjurer, some quite strange things happened to him, but he’s quite effective at killing neddy men.”
Henchard hesitates a moment, “I hope he doesn’t attract more attention to us.” A nice, neutral statement. “Oh I don’t think he will. Only a few people know his connection to me, and those who do are in no position to contact any authorities” Edward replies. The two continue to chat on their way to the designated Bazaar side street, with mainly Edward speaking and Henchard listening, which tends to be the way things are with Edward.
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My profile, http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Edward~Frye
Edward Frye's Appearance http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=7
My alt http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Ulysses~Beechworth
My Mr. Eaten profile http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Laurens~Haymore
Edward Frye is currently open to pretty much any social options except loitering.
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Mr. Hamilton
Posts: 80
12/15/2017
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(OOC: I’ve been forgetting to check this recently and I didn’t notice the post about responding in 24 hours. I was wondering if I was early
enough to join in in writing the last post or not.)
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I am open to any calling cards and most other social events.
My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany
My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336
My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton
My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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