JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
12/25/2017
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PROLOGUE: OUR LIGHT
The Enlightened Captain marches briskly through the glittering crystal corridors of the Grand Geode. As she passes, the bright-eyed Marines in their pristine uniforms salute her sharply and then go back to their duties of shifting boxes of supplies or practising drills, singing hymns of work and Light. She nods approvingly. In the Captain’s experience, an efficient soldier is a happy soldier. The Work progresses admirably, but there is always more to be done.
Today, she has a pressing engagement with the Commodore. The guards at the door to his office salute at her approach and allow her to enter, staring fixedly at the wall. The Commodore’s office overlooks the sparkling interior cliff, illuminated with a wide window. The bright light from within the Geode reminds the Enlightened Captain of – HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T – nothing of consequence. All is well. The Machine has made sure of that.
At her entrance, the Commodore looks up from the paperwork on his desk and gives her a beatific smile. He is handsome, open-faced, as impeccably dressed as anyone in Zelo’s Town.
“Ah, Captain. Come in. Our Light has brought me news. A long-awaited sequence is to be enacted. Do you recall the young gentleman who visited us not long ago? He is returning with the components for the device we discussed. Ample supplies, a source of gant, a collection of terrible secrets, and some fine youths and maidens to join our cause.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Good indeed, Captain. Please make the necessary arrangements. It may be some days yet, but this sequence should prove most pleasing to our Light. It yearns to spread its Law, to create progress without change. The conflagration of Light we spied from London months ago has emboldened it. I fear the young inventor and his crew do not fully comprehend the ramifications of the Work. In time, they will thank us.”
***
Gideon Stormstrider, renowned mad inventor, is working on his zubmarine. His brow furrows with concentration beneath his welding mask as he seals two hull plates together with an electrode. Striking the arc is the most difficult part of arc welding – after that, it is merely a matter of passing the melting electrode across the join at the proper angle with very, very steady hands. Under his mask and thick leather gloves, Gideon sweats profusely. The space of the warehouse is close and stifling from the heat of the coal-fired generator and the welding itself.
There – done. Gideon switches off the power supply and surveys his handiwork, flipping up the metal mask to reveal a big grin on his clean-shaven, youthful face. The Gnarled Engineer, leaning against the nearby wall with arms crossed, says “Let me see how much of a hash you’ve made of this one.” She pries the electrode from Gideon and peers at the weld. Her leathery face contorts into a frown, deepening her wrinkles. “You see what you’ve done here, don’t you?”
Gideon thinks. “Made a hash of it?”
“You’re d__n right you have. Look at this join. There’s a gap the size of a half-crown here. You know what that’ll do when you dive? You’ll be taking on water before you can say ‘poor life decisions’. How in Hell did you manage to get this thing to Low Barnet and back in the first place?”
“I… had help,” says Gideon reluctantly.
“I should b____y hope so. You may be a polymath and all the rest, but you’re a lousy welder.” She holds out her hands expectantly and Gideon gives her the mask and gloves. “Watch, and maybe you’ll learn something this time.”
A few hours later, the hull is finally welded to the Engineer’s satisfaction. “The sheet metal could very well still scrunch up like a piece of paper if you go too deep, but those welds will probably outlive the zub itself,” she says with a smirk. “I can see why you wanted me along on this d__n fool voyage – God knows what you’d do without me.”
Gideon nods sagely at the Gnarled Engineer’s wisdom. She has certainly proved to be quite the character, just as all the zailors told him, but you can afford to be brusque when you’re the best in the business.
He looks up at the zubmarine – it is a slender thing, steel-plated, studded with thick portholes. It could probably fit a dozen people if they didn’t mind their ribs getting closely acquainted with each other’s elbows. An engraved brass plaque on the stern bears the name Hippocampus. “We’d best get this thing covered up and loaded onto the ship, then. The other passengers will be arriving soon.”
***
At the stroke of midnight, a rather large shipping crate makes its rumbling way across the Wolfstack Docks on rollers, shepherded by a team of burly zailors. Those who are awake to watch its progress are unaware of its true contents, or have been bribed enough to turn a blind eye to the most obvious smuggling operation in all of London.
Inside the crate, Gideon sits at the helm of the zubmarine. In the dark it feels oddly like the depths of the zee. The zailors told him it wasn’t necessary to travel inside the zub, but nowadays he seems to have an enemy around every corner. Better safe than sorry.
At length, the crate is stopped on the dockside. With a lurch Gideon finds himself lifted up into the air by a crane. He holds onto his seat – and his dinner – as the crane swings across to the deck of the good ship Inexplicable and deposits the zub a little harder than necessary.
Gideon slips his suit jacket on and opens the hatch on the roof of the zub, which is hidden underneath a larger hatch at the top of the shipping container. With a dramatic flourish, he emerges from the top of the crate only to find that absolutely nobody is looking in his direction. “You’re no fun,” he says to a pair of zailors carrying a heavy, ornate Egyptian casket of mysterious provenance. The tattooed men shake their heads and go about their business.
The Inexplicable is a large vessel, originally built to carry cargo but now retrofitted for passengers and for Gideon’s own special requirements. The paperwork for the ship is somewhat sketchy, but Gideon most likely purchased it with some of his endless supply of coupons. The passenger accommodation is surprisingly acceptable, all things considered. There is even a large dining room with copious supplies of truly atrocious port.
Gideon strolls about the main deck, nodding to passing zailors. The crew are reputable – for the most part – and he has managed to curtail the worst of the spitting. After his cursory inspections he finds everything to be shipshape, although what other shape a ship could be is a mystery.
Gideon makes his way down to the stern of the ship. Slouching against a pile of wooden crates, Gregory Henchard gives him a nod. The former soldier tugs at his sleeve as if it fits too tightly. They made their acquaintance under pressing circumstances during the Shade business, but he seems awfully familiar of late. How did he get on board, anyway? Act as if you belong and nobody will question you, I suppose. Can’t fault the man for being early.
Gideon settles onto a box of life-rings and waits for his guests to arrive. A week ago, he sent a letter to an eclectic collection of scholars, mercenaries and adventurers of his acquaintance. The missive detailed his plans for a grand voyage across the Unterzee to the Chelonate, the Gant Pole, the Grand Geode and through the Cumaean Canal to the Surface itself.
What would you risk, it read, for another glimpse of sunlight?
***
(A Tale of Two Suns will be a lengthy RP about a singular voyage to obtain a Law that can allow even the Neathiest person to stand once again on the Surface without harm. It’s been in the works for a few months so we won’t be accepting any more people, unfortunately – the Inexplicable is quite full already.
Other threads that may provide further context include “The Hunt is On – To Catch A Shade”, “A Squid in the Polls” and “Meeting Your Maker”.)
edited by JimmyTMalice on 12/25/2017
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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
12/29/2017
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The Intrepid Scholar hadn't learned her lesson after her misadventures aboard the Reck, had she? No, she saw that her acquaintance Gideon was setting of on some sort of expedition and signed up as soon as she could. Her research at the University hadn't been going so well since the mysterious death of her lab assistant, and maybe a little time away from it all is just what she needs.
She'd already sent her things on ahead- scientific apparatus, an assortment of fine hats, etcetera- and was walking down to the docks, humming cheerfully. As Florence passed one of the streetside bar brawls that were a local attraction, she clutched the Unflippable Umbrella in her hand a bit tighter. It was a souvenir of the fight with the Shade, and it had served her well since then, too. A drunk lunged towards her; she bopped him over the head with it and he toppled.
Actually, now that she was almost here, there was one feature of the Umbrella that she'd wanted to test out....
Florence unfolded the umbrella, raised it aloft, and gave an experimental little hop. She floated into the air, borne aloft by the violently pink Umbrella. A bit of lace trailed after it as she bobbed through the air towards the zubmarine.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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phryne
Posts: 1351
12/27/2017
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PROLOGUE: AND ALL SHALL BE (IN THE) WELL
On a particularly cold and foggy night, the witch left her home. Barefoot, no less. No one but a few cats noticed her and they knew enough to steer clear. They knew where she was going, too. After all, the witch hardly ever left the warm, cozy house in Elderwick, stacked top-to-bottom with books, except sometimes on nights like these.
She was going to Charley Square, of course, to spend another night in the old well.
Down in the well, the witch went through the by now familiar ritual: after lighting seven Mourning Candles in a circle around her - while murmuring a powerful Elder Continent chant to make sure they wouldn't go out - she emptied a glass full of human teeth into the water: an offering for the Drowned Man, that he would leave her in peace. Finally, she pulled a small flask from somewhere beneath her already sodden black rags and took a sniff from the powder within: pulverized Fluke-spine from Aigul. Her vision already blurring, then darkening, she leaned back and steadied her breathing, going through an old hunters' prayer from Godfall in her mind - not a part of the ritual, but she found the ever-repeating litany calmed her and helped her concentrate.
Down in the well, the witch dreamed.
[spoiler]
The witch dreamed, but her dreams were memories. The memories of those who had given of themselves to Aigul. In this case, a ruthless traveller who had followed Salt: one who had found their Destiny way East, past the Deconstruction...
As usual, a storm of images engulfed her at first, threatening to drown any sense of herself. Someone less experienced in the use of this art could well be lost forever here. But the witch held on, and was soon able to focus on particular memories...
... in the Sea of Statues, underneath the waves. The traveller had made extensive studies of the workmanship, trying to pin down their origin...
... lost all their crew in cruel battle with the Constant Companion. Zailing a half-sunken wreck to Fathomking's Hold... the laughter of the Drownies...
... cosmogone spore-clouds: the Uttershroom rising before her...
... diving beneath Frostfound, the traveller had beheld a great mystery - but later lost it in the irrigo, and so it was lost to her, too...
... but now, what was this? Black stone walls, a thousand stone doors, an ancient hunger. Hooded figures gathered round the altar. No! This was no use to her!
With a huge effort, the witch redirected her dreams once again. It was nauseating. She could feel parts of herself - her Self - cry out in disgust over these intrusions, but she knew no mercy...
There was so much more. Varchas, Whither, Irem, the Iron Republic. And zailing. Endless weeks of zailing, above and beneath the waves. The traveller had thoroghly measured all four corners of the Unterzee, there could be no doubt. But where...
... nothing but the peligin waves of the Unterzee's darkest depths. Would she meet Lady Black now? No, there was something else... and then the bottom fell out of the world
The Eye! Down in the well, the witch's sleeping body twitched. Water splashed, a little. She had been right! This traveller had seen the Wound in the World. And more. They went through, to take a glimpse of Beyond.
And they took something else, too.
[/spoiler]
In the morning, the fog still clinging to buildings like it was glued there, unseen by anyone except the same old alley-mogs who'd watched her before, a very wet and cold witch made her way back to the house in Elderwick, looking forward to a long, hot bath. Not that either the damp or the cold really bothered her, but she knew better than to lie down in bed next to her partner in this shape - you didn't do that unless you were married to a deep zee creature. Which was an attractive thought, but rather unfair to Eva, so she buried it quickly.
Later at breakfast, over several mugs of steaming hot coffee, Prof. Eva May Canning was given a surprisingly exact description of what she was supposed to look for, and where to look for it. The precise means of how to procure the artefact in the event of finding it were left to her own ingeniousness, however. This suited the free-spirited social scientist who abhorred planning ahead for more than five minutes. In any event, she had another task to complete before setting off tonight, one potentially far more difficult than wrenching magical artefacts from the grasp of ancient horrors dwelling beneath the zee: convincing her daughter to join the expedition.
"Well, 'convincing' might be the wrong approach," she thought while buttering another toast and lazily losing herself in the abyssal depths of her wife's eyes. "Maybe a spot of blackmail is in order here."
Needless to say, it was only for entirely well-meaning, motherly reasons she considered blackmailing her only child to join her on a dangerous zee-voyage. In no way was she actively trying to get rid of the brat.
She had tried that once before, after all.
When their hackney driver was finally done unloading luggage onto the pier and had successfully escaped into the night; while zailors from the Inexplicable were proceeding to transfer that same luggage from the pier onto the ship, under the lazy gaze of some officers and other members of the expedition, E. L. was still not letting up.
"It's so unfair! I don't care for any stupid expeditions! I don't care for the ****ing Sun either! **** the Surface! And **** the Unterzee! You have to be mad to go out there! If you're mad, fine, go ahead, I'm not stopping you! But there's no ******* reason to drag me with you! I don't want to spend months in the company of dull ****ing zailors, dull ****ing scientists and dull ****ing natives only to end up a dull, damp, miserable Drownie! I hate you for doing this to me!"
A few zailors were sharing respectful nods and raised eyebrows with every new expletive coming from her direction. "Now that un's got fire," the Grizzled Midshipman murmured under his breath. "Reminds me of meself when I was young." "Lass was born to zail the zee, aye," replied the One-Armed Ensign with a lopsided grin. "Just don't ken it yet."
The Inexplicable hadn't left port for five minutes when E. L. was engaged in heavy flirting with at least two zailors; picking up nautical expressions and officer ranks left and right; commenting ecstatically about the force of the wind and how sensual, how perfectly sultry, the swaying of the ship on the waves felt to her; demanding to be taken up into the crow's nest; and asking excitedly when they would meet their first storm.
In their shared cabin, E. M. was calmly stowing away luggage when she suddenly remembered to take out her earplugs. She wondered how long it would be before zailors began asking to borrow them.
-------
edited by phryne on 12/27/2017
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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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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
12/25/2017
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PROLOGUE: THE DREAMING AND THE DEAD
One day, a dreamer woke up to an unfamiliar envelope with a disturbingly familiar seal. The sort of seal that'd send one rushing for a letter-opener while clutching the d_rned thing next to one's heart. A minute of emotional struggle, roaring words, watering eyes and operating the ivory tool with such shaky hands ensues.
Finally, the seal is dealt with. The possibility of somebody knowing enough of the dreamer to pick out that seal is unpleasant. The possibility of that somebody getting lucky is even worse. Abandon the thought altogether: It'll do the dreamer no good, and their nerves are already wearing thinner than strands in a spiderweb.
The letter proper unfolds. The dreamer procures their reading googles - their vision isn't nearly as good as it used to be. A voyage? They won't be able to handle a voyage. A voyage to the surface? It's impossible down in the little old Neath, isn't it? But the theories circumscribed here do make sense, if one tilts one's logic a bit. That is good enough for the little old Neath - the dreamer knows from experience, and they can't afford to miss out on a voyage like this.
Cursing abound. This is horrible. Truly horrible. They can't stand the Zee, the bobbing, the waves, the surface... Might as well go zailing inside a sarcophagus. There is, admittedly, something appealing about the whole idea. And afterwards, a sarcophagus would look pretty fetching in the corner there, between the ushabti and the black mirror. Indeed, might as well go zailing inside a sarcophagus.
In the coming days, a representative wins a surface auction, and the winnings are deposited down the Travertine Spiral. A bandaged master - only Third City, but she did once have acquaintances from the Second - and her assistants restore the ragged, dusty thing to a modicum of its former glory. There is now a sarcophagus in the corner there, between the ushabti and the black mirror. It is not nearly as fetching as hoped for.
In the meantime, the dreamer had prepared seven sets of spare clothes, two mirrors, three different knives, a collection of bottled organs, a soul in a bottle, a cello - mahogany, amber and scarabs - to entertain surface crowds, delicious rations - guaranteed to spoil in days, but those days will be well-spent - prisoner's honey.and bearable port. All in all, enough to sustain themselves both physically - however much they'd care for that - and morally - a matter of grave importance. A series of smooth sheets had been laid out inside the egyptian casket, to facilitate some degree of comfort during transportation.
The dreamer chambers into the sarcophagus, their spine pressing against linen as hired men pick up the casket alongside the other supplies. This space was not made for their withered shape, but for a muscular titan. They cannot feel the walls. The coffin is deep and dark and marvelous. Soon enough, sleep takes the dreamer away.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 12/25/2017
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
12/30/2017
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Satisfied that all the passengers have arrived – although Victoria Crow seemed disinclined towards a meet-and-greet – Gideon jumps down to the bridge to have a word with the captain, a former naval officer who once served under the Dark-Spectacled Admiral. He certainly looks the part, in a fine blue coat with brass buttons. His ruddy nose looks a little like a squashed orange. More telling is the eyepatch that covers the socket of his left eye – a relic of a disastrous campaign against the sorrow-spiders of Saviour’s Rock. His crew escaped a worse fate at the cost of one eye apiece; as a result, he became known as the Monocular Appeaser. A few members of that crew still serve under him. They are not difficult to identify.
“Hello there!” says Gideon, grinning his toothiest grin. “I trust everything is ship-shape and Blackpool fashion.”
The Monocular Appeaser frowns, puzzled. “D’you not mean Bristol fashion?”
“Ah, Bristol, Blackpool, it’s all the same. Went to Blackpool once – I hear it’s not really the same these days, since they built the tower. I do miss the English seaside. The Neath is marvellous, but sunbathing isn’t quite as enjoyable when there’s no sun and a dreadful zee-monster is waiting just off the shore to eat you. I saw that once; some nasty kraken beastie picked up a man in its tentacle and swallowed him right down. Gulp! Didn’t even touch the sides.”
“Right you are,” says the Appeaser. It seems the only appropriate response.
“Anyway, that was my summer holiday. Frightful business, but one makes do. Found an island full of man-sized snails, but the crew wouldn’t let me take one with us. That’s why I got my own ship. A wonderful crew you’ve put together too! Hearty and apple-y, the lot of them! Finer seamen and seawomen I’ve never seen!”
I can believe that, thinks the Appeaser, but he keeps it to himself. The pay is good, if odd – the deliveries from the inventor range from sacks heaving with pennies to crates of gold bullion. “I take it you’re ready to cast off, Mr Stormstrider.”
“Cast off? No, we’ll not be leaving anything behind! Your zailors just got it all loaded up. We shall cast on presently, my good man!”
The Appeaser rolls his eyes to the roof and mutters a silent prayer to Storm to deliver him from clueless landlubbers. He pulls out the speaking tube from the wall, barks an order to the stokers to get the engine fired up. When he turns around, Gideon is striding out on deck with a megaphone.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen!” booms Gideon’s amplified voice. “Let’s get those mizzens masted, keels hauled and sails flapping! Hard to starboard, cast off the lines and keep going ‘til we see the sunrise!” Apparently it has escaped his notice that such a course would send them careening straight into the dockside.
He is greeted by stunned silence from the zailors. The Appeaser steps up and, failing to keep the amusement from his voice, says “You heard the man! Get to work, ye scurvy dogs!”
The scurvy dogs get to work, and the Inexplicable eases out of its berth and down the Stolen River onto the deep, dark Unterzee.
***
That night, Gideon is rocked to sleep by the swaying of the ship. He dreams feverishly of a journey down a river of quicksilver, surrounded on both sides by unrelieved jungle. A few times he thinks he sees a blurry figure watching him from the shore, but before he can shout out the figure is gone.
At the end of the journey is a waterfall in reverse, the metallic liquid flowing upwards to rejoin the river at the top of a cliff. Pulling up his little rowboat by the edge of the waterclimb, Gideon reaches out to touch the curtain of mercury only to be swept up and away by the current.
The last thing he sees before the quicksilver engulfs him is the livid orange sun hanging low in the sky.
***
A little bell rings cheerfully in Gideon’s hand as he knocks on each passenger’s door in turn. “Up and at ‘em, sleepyheads! It’s a wonderful morning, and breakfast is on the table. There’s a big day ahead of us, and lots to discuss!”
It is eight in the morning. Bleary-eyed passengers wander from their berths in various ensembles of crumpled clothing and nightwear. Gideon, meanwhile, is well-slept and infuriatingly chipper. The zailors, who have been up since six, cast a jaundiced eye over the procession.
The long varnished wooden table in the dining room is set with enough places for all the guests, both invited and uninvited. As they take their places, zailors bring in plates stacked with bacon, sausages, eggs and beans (or the closest fungal equivalents). Squidley Johnson, who collapsed at the table after his escapades last night, devours the meal with gusto upon being prodded awake. His table manners are not gentlemanly.
One chair is occupied by a large mirror with an ornate gold-leaf frame. Occasionally, something can be seen stirring in the reflection.
When everyone is assembled, Gideon taps his glass of water with a fork. He speaks after the ringing has stopped and the conversation has quieted. “Friends! Acquaintances! Thank you all for joining us on this momentous voyage. It’s quite a promise I made you – to walk on the Surface again, to feel the Sun’s rays on your skin – and I’m sure you’re all wondering how such a thing is possible.”
Squidley looks up from his disaster site of a plate and gurgles in agreement.
“I’ll spare you the details of Judgemental Law – I’m not sure I fully understand it, anyway – but the gist is that the Sun’s light is Law, and it doesn’t approve of what goes on in the Neath. Once you’ve spent too long in the Neath, you can’t go to the Surface again, or you’ll be struck down by that Law – especially if you’ve experienced a temporary death.
“But I’ve found a way to protect us from that Law, at least for a short time, using another Law. This Law comes from a contrivance that I believe to be responsible for the sadly reduced state of the Royal Navy in recent years – the Dawn Machine.”
A mutter of consternation passes around the table.
“Some of you may have heard of the exploits of the servants of the Dawn Machine, the so-called New Sequence. I don’t trust them further than I can throw them, but for this endeavour they may be our only option. They can manufacture a Law that will protect us, and unless any of you have heard of another artificial Judgement down here, we have no other choice but to throw ourselves on their mercy.”
Gideon runs his hand through his unruly hair with a worried look. “I understand if you want no part in this after what you’ve learned. I would have told you in my letter, but I had to be sure that we were beyond the reach of the Ministry of Public Decency. If such a letter were intercepted, it could be the end for every one of us. If you want to leave, there’s still time – we can flag down a passing ship and negotiate your passage back to London. But if you stay, our first stop is in the far reaches of the Unterzee. We need a hugely concentrated source of gant for Dawn’s Law, and to that end, we’re travelling to the Gant Pole.”
The inventor braces for laughter. The Gant Pole is a myth at best, and a wind-up for new zee-captains at worst. But his sources are reputable. Hopefully. God, I certainly hope it's real. It would be terribly embarrassing if it really was an elaborate practical joke.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 12/30/2017
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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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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
1/6/2018
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Gideon sits and lets the lively debate wash over him. It reminds him of the old days at the University with the Delvers. What an adventure that was!
You remember what became of them, do you not? says a distant Voice. Arnold and Anna, trapped in this wretched head of yours with me. The others, burnt alive in the fire. Do you think they cursed your name when the flames lashed at their skin, crisped their flesh, boiled their fat? Did they thank you for the adventure when there was nothing left but charred bones?
He tries to ignore the vitriol, but the words wedge in his mind and refuse to be dislodged. The Voice falls smugly silent, its work done. Gideon picks up some more bacon from the middle of the table with a fork, skewering it harder than strictly necessary.
The sudden emergence of Amets is welcome; their sojourns into the Real have been lamentably brief in recent months, but they requested that a mirror be placed at the meeting table and Gideon was happy to oblige. He is still not sure what to make of them, ambiguous as their every feature is. A Fingerking wearing a human body like a suit, or something yet stranger?
The answer surely lies on the shores of dream, he thinks, and snatches of last night’s vision drift back to him. Peculiar dreams are hardly unusual in the Neath, but this one felt more real somehow. Had the eidolon been watching him from the banks of the river?
Gideon glances at Squidley with paternal fondness. The Rubbery has come far since they first met. After much encouragement by the inventor, Squidley has taken steps towards behaving like a proper gentleman. His table manners need some work, but the foghorn-like honking is now restrained in polite company and he plays a mean game of charades. Nobody is currently trying to drag the Rubbery into a corner and murder him – always pleasant – and one of the Cannings has even engaged him in conversation. Who knew that you could pronounce three ‘p’s in a row with such… phlegm?
Henchard’s spirited defence of Gideon would almost be heart-warming if he knew where it had all come from. The man always seemed so detached when they were hunting the Shade. He was all business, all the time – Gideon never did find out whether his name was Gregory or David – and now he came out with this! This newfound loyalty is almost certainly misplaced, but he appreciates it all the same. It’ll be good to have someone competent to watch my back. Even if he expects to be paid afterwards.
Gideon chats along for a while, making the appropriate noises, acting the part of the consummate host. The questions raised by the passengers are understandable, but he gives them some time to settle down and fill up on bacon and coffee before speaking up.
“I assure you, my friends, the Gant Pole is more than mere myth!” he says. “Some months ago I visited an old sapphire-processing plant in Port Carnelian where I met a Fierce Philanthropist, an expert in all matters zubmersible. She runs an enterprise – not strictly legal, but we’re all friends here – constructing zubmarines, and she stays in touch with a number of enterprising zubmariners. As well as the plans for my own zub, she also told me about a captain who caught a sighting of the very place we are heading to now: the Gant Pole. The captain never docked there himself – apparently his zub was attacked by a giant eel before he got close – but he was able to catch a glimpse of the place. A great stone heart on the zee floor, surrounded by carrion – enough dying zee-beasts to feed a city.”
He flashes a smile. “After hearing this, I was immediately struck by inspiration. As you said, Ms Dynamo, the Gant Pole is in the vicinity of the Chelonate – I heard the same thing from my good friend the Philanthropist. Our first stop on the journey will be there. To get to the Gant Pole itself, we’ll need to use my zubmarine, which is secreted aboard this very vessel. But the inky depths of the zee are no easy task to navigate, even if we knew the location of the Gant Pole – so I came up with this.”
On cue, a zailor wheels a large rectangular object covered by a red cloth into the room. With a flourish, Gideon whips off the cloth to reveal a glass tank of water – and in it, a very ill-looking man-sized zee-crab. Its glowing antennae twitch unnervingly as it presses itself against the glass wall. Squidley lets out a low, mournful trill.
“The Gant Pole draws dying zee-creatures towards it inexorably, like the pull of a great magnet. I found this crab at an auction – apparently it belonged to an old zee-captain who kept it in this tank for years. The poor thing is close to its end now, so I shall release it into the zee once we depart in the zubmarine – and it will lead our way to the Gant Pole.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 1/6/2018
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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
1/11/2018
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It seemed quite impossible, but E.M.'s eyebrows managed to rise ever higher and higher during Dirae's lecture and Emma's subsequent outburst.
"Well," she said more than once during the altercation. "Well, well, well." She seemed about to go on like this, then thought better of it.
"To answer your question, sir, no, I haven't read your... publication, though my wife might have. But thank you for sharing all this enlightening information. I presume you must've spent many years of your life researching these matters; maybe you have even lived among the prawnies and unprawnies on the zee-floor studying their customs. Why, I cannot imagine how else you would've been able to accumulate such a wealth of data. Certainly, I think I can speak for almost" - here she winked at Emma - "everyone gathered here when I say that the effort it must've cost you to compile such a veritable cornucopia of learning is much applauded and appreciated. You, sir, are a paragon of sub-submarine biology."
All this she said earnestly and sincerely, with more than a little pathos in her voice. But her eyes were shooting sparks of mirth in all directions, and when she took a sip of coffee afterwards, most observers probably noticed how hard she had to work to keep from laughing out loud.
Meanwhile, E.L. was trying to think of a good excuse to leave the table. This breakfast seemed to go on forever.
edited by phryne on 1/11/2018
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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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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
1/9/2018
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The Chelonate! Madison's eyes shine avidly at Emma's suggestion, and Gideon's affirmation. It took all of her effort (and a strip of bacon) not to shout about her ancestral roots to that place; she had never been there herself, and would likely be less helpful than strangers might've assumed from such an eager reaction. That is, of course, if they're taking much longer than a brief stop to resupply. Given its malodorous nature the others might be keen to depart as quickly as possible, having little other reason but curiosity to stay. A new distraction wheels into view before she gets a chance to speak - an old, pitiable crab. Could Madison read sorrow within its eyes, pain in the joints of its claws, ceaseless regret over opportunities lost?
No. It's a crab.
Madison returns her focus on important matters. She could expect at least a quick glance around the port and its various wares, if nothing else. At most, time enough for a good round of sightseeing. She thinks to ask for a more definite time frame when it occurs to her that the nature of their compass might be the limiting factor, even more so than curiosity's allure or the overwhelming reek. In that case, she might as well know the identity of the arbiter of her destiny. "Does it have a name?"
--
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
12/29/2017
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Gideon’s arms are beginning to get tired from all the hand-shaking. Still, he continues to beam as he welcomes his numerous friends and acquaintances on board – he can’t say he recalls inviting all of them, but his memory has been known to be faulty on occasion.
During a momentary pause in the flow of guests, zailors and hat-boxes, he heads below to check on Squidley. The poor fellow can be terribly anxious when meeting new people. The fewer passengers under the impression that he is a zee-monster come to devour them in their sleep, the better.
Gideon takes the companionway to avoid traffic. The Inexplicable rocks gently as he descends the ladder into its bowels. Muffled conversations drift into his ears – it seems the passengers have found their rooms.
He peeks into Squidley’s room at the end of a long corridor. A small tide flows out as he spins the wheel and opens the heavy metal door – the room is filled to ankle-height with brackish water. Caustics flicker on the walls, illuminated by nothing in particular. A wicker basket on the night-table is filled with gently glowing amber. But there is no sign of Squidley. Gideon shakes the worst of the damp out of his shoes, as well as a friendly starfish, and shuts the door with a clang.
From downstairs comes a sound like a drain being unblocked, followed by a throaty chuckle. Gideon creeps down the metal stairs and sticks his head into the kitchen. There, he sees a terrible sight.
“Otharooth!” warbles Squidley Johnson, erstwhile Rubbery Mayoral candidate. His greenish face-tentacles wave languidly, and he appears to be frothing a little at the mouth. His normally impeccable suit is crumpled, and his tie is askew. He chugs something from a brown bottle and passes it along to Antonios Methodos. From his flushed face, the man also seems to be enjoying himself quite a bit, although he is not flailing his arms about quite as much as the thoroughly sozzled Squidley. The Moustachioed Cook is cowering under a counter with a saucepan on his head for protection against the peanut shells being flung every which way as Squidley cracks them open for nourishment.
Gideon takes in the scene, nods to the pair, and promptly leaves before any missiles are flung his way.
Back on deck, the preparations for departure are almost complete. The hat-boxes have found their homes, and now the zailors are strapping the cargo down with ropes to prevent it shifting about under the sway of the waves. As Gideon told his friends when they arrived, they will be expected for breakfast at the appropriate hour to discuss the plans for the voyage once the ship is underway. Hopefully those two don’t go through the entire larder before we’ve set sail.
There are only a few more passengers to arrive now. Gideon checks his watch – it is almost one in the morning now. Where could they be?
Surprised shouts reach him at his position near the main gangplank. He looks up to find a most peculiar vision: Florence Garrison, drifting in the air towards the ship underneath the offensively pink Unflippable Umbrella.
Huh, he thinks. I don’t remember adding that feature.
Florence floats above the deck gaily, like a bespectacled dirigible. Everyone else seems too preoccupied with the spectacle, pointing and staring, to notice the obvious problem. In a flash, Gideon notices that she appears to be heading straight for the open zee rather than landing on the ship. Unsurprising, given the lack of manoeuvring flaps on the Umbrella. I suppose it’s up to me, then.
Gideon scrambles up the ladder to the roof of the bridge – the only place with enough altitude. Florence drifts along under the Umbrella, seemingly unconcerned by the imminent peril. She is about ten feet above the roof as she floats over it. Her layers of voluminous skirts billow in the wind, and Gideon averts his eyes. He is a married man, after all.
“Jump!” he shouts upwards. Florence looks down in alarm to see Gideon with his arms outstretched to catch her. Then she looks back up, then down again in surprise. Reluctantly, she lets go of the Umbrella before it carries her off to become a tale told by only the most unreliable zailors. The Incredible Flying Scientist! Saw her, I did, right off the port bow!
The Umbrella, freed of the weight, soars into the air towards the Neath-Roof and the twinkling light of the false-stars, never to be seen again.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance, Ms Garrison,” 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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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
12/30/2017
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Dreamside, an eidolon stares deeply into a gold-leafed mirror-frame, and the dinner room filled with groggy shapes and the man who sent them that invitation . He was finishing up his explanation of the principles involved. It all seemed that much more absurd when heard in person - might have something to do with the cadence of his voice, or his jolly manner, or how both descended into anxiety as he talked of the Pole and the Sequence - but it's hard to give a response when you are on different sides of the mirror.
The eidolon, presently, only had suspicions as to how They were able to occupy reflections. This was as good a time as any, they figured, to put those suspicions to the test. Their top hat dives into the frame and disappears from sight. That's a good sign. Now, the eidolon gets on all fours and crawls though the empty frame themselves.
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In the world of the Is, ripples spread over the gold-leafed mirror, as if a series of rocks were cast into a still pond or a well.
---
The first thing that greets them is the uncomfortable sensation of falling and the pain of crushing into the solidly-built wooden table. Both the eidolon and their hat are now lying on the reflection-floor, looking up at the reflection-sky. The room doesn't have a roof - where the walls end the night sky begins. There is no moon tonight - tonight? - but a few constellations of stars have made themselves known. Grapevines descend from the table.
The eidolon picks themselves - and the top hat, too - up, and takes a glance into the mirror, into the Is. Gideon has finished his monologue. Somebody is staring intently. The eidolon quickly takes care of a few loose locks of hair, puts the top hat on, brushes nonexistent dust off their dress, and sits down right on the table, ripping off some dream-fruit or another to nibble on in stead of the breakfast the rest of the crew are partaking in.
---
The reflection in the gold-leafed mirror stirs and turns, rearranges and uncoils, restructures and changes. The table in the mirror is covered in foliage and, more notably, a new figure has appeared in the reflection. That figure speaks up before somebody can vocally question the absurdity of this whole situation.
"I suppose I should introduce myself, since I haven't had the chance to meet most of you. Extenuating circumstances, you understand- Yes, my name is Amets Estibariz. Glad to make your acquaintance." The figure takes a moment to calibrate their position on the table, and procure a shortcut back to a more comfortable topic than themselves. "Getting back to the reason we're all here, Gideon: I approve of your plan, I truly do - and I would never dare go against the will of our troupe's leader and mastermind - but ignoring the plausibility of its existence, its location remains an absolute mystery for the good people of London and beyond. I am not a Zailor - the Zee is bad for my health - but I know that there had been enough generations of Zailors and Zubmariners to confirm without a shadow of a doubt that we cannot just stumble into the mythical Gant Pole.
Thusly, I ask: How will you lead us there?"
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 1/18/2018
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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phryne
Posts: 1351
12/30/2017
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The Cannings, both of them not early risers by habit, were among the last to arrive at breakfast. E. M. had no idea where her daughter had spent the night - definitely not in her own bed in their shared cabin - but that was none of her business. The girl was all grown up, after all, and could do whatever she liked. She gave a distracted nod to the assembled and noticed that no one was sitting near the poor Rubbery man. This immediately got her riled up. So much prejudice, even among a group of so-called visionaries and adventurers? Pfah. Hence, she made a point of sitting down to Squidley's right, and even attempted some small talk with him. She wasn't fluent in the Rubbery language, of course, but really: if you lived down here for a while, it wasn't asking too much to learn a few basic wurbles, was it?
"Threrrithroppp?" she asked with a smile, quite proud of her exact pronunciation of the triple bilabial stop.
"Othatharoooth!!" was the enthusiastic answer.
This went on for a while. E. M. only half-listened to Gideon's monologue, her attention fully occupied between breakfast and wurbling, and not mixing those two up - the result of which would have been unpleasant for the people sitting opposite her.
She applauded the masked person's painting - how nice, to have an artist on board! - and was only slightly discombobulated by the arrival of Amets Estibariz. There had been a mirror at the table, after all, and this was the Neath. She did perk up at their name, though. Basque, how curious. This, of course, got her thinking about Jackie and the fact that she wouldn't be seeing her beloved wife for so many weeks, maybe months, to come. But she refused to give in to melancholy this early in the journey and forced herself to keep following the conversation.
~~~~~~~
Sitting to Squidley's left, E. L. meticulously observed the dynamics developing in the mess hall. The fact that her mother trusted her to be her eyes and ears on this journey made her proud, even if she would never tell her so.
She made some conversation with the Misses Crowe and Lavery, who were about her age; but both seemed rather preoccupied and she was careful not to press them.
She quickly developed a deep mistrust for the jovial Mr Methodios - there seemed to be no particular reason for his presence on this journey. And why would he bring his teenage daughter along? The girl seemed airheaded, but that didn't have to mean anything - it was a guise she used often enough herself. She didn't miss that Persephone was paying close attention to Miss Dynamo, and that she gave some rather clumsy finger signals in her father's direction at one point. There were secrets here, she had no doubt.
The person-in-the-mirror occupied the seat next to her, which she found rather unnerving, but was careful not to show. A Fingerking on the left, and a Rubbery on the right. Thanks, mom, for bringing me along. Though she couldn't help but smile at the thought.
-------
edited by phryne on 12/30/2017
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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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John Moose
Posts: 276
12/25/2017
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PROLOGUE: SOMETHING FISHY
In Schabelport a beggar, covered in sharkskin clothes and rising up to nearly shoulder height when sitting cross-legged, is being avoided by the locals. Beggars in themselves aren’t overly rare nor despised in the Chelonate. However, something is keeping the man’s black ivory bowl empty, and making an occasional passerby spit in his direction.
He is covered head to toe in worn, musty clothes. It is, incidentally, a ‘he’, although this would be hard to know, from the lengths to which he’s gone to hide every bit of exposed skin. A tall jacket of tanned sharkskin covers most of him, and the rest is hidden by a wide-brimmed hat and a multitude of scarves, shawls and other strips of cloth and leather. His hands and feet are covered in wrappings of cloth, the man having failed to find shoes or gloves that would fit. From what can be guessed at, his shoulders are broad, his stomach is bulging, and his limbs are long and lean. He is, also, nearly as tall as a clay man, a fact which he tries to hide with his hunched-over sitting pose. His breathing is deep, heavy, and laborious. His eyes remain downcast, avoiding those of the passersby, not raising in the slightest even when being spat on.
Besides his beggar’s bowl is a sign, text scratched on a piece of leather strung between two sharp sticks of bone. It says, “WILL WORK FOR PASSAGE. PREF LONDON. NO QUESTIONS PLEASE.”
He has been sitting here for weeks. No coins in the bowl, no offers.
Ted really, really misses home.
edited by John Moose on 12/25/2017
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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
12/26/2017
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PROLOGUE: HERITAGE AND FAREWELLS
Madison reclines uneasily upon the couch, the scheduled hour too near for distraction, yet not enough to depart. Her luggage rests beside her; her home tidied in preparation for an uncertain period of absence. Instead she skims through Gideon Stormstrider's letter again, the one a scholarly friend of her mother's had received in the post and decided to pass onwards, rightfully surmising it'd be of interest. Both parents agreed that as an opportunity it was too good to pass up, despite the risks.
She folds the letter back up, placing it upon the end table, atop a novel she had just finished reading nearly an hour ago. Will the Sun in reality be as wondrous as it was described in fiction? Madison can hardly imagine a sky so light and blue, light shining down from above rather than reaching futilely upwards towards the impossible roof, dying long before it can embrace the false-stars.
* * * (a night prior) * * *
The frigid air coils around a young woman and her docile marsh-wolf, prompting her to draw her blue winter coat more tightly to herself, the warmth of her lodgings fresh in her memories. Over her shoulder rests a light pack - all the supplies to set Marlo up in his temporary home during the trip. Anticipation wells up inside of her, unannounced; she bats it back down.
Time carries her to her parents' home swiftly, Neathmas decorations still on prominent display, emitting a cheery air to soothe lingering unease. Madison barely has time to knock before the door opens to reveal an enthusiastic woman donning a thick white dress, her long dark hair bound in a tight braid. Her feminine attire appears to only accentuate her adventurous upbringing, adding just the slightest veneer of elegance to a wild and predatory soul. "There you are! Come in, come in!" her mother loudly exclaims, gently pulling at her sleeve. "Oh, and I'll take that, too."
"Good evening, mother," Madison steps into her old home as her mother removes the bag, looking around for her father as she subconsciously edges towards the fireplace. Marlo barely manages to slip inside before the door closes, having been distracted by a low-flying bat. He covertly settles onto the sofa while everyone is too preoccupied to shoo him off. "Is Father in his study?"
"Charles is off for the moment - out of coffee. Should be back soon. Si- OFF!" Marlo scampers away, deeper into the house. Madison's mother clears her voice. "Sit down; I have something for you."
Madison takes her seat on the part of the couch that wasn't recently occupied by a damp canine as her mother carefully retrieves a scroll of peculiar leather clearly older than the both of them combined, bound in a yellowed spider-silk ribbon. As she draws closers with the offering a hint of a malodorous waft follows, causing Madison's brows to furrow in confusion as she takes it into her hands. "This," her mother gestures, "is my old map, from when I left the Chelonate. Old, but should prove a helpful guideline. Your captain should have a more recent copy available, I'm sure, but take it along just in case."
Madison unwinds the leather carefully, the stench growing exponentially more potent as she reveals its contents, illustrated in a mix of black and rust colors. Madison wrinkles her nose; her mother sighs nostalgically. "Bring back some tales, won't you? I miss them terribly."
"Will do." Madison rolls the map back up, setting it aside as her mother begins a rigorous investigation regarding her luggage for the trip. Midway through a key unlocks the front door, signaling the arrival of a slim, bespectacled fellow in a modest suit tailored more for comfort than fashion. To most he would seem indistinct, with few memorable features; to Madison he was family. He pauses his trek to the kitchen upon sighting her daughter, groceries in hand. "Madison! Good evening! Last time we'll see each other for a while, eh? Excited?" He outwardly smiles, but his smile doesn't meet his eyes.
"It's still sinking in, honestly." Madison admits, "Hard to believe I'll be off so soon."
Her father nods once in agreement before disappearing into the kitchen, his booming voice continuing onwards. "I must say, I'm still unsure about this 'Gideon' fellow. Seems a bit..." his voice trails off, torn between voicing his concerns explicitly and not wanting to worry his daughter. "Just be careful, won't you?"
"Yes, Father."
He returns from the kitchen, finally removing his coat. "Did you want to stay for a cup of coffee, before you head back out?"
"Oh, yes! That'd be great," Madison exclaims, pleased to put off her departure back into the cold. Her mother hums in memory, removing Marlo's belongings from the pack. She chuckles at the sight of his favourite toy: a tooth-worn stuffed bat.
Moments later Madison sits, steaming coffee mug in hand, staring wordlessly into the roaring fireplace as her parents' conversation wafts over her. Marlo, finally back from his retreat, sits upon the rug beside her, head resting upon her lap; she pats his head fondly. Her father's voice suddenly calls out to her, capturing her attention, before he changes his mind. "You remembered to pack medical supplies, correct?"
Madison barely has time to nod before her mother pipes up. "Indeed she did! First thing I asked."
"The first thing you asked was what weapons I was bringing along," Madison laughs, "It was the second thing you asked."
She makes a face of mock offense; it gives way to a smile near instantly. "Close enough."
Charles nods, takes a look at his empty coffee mug, and sets it aside, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry I can't be more helpful - this sort of thing is outside my life experience."
"My own zailing adventures are divergent enough to potentially cause issues." Madison's mother shrugs. "You'll be fine. I have full faith in that." She places a hand fondly on Madison's shoulder.
"Thanks - it's gonna be wild, I've no doubt about that." Madison chuckles, and looks down at her own empty mug. She stands up, pushing herself to move on. "I should probably get going - get some rest, make sure I've organized everything I'm bringing."
"Yes, yes. It was lovely having you over; bring back some souvenirs, alright?" Charles pulls his daughter into an embrace. "I love you, dear. Safe travels."
Madison's mother joins the embrace, squeezing the pair of them in an uncomfortably tight hold. "Love you too, of course. See the sights, have some fun," she sings, tousles Madison's short dark hair. "Stride boldly into the unknown."
* * *
She glances at her watch - thirty minutes to midnight. Time to go. Madison gathers her belongings, and departs into the night.
--
edited by Sara Hysaro on 1/9/2018
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
12/26/2017
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An overloaded carriage groans to a stop at the dock, before unloading equal measure men and luggage. As they swarm upon the Inexplicable, two figures watch over ant-like force. One is Evensong, who has left behind her monochromatic fashion sense for a plaid traveling dress, a grey waxed canvas cape, and simple black bonnet with roses embroidered on it. Despite the sudden splashes of color, they did not look much different from any other dark-haired, blue-eyed women on the streets of London.
They were being lovingly crushed in an one-armed embrace from the other figure – Dirae Erinyes - a towering figure dressed in a vibrant green tweed suit, a waxed canvas cape with a sunrise painted on it, a neatly waxed iron-sided top hat, and a repurposed mask from the Feast of the Rose. Their size, stiff gait, and fashion sense meant they could be mistaken for no one else.
Evensong’s body tenses off when one of the porters stumbles, carrying a stack of hatboxes. They right themselves, before the whole stack toppled to the ground.
“Relax, it’s our honeymoon.” Dirae Erinyes softly coos to them. “Thanks to Gideon, we finally get to relive being newlyweds again.” As Evensong’s eyes continue to follow that porter, Dirae Erinyes continues to sooth her. “You are supposed to be enjoying your vacation from work.” Their tone drops even lower. “. . . and to enjoy a taste of what I’m working towards.”
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/26/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/26/2017
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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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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
12/27/2017
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With a gasp, he fell to the floor, sending the box tumbling down next to him. Flames licked at his feet as he crawled towards the box. Just...one more. He smiled as he grasped the lid. At long last, the light was once again in his palms. No more darkness. No more. His skin tingled with excitement even as it melted away. With a cheer he pried open the lid, eyes hungrily gazing at his prize. When the light shone upon him, he screamed not, as his skin burned to ash, his bones and marrow liquefying under the judgemental light. He simply smiled and laughed till his vocal cords melted, and relished in the sunlight, staring at it fondly until his eyes boiled and burnt away.
And that was that. A macabre tale of addiction and sunshine, a long forgotten desire. A lovely story that will surely be loved by his Appreciation Society. In a minute, the manuscripts were bound, sealed, and sent by bat to his assistant, so to speak. They will see through its publication.
Reinol von Lorica, the Sentimental Writer, sighed as he rubbed his eyes. Here, in his Suite, it was surprisingly quiet, though the mirrors seemed...restless. Reinol cracked his knuckles and left his chair. There was something else in his mind. Something greater than the artistic movements of London. The Surface, his long forgotten home. The sun, the sky. Soon he will once again behold those wonders. Soon.
The Sentimental Writer walked along his study taking notice of the half finished theorem describing light and law. Why was sunlight so enticing? Did the body crave the lawful light of the judgemental sun? Did the law make the body recall its once lawful existence and lead it to stray from the lawless darkness of the Neath? Perhaps.
The Enigmatic Correspondent frowned as he began to pack his notes and other belongings of notice. Ornate Typewrite? Check. Little Red Book? Check. Pens and ink? Check. Pistol? Check. Spare pistol? Check. Pot of Violant Ink? Reinol stared at the bottle filled with the impossible colour. It was a risk. Not of loss. He could always procure more. But of identity. He took the name Paracelsus, the Enigmatic Correspondent as a front to publish his works of the less artistic value, in order to maintain his stance as an Author, for one can easily lose the other when switching style. It was simply the way it worked. Thus two identities were made to prevent such loss. The Sentimental Writer of the Bohemians, Church, and Society. The Enigmatic Correspndent of Benthic and Summerset. Each of them did their the same job in different ways. The Sentimental Writer praised the beauty of Frostfround, its twin fortresses of ice and snow. The Enigmatic Correspondent scrutinised its architecture, pondering its purpose, its dangers, possibilities, and secrets.
A shake of his head removed him from his reverie. Now was not the time. It was time to go. He closed his luggage and stared into the mirror. Travelling between them was possible, yet queer, and so he rarely utilised it. But he stepped through it regardless and closed his eyes.
Breath.
----------------
Breathe.
Travelling using the mirrors was always a experience to go through, to march through the imagined wilderness of Parabola, under the Cosmogone Sun and through the realms of the Fingerkings, Time was distorted there. It worked differently from that of even the Neath. This allowed him to quickly travel from one place to another in seconds, as long as he knew the way. The Suite at the Royal Bethlehem made things more easier, with its mirrored walls and already being halfway submerged into Parabola. That, and the occasional hint from the Manager, however rare it may be.
Reinol found himself in a small room at the Blind Helmsman, a place he rented a few days earlier. Here, any remaining luggage was stored, along with the exit mirror, it worked. He smiled to himself at this thought and stared at the room. Small. But it was enough. It was a risk to leave them in this room, unwatched, but a sufficient bribe ensured that no one comes in. Or out should the worst take place. Money and power can do wonders for all. The containers had what was left of what he needed, spare clothes, fungal tea, and mirrors for...other matters. Time to go. Punctuality was always a virtue he practised.
The young Austrian youth stumbled out of the inn as he carried his stuff and wandered Wolfstack Docks. He recognised the ship he was to board, the Inexplicable. What a vessel. Sighing, he adjusted his spectacles and walked about the gangplank, auburn hair gleaming under the light of the false stars.
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 12/27/2017
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Tyr Teg
Posts: 10
12/28/2017
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PROLOGUE: MASTERS SEND THEIR REGARDS
He was almost at the docks. The mist was rolling around people’s ankles but the leather outfit was keeping him warm. He once again went through the mental list of items needed on the journey. Hunting rifle, big game hunting rifle, Rattus Faber rifle (for an added challenge,) Emergency Blunderbuss... The one weapon that wasn’t on the list was the leaf-shaped fragment of flint that wasn’t part of his hunter persona, but it was the one thing he didn’t leave his lodgings without. In fact after the Expedition to Elder Continent he didn’t leave his bed without it. He finished recounting the list. Everything was in order. Everything was as it was supposed to be.
- a night prior -
“And here are the dossiers. All on time as expected.” He looked out the window of his lodging located in one of the many spires of Bazaar. A swarm of bats crossed the dark sky above while the noises of London and it’s inhabitants reached the windows and balconies of his home from below. Another assignment. And so soon after his trip. Maybe his employers were displeased with him. Maybe the Masters didn’t have a choice. Considering the assignment – it might’ve even been a reward. A pleasant cruise around the Unterzee all-expense paid sounded quite refreshing. With Masters you never knew.
He looked at his reflection in a puddle of salt-water. An older-looking man in an extravagant leather suit with fringes hanging from all available edges, Vake-skin boots that were all the rage lately, with finely-combed chestnut hair with a blood-red streak of unruly hair in the middle, Cosmogone glasses and a careless smile. Perfect for the job. He was Tyr Teg, hunter and adventurer.
Putting his reading glasses aside, he neatly stacked the dossiers on a small end table before pouring himself a glass of ‘72 and finding a pleasant spot in one of the ridiculously comfortable armchairs present in the room. He loosened the top button of his Irigo-soaked Parabola Suit and checked his Ratwork watch. There was no sunset in the Neath but if it was, now would be the time for the honest folks to go to sleep and for thieves, spies and liars to get to work. He was Tyr Teg, the Polite Peacemaker of Bazaar.
Neatly avoiding the puddle Tyr turned on the next corner and right there – floating tied to the pier was the Inexplicable. Based on the invitation in his possession he expected it to be larger. Especially if one remembered the varied group of scientists, poets and adventurers that were soon going to call it their home away from home. The invitation itself was of course addressed to someone else but that cheerful fella wouldn’t be needing it any-more. Hard to read a letter with no eyes and in his condition it was much safer for him to stay in the gentle care of the Manager of Royal Bethlehem than to face danger on open zee anyway. Getting closer Tyr noticed a person standing at the end of the gangplank and greeting new arrivals. A skinny guy with slightly wild brown hair, clean-shaven, mid-twenties. Black suit that fit him quite well. He realized he actually met Gideon on some ball during an assignment at the Cumaean Canal some time ago. He was undercover by that time so only a minor tailoring of his current cover was required and he was sure to get on board.
The first dossier was titled Gideon Stormstrider The Episcopalian Esotericist and it quite reasonably concerned the brain behind this crazy escapade. The Polite Peacemaker went through it quickly, only pausing to check that the compass on an antiquated glass and metal globe – which showed the Surface at it used to be 40 years ago was still pointing north. He raised an eyebrow over a more interesting passage then muttered something about London needing less “diabolical geniuses” and more honest scientists before putting the dossier aside and opening the next one titled..
Gregory Henchard. The man was as unremarkable as his dossier presented it. Mousy hair an old army doctor's bag. In the end he would probably be the voice of reason and would lend a hand if things went south. After a short conversation with Gideon, where neither man could remember the details of that ball they met at, but both agreed it was splendid and good – Henchard was the second person Tyr got to meet. Slouching against a pile of crates and perfectly positioned to observe everyone coming aboard.
Then there were the stairs and long hallway with named doors. For some reason it reminded him of an unpleasant dream he had a while ago. Luckily behind the door to his cabin there were no monsters without a face, only stuffy air and a small but sufficiently comfortable room. Wasting no time the hunter started unpacking. He remembered the question troubling him yesterday. Punishment or reward? Only time would tell.
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edited by Tyr_Teg on 12/29/2017
edited by Tyr_Teg on 12/29/2017
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The Polite Peacemaker of Bazaar
Per situlas ad astra!
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suinicide
Posts: 2409
2/3/2018
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Henchard stood by one of the emptier and quieter railings. But, considering what type of boat this was, neither of those statements were exactly true. He vaguely remembered a time when he would have been chatting with others, exchanging stories and ideas. But before he could pursue those memories, or the thoughts that followed, a voice interrupted.
“Excuse me sir,” the speaker was a rather chubby man dressed in an ill fitting suit. Black ink trickled down from his badly dyed hair, which was clearly suppose to be brown. He smiled nervously.
“You are one of the guests from that ship, yes?” He stumbled on without waiting for an answer. “I have a job for you. There’s a woman, you see. Lovely lady, absolutely perfect. With, ah, one small problem. She refuses to see me, you see.” He swallowed.
“So I was hoping you would pass a note to her.” He fumbled with his pockets and pulled out a small scrap of paper. He held out his arm and it hung between them. “There, ah, will be a reward, of sorts.” Henchard took the paper.
“Excellent! So, she’s down below deck, can’t stand the noise poor dear, room 40C. I’d deliver it myself, but as I said, she won’t see me.” he chuckled nervously. “And make sure you tell her who its from! Only, you know,” he gestured to himself. “Make me sound better.” His hand circled in the air next to him, “Like that singer, you know, the one towards the front? Terrible person, absolutely terrible, but women seem to love him. No taste at all.”
Henchard nodded, not paying attention, and pushed past the man. Near the stairs to the lower decks, a dark haired man in a well fitted suit was singing to the crowds. About weasels, of course. London song writers needed to get some new material. Henchard shook his head and went down.
The room was easy enough to find. Henchard knocked and waited. The door opened a crack, but the corridor’s weak light did not penetrate the darkness inside.
“Who are you?” A voice asked from somewhere within.
Henchard handed over the paper without a word. After a moment’s hesitation, a thin, pale hand snatched it from him.
Henchard briefly wondered how she would read it, but a soft chuckle on the other side of the door put those thoughts to rest.
“The singer? Does that pig really think I’ll drag myself out, all prim and fancy and oh so foolish, for a trick like this?” Henchard could hear the sneer in her voice. A moment passed, and Henchard opened his mouth.
“No.” She said, and Henchard closed it. “No, this has gone on long enough. I’ll be there, and make sure he comes too! Tell your master whatever he wants, but make sure he’s there! It’s time this little charade reached its end.”
The door slammed shut, and Henchard wandered back upstairs. The man saw him coming and rushed over.
“Oh what did she say? She said yes, didn’t she? I knew she would! Beautiful creature, but no taste at all. But no matter, that’s all behind us now.” He started fiddling with his tie, but it was painfully obvious he didn’t know how to tie it.
“And for my payment?” Henchard looked around. The nearby couples were too preoccupied with each other to see anything else.
“Payment? My dear sir, look around you! You’re surrounded by more wine than you could drink in a year! That’s payment, more than enough! And that's not mentioning the ladies.” He looked down at his tie. “Now, is this crooked?”
Henchard’s face darkened, and he stepped closer to the man. The muscles beneath his suit flexed.
No one heard the splash above the music.
--
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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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
2/5/2018
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Now, what might she do until evening? A yacht zails into view, drawing invitingly close, as if answering Madison's unspoken question. She cocks an eyebrow, unconvinced. That sort of party? At this hour? She watches as her fellow travellers make their way to the other vessel one by one, each eroding more and more of her resolve in staying away.
She could stay aboard the Inexplicable. Cloister herself in her room, dig out one of several books she brought along for entertainment, maybe take a nap. But she knew the others would talk about it for the next several days if she did, fostering regret for passing up the chance to see so many ridiculous sights first-hand. That, and she'd only brought so many - best save them for an emergency. She rests her elbows on the railing, cupping her head in her hands, eyes fixed on the scandalous proceedings, emboldened by their relative isolation. Someone on the other side notices Madison's prying eyes, waving; Madison returns the gesture reflexively, lost in her own thoughts. Their conversational bellows fall on deaf ears.
She'd feel so much more comfortable socializing in a pub filled with adventurers than cavorting in a decadent revel populated with hedonistic toffs and bohemians. An optimist might postulate these are adventurous bohemians, but the vibe is so clearly unlike her normal fare.
Her eyes catch a hint of movement, over on the other side. Was that a splash? Did a drunk tumble over the railing? Well. That's no different at all.
Madison sits up, stretches. No sense in delaying further the inevitable. A strange sound reaches her ears as she crosses - the splash of oars in water? Must be the rescue crew.
* * *
Inside, the party hums with dancing, flirting, and salacious gossip. Lord P_____ did what with an artist and a nun? And where? Oh my. He'll be lucky to be back in London before the Feast ('so won't we!' a reveler cheers). A dark-haired singer belts out some Mahogany Hall craze; his audience flutters, captivated. He catches Madison's curious eye and playfully winks; Madison recoils like a tortoise under the unwanted attention, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she looks away.
The darker edges conceal lovers in varying degrees of intoxication and indecency - ravenous eyes, exploring hands, intimate whispers; Madison blushes, embarrassed at their sight, and quickly busies herself with locating the refreshments. Alcohol is just what the doctor ordered to render this revel bearable. Fortunately, the bar is well-stocked with nearly any beverage you could name (and several you could not). Drink in hand, she considers her options, subconsciously gravitating towards the buffet as she travels the path of least resistance. Any familiar faces in view? Well-travelled storytellers? Someone grumbles, reaching past Madison to nab a lemon biscuit. Madison apologizes softly, moving out of the way of hungry carousers.
Somewhere along the edges Madison spies the telltale cushions of a make-shift honey-den. Eager dreamers sigh into their beds, disappearing into unknown worlds. An affable woman oversees the operation, notable by the paper rose tucked into her braided hair. A peaceful moment of relative solitude becomes increasingly attractive a prospect amid the surrounding chaotic air. Stopping her from taking the plunge was an underlying worry it might become literal.
Anything more to gaze upon? Certainly - there's seemingly no end to the wonders this yacht offers. Madison's patience, however, has a very distinct end that has quite reached its limit; she makes her way back to the yacht's deck, cutting through the crowds as politely as she can manage. The revelers part with surprising grace in her wake, almost dancing out of the way - perhaps they are accustomed to even swifter retreats? The cooler air beyond the door offers solace from the cloying atmosphere of the party's heart. A waiter notices Madison's nearly empty glass and tops it off. Much better.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Sara%20Hysaro
Please do not send SMEN, cat boxes, or Affluent Reporter requests. All other social actions are welcome.
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
2/17/2018
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The Insatiable Seamstress is caught unabashedly drinking Strangling Willow at the bar, alone.
"I never took you for the self-indulgent type."
A voice from a neighboring seat. Masculine. Unexpectedly Sober.
A brief silence. A smile that can be interpreted as either wry or melancholy.
"Work has been wearing me down lately. And I figure that, since I'm here, I might as well indulge myself a bit."
"I suppose I can see how the influx of engaged lovers asking for suits and dresses would tire one out."
A few dry coughs. A sip of surface wine.
"I might just know the right thing to cheer you up."
A raised eyebrow is all it takes for the Insatiable Seamstress to be taken to the pitch-black room where lounging aesthetes huddle with sealed boxes filled with a common, sacred substance. She is given one of the boxes by a burly gentleman near the entrance, who closes the door behind her.
With the door closed, the room is dark the way only the darkness behind one's eyelids is.
Somebody unlocks one of the seals.
Opens one of the boxes.
A brilliant flash lights up the room.
Somebody lets out a quiet moan.
Another box flashes open.
The Seamstress, in turn, opens her own package.
If thunder-gods wield lightning spears, the rays of sunlight are arrows.
Within that box hid Apollo's chariot, from which he shoot Icarus is his flight.
Or Ra's solar barque, which he rides through the waking and dreaming worlds every day.
The guardians of these sacred places draw their bows, let loose their arrows of purifying light.
The Insatiable Seamstress is impaled by luminosity.
An effulgent sensation rushes through her body.
The light is a secret electricity in her blood.
Blessed splendour singes, scalds and scourges her skin.
Is this what moths feel when they dive headfirst into blazing fire?
The Seamstress' breathing is heavy and slow.
She is content to just lay on the bombazine-covered floor.
Smiling.
She closes her eyes.
The Sun is there, patiently waiting.
This is the reason the Eidolon is on the expedition.
This light that has now carved itself into their memory.
There is no need to say that the experience was divine.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 2/17/2018
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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phryne
Posts: 1351
3/24/2018
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co-written with Sara Hysaro and suinicide, and
featuring a special appearance by The Atumian Sputum!
For a few minutes, the two young women have their heads together at their place near the railing. After her extensive sneaking around the beautifully-named Swallowtail, E.L. already has the bare bones of a plan in her mind. Madison nods along, finally suggesting “Don't suppose you know of anyone who might pitch in? An extra set of hands would really make this, I bet.”
“You’re right, we could use an extra hand. And I think I know just the guy,” E.L. muses, looking around for someone she had spotted a few minutes earlier. “There he is.” Dragging Madison behind her over the deck, through a throng of dancers who’ve just come out for some fresh air, she whispers to her: “My mother thinks this one’s soulless. If that’s true, he should be easy enough to convince for joining in.”
Madison eyes him from afar—something in his demeanor does remind her of the various soulless patients her father treated. She nods, “Yeah, I can see what she means.”
“Why, Mr Henchard,” E.L. says when they reach him, just as if she was completely surprised to run into him. “You might be just the man to help us out here.”
“What do you want and how much are you paying,” Henchard says in a flat voice.
“This is not about paying,” E.L. chirrups on, unaware that the last person to say this was thrown overboard, “we’re helping ourselves here, all of us on board the Inexplicable. Let me explain…”
~~~~~~~
"Which officer was it, again?" Madison whispers, smoothing out her "uniform". The mischief fills her with a nervous energy, eyes bright and alert, suddenly so much more conscious of every unknown sound. A slight smile almost plays on her lips, until she forces herself back into character. Focus.
“The Highrolling Bo'sun, of course,” E.L. whispers back. “From what I’ve heard, no one would be surprised by him gambling away the ship’s whole stock of booze, but let’s not take it too far. A few crates of the good stuff will suit just fine.”
"Right, right," Madison responds, wondering how such a man could maintain his position. Perhaps he is just that good at his job. Or maybe this whole yacht is too drunk to care. Suddenly, she hears a noise, not too far off. Footsteps, perhaps? She reflexively relaxes, letting go of any nervous posture.
“Nervous?” E.L. asks behind her. “That’s fine. Remember, there’s our very scary Gunnery Officer right behind us, and we just want to get this job over with quickly. It’s not a problem if we look uncomfortable.”
"Heh, true." Madison hoists up a crate, the bottles offering a pleasant clinking. She imagines what she'd be thinking now, were this scenario real. What punishments might await the dawdling zailor? Beatings? Lashes? The door opens before she can imagine any other horrors.
"Ah, excellent! We could really use an extra set of hands." Madison directs the perplexed crewmen to the next best pile of crates, careful not to lose grip on her own. "Grab some of those, would you?"
E.L. nods along eagerly, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. “Yeah, we could really use your help. Our Gunnery Officer said he’d come oversee the delivery and you really don’t want to get caught dawdling by him.” She manages to look suitably terrified by the idea. When the Swallowtail’s zailors’ faces show nothing but confusion, she raises her eyebrows and looks over to her ‘Second Mate’ with big eyes: “Is it possible they don’t know?”
Heavy steps can be heard coming along the corridor now…
"Apparently so," Madison replies, eyebrows raised in ‘surprise’, too. She hurries to explain at the sound of footsteps, eager to get moving before the ‘Gunnery Officer’ arrives. She attempts the proper mix of panic and irritation. "It's the Highrolling Bo'sun. Staked this wine with the Disjointed Card-Counter, of all people. You can imagine how that turned out. Now, can we get a hand?"
One of the Swallowtail’s crewmen lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh no, not again.” Another shakes his head. “I’m telling you, one day we’ll wake up and he’s gambled away the whole damn ship.”
Deliberately heavy, clunky footsteps sound from behind the door. Even through the wood, muffled murmuring can be heard. The ‘Gunnery Officer’ is here.
One zailor, obedience rivaling a Clay Man, picks up one of the crates Madison gestured towards without any additional thought. Another, keen as a knife, scratches under his cap, trying to recall if he had ever seen these two before. The last, curious as a cat, opens the door.
Henchard rushes in with an inarticulate roar, giving the crewman a kick to the shin as he passes. “You two and you and you!” He points in the vague direction of basically everyone in the room. “Grab the d___ wine already!”
The suddenness of Henchard's appearance and his convincing performance gives Madison a genuine start. His volume drowns out the pained hiss of the assailed zailor, holding his shin in regret. The remaining crew rush into action now, grabbing crates without protest. Soon, all hands are occupied with clinking containers and the air is tinged with the haze of apprehension.
Henchard lets out a roar. “Get moving! Up to the deck! If one drop of this is late, I’m cutting your rations again!” At his cue, the group sets out, carrying the soon-to-be-loot away.
E.L., in her role as excited young deckhand, sprints in front of the zailors, crying “Make way! Make way!” without actually waiting for anyone to make way. “Dammit, we need a reason for moving the wine to our ship”, she thinks to herself. And, lo and behold, what does she see up on deck? A young dandy crossing over from the Swallowtail to the Inexplicable, and apparently taking his few belongings with him! A passenger swapping ships? “Gods of the Neath, exactly what we need!”
Waving back to the zailors groaning under their heavy load, she cries “This way! Come on!” and runs after the young man. “Now let’s just hope this lad’s not a complete idiot.”
Rory Sketch turns, looking over his shoulder at a young zailor lass rushing his way. Her eyes seem affixed to him and he raises his brows. He doesn’t recognize her from his days on the yacht, but then, the whole pleasure yacht experience had, at best, always been a phantasmagoria of blurred faces.
“Good afternoon,” he says, turning and offering a friendly smile to the unfamiliar countenance.
“Sir,” E.L. pants with a sketchy salute. “You’re the Disjointed Card-Counter, aren’t you? That famous gambler who’s just won that poker tournament aboard yon splendid vessel there? We’re delivering your wine, sir. Your prize.” All the time, she keeps on winking like a madwoman.
“My prize, delivered so soon? How delightful,” he chirps, looking over the anxious crew behind E.L, “Well, go ahead and take the load of it to the hold, then—you two in the back there—” here he points to two of the heftier zailors with the heaviest loads, “—take what you’re carrying and come with me. I’ve a quick errand to run back on the yacht.”
He nods once more to E.L, smiling, and strolls once again across the boarding rail back over to the Swallowtail, the two zailors following him. He’s just had a splendid idea.
E.L. has no choice but to play along. The dandy is certainly no idiot, and apparently stealing some of their bounty right back. Well, nothing to do about that for now. She waves once more to the remaining carriers. “Follow me, I’ll show you the way to the hold. Not far now!”
Madison wishes she'd had opportunity to inspect this apparent new member of their expedition. Did they know where the Inexplicable was heading? Did they know one of the existing passengers? Alas, character has to be maintained. She looks over the crew; the threat of reduced rations keeping even the shrewd zailor in line, unquestioning and nervous. One of them stops awkwardly due to an itchy nose, and Henchard starts up again. “Move your d__n feet before I—” The zailor lurches into motion before he finds out exactly what Henchard had been threatening.
E.L. keeps bouncing back-and-forth along the line of zailors carrying crates of wine, careful to never stay long enough in one place to be forced to maybe actually lend a hand. Somebody murmurs “scobberlotcher” in her direction but as she’s never heard that word, she doesn’t mind.
In the end, the Inexplicable’s hold is considerably better stocked with drinkables, Henchard has not inflicted any lasting injuries, and E.L. good-naturedly hands out some bottles of Broken Giant among the Swallowtail’s crew members. “Good work, lads! No reason why we shouldn’t share out some of this stuff. Come on, let’s all have a drink together!” She deftly uncorks a bottle with her pocket-knife and proposes a toast: “To the Disjointed Card-Counter! May his luck never run out!”
"Aye!" Madison returns the toast with an amused smile, taking a hearty swig of her own bottle without revealing the joke. The other zailors join in jovially, pleased with the unexpected opportunity to partake in some of the good stuff. As the crew relaxes enough to socialize amongst themselves she takes the opportunity to ask E.L. a question, soft enough not to be overheard by the distracted zailors. "So who was that? Our ‘Disjointed Card-Counter’?"
“Buggered if I know,” shrugs E. L., “but seems a good sport. Glad to have him along.” She offers a bottle to Henchard, too, who just takes it and hides it somewhere beneath his clothes. An odd form of payment, but perhaps this wine is valuable. He ignores the odd looks, but glares at the zailors, daring them to say something. They wisely stay quiet. So does E. L. who only thinks to herself ‘this guy is weird as hell’.
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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
2/5/2018
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E. L. had taken to dressing almost as carelessly as most zailors, and was probably mistaken for a crewmember by most revellers, which definitely proved useful for sneaking around the yacht. The party had been going on for some hours when she had mostly finished her work (a little lurking and spying, though there was no one interesting enough on board to make that really worthwhile, and a few unattended trinkets picked up here and there) and wondered whether she should bother trying to enjoy herself a bit.
This just wasn't her crowd. Bohemians at the height of their fashion and their wealthy patrons - the artists would already be on the decline, and their patrons already looking to someone else, a month from now. While her mother, of course, was in her element. Last she saw her, she'd been discussing the details of Rubbery and Mushroom reproduction with a Mycologene poet and her new best friend Squidley. Or trying to, at least - they'd reached a state of inebriation where staying focused on a topic became a real effort even when wurbling wasn't involved. But E. L. did not doubt that they would keep talking forever, if given the chance - they'd been drinking Chartreuse from Godfall; that drink got your tongue wagging like no other. The bar really was exceptionally well-stocked, she conceded - and already mused whether it would be possible to nick a few bottles for dryer times, when she spotted a familiar figure from her own party leaning on the railing.
"Well," E. L. thought, "this girl Madison seems nice enough, and by that faraway look on her face she's not feeling any more at home with this crowd than I am. Now let's see whether she's any fun."
Sidling up to the young woman, she smiled roguishly, and asked: "Bored? Me too. Hey, what's that you're drinking? No matter." Without missing a beat, another passing waiter had already positioned a filled glass in her outstretched hand. "Can't complain about the service, can you? Cheers!" After taking a gulp, she exclaimed, "my ****, that's real grape! And they're handing it out like... now, look here, I've had a thought. You see, this here yacht has all this really exceptional vintage, and I've heard the most terrible rumours about our captain's port, and even if those are exaggerated, we're definitely not stocked as well as these toffs are. I mean, they could probaby lose a crate or two without even noticing! So I thought, how 'bout we think about ourselves a little here, you know, who knows what's ahead anyway, might well be days coming when we'll need some classy lubrication a lot more than these fancy **** ever will, ya know what I'm sayin'?" She finished her glass in another gulp, slightly out of breath. "So what do you say, are you up to some off-the-books procurement of expeditionary supplies, or am I treading on your honour here?"
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edited by phryne on 2/6/2018
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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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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
2/9/2018
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In one of the darkened corners of the main partyroom of the yacht, hardly distinguishable amongst the other lustful bohemians of similar intent filling the shadows, the Gruff Young Toff tries desperately to make love.
His white form, ivory coattails fluttering with effort and blond hair messy about his masculine face, obscures some other, slender figure - the legs of the latter, feminine and straight, stretch out between the Gruff Young Toff's own. Unlike the Toff's own legs, and all the legs of the wild young bohemians doing scandalous things about them, they are completely still. For all the world, it looks as if the Gruff Young Toff were indulging in a more sinister, macabre sort of love-making, found more often in the Tomb Colonies than in Veilgarden (though everything is found in Veilgarden, if one knows how to look).
Finally, with a cry of frustration, the Gruff Young Toff breaks away, slicking his messied hair back angrily.
"I say, Rory," he cries, "What the Devil's the matter with you today?! You're still as a board!"
The object of the Gruff Young Toff's efforts is now revealed to be Rory Sketch. Lithe and young, he is, undisputedly, best labelled as "a beauty." Golden locks, styled in an anastole, fall down about an androgynous face, long lashes, dark as the night, fluttering about eyes filled with an icy blue beauty. The elegant, gentle lines of his face combined with the carved fullness of his lips (not to mention the length of the aforementioned eyelashes, naturally drooping and curved away from the eye as if born perfected) come together with the slender body to create an appearance whose gender is decided entirely by the eye of the beholder. He is, as whispers about the room presumptuously declare, "Veilgarden's current beau," though terribly poor for the position, even by an artist's standards - rumor has it he has no boarding of his own, merely couchhopping ("or, rather, bedhopping," - a scandalous smirk on the face of the speaker, blushes on their listeners, tittering giggles all around) about Veilgarden. His current position as the Gruff Young Toff's lover was the only way he was even able to board the ship, the rich young aristocrat territorially latching an arm about the beauty the entire ride thus far, showing him off about the ballroom as the Toff's latest trophy.
The beauty sighs deeply, leaning forward and setting his delicate chin upon his hands.
"I'm in love, darling," he declares.
"Well, of course you are!" the Gruff Young Toff exclaims, "But I'm right here! Attempting to express that very love! Whatever have you to be so damnably mopey about?!"
Rory turns his eyes to the Gruff Young Toff. He reaches forward, setting his own small hands atop the Toff's large ones.
"Not with you, darling. With another. And besides, I simply can't be happy at a party when I'm in love, no matter who it may be for. Parties are a terrible place for love."
A slideshow of emotions plays across the Young Toff's face - bewilderment, then anger, then confusion, then back to anger again. He rips his hands from Rory's and the beauty looks up at him seemingly surprised, eyes wide.
"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?!" the Gruff Young Toff shouts, "With another?!"
"I'm sorry, darling."
"You damnable whore!" the Gruff Young Toff cries.
He swings his arm back for the inevitable strike, found on all his past lovers, before a hand appears on his wrist, clutching it in place. Both sets of eyes, Rory's and the Toff's, turn to look.
"Not so fast, you coward," the Dramatic Romantic hisses, standing tall and heroic, "If you're even think you're going to hit her, you'll have to go through me first."
"Right, then!" the Gruff Young Toff exclaims, and the two launch at each other.
Rory sighs, turning away and setting his head down in his hands once more as violence explodes behind him. His eyes fix on the floorboards where bohemians dance, but his gaze is somewhere else - sad and far off.
"An awful place for love," he mutters, rubbing his eyes, "An awful place for love."
He rises, folding his hands together behind his back. The formal stance, the dancer's poise, the elegance as he slowly walks across the room, deep in thought - gossip continues amongst the eternally gossiping bohemians that watch him continue out onto the deck, wondering wherever he learned the makings of an aristocrat with no money, no patron, no birth of high standing. He claimed to be born of that old mad dandy, Professor Sketch, but this was accepted as merely another tall tale of a bohemian. Whereas the currently famous Sir Thomas Sketch of the Royal Navy could not escape his last name, Rory Sketch could not prove it.
The young beau stopped as he reached the railing, gazing out at the glass surface of the zee. He romanticized about being on some far island, perhaps with the fighting monks, away from all this - from the gossip and the romance and the fine clothes and the love. He daydreamed about the Khanate, the glowing lamps of every color, the mystery, the spies. He recalled the tall tales of pirates, of adventurers, of fortune tellers and legends. He dreamed about the one he loved.
He sighed, leaning forward on the railing and waiting for a story to find him.
--
Straight outta Dahut.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
2/15/2018
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Gideon strikes a dramatic pose for the conclusion of his speech, spreading his arms wide in front of a small group of more eccentric party-goers. “Anyway, that about wraps up the story of the dastardly Canine Abstraction Society. Never did find that dog, but I learned some valuable lessons.”
They're hanging on his every word. The drooping eyelids, the shuffling feet, the loud insistence that they have to be elsewhere right this second – these are the hallmarks of a throng of rapt listeners.
“There he is, the man of the hour! Come over here, Squidley. You can fill them in on the rest of our tenure as London's finest detectives, driving about in a fine carriage to wherever evil rears its head and punching it right in the nose!”
Squidley flops bonelessly into a folding chair next to Gideon, gurgling like someone choking on a vol-au-vent. “Have you considered a throat lozenge, my Rubbery friend? One would almost think there was a blockage somewhere.”
It is at this very moment that Gideon notices that the noise is not coming from Squidley, but from an elderly gentleman in a pith helmet at the front of the crowd. The inventor snaps out of his grandiose speech in concern. “Are you all right there, sir?”
The man turns red, his eyes bulging. He holds a hand to his throat.
“Is anyone here a doctor? This man is choking!”
A few people nearby – those who were actually paying attention to the speech, possibly due to boredom – look around in alarm. Gideon's voice fails to carry above the sound of the crowd and the vigorous string quartet.
Oh, good grief. Gideon leaps down from the stage – a fearsome drop of almost two feet – and strides up to the choking man, the crowd stepping back to give them some space. Squidley's handicles wave in consternation.
His extensive medical training has prepared him for just such an occasion. He looks the gentleman firmly in the eye and thumps him on the back. With a sudden splutter, a half-chewed vol-au-vent goes flying across the varnished floor. Unbeknownst to Gideon, it will later go on to trip a dancing couple during a particularly ambitious twirl.
After he has regained the power of speech, the elderly gentleman addresses Gideon in the clipped tones of an upper-class officer. “Jolly good show, old chap! Life flashed before my eyes for a moment. Thought I was back in Crimea, run through with a bayonet by Johnny Foreigner!” He offers a hand to shake.
Gideon raises an eyebrow and accepts the handshake, wincing a little at the force applied by the older man. My God! It's like shaking hands with a vice.
“Sir Reginald Burlington-Smythe, at your service. I've not seen you aboard before – you must be with that old cargo ship. I was sure that a ship like that wouldn't accept our invitation, but it's jolly good that you did, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” says Gideon. It's hard to tell with someone who doesn't strictly have hands, but it looks like Squidley is giving him a thumbs-up from his seat. Sir Reginald purloins two glasses of brandy from a nearby table and hands one to Gideon.
“Oh, I don't wish to impose...” says the inventor.
“I insist. It's my party, after all. What's the point if you can't give drinks to whomever you please?”
Gideon takes the proffered glass. Feeling Reginald's eyes on him, he chances a sip and finds it surprisingly pleasant.
“I made sure to get the best brandy shipped down from the Surface. Frightfully expensive, but worth it! I'd skip the port, though. It's like drinking lukewarm p___ – if you'll pardon my French.”
He leads Gideon over to sit at an empty table and plonks his glass down on the surface. It sways gently with the movement of the ship, which Gideon has scarcely noticed after the initial seasickness.
With a grunt, Reginald manoeuvres himself into the opposite chair. “Never get old, my boy. It creeps up on you like a Cossack and bludgeons you until you're a quivering ball of aches and pains. But this is my retirement party, and I'm determined not to let it get the better of me before I'm thoroughly drunk.”
Gideon nods in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion. The man certainly likes the sound of his own voice!
“Quite a send-off you've arranged,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the crowds of Bohemian types.
“There's precious few of us left from the old days, more's the shame,” says Reginald, taking another sip of brandy. “At one point it was just us old duffers sitting around exchanging war stories, but my grandson – honey-mazed wastrel, but a decent lad – was determined to make it into a song and dance. I've decided I like it. Almost makes me feel young again, seeing all this twirling and snogging.”
He pulls a hip-flask from a pocket, refills his empty glass. “Care for another, my valiant saviour?”
Gideon makes reluctant noises, but slides his glass over anyway. “One more couldn't hurt, I suppose.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 2/15/2018
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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
6/30/2018
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In their cabin on board the Inexplicable, mother and daughter Canning were sharing a bottle of excellent pinot grigio - one of the more notable spoils of E.L.'s exploits during The Party (everyone was referring to it as "The Party", with very audible capital letters).
The portholes of the cabin remained firmly closed. They had been that way ever since their ship had entered the waters around the Chelonate.
E.M. was muttering, "I still can't believe we got here this quickly. Talk about treachery of maps..."
"You must be mad to go down there."
E.M. sighed, closed her eyes and massaged her temples. "You've said that already. About a half dozen times, I think. My hearing's not that bad." It was rare for E.M. to mention her hearing impairment, and probably a sign of how distracted and preoccupied she currently was. Spread out on the table between her and her daughter was a host of papers: mostly covered by notes in her own hand, but lots of maps, too. No two of those maps seemed to agree on anything. Shuffled in among everything else were several letters featuring the distinct handwriting of her wife. Her personal messenger-bats, the utterly livid trio Huey, Louie and Dewey, had been busy.
E.L. acted like she hadn't heard. "But I'm not mad, and I won't be going out there again." She wrinkled her nose fetchingly. "I didn't believe anything could smell this badly."
"Oh right, that. Don't worry, I've got something to help with that." Her mother started to rustle around in one of her larger trunks, the one she'd bought many years ago in Buenos Aires. "Jackie gave me this concoction which basically kills your sense of smell for several days. Affects your tastebuds, too, though. I'd recommend enjoying a hearty meal before taking this. I'm not quite sure how long the effect lasts."
"You give me this now? I almost died out there!"
"Well, I don't think I've ever heard of anyone actually dying from olfactory inconvenience. But I am sorry, I probably just didn't notice it as much as you did. Have I told you about the time I've extensively explored the sewer systems of ancient Persia..."
E.L. snorted and rolled her eyes. "No, and please don't." She warily eyed the small phial her mother had handed her. "What's this made of... no, don't tell me that either. If it works, I'll roll with it."
E.M. stifled a chuckle. She was always amused by her daughter's primness when it came to anything filthy or foul-smelling. So different from herself... she thought of her childhood on the family plantation in Florida. Always running around in the wild, digging up bones, snails and arrowheads, returning home looking like a wood-sprite. Her nannies probably would've found E.L. far easier to manage: she couldn't recall ever seeing a speck of dirt under one of her daughter's fingernails. No surprise since she took care never to do anything that could possibly result in dirtying them. For all her fraternizing with zailors, she never so much as lifted a single tarpaulin. She would play cards, exchange dirty jokes and tall tales, but as soon as there was any actual work to do, she'd disappear without a trace. The zailors tolerated her though, not least for those crates of wine she'd sneaked aboard so cunningly.
"Anyway. You found someone?"
E.L. snorted. "It's no problem to find a handful of people with a death wish around here. They're waiting for me to contact them again. Actually... there's one guy I'm not sure about. He doesn't want to be paid. He wants us to take him aboard and take him back to London."
"What's the problem? We seem to be losing and taking on passengers all the time. I'm sure the captain wouldn't mind. I'm not sure he would notice."
"I can't put my finger on it really, but there's something... fishy about this guy." She gave a nervous laugh. "But hey, he does want to leave this place! That makes him saner than everyone else."
E.M. finally stopped fidgeting and focused her attention on her daughter. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? You say I'm throwing my life away going in that zubmarine. I'm not sure you realize your mission might be the far more dangerous one."
E.L. pulled a face and shrugged. "I still don't see what the problem is exactly. It's just a ship and we're going to sink it. Ships sink easily. If it exists at all—I'm sure all those tales are exaggerated."
E.M. sighed. She always seemed to do that a lot when talking to her daughter. "Remember, all we need is the figurehead."
E.L.'s smirk was nasty. "You've said that already. About a half dozen times, I think. My hearing's not that bad."
---
edited by phryne on 7/1/2018
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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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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
12/29/2017
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It all started so well. Her belongings were safe and secure on her person, the roads were surprisingly clear, and even a minor incident involving a woman and a barrel hadn't cost Madison more time than she had allotted for this little trip out to the docks. She paid the cab and waved the driver off, taking a moment to gaze cheerily out over the Unterzee. And then she saw it - a woman flying through the air holding an umbrella.
The scene startled Madison so much she stepped the wrong way onto an ice patch and slipped harshly onto her back, her luggage taking the opportunity to attempt a getaway before remembering this isn't Polythreme. She sits up and puts her hand on her head, more shaken than injured but nonetheless displeased with the situation.
As she gathers her things a sinking thought creeps into her mind; is she truly awake, or did she merely dream her trip here? The Neath is strange, but is it truly that peculiar? The odds were in her favour, but as Madison boarded the Inexplicable she found herself unable to avoid searching around for other bizarre phenomena.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
1/10/2018
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Dirae Erinyes steps away from their easel, clearing their throat with a gear grinding cough.
“The lass does raise a good point. A name is the very least we can do for this poor creature, who will be our noble navigator with its dying breaths. A grand name is needed for a crab that allows us to see the sun again. Names are very important. Thus, I suggest that we name him. . .Crabbie, Baron of the Devil Reefs, Fifteenth heir to the Sea King's throne.” They look around, seeing if anyone will challenge their right to name the ailing crab. The crab looks on, uncaring.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 1/10/2018
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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
1/10/2018
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Both E.M.'s eyebrows rise upon hearing Dirae's suggestion. "That's quite a mouthful. Personally, I'd vote for Lil' Temtum," she says quietly, a hint of a smile quirking one corner of her mouth. "And I'd wager the 'Sea King' has a lot more heirs than that, if I'm correct about whom you're referring to."
While all this is said in a mild manner, E.L. can't help rolling her eyes. That's already the second person at the table her mother had to disagree with. Scholars! Can they ever pass up a chance to 'well actually' someone?
Her appetite had left with the appearance of the smelly crab and she can't wait for this breakfast to conclude, so she can return to the fresh zee-air outside.
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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
1/8/2018
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Dirae Erinyes gives a small frown when Amets makes their appearance, turning the picture back around. Pencils fly over the picture. Evensong gives an approving nod to Gideon’s caged sea monstrosity. However her posture did not relax.
“There is still the question of ensuring that the New Sequence deals fairly.” Evensong calmly states, their tension channeling into their cutlery. “The most obvious solution would be threaten to reveal one of their agents in London’s docks if we fail to return. That would’ve been best to arrange in London, but we still should be within bat flight range. We can arrange something if we act quickly.” She gives a cough that could be called nervous.
“Not that I know anything about that besides what I’ve read in the reports. But I have reason to believe that my bosses do appreciate my work and loyalty. They are the sort to show it beyond just ‘Number 1 Clerk’ teacups.” Dirae Erinyes turned the picture around again, with another smile. Amets had now been added to the group picture, with a hastily drawn mirror. Their hand drifts down, giving Evensong’s shoulder a squeeze.
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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
1/4/2018
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Henchard doesn’t dream much, not anymore. His eyes close, and then open to the sound of Gideon’s voice. More of a movement through time than true sleep. Henchard is ready and out the door, almost before Gideon has moved on to the next room. He gives the leader a courtesy nod, and walks out without a word.
Henchard is silent during the meal. He lets Gideon’s words flow past him, only picking up on where they will be going, not the why or how. Those are unimportant, and he trusts Gideon and the party to handle whatever business is driving them there.
During the commotion that followed Gideon’s final announcement, Henchard focuses on clearing his plate, ignoring the panicked nonsense exploding in its wake, though he does pull his plate away from the mirror when Amets appears. At the end, he nods at Flo, someone speaking sense at the trail end of the noise, then opens his mouth.
“If you doubted Gideon’s sanity, if you had doubts about him delivering on his promises, then you should not have joined him aboard his ship. No matter how silly you think his plan is, you trusted him to come up with a plan to get us to the surface, and you trusted in the plan that you did not know about. You trusted it enough to get on a boat to places you do not know. The time for doubt is over.”
edited by suinicide on 1/4/2018
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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
1/5/2018
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E. M. gave Mr Henchard, whom she had barely noticed so far, a sharp glance. What was his problem? There was something... odd about him. That haunted-looking empty stare... ah yes. No way to be absolutely certain, of course, but she'd bet her dessert that this man had only recently sold his soul; and she'd bet tomorrow's dessert that he did it to get rid of some kind of severe emotional trauma. She did not judge him for that, though she privately opined that, if her postulations were correct, he had made the wrong decision. The human psyche was far more complicated than most people assumed, and getting rid of one's soul did not solve all one's problems. She'd seen it before, unfortunately, and hoped no one was going to trust this guy with making important decisions.
"The time for doubt is never over, Mr... Henchman? Henchard! I hope you'll excuse that. I've always been terrible with names. Anyway, as any true scientist knows, one's plans, just as even the most established-seeming theories, need to be checked and re-checked, tested against new evidence and unforeseen developments, all the time. Doubt, not blind faith, is what keeps people alive in this world - what keeps us moving forward.
"That does not rule out the concept of trust, of course. While I've never worked with Mr Stormstrider before, I've heard about some of his recent exploits, and trust that he will prove a more than capable leader of this venture.
"As for the Gant Pole, I've never been there myself, but I have it on good authority that it does indeed exist." She did not elaborate on the nature of that authority, nor on her lack of surprise about any of Gideon's words.
When a renowned visionary inventor invites one to go to the surface with him, one does make a few guesses on how he plans to achieve that. She'd have been surprised if Dawn's Law had not been involved somehow. And the Gant Pole, well - she would keep that to herself. No one needed to know that her reasons for joining this expedition included anything besides scientific curiosity and a melancholy yearning for the sun. After all, these things were very much among her reasons, no need to pretend anything. But human beings were complicated creatures, and rarely had no hidden motives - which was precisely why she'd brought along her daughter: to learn the hidden motives of her companions. Better safe than sorry.
To her left, Squidley Johnson had been nodding along vehemently during her short speech. Apparently she had made a friend already.
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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
12/30/2017
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Dirae Erinyes crouched behind a too short easel, taking up the whole end of the table. Everyone once in a while, they would pause in their manic activity to check if the paint properly caught Squidley’s color or the angle of a particularly sleep deprived face. Evensong sat next them, occasionally shoving a sausage or biscuit into Dirae Erinyes' hands. The food would eventually disappear behind their mask, even if it was covered in pencil dust.
Evensong did not let her tired state stop her interest she took in Gideon’s breakfast lecture. She stiffed up at the sound of the Dawn Machine and the Gant Pole didn’t ease her mind at all. As Gideon finished his piece, and looked around the room expectantly, she politely raised her hand.
“As we all know, the Dawn Machine are a group of dangerous and subversive Navy men-“
“They aren’t that bad after you give them a right old head-butt after they start their preaching,” Dirae Erinyes interrupted, too immersed to observe proper decorum.
Evensong gave a sigh and continued, “How can you be sure that they will hold up their end of the bargain? They are fanatics and would think little of betraying those who do not praise the sun. My other question is this Gant Pole. I was lead to believe that it was mythical-“
“Just because it’s mythical doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Dirae Erinyes retorted.
“Point made, but what is your proof? I know you are a man who would not venture out without proof.” Evensong let her questions hang in the air, as Dirae Erinyes proudly turned their easel around. The words “First Day of our Exciting Odyssey!” hung over a mirrored reflections of the groggy crew.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/30/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 12/30/2017
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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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Tyr Teg
Posts: 10
1/11/2018
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Chapter 1 - How to play the game of names and stowaways
Tyr‘s dreams were pleasant and calm. Just the way he wanted them. As his Cosmogone glasses anounced to anyone with the right knowledge – Parabola was quite a familiar place for him. He has spent more than a few nights exploring its strange forests and wondrous rivers and creeks. But this time he just wanted to stay safe and enjoy his sort-of-tea while sitting on a log and watching what passed for sunset in Parabola. He noticed an uncertain figure pass by – like a shade of a half forgotten memory. But before he could focus on it more he awoke to the sound of Gideon Stormstrider knocking on the doors on his way to breakfast.
The Polite Peacemaker sat on his bed and gazed on a pair of Rattus Faber – currently looking back at him with their paws still full of the equipment they were pulling out of their hiding place in the barrel of his Emergency Blunderbuss. Apparently they hitched a ride inside of it and now with their sleeping bags packed, they were ready to go explore their new home. While both parties seemed equally stunned by surprise there was a noise of tiny machinery being pulled apart and a front wheel of rat-sized velocipede tumbled out of the gun’s barrel (almost hitting one of the surprised rats on the nose) followed by another fluffy head with tiny eyes that quickly turned big when their owner realized their human transport was awake and aware of their presence. “Well guv, we won’t take any more of your time,” the tallest of the rats said. Before Tyr’s brain could conjure an appropriate answer – all three rats finished packing (including dividing a tiny Velocipede into three parts and sharing those equally between them) and were on their way out of the cabin.
Tyr blinked a few times to ensure he wasn’t dreaming, then shrugged and decided that “What was done was done” and after ensuring none of the other devices he brought along had any more unwelcome surprises proceeded to dress and move on to breakfast. To his surprise, he wasn’t the last one to arrive.
---
Listening to Gideon’s speech – Tyr wasn’t terribly surprised. He was well aware thanks to his Bazaar sources that Gant Pole was indeed not a myth and the knowledge of the unfortunate incident that befell most of Her Majesty’s Navy was common knowledge to most players of the Game on his level. Another good reason why Bazaar was necessary and the best way for the future. He wasn’t looking forward to the visit at Grand Geode though. On the other hand that destination was fairly far into the future and he was sure he was far from the most interesting person here from the Dawn Machine’s point of view so it might end up being outright easy.
Speaking of interesting – his eyes passed the gathering of adventurers. Old faces, young faces, faces that carried a lot of mementos of their previous adventures and faces – specifically the young ladies, he realized, who seemed to be on their first zee trip. This promised to be quite an adventure. The one other thing that was worth notice was the large mirror. When a person started speaking out of it Tyr knew he was right. Amets Estibariz has joined the voyage after-all.
He was browsing through the last file – the dull reading about Antonios Methodios. Tyr wasn’t sure but it was quite improbable that someone that dull and boring would be living in the Dynamo household and even less so that he would be joining this journey. Even as a Valet/Chaperone he was too boring. The more likely option was that the file has been doctored or outright fabricated. But by who? The Polite Peacemaker had no idea. Just as he put the file aside the last Delivery-bat flew through the open window into the study and dropped a heavy file into Tyr’s lap. The cover was made of cinnabar and the careful considerate writing read “Amets Estibariz” This promised to be an interesting read.
The wurbly noises draw Tyr out of his memories and he is surprised to notice that there aren’t in fact two Rubbery persons here, but Mrs Canning is in fact talking to Squiddley in his own language. Observing the room he noticed E.M’s daughter paying particular attention to Persephone’s finger. Focusing on them as well, he just caught the last part of what was probably meant to be a secret message. Spies watching spies do spy stuff. Once again he was vindicated in his belief that spying is a job for one person who doesn’t draw attention to themselves and only gives his debriefing after the mission – thus ensuring that he or she won’t get caught and keelhauled for being a dirty dirty spy.
When the giant crab was ceremoniously introduced and the debate concerning his name started – he wondered for a few seconds if he should mention his Rattus stowaways. Seeing how heated the debate was getting "a Bazaarine agent... heh" he decided against it and instead used the opportunity that arose when the young Eva Louise apparently seemed to lose her appetite and grabbed some more bacon. While zailing one could never say when would be the next opportunity to eat something that wasn't stinking like a dead fish. Overall it promised to be an interesting day.
---
edited by Tyr_Teg on 1/11/2018
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The Polite Peacemaker of Bazaar
Per situlas ad astra!
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
1/18/2018
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The eidolon had, sadly, attracted attention. Thankfully, only short-lived attention. Soon enough, the cabin dips back into the usual chaotic discussion, interspersed with motivated warbling . The eidolon, meanwhile, dines on fruit unseen in the Neath nor the Surface, chokes on sweetness, drowns in taste, resists the urge to gag. They're done with their improvised and implausible meal when the dying royalty is brought in. There is much ado about the crab's name and its royal status, now. The eidolon mimes an unapologetic yawn in lieu of true lassitude.
Nobody here really trusts each other, they muse. Not really. The conversation is bathed in paranoia and baptized in doubt. Very probably, every single one of the people here is hiding some succulent secret or other. It's a crushing atmosphere. Unbearable, really. Might as well make small talk, lighten the mood somewhat. Fight a bitter room with sweetness.
"That is all fine and dandy," An absentminded gesture towards the pair loudly ruminating on blackmailing the New Sequence. "Spies and all, but my mind is occupied with something quite different: We've all heard of the sun-bathed Surface, if not been there ourselves." Has the eidolon ever seen the Sun, outside of false dreams and cramped boxes? They are uncertain, and time does tend to lie. "When this expedition is over, I would be delighted to visit an observatory, if the situation were amenable to it, but just feeling the light on my skin would make me happy enough." An inviting gaze sweeps through the room. Their smile is warm as summer breeze.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 1/18/2018
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
1/19/2018
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Madison shies away from all the debate, not having strong enough opinions to participate. She fusses slightly with her utensils to give the illusion of activity, only looking up when Amets provides a welcome chance in topic. She smiles as her thoughts turn to the sunlit surface, and all the wonder surrounding it. "It'll be weird actually seeing it; my friends and I growing up had this inside joke that the 'Surface' was an elaborate adult prank."
She reflects briefly on the mythology they had built up over the years to explain all the scraps of evidence pointing towards the Surface being real. None of them took it very seriously - at least, she assumes none of them did - but the two she retained over the years still keep the gag alive. "I told a couple of them I was heading up there, and they teased me a little. 'Send a postcard from the Sunlight Factory!' I wonder if there's a place up there actually called that." Madison places a finger on the side of her head, thoughtful.
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edited by Sara Hysaro on 1/19/2018
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Please do not send SMEN, cat boxes, or Affluent Reporter requests. All other social actions are welcome.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
1/19/2018
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Dirae Erinyes sets aside their pencils and hunches behind Evensong’s chair, arms wrapped around her shoulders. “We are going to visit my family. Well, actually my first wife’s family – which I admit does sound odd. But my family growing up has all passed on, and my wife’s family is a welcoming bunch. Between my aunt and I, we’ve been entertaining them with our adventures in London. They have been clamoring for a chance to meet Evensong –they think it’s good for me to see someone new. After that, it’s for Evensong to decide – she was born in the Neath.” Evensong remains quiet, even when Dirae Erinyes words drop away.
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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
1/11/2018
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Despite their fighting stance, Dirae Erinyes simply kept talking. “You seemed to have misunderstood me. The Sea King is not the same as the Fathom king. They are a vassal of the Fathom King. You can tell if crabs are prawnie or unprawnie by their claws. Those with bigger right claws follow the Sea King and are Prawnies. Those with larger left claws follow the Counterthrone and are unprawnies. They are also more likely to argue about being eaten, so it’s best to avoid them.
As you can see, our crabbie friend has a bigger right claw then left claw. Thus, they are a prawnie.” Dirae Erinyes points to his claw, before continuing their lecture.
“Now, all royal prawnies have a dark purplish blue as part of their coloring – all thanks to a mutation in the first Sea king. As we can see-despite the dullness of the carapace-that is indeed a dark purplish blue color.”
“So, once we know that our crab is royalty, how do you find out their title? Prawnies are not talkative. Once again, we return back to the carapace.” Dirae Erinyes carefully turns the tank around to allow their trapped audience to see the back of the crab.
“On the back, we can see black markings. By examining these markings with a proper set of maps, one can quickly pick out the territory of a particular crab. If you were to use one of Gideon’s maps, I’m sure you would agree that it is the Devil’s Reef. This method is really the only way to tell, since crabs don’t actually use their titles for anything.”
“As for their distance from the throne, I can only estimate that based on size and age. Since our crab friend is nearly ancient, but not as big as could be, fifteenth seems fair. “
They turned to face Ms. Canning. “All of this is in my book “The Customs of Crustacean Royalty.” You have read it, right?”
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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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ForScience
Posts: 69
1/3/2018
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Florence still misses the Umbrella, but she supposes it's in a better place, now. And the excitement of embarking on an expedition as potentially groundbreaking as this one is fantastic! She nods along cheerfully to Gideon's speech, not even batting an eyelash at his more absurd proposals. She trusts him. Although she would very much like to discuss some of the finer points of the underlying theories at work here later.
As soon as he's done, she speaks up. "I'd just like to say, Gideon, I support you completely in this endeavor. For those of you who do not know my, I am Doctor Florence Garrison. Usually I'm tied up with University work, scientific in nature of course, but I've found the time for this and I could not be more glad!" She smiles guilelessly at everybody.
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/ForScience - The Intrepid Scholar. A dauntless scientist.
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
8/19/2018
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Evensong only had long enough to (less than gracefully) slam the cabin door behind her and start rummaging through her suitcase of faces when the door swung open again. Evensong huddled down, gripping the suitcase in her hands to use as shield or weapon.
“Top o the morning to you, the bonniest wife in the neath!”
Evensong relaxed and turned around to greet Dirae Erinyes, relief turning into confusion. “What are you wearing?”
“A toga! And all of my clothes that I could find,” Dirae Erinyes said, while engulfing Evensong in an embrace.
“Why are you wearing a toga?” Evensong asked, voice muffled.
Dirae Erinyes let go of Evensong to assume a properly grandiose stance. “It wasn’t just superior tipple, or regrettable love affairs that followed last night, there was also artistic vision! As one whose had to climb through the squalid and questionably decorated streets of Veilgarden, I couldn’t deny their requests for a model.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Evensong asked, collapsing on the bed, placing a pillow over her head. She loved Dirae Erinyes but their good mood was not helping her headache.
“Absolutely not! However, judging from the pile of sleeping artists around me when I came to, and the abstract nature of their paintings, I think anything they saw will be just as dismissed as an overactive imagination and whatever they put in their absinthe. A fun evening overall-Are you okay?”
“It’s called a hangover. I’m surprised you don’t have one.”
“Never had too much trouble with those – I think it’s because I don’t drink enough to get one.” Evensong, seeing how much Dirae Erinyes had put down in their wild days, personally thought it had to do with whoever Dirae Erinyes parents had stolen the liver from, and whatever they preserved the organ in. But some things were best not brought up, at least not if she didn’t want to spoil the morning. “I’ll get you some tea and tincture.” Dirae Erinyes went to the small, nevercold brass stove. The small flame heated up the water as they measured out the tea leaves from the tea caddy.
“Can’t you just leave me in bed to suffer?” Evensong asked, as Dirae Erinyes rummaged for a tincture bottle.
“I’m sorry, but we are going to be sailing into the port of the Chelonate soon and I have a big day planned for us. The Temple of Storm! The Relics of the Bone Men! Shopping!”
“Shopping?” The hot water steamed, filling the tiny room with sticky heat. Dirae Erinyes grabbed the kettle off the stove and poured it into the tea pot, mixing in sugar, and at first, a few spoonfuls of tincture before just pouring in the whole bottle.
“Of course! The Chelonate has the largest market of monster hunters in existence. Monster bone carvings with scrimshaw! Scaly clothes made from iridescent scales! Chelonate Musk!” Dirae Erinyes, proud of their doctored tea, carries over and sets down a dainty tea set next to the suffering figure of Evensong. Evensong only removes her pillow long enough to pour and gulp down a cup of tea, wincing at the bitter taste of the tincture, poorly hidden with the sugar.
“How are we going to pay? I don’t think they take echoes here.”
“Why do you think we brought so many flasks of rum and jars of dried surface mangos? Did you really think we were going to use those all ourselves?” Evensong declines to answer, letting the tincture do its work.
Dirae Erinyes lifts the pillow to give a kiss. “I’m going up to sketch our arrival to the Chelonate. Please join me when you are feeling better. Make sure not to wear your good clothes for the Temple of Storm – it can get messy there.”
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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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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
1/31/2018
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The lively discussion continues as Gideon polishes off his remaining bacon. It has long since gone cold, but he barely notices, preoccupied as he is with not thinking about the voice in his head.
Squidley is having a fine old time of it. Gideon frowns – he finds himself strangely jealous of the attention the Rubbery is receiving. For a while he had been the only person who interacted with Squidley on a regular basis. I suppose I should feel happy for him.
The crab - Crabbie, Baron of the Devil Reefs, Fifteenth Heir to the Sea King's Throne – waves its antennae forlornly. Gideon kneels before the tank and says “I think that's enough excitement for today, don't you think, Crabbie?”, motioning a zailor to wheel it out of the dining room.
Gideon addresses the room. “Thank you all for agreeing to continue on this voyage! Your faith will be rewarded, I assure you. You have the run of the ship for the day, such as it is – we'll reconvene in the evening.” With that, he makes his exit; amidst the babble of conversation he draws barely a glance.
***
“Ship off the port bow, Mr Stormstrider,” says an Eager Swabbie, leaning through the open cabin door.
“Hm?” Gideon looks up from his book, a hefty volume titled One Hundred and One Bizarre Contraptions for All the Family.
“Looks like a yacht, sir. Big and fancy, like. They're signalling that they want to come alongside.”
“Oh, how nice of them! By all means, proceed. I'll be right with you.” He goes back to poring over schematics for a device that looks remarkably like a steam-powered ostrich.
The Swabbie hesitates. “Sir, you did say you wanted to be on deck for anything important, right?”
“Yes! Of course! It's just that I don't have a bookmark, and I'd hate to lose my place. There are so very many pages in this book, as you can see.”
“Do you... want me to get you a bookmark?”
“Well, since you're asking, that'd be most gracious of you. My thanks.”
Once adequately bookmarked, Gideon heads above to see what all the fuss is about. The Monocular Appeaser is waiting on deck, scowling as a lavishly appointed yacht approaches. A jaunty pianoforte tune drifts across the dark waves from an oasis of shimmering gaslight and fancy curtains. “This is your doing, I take it,” he says. “These party boats are a menace. They've no respect for the laws of the zee, nor the danger that awaits out here.”
“We must be courteous to our fellow seafarers,” says Gideon. “Besides,” he flashes a smile, “I've not been to a decent party in ages.”
The yacht draws closer, and through the bright windows Gideon sees a ballroom filled with men and women in fine evening wear. They dance a frenzied dance to the tune of the piano, spinning and twirling in tangles of silk but never letting up, never skipping a beat, never placing a foot wrong. The energy of the ship is mesmerising, inviting them in to a world of black and gold.
Gideon places a hand on the captain's shoulder reassuringly. “Yes, indeed, this should prove to be a most diverting evening.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 1/31/2018
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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
2/5/2018
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Evensong wasn’t meant for parties like this. Oh, she had been to plenty before Dirae Erinyes. Dressed as a waiter, one hand carrying a tray, of glittering glasses as the other hand slips into pockets, purses, dangling jewelry. . .all held their secrets. Dressed as a demure maid, eyes never leaving the floor, an ambush behind the stairs, a snapped neck masked by inspired singers. Evensong looks for familiar faces from the dossiers that crossed her desk, but nobody here is a player or piece that she recognizes. Not on this ship of fools.
Not that Evensong could carry out such orders, not dressed like this. She was not a waiter, a maid, or even a humanoid shaped shadow. No, she was part of the _guests_. A role that she had not grown into, despite the years of marriage. . . even so, this dress, crushed velvet with small diamonds, the skirt showing the phases of the moon. Each moon was parabola-linen, glowing with jungle light. Evensong told herself that she had no clue how she let herself be talked into this – but the memory of the Invisible Hunt, Dirae Erinyes measuring the too soft and heavy material against her, murmuring verses from the Faerie Queene, La Belle Sans Merci. . .Evensong never thought of herself as sentimental, prone to Bohemian romanticism. She had spent too much time sulking around Veilgarden, eavesdropping on impromptu serenades, and ignoring drunken verses thrown at her. But when Dirae Erinyes harsh voice whispered in her ears, she felt herself melt into sodden wax as Dirae Erinyes placed a Russian style tiara of deep purple glim. The same tiara caught her eye in the mirror’s reflection. In that moment, she watch the moon pearls jewelry wane another silver. Evensong wondered if they truly reflected the unseen moon as venom-ruby thrummed at her throat.
A waiter interrupts her reflection, with a tray of smoked fish crisps. Evensong gives stiff thanks and quickly swallows it, a vain offering to her hungry stomach. As the waiter turns around and the other guests remain lost in their gaiety, Evensong palms a lit candle stub from a nearby candelabra. (A luxury that surprised even her – open flames are abhorred on the zee.) She smothers the flame with a quick puff, carefully holding it so a casually glance would see just another hors d’oeuvres and so the wax does not clot on the silk gloves. The hot wax scalds her tongue and sooths her gnawing stomach.
Liking away the last of the wax, Evensong sips the wine, letting it linger on her tongue, tasting for a hint of poison among the mushrooms. Her task is made harder with the thick layer of perfumed fog, even with the strong zee wind blowing down from the deck. Finally, she swallows. Evensong keeps her sips small, to forestall further drunkenness. But this wine is strong stuff, stronger than any Greyfield’s bottle. (This is the same wine that Dirae Erinyes always toasts “We are drinking the falling stars!” Evensong often wanders the origin of that toast, but has never asked. Maybe they drink the falling stars on the surface. They tell many stories about the stars on the surfaces, at least Dirae Erinyes does, especially about the one that fell, and then fell further into love. But surely stars can’t fall in love?)
Thinking of stars and love, Evensong looks across the room, watching Dirae Erinyes hold court among flock of other guests. Their outfit today was at least complimentary colors, a purple-tinted parabola linen suit whose landscapes slid out of mind, a rose patterned mask, and salivating blue gloves. Evensong leaves behind her wallflower corner to join Dirae Erinyes side. She admires how those arsenic green eyes gleam even brighter despite the dim lights. She gives a quick peck, worrying that if she did anything more, she may cast aside her face, letting herself be closer than lip to lip.
“So, there was this Rattus Faber that climbed on the stage” Dirae Erinyes pauses, returning the quick peck and draping a protective arm around Evensong shoulders as they quaff the whole glass. “So, this Rattus Faber has the smallest bloody banjo you had ever seen. . .” None of the flock questions it – Dirae Erinyes reputation proceeds them. Evensong remembers when they first walked into the Foreign Office, scandal and self-destruction still clinging to them from the Court. The snickers of the Face when Dirae Erinyes offered Evensong a sip from their hipflask. Evensong was one of the few that knew enough to question how Dirae Erinyes could drink oceans, how they could drink anything all. More memories, of stained journals hidden away, brought by a surface runner. One of the few secrets that laid heavy on their tongue as Dirae Erinyes read the latest letter from their family. Their family complaining of the most unusual robber, one that only pawed through old letters and papers up in the attic . . .
Memories and diagrams are interrupted in Evensongs mind as another joins the flock. A sandy-haired man in a white suit cautiously approaches, hand outstretched to Evensong, eyes watching Dirae Erinyes. After a minute of throat clearing, Dirae Erinyes stops their story, cracking “A don’t be such an idiot smile,” to him, and releases their arm around Evensong. Evensong does not take the hand, just considers it. “So, talking about little banjos. . .”
“I need a partner an Elder Continent dance called the Butterfly Dance.” Hesitation flees and Evensong takes his hand. He nervously explains the steps but does not listen. Her people created this dance. He ends apologizing that they don’t have the shawls he had seen in his travels. But they would like silly at a proper London party. Evensong keeps her mouth closed, so she doesn’t tell him that they are more than clothes, that they form the wings.
He stands in front of her as they start. The footwork is delicate, like any jig and lilt from the surface. One foot is always off the ground, often both. They hold their arms out in a grand swooping motion. The drums start slow, but speed up, transforming the swoops into frantic fluttering, and spins. Evnesong closes her eyes, feeling the non-existent shawl flutter in her grip, its fabric fanning out. She knows her partner is watching her expectantly, but the start is not a partner dance but the part danced by and for yourself. But of course Londoner’s would turn it into a partner dance – they must make everything romantic.
Then the strings join in and the second phase begins. Her partner puts both feet on the ground and has to stop dancing as he puts his arms out. Evensong is disappointed but remembers that humans are not as strong as her people as she leaps, his arms grip and throw proving further momentum as she soars. Too soon she is caught by plump matron-who does not jump and join in the air like her people do-but instead holds still and laughs about Evensong’s quick feet. Evensong does not care, as long the matron holds out her arms for her to leap and soar again.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 2/5/2018
(A quick note on the snuffer dance. The first part is based off the Fancy Shawl Dance or Butterfly Dance, which is a fancy powwow dance (which means it doesn't have religious significance but is used for social powwow dancing and competitions. Video I used for inspiration is here:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyYyCnSB6v8 )
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 2/5/2018
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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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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
3/25/2018
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The Lovesick Brute is not a self-proclaimed "romantic," as are many of the passengers on the Swallowtail. Nor does he look as the "romantics" do, who are bohemians ranging from the stylishly poor to the opaquely wealthy, bedecked in fine fabric and loose clothes, beautiful faces looking out from under drooping hair. No, he is not a "romantic," as the discount Byrons that populated the Swallowtail claim to be.
But nevertheless, he is in love.
It even says so, just there, in his journal.
"I am in love.
Damn."
This was no joyous revelation for the Lovesick Brute, as the one he had fallen in love with was none other than Rory Sketch, who seemed to be claimed by the Gruff Young Toff. It was also no great surprise, however, for who wasn't in love with Rory Sketch?
He could take the Gruff Young Toff in a fight, he could, the Lovesick Brute. The Gruff Young Toff was a muscular sporting man, common among the masculine youths of the bourgeoisie who so took after the protagonists of those safari adventure novels, but the Lovesick Brute was bigger. No one stood a match for the Lovesick Brute, not when those meaty fists began to fly.
They did not fly now, however. They had not flown in some time.
Now they merely clenched in frustation, and those eyes that had once menaced many a frightened ring fighter now bore a more melancholy tint, frequently to be found fixed from across the room on the gently cascading hair that decorated Rory Sketch's head.
Love had disabled him, as love has a habit of doing.
The two had even had an opportunity to talk once. Unhappy in the Gruff Young Toff's arms, Rory spent many an evening on the Swallowtail conversing with as many a passenger as he could. He fit in too terribly well with this crowd and so after some time began speaking to the crew, whereupon he met the Lovesick Brute's young sister, who was the reason the Lovesick Brute was on this yacht in the first place. One thing led to another, an introduction was made, and soon Rory was reading the Brute poetry.
"I love you," the Brute blurted out.
And Rory had begun to cry.
Since then, the Lovesick Brute had remained here. In his room. No efforts by his sister succeeded in coaxing him out. He had tried his hand at poetry to express his feelings, remembering the beautiful verses Rory had shared with him.
"He is so pretty.
Damn it.
Damn damn damn damn it.
I am sad.
Like the moon."
So pressed on this state of melancholy.
It is on the fourth day of his seclusion, as the Lovesick Brute sits on his bed and stares at his fists as if seeking an answer from a reliable source to this new and strange problem, that Rory Sketch comes to his room.
A knock on the door. He ignores it, expecting his sister.
"Hello? It is me, Rory Sketch."
The dark eyes flash up to the door, then away. He turns, burying his head into the pillows of his bed.
A silence as the knocker awaits an unfound answer.
"I brought lots of wine."
Three pairs of eyes meet the Lovesick Brute as he answers the door, his large silhouette filling the frame. At the front, the familiar sapphire pools of Rory Sketch. Behind him, the turned eyes of two crew members, both of them carrying large marked crates.
"This is fine wine-" the Brute's eyes turn back to Rory; he feels a pang in his chest, "- and I'd like to share it with you, if you'd let me. I'm going on an adventure, you see, and I've just, well, I've just won all this wine and I've no one to drink it with because.. Oh, I've got no companion for this journey, you see, which means I'm.. All alone. And you seemed very friendly earlier and you were drinking wine. So I was hoping you'd.. Sort of.. Come with me."
By this time, those light sapphires are pointed down at the floor, towards the beaten and scuffed shoes Rory wears, worn down by a combination of too many dances and too little money.
The Lovesick Brute stares in silence til Rory looks back up.
"Oh," the Lovesick Brute says, looking away for a moment to clear his vision of this thing clouding his thoughts, "Yes, I-I love wine."
"That's delightful because I've so much of it and I love wine, too!" Rory chirps, and when the Brute looks back at him the young beauty is beaming, smiling proudly.
The happiness there creates a pulling sensation in the Brute's chest. Normally, when he feels his body pull, it is driving him into a fight. Now, this is different. He says the same thing he said the last time he felt this pull in his chest.
"I love you."
Rory pauses - the beam fades, but he doesn't cry this time, no sadness replaces that smile. He seems to think.
"I don't know whether I love you yet," he says slowly, "But I think I will. I know I could. Will you come with me, then? Because otherwise, I'll never rest til I know."
He smiles again, and the Brute can't help but smile back.
"Yes."
And so, as Rory Sketch strolls once more onto the Inexplicable, he brings with him a protector, one driven by the strongest driving force to protect of all. The sea senses the son of a father, the sun is dormant.
Rory Sketch finds a set of rooms, side by side, and moves into one, the Lovesick Brute residing with his wine in the other.
So begins an adventure.
edited by The Atumian Sputum on 3/25/2018
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Straight outta Dahut.
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
3/8/2018
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Rory pauses - the two dance in silence for a moment.
"That is a very good love story, Ms. Dynamo," he finally says, quiet voice a touch hard to hear over the sound of violins, "And as with any good love story, very sad. I find fast loves are very much like horse races - have you ever been to one? I had a good friend once who loved to take me to them. I never very much understood the attraction, but I liked the gaiety it brought about in people, and I made a very good acquaintance of a jockey who used to love to hear my poetry. But I find they are very much like fast loves because while the race is going, they are so passionate, so gay, and all of a sudden they come all skidding to a halt and one person is pronounced the victor. For all that passion and gaiety, everyone else is left sad, except the victor and those who were betting money on them - those people that shunned you, in this case. But there are always more horse races, if you choose to keep attending them. Personally, I feel I've been to too many. I cry far too much to be any good at race-loves."
The model seems lost in thought once more, looking out over Emma's shoulder.
"Though nothing seems to be very fast about the love I feel now, and still I cry. Everything is so slow and melancholy," he mutters.
Once more tears seem to well up in Rory's beautiful eyes. He glances at Emma and lets go of her abruptly.
"You must excuse me, Ms. Dynamo. It was ever so nice meeting you!" he says quickly, already turning away.
The young poet runs off before Emma can say another word, losing himself from her sight in the churning sea of revellers. He floats like this for a moment, head buried in his hands and drifting between dancers, til he emerges on the other end of the ballroom.
As his tears slow, he wipes his eyes. He glances over at the corner of the room in which lounge the honey dreamers, to all the world residing in some other realm entirely, and contemplates losing himself. But this is an awful place to lose oneself.
It is at moments like this that he misses Italy. The summers, the beaches, the blue skies, the marble walls, the palace halls.
He shakes his head - he's written too many poems about that, far too many. In his few short years on Earth, he'd exhausted Italy's potential for poetry. It was either wander beneath the sun, forgetting his past, or go down below, to dive deep into it. And don't all poets live forever in the past? Isn't that where beauties belong? So he'd gone below, son of the sun forsaking one father to find another, forsaking a sky for a cavern, forsaking those sunset parties on the beach with the other youths of Italy, dancing about the campfire to the gentle laps of the waves, for...
This.
He finds himself outside again, gazing at the Neath-stars once more.
He'll never find poetry on a pleasure yacht.
His eyes fall on the Inexplicable, floating in the water just beyond the yacht's railing.
Adventure.
Rory Sketch gathers his things and boards the Inexplicable, seeking sunlight, poetry, and answers to the many issues of love.
edited by The Atumian Sputum on 9/19/2018
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Straight outta Dahut.
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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
3/12/2018
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(Co-written with Drake Dynamo)
After an hour of conversation and brandy with Sir Reginald, Gideon has become rather merry. His cheeks are flushed, and he bursts into raucous laughter at every ribald joke from the older man. Reginald, though inured to the effects of alcohol through his years in the officers’ lounge, is beginning to slur his words.
When Drake Dynamo finds him in the billiards room of the Swallowtail, Gideon has abandoned all propriety. With unsteady hands he draws back the cue to strike a ball on the green velvet surface of the table, squints in concentration, loses his grip on the stick and promptly falls over, smacking his head on the wood-panelled wall.
Reginald watches from an armchair through twin eyeholes in a newspaper - the perfect disguise. “Jolly good shot, my boy!” he guffaws.
“I do say, I’ve never seen that technique before,” Drake remarks, entering the dim room. He lightly extracts a handkerchief from his coat pocket and rather daintily covers his face to avoid inhaling smoke. From the ashtray next to him, it is clear that Reginald has been going through cigars at nearly superhuman speed.
“It’s an experimental technique,” says Gideon, scrambling upright and brushing himself off. “This was merely a test run. Now we need to try it again with some more variables. Can you hold this cue ball one second while I get everything in order?”
While gathering the balls together on the table for another try, smoke curling about as his lanky frame disturbs the air currents, something occurs to him and he frowns deeply. “Say, Emma, you look different. Did you change clothes? There’s something… something I can’t put my finger on.”
Drake nods and approaches the table, setting the cue ball in place. “Well, Gideon, I believe you might be thinking of the wrong Dynamo,” Drake says, very deliberately rubbing his mustache.
Gideon’s brow creases further until the gears click into place in his head. “Why, naturally! How could I forget you? The long-lost Ernest Dynamo, in the flesh! I still remember that time we got mixed up in that Clay Man smuggling ring, you know. By golly, you gave that big Unfinished Man a seeing-to with your old one-two punch!” He mimes a punching motion, coming dangerously close to actually hitting Drake, then grabs a table leg to steady himself. “Did the doctors manage to fix your hand?”
Drake’s eyebrow raises further and further in incredulity throughout this account, to a point once thought humanly impossible. “As much I would love for you to regale me with tales of my younger brother’s exploits, I believe you might know me better as Drake Dynamo,” Drake says drily. “I was actually hoping to speak with you about joining your expedition.”
“Drake, of course, of course! Did Ernest leave, then? Never mind. Take a seat, please,” says Gideon, gesturing to a well-stuffed armchair. “Would you like some brandy? I’m sure Reginald won’t mind sharing. The more the merrier!”
A plaintive honk comes from beneath the billiards table, and Gideon sticks his head underneath. “Don’t worry, Squidley. I think your Rubbery biology might have taken to alcohol a bit too readily, so you’re experiencing the hangover before getting drunk. As long as you have a bit of a lie-down, you should be perfectly fine. Provided it doesn’t turn out to be toxic to your kind.”
Drake takes a step away from the table and, seeing the prone squid, gives him a friendly nod, before taking a seat in the armchair. “I’ll pass on the brandy, but I’d rather like us to discuss the logistics of your expedition. Where are you headed? As much as I love my wife, the married life has turned into quite a drag of late, and I need to take a break, if only to get the old brain working again,” Drake explains, tapping his forehead, and settling into the snug chair.
“Oh, we’re going all sorts of places, as I was just telling Reginald,” says Gideon. The old veteran puts down his newspaper and nods wisely. “They say you can smell the Chelonate before you even see it. Sounds perfectly ghastly, but we won’t be stopping over for long. I have a zubmarine to take us beneath the waves - top secret, you understand, very hush-hush.”
Gideon puts a finger to his lips and shushes everyone before continuing. “After we’ve been to the Gant Pole, we’re off to the Dawn Machine! Hopefully it won’t brainwash us all at once, so the survivors will have a fighting chance. After that, we’re off to the Surface. I have some unfinished business there. I know what you’re thinking - we’re all going to die horribly as soon as we step out into the sunlight - but I’ve thought of that too. I have a plan.”
Drake gets positively giddy as Gideon lists their destinations. “Oh that sounds terribly fun! I do hope you have room aboard for one such as myself. You never know when a Correspondent- and part-time university professor, I might add- will come in handy. I haven’t been to the Surface in ages!” Drake exclaims, practically leaping from his chair. “Oh please let me come, Gideon, please.” Drake’s last sentence has the quality of an excited young urchin.
Gideon beams. “How could I say no to that face? You’re like a little puppy, albeit a less hairy one. Of course you can come! I might have to throw an excess zailor overboard to make room, but it’ll be worth it to bring another man of science along, especially an old friend. You may not want any brandy, but we should make a toast anyway.” He hands Drake an empty glass and clinks it together with his own. “To business!”
“To business!” echoes Reginald from the other side of the room, raising his own glass. Squidley gurgles appreciatively.
“To science!” Drake enthusiastically declares, raising his empty cup.
***
Retreating from the bulkhead of the billiard room, the ghost of Mister Mauvais returns to the small rowboat where Jimmy Mariner waits, and re-enters his ear. Mariner sighs upon receiving the ghost’s update.
“Well, we’re in a pickle, aren’t we?”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/12/2018
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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
4/20/2018
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My dear—
I dare say everything is going well so far. Maybe too well—believe it or not, on one of our first nights after leaving London, we met with, not a zee-monster, or pirates, but a giant luxury yacht which resembled nothing so much as a zailing version of the most dissolute Veilgarden parties. Several people we know were on it—well, people I know, at least. Maybe you remember Lord R------? The Radical Empiricist we once met at Lady Amarantyne's salon? (whatever happened to her?) Well, he took the rather less radical turn of giving himself up to vice, like aristocrats are wont to do, though I dare say it has improved his social skills, if not his theories. But I won't bore you with party stories—not that I remember a lot, anyway. There was excellent wine, and probably too much of it. My daughter apparently has managed to steal some. Why am I not surprised?
We seem to have lost a couple of expedition members, and taken on several new passengers instead. This probably happens all the time. I swear I still don't know everyone's names, but I guess that's E.L.'s job anyway. As for her, she seems to be making friends quickly, which is something new and unexpected. I'm not sure whether I should be relieved or scared.
I'm equally unsure about our leader, this Mr Stormstrider. At least half the time he seems completely insane, but I guess that's kind of mandatory in his field... whatever that is. But I'll hold off from being too judgemental, after all, how many people think you or me insane?
I'm very sorry for the rambling nature of this letter, I'm afraid I'm still nursing a hangover. I don't even know where we are precisely, except "somewhere East of London". Will write again soon, and more coherently (I hope).
I miss you.
Love,
Eva
P.S. I almost forgot, there's a Parabolan on board—well, not precisely on board—you know what I mean. Anyway, they're going by the name of Amets Estibariz. Basque! How queer a coincidence is that?
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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
5/11/2018
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(This post is co-written between Vavakxnosnexus and me.)
Evensong woke up, head feeling like five rounds – all lost – at the Medusa’s Head. Cracking eyes open, she peered into the dim light leaking from underneath the door. Where was she? A brief exploration with her hands revealed that this was a closet, filled with fine silk dresses and a pile of hatboxes. Well, it wasn’t the first time she had woken up in a closet. It was only now that Evensong’s sluggish brain finally processed that her face felt unusually cool, of air unfiltered by a mask. Her hands darted up, feeling the raw flesh that should’ve been covered. Panic pushed itself to forefront over pain, and her careful exploration turned into a frantic search.
As dresses were ruffled, and hatboxes investigated, Evensong found no sign of her wayward face. As she double checked the floor, her search was cut off by a groan that filled the room. Evensong peered through the cracks, as she opened the door inch by inch, minute by minute. Another groan, followed by a thunderous snore, as Evensong finally stepped out of the closet.
The figure on the bed was a pile of petticoats and jewels, with a blanket pulled over their head. An oil lamp burned next to them, filling the room with painful light. Evensong scanned the room for her missing face, but no success. Slowly taking the lamp, she watched the slumbering figure. No stir from sleep, but experience had taught her not to trust mere tipple to escape discovery. Removing her dancing shoes, she left the hard sole steps behind as she crept across the room. In stockinged feet, before slipping out into the hallway.
She navigated the unfamiliar hallways with shallow breaths, waiting for a party goer to stumble out of staterooms or for a member of the hungover crew, going about their morning chores with surly manners. However, the whole ship seemed to be asleep, as no one stirred as the floorboards creaked and the Evensong’s light slowly floated down the hallway.
After an hour of this torturously slow creep, Evensong eventually emerged into the zee wind. The boats were still connected, though probably not for long – if the crew ever did wake up. She scuttled across the surface of the boat, like a secret-burdened rattus faber from a bifurcated owl, reaching the (relative) safety of Gideon’s boat. Now she had to take this endeavor seriously – Gideon’s crew was more likely to be hardened and ready compared to the professional babysitters she left behind. If only her head would stop aching. . .
As Evensong began traversing the Inexplicable, the Insatiable Seamstress entered the vessel, clothes charred and skin stained with sunlight. Her mind was still reeling from the experience. Having to discern the dark and muted shades of zee-ship corridors was an unwelcome prospect after seeing such wonder.
Still, the Seamstress’ body couldn’t just be left on the Swallowtail, that would simply be wasteful. So she changed vessels, blindly walked the wooden bridges between them and now, just as blindly, navigating down the stairs.
Evensong, listening carefully to the creaking boards and heard a new a pattern emerge. Coming up behind her, a corridor she just left. She judged her options, looking at the doors that led to the engine and stranger mechanical oddities that filled the belly. Behind her, her hand grasped one of the door handles. She tested it, finding it locked. Of course, she reminded herself through the fog, it would be, making sure nobody at the party accidentally sabotaged the ship.
Evensong turned to face who was coming, lantern held to clothe their non-face in shadows.
The Seamstress blinked once, then twice, then thrice. If this was a memory of the light, it was uniquely persistent. More likely, it was a lantern, held aloft by an unclear figure.
A tentative “Greetings” slips out.
A stiff “Greetings” is returned, as Evensong tries to see through the light. Her eyes are no longer used to such brightness, after spending so long under London’s lamp choking smog. Still, she can make out a woman, moving oddly but apparently human. Not much of a fighter if it comes to that.
Evensong would rather it didn’t come to it - surely Gideon would notice if too much of the crew ended up in the zee?
“I don’t suppose you might help me out here a wee bit,” said the Seamstress, seeking the next step down with her foot. “I might’ve gone and stared at the sun and now I cannot discern beige from peligin.”
“Sure.” The reply came without thought, from years of training that taught that a helpful stranger is less suspicious then an unhelpful stranger. She calmed her rising paranoia with the words of this stranger - honeymazed most likely. It wasn’t like honey wasn’t flowing like water at the party last night. Evensong could probably show her the truth and tell her everything and this stranger wouldn’t remember it from one minute to the next.
The Insatiable Seamstress finally finds the necessary step, and moves her other foot down to match. “Wonderful. I just need to get to…” Where does she need to get to, really? It’s not like she has a room, having just arrived here. “The cargo hold. I need to meet someone there.” It’s a lie, but it’ll do.
“Follow me,” Evensong says, asking no further questions - she decided that this was a fling arranged during the party. Nothing for her to worry about.
“How are you enjoying the yacht? I figure you’re from this ship, and not there. Nobody from there would have the foresight to bring a lantern.”
“The yacht was...nice.” Evensong decided that was a safe answer. “Though, I wonder if we have any stray guests we’ll need to clean out before we continue. One wonders how any of those people survive back in London.”
“The answer is that they don’t. Not on their own. They sail on ships bought by the richest gamblers among them, discourse at length with the most scholarly authors among them, indulge themselves carelessly with the most depraved addicts among them, and ask total strangers to guide them back to their cabins when the night is over.”
“Excuse me for any offense. We have just been raised in very different families - my family has always valued self-sufficiency. We don’t often go to parties for fun, even the few us who have managed to rise beyond our station.”
“No offence was taken. For all their worth, they are far from kind, but merely looking for a way to spend what time they have down here. Why, would a friend of mine leave me, blinded and lost, to stumble through an unfamiliar vessel? I suppose they did.”
Both of them take a turn in the corridor, one after another. “I didn’t even know most of them, really, you know. I don’t even know any of their names! This lady I’m wearing? No idea who she was. Some sorta tailor, maybe.” The Strangling Willow might be getting to her. “The others, too! Who are they! I don’t care! That’s the beauty of it, you know, not caring. Caring is the forefather of sorrow.”
“You sound like my family for a moment there - are you and me, perchance, cousins?”
“Cousin? The two of us?” There is a long pause, made longer still by the nature of the situation. The sun-blindness is easing, somewhat. “I’m afraid not. Not yet. But I may be...adopted, which would make us... some sort of family. My adoptive parents would then be the forefathers of the principle you are known to utilize. Or you’re talking about your actual relatives. I’ve no idea as to our relation, in that case.”
“No offense meant, but you are not close enough to be my family. Your family still has a home to return to. Mine does not.”
“Right. My apologies. I hope I haven’t made the impression that I do not respect your family. I just thought that there was a similarity between yours and mine. If I may be so prying, how do you conceive of…how do you think of the skill all Cousins have? Taking faces, I mean.”
"We are taught shame in our skill. That we must do so because we are cursed for the crimes of our forefather." Evensong paused, as they found the locked door to the stairs into the hold. They set to work opening it, even without keys. "Only the heretics among us see anything else."
“I, erm...I see.” The Seamstress, or the thing wearing the Seamstress, is wont to disagree. “That was an enlightening answer.” There isn’t much for her to do while the lock is being picked. “The one I’ll be meeting should be just up ahead. I’ll be able to get there myself.
“Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Evensong turns to leave this strange creature to her task. She should hurry - the next unexpected interruption may be less accepting.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/14/2018
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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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JimmyTMalice
Posts: 237
5/21/2018
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Regrettably, every pleasant night spent overindulging in drink must be followed by the morning after. Upon waking to discover that this is one of those mornings, Gideon rolls off the chaise longue in surprise and lets out a long, low groan.
Reginald, infuriatingly, seems to be suffering no ill effects. He watches Gideon from his armchair with sparkling eyes as the inventor struggles to get upright without triggering a headache. “Hair of the dog?” he says, proffering a glass of brandy.
I can't think of anything in the world I would like less at this moment, thinks Gideon. His mouth, not entirely in sync with his brain, says “blurgh” instead.
He gives up on standing of his own accord for the moment and slumps against a wall. “Sir Reginald,” he says at length. “No doubt we had a diverting evening, but I seem to be having difficulty recalling most of it.”
Reginald chuckles. “Trust me, my boy, you're better off not knowing.”
Any further inquiries are cut off by the strident call of a ship's horn. Gideon rushes over to a porthole to see the Inexplicable beginning to draw away from the party yacht, departing at last for the hunting waters of the Chelonate. “Oh, heavens!” he exclaims. “Oh, crumbs! Oh blast and d__n and ____!”
Reginald sketches a salute to Gideon as he hurries out of the door. “Until we meet again, my peculiar friend!”
Gideon runs through the corridors of the yacht, scattering dishevelled party-goers. Honey-mazed bohemians watch his passage languidly, tittering to themselves when he manages to knock the gaudy feathered hats off the heads of a group of ladies in such a way that they land on top of his own head. Thus behatted, the hapless inventor bursts onto the upper deck and leaps into the frothy wake of his departing ship.
Despite his panic, Gideon is prepared for just such a situation. Some years ago, he purchased a jar of wind from a furtive young lady who claimed to have found it in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Polythreme. Fascinated by this natural phenomenon contained in a ceaselessly complaining glass jar, he promptly put it on a shelf in his shed somewhere and forgot about it for months. He only found it again when trying to invent a device that would dry hair from a distance. It proved to be invaluable for this purpose, but the wind in the jar was not limitless and it seemed like a bit of a waste. So, in his wisdom, he designed a nozzle to be fitted to the jar that would allow it to be used as a propulsion device.
Splashing about in the dark zee-water, Gideon extricates the jar of wind and shakes it a little to be sure that the wind is sufficiently angry. The jar moans something about mistreatment, but Gideon ignores it and points the propulsion nozzle behind him in the water, then opens it to full throttle.
The wind howls like a caged demon. Somewhere near the Neath-roof, storm clouds rumble and the dead god in the roof tilts its eyeless head to take notice. And so Gideon bubbles along through the water at an alarming rate, propelled by the jar of wind.
Zailors cross themselves as he approaches the stern of the Inexplicable, but they throw down a rope anyway because they know where their pay comes from. Gideon is hauled onto deck sopping wet and gasping for air. But on the bright side, he has forgotten about his hangover for the moment.
The Inexplicable forges on through the inky waters over the next few days, illuminating an uncertain path ahead in flickering glim-light. One foggy morning, the indescribable smell of the Chelonate wafts across the deck. Zailors scurry about their duties with clothes-pegs on their noses, not wanting to expose themselves to the carrion stench for longer than necessary. Gideon leans against a railing at the bow, luxuriating in the sheer heady horribleness of the scent. Ahead, the first colossal ribcages jut from the sea.
“Take us into Schabelport, skipper!” he says to nobody in particular. “We shan't be swapping hunting tales long – we have business below.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 5/23/2018
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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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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
6/1/2018
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A strange land, the Chelonate.
Monster-hunters, faces marked with white chalk, stare at the pretty young thing dressed in rags and the scowling brute in fine clothes behind it, the two an odd pair in any land, an odder pair here where no pretty things belong.
The pair stand on the rough, creaking docks of Schabelport, the Inexplicable looming in the water beside them. Rory's natural curiosity drove them to be the first off the boat, now the Lovesick Brute's natural protectiveness causes them to pause. Chalk-marked eyes stare out from the shadows about the vast turtleshell, all examining the new arrivals. The Brute's arm rests about Rory's shoulder.
Rory's own eyes examine the shadows where no eyes look back.
These shadows are far darker.
"Let's go," Rory suddenly speaks, looking up at the Brute with an encouraging smile, "I've heard the Chelonates are wonderful dancers."
"Where did you hear that?" the Brute asks, quickly following behind the ectomorph, who confidently prances down the creaking boards.
"My father."
Rory smiles politely to the monster-hunters as he passes them, their forms various and at times inhuman. Some are nearly bare, silhouettes of scarred and lumpy muscle in the outline of a body, others are swathed in torn and battered clothes, fabrics put through the tests of war. Some of these fabrics come back more alive than the wearer - is that one breathing, or are her clothes?
And some of them are dripping something dark.
Rory blanches for a moment before realizing it is not blood - lamplight falls on the puddle gathered beneath one of these Chelonates and fails to pierce it; the liquid is blacker than night.
Wait, no. There's something within.
"What are you looking at?"
Rory looks away from the puddle sharply at the Chelonate's words, but fails to find a face to focus on. He settles on the white stripe of chalk looking back from within the monster hunter's many-fabric'd hood.
"Your sleeve is wet, I think - you're dripping," he offers.
"Is it?"
The white chalk line is broken - black liquid trails through it, dripping down.
"Come on. Let's keep going," the Brute urges.
The two continue on, Rory's eyes lingering on the wet monster-hunter for a moment as they go.
He finally turns, shaking his head. He glances up at the Lovesick Brute - the latter is grimacing, thick fingers pinching his own nose shut. Rory frowns and sniffs the air.
"What's the matter?" he asks.
The Brute looks at him - the young model seems unperturbed.
"Don't you smell it?"
Rory shakes his head.
"It's awful. The smell of the Chelonate."
Rory sniffs again - nothing. Maybe the Brute just isn't used to the zee air.
As the two continue on, Rory confidently leading the way, the boards cease to creak beneath them. Rory's ragged sandals clop down on the turtleshell beneath them, and more lights guide their path. Unfortunately, this serves to give view to very few pleasant things - monster-hunters gather in groups, misshapen packs of dark and scarred figures, and loudly tell gruesome tales of the hunt over beers that seem to swirl. Chelonate children trail Rory and the Brute with hungry eyes, asking for treasure or stories, the look in their gazes far too vicious for that of the young and innocent. Bands of roistering hunters tumble out of the bars, punching and kicking at one another, and the Brute guides Rory carefully away from these. The deeper they go into the turtleshell city, the more these increase, and the unsettling urchins grow closer as the Brute and Rory continually pause to stop and dodge about monster-hunters waiting for another face to fight.
Hands, cold and clammy and small, grip Rory's shirt - he looks down.
"Tell us a story."
That is no child.
"Get back! Get back!" the Brute barks.
The two duck into an alleyway, the Brute batting away at the small creatures chasing them. The urchins finally disperse as the Brute begins to roll up his sleeves, running away back into the crowded streets.
One of them has left a puddle.
"By God," the Brute mutters, leaning against the wall of the alleyway, "The people of this place are mad."
True black.
"Let's rest here for a moment. We should find you something to hide your face - you look too out of place."
Something looks back, out of the puddle, and Rory holds its gaze.
What is that?
"Rory?"
Oh, of course.
How could he forget?
It's his father.
"You have his eyes," said by his mother back in Rome, before she left them.
Pale, pale blue, something like the Frostfound ice, cold and open.
At first, he saw only these, but now he can make out the rest - the face, brilliantly handsome and pale, the lips, red and shaped, and the black curls, merging into the nighttime color of the puddle; say, where does that end, by the way? Where are the edges?
As Rory's eyes move away from his father's face, he sees there are none. The Lovesick Brute, the alleyway, the Chelonate, even the Neath sky, are all gone. Only blackness, stretching in every direction. Settle your gaze on any spot too long and those icy blue eyes start to form again, then surely enough that face, that person.
He still says nothing, a long silence, like the last time Rory saw him, called into his office late at night.
The wind had been cold, out on the balcony, and seemed colder by the contrast to the warmth of the fireplace within the office. But Rory stayed, for he knew he wasn't ever to be in the office without Papa's permission and out here on the balcony you could see all the stars, brilliant and ivory against the blackberry clouds.
And Papa had something to say.
He was taking his time saying it, eyes still fixed on Rory, his face in deep thought.
Finally, he knelt down, long legs folding beneath him to go down on one knee, and he rested a hand on Rory's shoulder.
"You are beautiful," he said, "Always tell them you love them."
And he had kissed him on the forehead and smiled, and Rory had smiled back, and Papa had gone back to smoking his cigarette and Rory had gone back to bed.
And he had never seen his father again.
The handsome face smiles, again, like on that night back in Italy.
Rory opens his mouth and speaks, but the sound is swallowed up - no words escape his lips before the blackness devours them.
"Always tell them you love them."
"Don't you smell it?" Papa asks.
His voice fills the silence, and as it ends, a million tiny whispers take its place like residue left behind by his words - "Always tell them you love them the deep Always tell them you love them cold, the dark Always tell them you love them below, the quiet Tell them you love them black, the peace Always tell them you love them the black the blue the deep the quiet the Love them the peace the silence the quiet the black You love them the dark the deep below the peace Always tell them you love them below, below, the deep, below Tell them you love them cold and quiet, the peace, below Tell them you dark and deep and black and silence Love them the deep the zee Always tell them you love them the zee the zee the zee the zee Always the zee the zee the zee You love them the zee the zee the waves below the dark the peace the black the quiet the zee the zee the zee the zee
below the waves
"Don't you smell it?"
He smiles, and kneels down, and puts a hand on Rory's shoulder.
Ozone.
"Always tell them you love them."
Peligin, in a crashing wave, washing away it all.
Papa disappears into the black, consumed.
The whispers.
Sight.
Sound.
All of it, gone.
Rory floats, for what must be eternities, in nothingness.
Silence, and peace, and cold.
Forever.
"You are beautiful," he said, in the chill wind out on the balcony of the villa back in Italy.
Always tell them you love them.
Rory blinks.
The Neath stars drip peligin.
A few more blinks, and they merely dimly glitter back at him from the Neath roof, as they have always done.
He looks around - he lies on a Chelonate rooftop, noise of the roistering crowds distant below him, the Lovesick Brute unconscious by his side.
His eyes wander to his own hands, resting on his stomach, holding between them a large decanter. Within it, the contents swirl slowly, movements the consistency of sadness. Held up to the ear, something melancholic can be heard.
Drownie tears.
A gift from Father.
Rory clutches the decanter to his chest and nestles close to the Lovesick Brute, who snores lightly.
A strange land, the Chelonate.
--
Straight outta Dahut.
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
2/8/2018
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The Everpresent Witness, carrying several wooden mirror-frames under their arm, is the first one to discover the Moulting Eidolon, garlanding their hair with colourful serpents. The Witness proves to be quite well-read, and quickly recognizes the Eidolon as a relative to the Lords, if not one of them. Soon, Amets is introduced to every single member of the wild gathering of Bohemian dream-voyeurs, honey-sippers and sleeping beauties that have dreamt themselves here from a nearby yacht.
They shake hands with the Insatiable Seamstress, who offers lukewarm opinions and occasionally helpful criticisms towards every single part of the Eidolon’s attire, from the boots and all the way up to the hat. As for the serpents, she says nothing, merely smiles. She might be assuming that they’re natural, or ritually important. The Eidolon does not care to dispel that impression.
They shake hands with the Transfixed Artiste, his hands unceasing during your discussion about the flora and fauna of the dreaming world. Some time after this conversation, he hands Amets a page ripped from his sketchbook, filled with detailed portraits of them, from various angles and various moments. He explains that he had spares.
They shake hands with the Covetous Tragedian, who has very peculiar opinions on the Celestial movement and the nature of death. It’s tiring, they confide, to have to preserve one’s mortal life where so very few care about it. Especially on such a tight budget. They cannot even play in their own tragedies: “The only believable death down here,” The Tragedian says, “is a real one.” The Eidolon can only suggest exploring other narratives: Poverty, debts, law-breaking, unreturned love, longing for the impossible.
They shake hands with the Nostalgic Ex-Wastrel, who occasionally wears a stuffed glove and often bemoans her own foolishness. She had a paramour, once, for whom she’d give her life up. Quite literally. The stub on her right hand where a thumb should be was all her doing. A bloody gift to her paramour and a sign of the Ex-Wastrel’s dedication to her. Alas, the paramour did not appreciate the gruesome item and broke off the romance. The Ex-Wastrel, now jaded, wants to be able to experience that all-consuming love again, and has been doing fine without the thumb. She’s learned to play a mean drum.
They shake hands with the Disjointed Card-Counter, who was taught gambling strategies on the Surface, and then imported them to the Neath. Under the current mayor’s rule, he was able to win himself noble titles and several estates. He did more than count cards, but his proficiency at poker made the title stick. People would gather to test their skills against him until they’ve spent their last penny. One of them even gave up the hand of his daughter in marriage. The Card-Counter’s family life is stable as a rock and as respectable as membership in the Parthenaeum (which he does have), but he feels lost in his own shoes. That’s why he’s here, drinking and dreaming away his fortunes.
Eventually, the conversation turns towards the Eidolon’s own history. What strange things they saw, what secret miracles performed, what wonders experienced? Amets, of course, has stories to spare.
Stories of the river where nightmares spawn, where a secret, marvellous flax grows, and images of the beautiful dawns, cheery noons and handsome evenings that flash in the linen woven from it.
Stories of the tree that takes root beside it, ripe with Hesperidean apples which are then made into the infamous Cider, and the snoring serpents that guard it.
Stories of the Fingerkings and their Conjunctions, who have always been and always will be, who cannot change ‘cept by consumption, who have found a strange kinship in wearing stolen flesh.
Stories of one such named the Orts, who trades memories for visions, reason for passion, whose clients are insane, but happy.
Stories of Parabola itself. The trees that are stone, the boulders that are wood. The Hanging Mountains, the monochrome beauty of the Castle of Forests.
By the time the Moulting Eidolon is finished talking, every last bohemian had already mentally agreed to give up a part of their life for the luxuries of the world behind mirrors. Every last bohemian agrees to the deal and makes their promise. Everybody but the Everpresent Witness, who only clutches their mirror-frames tighter.
“This has been a most educational meeting. Alas, I am too well-read. I know what would happen to me were I to accept this deal. Have a marvellous day.”
With that, the Witness stands up and heads out. Nobody stops them, each reveling in the possibilities of their new existence.
Amets leaves next, simply closing their eyes and letting themselves fall down unto a comfortable lounging-bed. When they open their eyes - silver and reflective like a mirror - they see bright colours of the yacht, hear the sounds of music and talking, smell the flagrance of a dozen different perfumes.
They start giggling, then laughing, then snorting. They don’t remember the names of the people they met in that dream. They barely remember who those people were. Yet, here they are. In the Insatiable Seamstress’ body. Their body now, really. The rest, too, are theirs.
They stand up. They have a world to explore, an identity to get comfortable in.
[spoiler]Feel free to use all the bohemians mentioned. They're minor characters at best and I don't intend to do anything beyond this yacht party with them, but they all have meddling-to-good concepts and backstories.[/spoiler]
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 2/8/2018
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Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
2/9/2018
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Madison glances at her pocket-watch, bored. She had thoroughly wandered the deck looking for entertainment, finding small scraps here and there: a small circle of casual poker players, with which she'd won 50 echoes and lost 40 of them; a sudden bout of fisticuffs, ending with the two men fleeing from a livid matron's brandished cane; a brief interlude with a group of shuffleboard players, until an overly aggressive move resulted in an escalating round of slapstick, and Madison was asked to leave. She was just about ready to call it a day when E.L. approached.
Immediately, Madison finds herself reminded of a childhood friend, mind whirring with a mischievous prank or plan. It would always start with a thought, followed by a slow descent to the heart of the matter. Her old friend took more detours, dancing around the point until the listeners themselves name it; Madison finds herself wondering how they're faring, wherever they might be, before pushing those thoughts away - there are more pressing matters at hand. Soon enough, E.L. voices her proposal - a wine heist?
"Hmm," Madison ponders, momentarily. The yacht certainly wouldn't notice a small disappearance - judging by how freely the wine is flowing she almost suspects this lot has enough to subdue the Royal Navy. By the time anyone might note a discrepancy the Inexplicable would be long gone, both in view and memory. Not too far off, a man empties the contents of his stomach over the railing, chasing down the aftertaste with yet more wine.
The proposition would be compelling sober. After a few? Madison could hardly resist. She grins, only the threat of attracting attention preventing her from offering a firm handshake. "Why not? Count me in."
--
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The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 137
2/10/2018
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Rory smiles gently.
"Of course, Ms. Dynamo. And I'm sure you have - I'm not terribly unique. You can find a Rory Sketch, or a close enough version, in any corner of London," he says, and takes her hand.
As the two move forward into the shifting pond of dancers and join in the ritual, Rory fulfills expectation. He is lightweight, graceful - as the singer belts out the last dregs of a fast rhythm, Rory glides with Emma to the cheery tune with a skill and ease that shows his natural hand at dancing by seeming so effortless and real even when the beauty's attitude is clearly melancholy. The song ends and a slow one begins - Emma leads as Rory elegantly follows her lead, moving to the flow of the music as if floating weightlessly down a river. His natural ease and comfortability in the throes of dance combined with his lack of showmanship, preferring to following the lead of his partner and reacting perfectly to their choices, show him as not a consummate dancer, but as a born one. He is without exceptional training or passion for the art, but with a birth-given gift for it.
"Your brother was just telling me about the death of my Papa," his gentle voice, the accent a curious and subtle mix of Dutch and Italian, says, slipping through the notes of the music, "A very thrilling tale. I'm not entirely sure I believe it, no offense to Mr. Dynamo - Papa was never the type of man to die. But your brother. He's very curious. He speaks highly of you, you know. He seems kind. And wealthy. Kind and wealthy. All the kind and wealthy people seem to have facial hair, have you ever noticed that? And all the unkind are clean shaven. It's a good thing I have no money of my own, for I could never grow a beard of any sort."
The soft-spoken ramble, like a continually dripping opiate on the ears, meaningless and gentle, comes to a stop. He pauses, fixing the odd eyes on Emma's own, and kisses her softly on the cheek.
"Some people try to pay for me to kiss them," he says afterwards, "Would you repay the gift with a love story? I'm in such a thirst for stories tonight. I've lived this one too many times before."
He gestures vaguely at the rest of the party as he says this last bit.
--
Straight outta Dahut.
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Tyr Teg
Posts: 10
4/7/2018
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Chapter 2 - Party flavors, party favors
After the eventful and fulfilling breakfast feast Tyr found himself lazing the rest of the day by tending to his weapons, oiling the triggers, dusting the barrels and sharpening the knives. During the breaks – while he was waiting for the oil to dry, he nailed a target to the door to his cabin and the thumping noises made by knives burrowing themselves inches deep into the wood proved to be a wonderful deterring mechanism against visits from random passengers stopping-by for a gossip. He was just calibrating the intricate scope of the Infernal Sharpshooter's Rifle when a sudden beam of lamp-light came through the window of his cabin and shattered on the crystals and lenses of the scope, bathing the cabin in rainbow light.
"Now would you look at that. As always in the Neath – beauty in the most unexpected places."
The hunter kept looking around in wonder, but just as suddenly as the light entered his cabin it disappeared as the ship the lantern belonged to approached Inexplicable's side to exchange greetings and possibly passengers. His curiosity sparked, Tyr decided to check it out.
---
30 minutes later he was wearing a tie, not his own, his shirt was half-way open and for some reason missing an arm and he was drinking from a glass with an uncertain liquid inside and trying to remember the words for his favorite zailing song.
Whiskey is the life of bat,
Whiskeeeey Johnnyyyyy,
O-whiskey is the life of bat,
Whiskey for my Johnnyyyy-O.
Tyr was sure he wasn't getting the lyrics entirely right, but the tune was easy to hum and popular among zailors and he heard a few voices from different portholes and one apparently half-bent over the railing and attempting to hum in-between retching. It was a very good party. And for some reason – what he had in his cup tasted like a Pinot gris. Wonderful.
Whiskey is the life of bat,
Whiskeeeey Johnnyyyy,
He drinks it out of a Clay-man's hat,
Whiskey for my Johnnyyyy-O.
While slowly stumbling his way along the deck Tyr noticed the two adventurous girls accosting the young Mr. Henchard. For a moment his reasonable, responsible part nudged him to follow them and find out what they were planing but he knew that he was quite beyond the point where reasonable thoughts mattered. He wasn’t yet at a point where he’d blow his cover, and if he were honest with himself – after his adventure in the Elder Continent he wasn’t even sure such a point existed anymore.
Oh well. Let the young ones enjoy their follies. He had more debauchery to commit and no matter how good the party was it wouldn’t last forever. Hearing a timid giggle followed by a deeper moan from a nearby cabin that he thought he thought he recognized as belonging to Mrs. Evensong he knocked on a door and the voice that answered certainly wasn’t Evensong’s but it was female and very inviting.
As the Surface-dwellers say – the night was still young.
---
AN: The zailing song is based on the shanty Whiskey Johnny. You can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/M_RoX7kOs_I
edited by Tyr_Teg on 4/7/2018
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The Polite Peacemaker of Bazaar
Per situlas ad astra!
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Vavakx Nonexus
Posts: 892
7/17/2018
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“The cargo hold. I need to meet someone there.”
It wasn't altogether a lie, was it? The Insatiable Seamstress is here only because a certain dreamer is still sleeping in a tight-lidded sarcophagus somewhere in here. Because that dreamer needed something from her.
First things first, the Seamstress looks through every pocket she has available (One joy of being a Seamstress was that you could finally have pockets on dresses. Hers was covered in them), as well as her dainty handbag, under her sleeves and inside her shoes. After that self-shakedown, she had her wallet, as well as several pieces of jewelry, a pile of scraps with little secrets written across them, two meters of talking fabrics, a half-empty wine bottle filled with something that is definitely not wine, and a locket with some close relation the Insatiable Seamstress likely treasures when she isn't being possessed by silver-tongued eidolons.
All but the last item are discreetly inserted into the dreamer's cargo. It is always easy to lose one's possessions in a party, and she probably hadn't even owned half the things she had on her before today. Losing the locket might cause undue levels of panic - humans tend to worry about the simplest things sometimes - so it stays.
The body itself is laid down near the sarcophagus. She won't wake up anytime soon. If the want strikes, she might be eaten before then. It is, after all, rather uncouth to waste a perfectly fine glove.
But, for now, the eidolon is back to dreams. Real dreams.
They've touched sunlight tonight.
Their sleep will be golden with dusk.
--
Amets Estibariz, the Moulting Eidolon: Cradled by a sun all their own.
Blabbing, the Hobo Everyone Knows: The One Who Pulls The Strings. A Clarity In The Darkness.
Charlotte and the Caretaker: A family?
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Sara Hysaro
Moderator
Posts: 4514
12/30/2017
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Madison hadn't slept well that night. It had little to do with the umbrella lady - all the background gossip pertaining to it quite reassured her. Unfamiliarity was the chief culprit, keeping her from truly settling down; at his side stood novelty, filling her with enough excess energy to render immobility nigh impossible. While she proved victorious in the end, the battle left her more sluggish than she'd have liked. Did she even have time to dream? She wakes with a lingering sense of being watched, one that fades nearly as quickly as she realizes how near she is to missing breakfast. She departs her bed with great haste.
Despite this reduced state of alertness, Madison spies yet another unusual feature of this trip as she joins the others in the dining room - an ornate mirror, seated at the table like any other guest. Curiosity perks her attentiveness more than the food, and she finds herself regretting her unfavourable choices in where to sit. She makes do with the scant options available, the food providing that last bit of energy to feel ready for the day.
Madison gives Gideon her full attention, for all the good paying attention would do for someone who was only just now hearing in full about the New Sequence and the true nature of the Dawn Machine. Her previous fragments lend slight corroboration towards Gideon's assessment of their trustworthiness, but only just. This was a mental debate to be decided another time, through her own eyes or with the counsel of trusted friends.
On the Gant Pole she was slightly more informed, if only because her older brother told her that's where her ball went after he had finished playing with it. He wasn't being entirely dishonest, her mother jested as Madison discovered her deflated toy later that week, prompting a harsher scowl than the one she already had. Madison refrains from reminiscing about a broken toy in the form of a running gag, aided by actual questions being raised; while she didn't doubt a moment the existence of the Gant Pole, it was hardly a belief based on any solid evidence - proof would be more interesting to hear than the same tired old gag.
Lacking any meaningful input into this discussion at this time, Madison turns her attention to the finished painting, indicating her approval with a nod and smile that suddenly turns into a puzzled expression at the voiced arrival of Amets.
--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Sara%20Hysaro
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Lord Gazter
Posts: 665
12/29/2017
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Victoria marches with a furrowed brow and bag slung over her back through the ancient and crooked London streets. The false neath snow crunching underneath her boots, and sending the smell of ammonia unwantedly up into her nostrils. Slowly the tall and proud buildings around her began to give way to the drink houses, warehouses, and the ships that sit moored next Wolfstack Docks. She turns one more corner, and leaves behind the safety of Spite’s comforting shadow.
The sailors and dock workers of Wolfstack go about their business most barely noticing Victoria. Victoria’s grim disposition and rough appearance made her look the part on the docks. A few bystanders do watch her making her way down the dockside, and get glares in return, but altogether nothing of note happens in Wolfstack Docks this cold morning.
Victoria passes ship after ship, until she finally spies a ship with the word Inexplicable written along its side. Victoria nods to herself and makes her way up the gangplank stopping for only a moment to gaze at a lady float down to boat using an umbrella, but only for a moment. She uses the moment to quietly go and find her room, preferring to have to deal with the rest of those on board later.
The door closes behind Victoria and her bag hits the bed with muffled thump. There are only some clothes, a couple blades, and few other personal belonging, but altogether the bag was rather lightly filled. She leaves it as is instead choosing to look around her room. Victoria realizes that it wasn’t much. The cabin wasn’t spacious or grand, it was in fact fairly spartan, but she didn’t truly need much. There were worst places she’d been stuck sleeping the night in, and it wasn’t New Newgate cell, that was for certain.
The ship lurches underneath Victoria as the ship begins to make its way out into the Unterzee. The thought of leaving this venture behind crossed her mind. This was the last chance she had to make it back to the safety of the familiar roofs and streets of London. No, they had trusted her with job. It had been assigned to her, and she would see it through. Victoria breaths out a reluctant sigh. Not that it made her feel any more comfortable about her current predicament.
edited by Lord Gazter on 12/29/2017
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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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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
12/30/2017
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Waking up was never an easy experience was Reinol. Despite his seemingly strict and solemn impression, he was quite the sloth. Yet he knew better than to tally in this ship. Best not to earn the ire of the captain after all.
His journal lay tucked quietly in the corner desk, alongside his pot of violant ink, the impossible colour still haunting his memories. A dark waistcoat and a equally dark overcoat was what he wore as he left his quarters. His pale face was scrunched up into a scowl as he entered the mess hall.
A few nods of acknowledgement greeted anyone he crossed. A generous amount of eggs, a few bacon rashes and a heap of breakfast mushrooms was what he opted for. The Sentimental Writer took the seat closest to the mirror.
His curiosity was peaked at its shimmering image and so he sat there. He was always privy to matters regarding the world behind it. Reinol made sure to pay extra attention to their...host so to speak.
The Dawn Machine. The False Sun of the Neath. He brain racked with any information on it. From his sources, he knew that it was apparently an artificial Judgement built by a splinter branch of the Navy, and that it's power was nigh unfathomable. The words of the Episcopalian Esotericist was dearly noted. Perhaps he could make a thesis on it. Was it reliable? He had little to no clue. His grip on the spoon tightened, bending it in his hands. This was risky, but then again, so was travelling to the surface. But was it worth it? To aid this dangerous power? He heard that there was paradox that could be vitalised in Irem, wouldn't that be more trustworthy than a Fake Star? But it was going to be done. And while his morals spoke to him, begging him to end this, Reinol decided otherwise. To see the Sun...the sky...it was an offer too sweet.
"Where the zee goes to die." He whispered, more to himself, though it certainly turned a few heads. Wasn't that an old tale regaled to fresh zailors? He certainly had such things told to him during his maiden days as a captain. But the Esotericist spoke as if it were real. It very much could. All smoke leads to a fire. The journey seemed more and more implausible by the minute, but then again, so was the Neath.
The Enigmatic Correspondent propped up his chair. Well, this was bound to be interesting at the very least. And who knows...he might be able to make a few decent papers on this. The Sentimental Writer nodded in confirmation. Perhaps more than a few stories can be wangled from this. And then there was the Surface to consider.
This might not be so bad after all.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
1/20/2018
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"What to do eh?" Reinol trails off. "I suppose I'd like to make a peom describing what it's like. Or anything in general. Art is art after all." And perhaps a few research material as well. It wouldn't hurt after all.
Fingers drummed on rough wood as he pondered this train of thought. "There's simply so much I want to do. Maybe I'll see the sights. Maybe I'll dine on food not of Neath. Maybe I'll get some work done. But all in all, I will make most of what I have. Though I will admit...the sigh of the clear skies, the true stars, the trees the moon, the sun...yes. That'd be enough. More than enough."
He faded into silence at that. One of daydreaming and melancholic nostalgia. He missed the beauties of the Surface. Its light and law. Far too much was lost when he came down here. Yet much more was gained. Though even then, still he yearned, still he wished. A foolish wish in the end. But a wish was a wish. And every wish was worthwhile. No matter what they are.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
1/12/2018
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"Perhaps a diversion from crabs would be a welcome topic. And a return to a more...pressing one, in my opinion at the very least." Reinol's voice as calm and smooth as wax. The appearance of Amets had captured his attention for quite some time, but the argument had shaken him out of his reverie. While he had missed some parts, he certainly heard Evensong's plan regarding the exposure of a Dawn Machine's agent.
While such action was prudent, it was far too risky in his opinion. Enough so that he had to speak up regarding the matter. He turns to Evensong as he spoke. "While your plan certainly has merit, I must act as an opposition party regarding it. My reason is simple."
Emerald eyes narrowed. "The risk is far too great. The agents of Dawn have their roots deep in London's Admiralty. While the Navy is but a shadow of itself, I'm sure an attempt of exposure would immediately force a response. We have little guarantee of the success. Our lack of information regarding the Machine is enough to derail the plan. I'm rather positive that it could go very badly if things go, err, south so to speak."
A sigh escaped his lips as he returned to his breakfast. "Do forgive my intrusion. I have faith in your capabilities , but I still object to your plan. No information on the Dawn Machine's influence puts too much at risk, for all we know, their roots may be deeper than we know. Admirals are known players of the Game. Certain diplomats more so. Both are likely to be under the False Star's influence. Who's to say they won't have a posse of spies who are the same? Too risky in my opinion. Far too risky. A counterattack or an interception of your zee bat is possible."
"Just some opinions on the matter." Reinol leaned back. "Feel free to do as you wish. And if we are going to name the crab, I say we call it Temtem the Dying Zee Crab. None of that Sea King swillery." He was willing to admit however, that his argument may have a few flaws.
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 1/12/2018
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
1/12/2018
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Evensong fixes Reinol with a blue, unblinking stare.
“As a mere clerk, it is not my decision which agents my bosses would choose to out and which ones would be allowed to continue. While I may be ignorant of how deeply the New Sequence has infiltrated our docks, I know those I work for are better educated. Thus I place all my trust in their ability. In that same vein, if I find myself needing to reveal our threat, I will be careful not to implicate the rest of you – I’m not just going to shout it as soon as we sail into port. ” A smirk forms on her lips, fighting against the placid façade. “Even our most novice interns know that any spy that gets their bats intercepted deserves what they reap.”
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 1/12/2018
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 1/12/2018
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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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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
3/29/2018
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Reinol sighs as the familiar buzz of revelry returns to his senses. Laughter, chatter, music. The pitter and patter of dancing feet. The party has been going on for...a few hours? He didn’t know. There had been other things to attend to.
Namely the Mirror System. It took him most of the evening but it was done. Under the guise of the revelries, he managed to position his mirrors in strategic locations around the Inexplicable. Not the hardest of tasks of course but takes time.
Admittedly, most of said time was trying to locate a palace discreet enough to not be immediately noticed by the crew. Which was not an easy task as he had little to no actual information on his fellows. And say what you want but he’d rather overestimate someone than underestimate them.
But the main point was, his job was done. The system was secure and ready to be used. He even took it out for a test run with positive results. So it was with a light heart that he found himself returning to the festivities.
In his wanderings, he managed to encounter a fellow Bohemian or a scholar and this naturally was followed by a lengthy discussion. Though even he grew tired of such things. It was at the lonely little corner did he truly find his comforts.
A tray of a questionable size sat before him, the plates that it bore housing a myriad of foodstuffs. Namely seafood. He took particular pleasure in devouring the grilled squid, stuffed with greens of many kinds, not all native to the Surface or even the boughs of London.
As he finished the last remnants of his third bowl squid-and-clam chowder which he guaranteed was a legitimate meal from the Surface, he pondered his plans. Namely, his lacking of them. Truth be told, other than the Mirror System and his Surface to-do list, there was not much he had in mind for the future at all. Maybe a bit of socialisation to earn a comrade’s trust would be advisable but he couldn't really be bothered. He never was an a sociable creature. Perhaps later. Yes. Later. Once he finished his blueberry and cream pie. And the lemon meringue.
Yes indeed.
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 3/30/2018
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 3/30/2018
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
6/23/2018
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When Reinol first woke up, he realised one thing. And that was that he was sleeping in his suit. Once that realisation came out of the way, he soon was enlightened on the fact that his suit, and by extension, his bed sheets, now had a distinctive scent of wine and honey.
Terrific.
Though he was comforted by the fact that both were easily replaceable, and by the fact that he was luckily alone in his bed and quarters for that matter. Though it still raised a pressing concern.
The fact that he had returned to old habits again. He liked to think that he was able to control himself now that he was no longer living of the scraps and inspiration was now very easy to come by, but it seems that his detachment from London society had worn on his austere.
Ever since the party, he found himself indulging himself on the familiar pleasures of honey and wine, a habit he picked up in his early days.
With a deep sigh, he resumes his chores, swapping his stained coat for a more decent coat and doing the same to his sheets. Soon, he found himself exiting his room, and into the cafeteria where in procured a morsel of bread for himself. Originally, he planned to enjoy his breakfast on the decks but the second he stepped onto there, the pungent smell of carrion and other scents of the flesh assailed his senses.
Gagging slightly, he quickly rushes back inside, where he found himself comforted by the smell of cheap beer and tobacco. It was still better than that. Even after all this time, he still couldn’t get used to the Chelonate. And he doubted he ever will, for even when a year had passed since he first set sail, the reek of the dead beast still sent him bowling over to the place farthest away from it. He still remembered the laughter and jeers if his crew the first time it happened. Once more, he sighs as he finishes his meal.
They were nearing their destination. Which meant he would probably need some firepower. And a decent amount as well.
God knows what they’ll end up facing down there anyways.
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