Thy Will Be Done

The Kraken pub and inn was famed for two things: the unusual drinks and the abnormal amount of space. It squatted beneath overcrowded tenement housing, second story shops and was surrounded by dark alleys. Many missed the small door, which was in a narrow archway and concealed in inky shadows. It was only identified by a small wrought iron sign of a detailed squid, tentacles akimbo and large inscrutable eyes, which hung over the entrance. Neighboring this on either side was a burned-out ruin and a workshop which advertised for custom leather work. Tourists, if there were such a thing, would have thought that this inn had room for a few cramped quarters, a small bar and standing room only for its patrons. Upon entering however, these same tourists would have found a spacious room, filled with a dozen round tables, a square bar counter in the center with room for several barkeeps, and a large roaring hearth on the back wall. The same tourists would have been surprised as they were escorted to their rooms, up any number of stairways and down long halls in which a dozen more spacious rooms were reserved for guests. A single broad stairway led down into a large basement which easily expanded beyond the upper walls of the inn. It had a spacious area reserved for patrons to drink, several storerooms and private rooms reserved for the shy or reclusive. 

All of this, and the tourists would have been equally surprised at the variety of drink, both house brewed and imported from regions unknown to the common man. A particularly audacious tourist might try and push the limits of a establishment and see if by some chance they did not bear his drink of choice which only a few in his country would have heard, much less enjoyed. Miraculously, the barkeep would leave and return with not only a bottle, but a vintage one in hand. The tourist would be surprised, especially if he had the cheek to have made up the drink in question.

But since there was no such thing as tourists, the regular patrons who visited the Kraken just took these things for granted.

A few regulars were clustered around a table in the basement, nursing lukewarm beers and muttering. They cast furtive glances towards a darkened room where a figure sat hunched over a mug of frothing bilge. The thin yellow light that fell across the threshold illuminated the thin outline of the man, his hood and cloak pulled tightly around him. The man was a regular himself, but everybody parted sideways and gave him a wide berth. He always ordered the same thing, though nobody knew what it was. It was just "the regular." One curious person had made the mistake of purchasing "the regular" and between fits of coughing and wheezing described it as a salty sea set on fire. Then he died.
Something shuffled down the stairs, each step scraping laboriously across the wood. The patrons glared into their beer and prayed to whatever heavenly being was close by to accept their humble souls if those feet came any nearer. The shambling, lethargic motion was a death knell. Nobody wanted to be visited by the Pales.

A shadow of the Pale blocked out the yellow light which danced across the floor. The man in shadows lifted his head slightly, his dark skin cracked and broken like charred wood. Something orange pulsed beneath his skin in veiny rivulets.

The other patrons strained to hear any words passing between the two, or any sounds of a scuffle. But nothing happened. One of the men chanced a glance from the corner of his eye and saw the Pale standing with arms at his side but he did nothing. A chair scraped across the floor. The Pale turned and moved slowly back up the stairs as the hooded man exited the room. There was that familiar sound of the Pale ascending and then quiet. There was a collective sigh. One of the patrons licked his lips and mumbled something about being thirsty. 

…..

The Pale walked ahead of the hooded man, their steps echoing down the stone chamber as they picked their way over the roughhewn steps. There was no light, save for the dull glow of the light shifting beneath the hooded man's flesh. Water trickled down the walls gradually until it gushed down in small waterfalls. Slime coated every surface now. Strange fungi and other alien plants weaved across every surface where even a delicate foothold could be established, no matter how small or insignificant. The stone eventually vanished beneath a rough carpet of flora that thrived in the dark places of the world. 

The Pale stopped and stepped to one side. He gestured vaguely ahead for a few seconds before opening his mouth. The sound that passed between his lips was inhuman. It was as if someone had manually inflated his lungs and then squeezed them hard, equally working his mouth in like manner. The effect was jarring. "Descend. Another awaits." it said with the emotionless gush of air pushed through a slack jaw. 

The hooded figure cursed.

…..

Kate was not a rebel. Her parents were miners. She and her brother had grown up in a sooty ramshackle room that passed for a home. Her parents spent every dime to keep them comfortable. It did feel like a home, despite the poor conditions in which they lived. Kate would have said it was happy. But when the mines took her father and then disease took her mother, happiness left them. They had watched as the bodies were lowered into chutes that fed coal into the boilers. In a single moment they were reduced to ashes. That was the last time she ever cried.

Their grief was channeled into their hands and they chipped the rock and hauled the stones, their hearts refined by fire into steel. They dodged the gangs, shifted with the tides as leaders toppled each other. They passed each other on a shift and shared a quick glance. That was all they could afford. Then one day a beam broke and set off a chain reaction inside the tunnel. People just vanished in a puff of smoke. She never saw her brother again after that. Now she couldn't afford not to act.

Kate had started by sharing a few whispers with people she could trust. Then it was a scrap of paper with a few symbols, a hand sign or nod of the head. It happened all the time. A small collective would push back and form their own gang. You threw off the chains of your oppressors and you put them in chains. You may turn into the villain, but you definitely ate better.

The door to the windowless cell opened. Kate was sitting on the floor, a heavy iron chain keeping a leg bound to the rocky floor. She glanced up through swollen eyes and winced. She may have gone, but she did not go quietly. A hooded shape materialized out of the miasma. The door creaked shut behind him with a click.

"Come to have a go, gov?" she said with a rueful, bloody smile, her lip splitting with the effort. A thin line of blood dribbled down her chin.

He didn't speak. His head turned as if he was listening to something far away. Then his dark hands appeared. He made a few gestures, as if he was chopping something with his hands. Kate could not hear the words he whispered, but she felt the change in the air. He was a Weaver. She flexed instinctively as she braced for a searing heat, a snapping of bone or a blast of energy. But all she heard was the distant sounds of voices somewhere just out of her own hearing.

The figure walked over and sat down on a small stool. He drew back his hood to reveal a black face, pulsing with veiny lines of fire. It was fire, Kate thought. Just like his red hair which framed one side of his face. She clenched her jaw and pushed down the fear rising up inside her chest. She had heard the stories. It was guff mostly, but nothing ever good followed the Fire Weaver. It was said he was death itself. The Harbinger of Destruction. The Weaver of Woe. One short lived, studious merchant who had fallen on bad times and had ended up in the mines, had dubbed him the Char-man. Later he burned alive. Ironic, Kate thought. But she had liked his style.

"Look, if you want to torture me, get it over with. I have a shift at dawn." She faked a yawn and remembered painfully her jaw was fractured.

"That is not my task today" the man said. Kate saw his eyes flicker and wondered if he could simply burn her up with his eyes.

"Fine. A confession. I told them I was starting a rebellion. I started a fire, stabbed the foreman, yada yada, blah blah," she spit blood out of her mouth. "I did it. Condemn me and let's get on with whatever you do have planned."

"That is not my task today" he replied.

"It's def not your dandy words" Kate said. "Get to it then. Hot pokers. Gauging out my eyes. Smacking me with your magic fingers."

"Which parent had the gift, Katherine?" the man asked.

Kate stiffened. Nobody knew about the gift. Her parents barely knew before they died. She'd always wondered about that. Maybe it hadn't been a coincidence. That is why she kept it secret. The gift had started small. She heard snatches of thoughts. A few words from a conversation she shouldn't have been able to hear. But after she had lost her brother…

"…you started to use your gift in small ways," the man said, as if picking up the thought as it flashed through her mind and then completed it. Damn it. He was one of them. She strained against her chains despite the grinding of bones and the swelling of bruised flesh. "You are one of them." she said through gritted teeth.

He remained passive. "You are talented. Enough to attract the attention of the wrong people, Katherine." He stood and crossed the room to her in one easy stride. He knelt down next to her. Kate suddenly felt very small. "I'll give you a choice. Your rebellion is of little consequence. However, your clairvoyant abilities are another matter. You can either die now or spend the rest of your life as a slave." He paused and leaned closer. "I recommend the first."

"Ha!" She exclaimed abruptly, accidently spitting blood into the man's face. He never flinched, nor attempted to wipe his chin. "What a choice. Death or slavery. I think you've forgotten where I live, gov. Death and slavery are my life."

"While you live here, Katherine," he said slowly, his eyes locking uncomfortably with hers. "You always have a choice. This is the last choice you will be given. Death, on your terms. Or slavery, and the last shred of free will you have will be stripped away until only an empty shell is all that remains."

Kate knew he wasn't lying. She could hear his thoughts. She figured that he was letting her see them. They were not particularly explicit thoughts as it was a sense of knowing it was true. She wanted to throw up. She looked down at her chains and fidgeted with the leavy links. The last link to the world of pain, suffering and misery. In all of that, she told herself, she had awoken by choice. After a few minutes of silence, she looked up. A flicker of liquid slipped from her eyes. "Will it be painful?"

"Immeasurably," he replied calmly.

She knew somehow, it had to hurt. Somehow that was part of the devil's bargain. But there was something merciful in being given the choice. One last act of rebellion. One last chance to spit in the face of whatever thing wanted to hallow her out and make her a finger puppet. She looked at the face of the Fire Weaver; the Harbinger of Death; the Char-man. She hated him, but something made her grateful as well.

"Well then," she said, struggling to her feet. "Give it your best shot."

Something in the air wrinkled up with a faint gust and vanished. Kate heard the drip of water again, a skittering sound and something cough outside. A sound illusion. Sneaky bastard, Kate thought. She squared up and raised her fists. "You didn't think I'd let you take me that easy?"

The man's face split into a thin smile. "I had hoped you would say that."

…..

There was a knock on the door and the Pale sluggishly threw back the bolt. The hooded man emerged, the strong smell of blood and refuse clinging to his fists and robes. He had a sack slung over his shoulder. "Clean up." he instructed. The Pale passed by into the cell and began the tedious task of scraping leftover human off the walls.
He walked down the labyrinth of halls until he reached a large grate. He pulled the large iron doors open and laid the body on the edge. "From Death to Life. Let fire forge you into a heart of steel." He tipped the bundle over the edge. It vanished into the abyssal darkness. He closed the doors.

…..

There was a particular sensation when he crossed into the presence of the fetid waters. He could always smell it before the tip of that horrid humming came rushing into the small of his mind. That tentacle of thought. The memories. The One. It thrummed as he drew closer. He winced and closed his eyes. His feet knew the path and he always focused better when he shut off his other senses. "Into the waves I wash the filth of the land away," he intoned.

Somewhere in his mind he felt this phrase being repeated. It grew louder with each step. "I am stripped of self and replaced with will. I am made to serve and to obey."

The voices. He could hear them clearly now.

He stopped. He had come to the edge of the path. "I am the vessel. I am the hand. I am the reaction to the thought. I am nothing but the will."

He opened his eyes. Floating behind a solid wall of clear crystal was a murky pool of green water. Hundreds, if not thousands of naked humanoid shapes hung suspended in the water. Men, women and children. Gripping them was a tentacle which pulsed, giving off a sickly green light beneath its oily flesh.

"I am the vessel of eternal memory." he said. Thousands of voices repeated his chant as a wave of psychic energy washed into his own mind. "I am the will of the One." 

In unison they cried. "I am the will of Aboleth! I am the will of Aboleth!"

Something twitched in the dark of the water. Somewhere deep in the churn of water and viscus, an impossibly large baleful eye opened. 

"Let thy will be done," the man said, as the wave of energy consumed him, and the grip of tentacles tightened around his mind. 

LET ME IN.

S2: E3 "Through the Void, Hell Shook My Hand"

 

I had observed many a man of sound mind who, when faced with the reality of the things beyond the vale, something fundamentally changes. You can't see the world the same way. Most men who stare into the abyss are unable to rationally comprehend the insignificant of their fragile existence. I think it has something to do with the sudden exposure to an aspect of the world far bigger than they could have imagined. Creative types, like moths, are always drawn to such revelations. They just never expect to get burned.

With equal curiosity I observed our Thomas Thompson as he pored over the pages of figures and drawings, a few rough sketches of his company name, and various other sundries spread across the surface of his worktable. He glanced up only when a practiced cough with the pitch and measured severity that only a butler could muster, drew Thomas from his work. He was told that he had a visitor. Thomas stood and greeted his guest. The man, haggard and worn like a old suit introduced himself as Marcus.

Marcus Steeples was an unfortunate soul. If the Fates had ever touched a man with the worst kind of fortune, Marcus would have been in the running for first place. He had no less than three failed romances, had become indebted to some unsavory types when he lost his guild funding, and had recently lost his generous connection to a local brewer due to an unpaid tab.  He was an inventor determined to unlock "the future", or so he told everyone who would listen. What he showed those who were unfortunate enough to be cornered by him without a polite escape found a notebook filled with half conceived ideas.

Marcus hid beneath a sack his prized work. The long and sordid tale of how Marcus concocted this macabre invention is long and boring. Suffice it to say, it is always a unfortunate result when mad genius meets desperation. There was a strange music that had long wormed its way into his mind. It was the magnus opus. The masterwork. The greatest work of art the world had ever known. And yet, Marcus could never acquire the right materials to bring this enchanting sound beyond the confines of his head. It nearly drove him mad. 

He drew out the invention with a shaky flourish. Thomas only had a few moments to note the odd construction of this invention. There were bits of glass tubes and brass fittings attached to a fluted phonograph horn. Wrapped around this odd invention was bits of bone, wood and copper wire, strange runes carved into the surfaces of these bits of detritus. Thomas was about to pen his mouth when Marcus proclaimed that he wanted him to hear the music. Gripping the device in one hand, he gripped the hand crank in the back and turned it.

Thomas, as I have observed in other times and places, is not a man of particularly strong will. The world around him buckled like it was paper as the world he knew shattered. He now stood on the fragments of his home, amidst the black void. Marcus was saying something, but Thomas could not hear it. The world had altered. The music, once a cacophony of grinding and screeching, now sounded like a choir of voices. The fragments of the fragile world Thomas once knew, drifted like grubby bits of dirt in the totality and collective beauty of the empty void. But even then, Thomas had enough sense left to know he should stop the music. He drew out his electric pistol and fired, striking Marcus with a mighty blast of electrical energy. It is fitting that such a miserable inventor should go out with a grand flourish.

Thomas grabbed the device, the thing as alien in his hands as this place was to his eyes. That's when he heard it. The voice ringing in the emptiness like a drums. His hands moved across the surface of the device, altering the bits of pieces. LET ME IN the voice commanded, soon joined by other voices with equal zeal. Then from the bleak reality, something moved. Like a ghost appearing from the trapdoor, inky tendrils appeared. They coiled and twisted; their size easily able to collapse whole city block with a single sweep. Thomas, in a blind passion reengineered this arcane device and turned it upon this monster. Something terrible gushed from the horn, blasting the creature. The soul chilling shrieks confirmed that Thomas had indeed hit his mark. He had little time to enjoy his pyric victory as a massive tendril came straight for him. He dodged out of the way by some miracle and ran. It is pointless to know where he thought he would go, but he ran all the same.

Mayflower had returned from a productive morning visiting his new political ally. When he entered his home, however, he found his house in panic. The servants had been intrigued at the strange noises coming from inside Thomas' workroom. Combined with the inability to enter, they had become concerned. Mayflower took the situation in hand and had scaled the outside of building along the narrow ledge, reaching the open window of the workroom. All he saw inside was a very enthusiastic Thomas, flailing wildly about and holding a strange device in his hand. Mayflower entered, taking in the carnage of the workroom, wincing from the strange music cranked out of the machine in Thomas' hands. It was then he noticed the body of a stranger wedged up against the door in a posture that gave little hope he was still alive.

His first action was to wrestle the strange device free from Thomas. The young inventor resisted, keeping a solid hand on it. Mayflower only needed a small window. Keeping one hand on the device, he drew out his pistol and jammed the barrel between the complex wires and brass fittings and pulled the trigger. The explosion sent both reeling. I have observed the discharge of flintlocks at close range. The powder charge is almost as deadly as the large ball of hot lead ripping a lethal path through its unfortunate target. This did not hurt the two men, nor the pair of cats and old women who lived beneath Mayflower's flat. It did however send all three felines screeching beneath the bed. An admirable feat considering the older of the trio was as old as the building itself.

Thomas' world flew into oblivion. The shock rocked through the void, sending him hurling into the abyss. The voices had been replaced with the emptiness and loneliness of the unending night. There was nothing. And this was terrifying. Mayflower had recovered himself, cursing the burn on his hand. He pulled the dead man from the door and instructed his servants to get help. They replied with electric speed. Mayflower tried a tried-and-true method of cerebral recalibration. It did not work. 

Before he could administer a more potent dose of his very direct medical knowledge, a shadow loomed over him. The strange women they had met in the ruins in the Greenwood had appeared as an inconvenient ghost come back to haunt him. She knelt down, cradling Thomas' head in her hands and focusing very intently on his glazed eyes. Soon, light came back into his eyes and he saw the intent glare of the women who was bent over him. Thomas couldn't quite describe the sensation of being pulled from this nightmare. It was like a door opening up to him; an escape that folding back the endless abyss and beckoned him to enter.

Despite the reluctance of N, Mayflower was indignant at this intrusion and demanded an explanation. N obliged. The thing Thomas saw was but a taste of the terror that was working its way into the city, and eventually the world. It was an alien being who had agents in every quarter. N was going to destroy it. Its concentration in Newhaven was because something kept its Eyes from seeing past the wall of the city. IT had to have physical agents working on its behalf. N wanted to find this object of power and use it to get close to the being. Both men accepted this explanation easily. Generally, though you may doubt a person's intention, when you have stared into the eyes of one who has SEEN you tend to avoid disagreeing with them.

The strange woman asked Thomas if he was willing to rebuild his accident and use it in their fight against the being. Thomas readily agreed. N turned and left like an evening breeze without another word. Mayflower was still quite flummoxed, but he knew he needed to help by finding this strange man named Caesar. He left Thomas who quickly went in search of some other spirits. Throwing down a drink, he reorganized his workshop and began examining this weapon he had made. He threw back a few more shots of whiskey and kept up this ritual for a next few day. Especially before he went to bed. And sometimes even through the night.

S2: E2 "Dread Inquiries"

A Speech in the Street

I glanced at a copy of the Courier that a young diner at the local coffeehouse left behind with a meager tip. The young reporter had been dispatched to make a few notes and find out if this speech was just going to be more bravado. But it turned into a rather scintillating little challenge to the monarchy.

"Friends, I come to you today as a man of humble beginnings. Unlike most aristocratic folk I’m probably the only one on this planet who cannot claim the title ‘old money.’ And I come to you with concern. Yes, even now strength is sustained under the monarchy. Even in death, the Empress' example is a thick steel coat keeping our nation stable and prosperous. But even his legacy can only postpone a world without a ruler. For whatever reason, kept from us under shadowous wraps, we have yet to hear the sheer mention of a new successor. I can only speculate on their reasoning. But in their ill-timed silence this has become a source for contemplation. ‘Why not?’ many of us have asked. I may even be so brave as to believe their reason airs more to the sinister side. And how could I not? The throne is open. You’d think the royal family would be frothing at the mouth to get their hands on the throne. Yet not a whimper has come about as to our future visionary. Not from anyone, not a single political figurehead of our country. After Her Majesty’s passing, you’d expect them to be yapping about such matters until the cows come home. And yet as of today, there’ve only been dark looming murmurs behind closed doors and gritted teeth. This is outrageous. This is embarrassing. We’ve been silent for too long. For the sake of our nation's future, for the sake of national security, we must demand a new king. We demand one and we demand one yesterday. I am Sir Benedict Mayflower and I humbly ask for the sake of your children and descendants to have courage. Have the courage to break your silence. To speak your mind. Where is our king?"

I especially loved the bit about yapping and frothing. Quite audacious and inflammatory. The editor for the newspaper also enjoyed it. The speech found its way into a few more newspapers alongside other dissenters. The war, the crisis in the streets, the threats of labor strikes and the strange fear which had been growing was all but kindling for the fire.

As Mayflower left in his carriage amidst the clamor and cries for further comment, Thomas Thompson worked the crowd. He listened, asked questions and saw a fairly positive view of Mayflower's speech. The energy was positive and even if they didn't agree, they did have opinions. People love their opinions, especially when they can air them out in public. 

A Common Alliance

Following this event, our dear Mayflower instructed his driver to take him to the residence of Lindion Mavienness. He had requested her presence, and she had acquiesced. She was not very keen on the man, but his speech intrigued her. Mayflower was escorted into the newly acquired Villa and seated with Lindion who tactfully tested the man's resolve and purpose. Mayflower was not knowledgeable in the ways of the political sphere. But he was a willing student. Neither party was completely sold to the other, but when Lindion revealed that she wished to ascend to the place of the new empress, but that would require the backing of the council, the royal family and other families, Mayflower was curiously interested. It was little wonder he would join forces. She was obviously connected and shared his vision in so far as someone should sit on the throne again. For the time being, their purposes were aligned. They parted with the plan of gaining an audience with the council, gaining allies in and without the guilds and other places of influence. This would be a process, but they would need to gain traction and validity by attracting others to their cause.

Lindion and Mayflower parted company, both hopeful that the other would prove useful.

Strange Visitors

Lucian Mar was not nervous. That's what he told himself numerous times as he rode over to collect his prize. He was ushered into the flat by a rather talkative fellow who introduced himself as Thomas Thompson. Mr. Thompson seemed very keen on making small talk. He asked him about Mayflower's speech, told him that he was an inventor or some such, and offered him a card. Lucian desperately wanted to get the whole thing over with. He was not very sure of what he said, but he remembered it being very inane. Lucian was good at saying what people wanted to hear. He was a clerk, after all. He did other people's bidding. Eventually the manservant returned with a crate filled with this marvelous armor. A modern wonder, to be sure. Not that Lucian had any appreciation for anything marvelous outside the rail line and the locks that brought him his tea and biscuits. Taking the crate, he fled as fast as propriety would allow.

The carriage was there, just as he had been instructed it would. The door opened and in he stepped, handing the crate to the party sitting opposite him. Lucian mopped his brow and slumped in his seat. The two men were rough looking. Their skin was as hard as leather, the rough lines of a laborer etched into the texture of their hands and faces. One of the fellows was thin, his eyes moving like lightning bolts. The other was thick like an oak barrel, and significantly taller.

The thinner man smiled as he gazed at the contents of the box. "This be butter on bacon, Boyd. Wonderboy came through."

"Bricky chap, afterall." Boyd said staring at Lucian who wished to crawl out of his skin and make a break for it.

"I got you what you wanted." Lucian said trying to keep his voice from squeaking. "Please, just drop me anywhere."

"Don't get your daddles up. Boss keeps his word when you does good by'm." Morty reassured their passenger. He set the box down on carriage floor between his legs. He reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a brown envelope. "Payment in full, Mr. Mars."

---

Mayflower returned shortly, carrying with him the air of a man who has stumbled into good fortune. He deposited his coat, stick and hat upon his butler and settled into his study for some deep contemplation. He was interrupted by a scream. Both Thomas and Mayflower reached the hallway in tandem. The maid was backing out of one of the parlors for entertaining guests, her face contorted in fear and shock. Mayflower tried to calm the maid while Thomas entered the room. There, sitting upon one of the chairs examining a bottle of scotch, was the mysterious woman named N. Her hood was pulled low over her eyes, as if the curtains had been pulled about her to block out all the light.

She replaced the bottle and told Mayflower she was here to cash in on the favor. A businessman such as Mayflower would always look at the possibilities to turn something like this into an advantage. The woman wanted Mayflower to track down a person by the name of Caesar. A figure of the low districts had vanished, and she needed him found. And just like the elites, Mayflower agreed and later instructed his Lymington Gentlemen to do his work for him.

A Curious Inquisition

As long as memory served, nobody knew why such a prolific and revered religion as the Aluminat Church had one of its largest cathedrals in Vertfield, one of the largest suburbs outside of Newhaven, instead of inside the city proper. Enough time had elapsed that none of the parishioners had ever questioned it. Though there were many clergy who chafed at the open rebuke from the Royal family. It was always a question by new priests and the one consistent complaint of aging clergymen. 

The Cathedral of St Simon Paul was the one of the largest centers of religious expression in the High Moors. It boasted a church, an extensive library, a seminary and a large parsonage which acted more like a monastery then a private home. It had a revolving staff of missionaries, a private guard and students. The wrought iron fencing wrapped around the whole border, partially concealing the endless rows of hedges and sickly-sweet fruit trees which poured out their dour scent. There were several gardens for growing food which broke up the maze of gravel paths. The cathedral itself was an ancient gothic structure, filled with angels, saintly figures and sharp spires, pillars and scrollwork which peaked out from every possible surface. The collection of angelic faces, scornful rebukes and contemplative gestures reminded everyone that they were under constant scrutiny. The interior boasted tiled floors, pillars of curious design and stained-glass windows which told the stories of the church. The cathedral was its own labyrinth of halls, passages and rooms. Icons watched over the many priests and laymen who passed under their prevue. High domes and small crevices were filled with paintings, relics and angelic beings reaching down from the heavens. Priests passed by with prayers on their lips, short bows and quiet reverence in the presence of their patrons and fellow laborers in the faith. Every detail was like a book which began at the front doors and then split off in every direction, telling a continuous story which looped back into the main hall and then swept up a staircase or off into an adjoining room or hall. But it always worked back upon itself in some fashion and never truly ended.

The rest of the matching faces belonged to mortal on this side of the veil. In particular was one Brother Marcus, a clerk at the cathedral and had spent the better part of his life in the service of the church. There had once been higher goals for the enthusiastic young lad. But something had occurred which had left him quietly serving in his clerical role for life. Vows are such difficult things to maintain.

Father Collins greeted the young man as he emerged from the squared hedges. Marcus was pleased to see the kindly priest. He escorted him to the library as they engaged in banal conversation. He left the gnome outside the door as he pushed aside the plain wooden doors.

Brother Stephen was keeper of the combined knowledge of the Aluminat Church at the Cathedral. Brother Stephen had more in common with a bear or coal miner then a librarian. He was over six feet tall, a broad hulk with a long salt-and-pepper beard and mustaches. He had never attempted to remove his strong accent nor his love for brewed spirits and tiny biscuits. He wore a black robes and scrutinized you with his dark eyes under the lenses of his round spectacles. Brother Stephen had already spent the better part of his life serving the church in the pursuit of stamping out the presence of the Maleficium. He had, among many of his accomplishments, survived largely unscathed. But Brother Steven knew these experiences had changed him. And though he had been offered many chances to advance into the hierarchy, he had quietly "retired" to a quiet life among dusty tomes, ancient scrolls and the endless job of organizing and cataloguing the church's documents. He always collected new stories, no matter how insane and enjoyed frequent visits from others.

Father Collins wasted little time telling the librarian about his encounters in the Greenwood. Brother Stephen was especially curious about his meeting with the strange, tattooed woman. The patient man departed and retrieved an old journal which told of a similar experience and detailed the experiences of a priest who had a similar dealing with the strange members of this shrouded organization. Brother Stephen thought it best that his friend takes a cross, similar to his own, which had served the writer of the tale in his encounters with these mysterious people. Filled with more questions than answers, Father Collins went in search of Father Unigild who was overseeing the inquiries into the Malefic tokens acquired by the Ministry.

Father Collins was no stranger to the halls of the Inquisition. It was largely unknown to the wider population that they ever existed. Usually a priest would be seen carrying a black leather bag sealed by the High Office and perform strange rites. But nobody knew the truly terrifying world the Inquisition walked. The evil that lurked beneath of the surface of civilized society was real. 

Finding a Father Emory, Father Collins was escorted past the tables, desks and priests who had taken on the dangerous task of ascertaining, cataloguing and investigating stories of the presence of the Maleficium. Father Emory, a pale man with sharp blue eyes and a crisp beard, told Father Collins that they had given the initial inquiry to a new acolyte who possessed the "sight". They had underestimated the potency of these crude devices of bone, leather and wood. Father Collins opened up his own sight to the relics and he was instantly assaulted by the cacophony of voices which tried to corrupt his mind. He resisted, pushing them out and away from himself. The apprentice, as he learned, was not so lucky. The sigils carved into the surface were of unusual design. But they looked like an old form of enchantment which was not used by Etheric manipulators. 

Armed with this knowledge, Father Collins made his way back to the Ministry. Burnes and Hughes would have a surprise for him as well.

S2: E1 "Beginnings"

Political Preparations

Mayflower sat at his desk contemplating the latest draft of his speech, rummaging through papers as he compiled his notes for a political rally later in the week. Mayflower had found his stride, it seemed, after returning from the great expedition into the old forests of the Greenwood. Returning he had set about advertising this relic of the past, drawing in many of the curious, powerful and influential. Women wined and dined his guests while he worked the crowd. The big draw of this event was a set of armor that Thomas Thompson had managed to assemble in the two weeks after their harrowing experience. Certain individuals brought their own alcohol to increase their chances to win. At the end of the evening a small, rather exuberant human had been the lucky winner. There was a round of cheers and backslaps, as is customary when you lose.

Mayflower made arrangements for new armor to be acquired the following week. As Thomas had also completed a set of functioning armor, this was also a step closer to cleaning up, and I quote, "the degeneracy from the sacred stones of this street where men of honor and good breeding have for generations made their home." To be fair, this was from an early draft of his speech and will not likely make it into the final.

Inventor, Benefactor

The young inventor returned to the smoggy streets of Newhaven with credibility and a renewed vigor to establish his guild, TechEverlasting, as an innovator in electrical engineering. His visit to the Hall of Guilds was profitable. He met a dwarf, who had the bearing of a man who had seen everything pass across his desk. The beaurocratic dwarf moved with the alacrity of a snail and the optimism of a dead horse. After answering the usual questions, his application was processed. Thomas decided that a gainful course of action was to draw in other hopeful inventors with the promise of a reward for the most original or creative new ideas. A few pounds down was nothing for the potential of a 45 pound return on your investment and possible exposure in the scientific world. It was easy money.

After returning home, Thomas began his own preparations for the event as well as plotting out his next inventions.

Letters

The lady Lindion had a slightly more interesting day. She had spent the former days moving into some new accommodations in Vertfield, sent letters requesting audiences with Dame Lorieth and the City Council and had started to find a new butler. Her man Philip had, during her vacancy, quietly slipped out and gained new employment elsewhere. Here evenings had been taken up attending to her future plans, some of which included chance encounters with Arthur Belebrante. She also managed to craft a few new potions in the spacious sunroom which had been converted into a garden and labratory for her specific focus.

With much of business behind her, she refocused her efforts on the streets of Newhaven, an endeavor which proved somewhat difficult. The whole of the city was in the grips of the terror of the Whalers and other gangs which had seen a power vacuum in recent weeks. The deaths of prominent underworld figures had shocked the city. Lindion, in her guise as Miss Feather, asked questions which would have normally gotten her answers. The beggers, the poor and the innocent were abnormally tight-lipped. Reverand Clark was more willing to share what he knew and promised more information as soon as he could ask his own parishioners. 

As Miss Feather was returning from her encounter, she chanced upon the woman known as N. The mysterious woman was evasive and shrouded when asked any kind of question. Lindion refused to budge however, and refused to do future favors unless the exchange was mutual, information for information. For the moment, Lindion would do further research on the parchment and determine where the treasure was hidden so long ago. The two women parted ways, both of their minds filled with their own troubles and suspicions.

In an Unofficial Capacity

Father Collins had risen earlier than normal to venture to the offices of the Ministry and talk with his associates, Burnes and Hughes. Finding Burnes buried in papers and Goldie scrutinizing the ceiling, he hopped onto a chair and told them of the symbols he had uncovered. Burnes looked over the eye and skull/tentacle images with some care. Burnes told Father Collins that he would need to seek higher approval to share any information regarding these items. He then told Father Collins that he had been intending to visit him and ask for his help. They had not made much progress on their shared cases, but that several of the cursed trinkets had made their way into the city recently. They had been reluctantly turned over to the Inquisition. Father Collins would be invaluable in working with the Inquisition and learning what he could about these items and passing it along. They needed to find more of them or determine how they were coming into the city.

With promises that he would soon return with more information, Father Collins left and went to visit his friend, Brother Stephen. 

Season 2: The News

21st Day of Quiescence 1856

THE NEWHAVEN TIMES

Illustrated Weekly Newspaper

Bonaventura! E7 "The Peculiar Proposition"

 

The ominous halls of the grim fortress echoed the hateful screams of the Ghouls as they encroached on the party who had attempted to steel themselves against the danger that had cut off their escape. Father Collins wasted precious little time summoning the shadowy bonds to his aid. The tendrils sprung from the dark corners and crevices between stones, pulling the first of the Ghouls to the ground, despite his violent protests. Thomas, being a man of action himself, turned and ran for the closest cover he could find. He did, however, find it difficult to climb the surface of the great engine before him. While he made various attempts, Mayflower raised his rifle and made the unfortunate mistake of locking gazes with these terrible beings. Despite all his bravado and pomp about being a man of courage and daring, once faced by this creature a curious chill froze the blood in his veins and made him hesitate. Arthur had little difficulty, for within seconds the crack of his rifle echoed off the stones and his bullet struck true into the ghoul. Lindion turned her attention to the creature and attempted to get inside its head with her magic. But the chaos of these beings, the fatigue and the many distractions made it very difficult to get anything but the malice and contempt it showed for all life.

As Arthur's bullet penetrated its foul flesh, the Ghoul shrieked. It is hard to describe the fear, hatred and death in such a scream. But the terror that filled the hearts of all was something they would never forget. For a few minutes, they shared its horror, the pain and evil that filled this ghoul. That is, all but Father Collins. As all fled in the straightest line away from this creature, Father Collins counted the ghoul's claws and teeth with his own magic. Turbatio is a simple spell taught to many a hermeticist as a basic defense against those who are stronger. A creature of weak will immediately falls prey to a debilitating confusion and is unable to do the simplest of tasks. Ghouls are not renowned for their intellect, and if it had failed Father Collins would have suffered a terrible death at its hands. But the creature fumbled long enough for Father Collins to summon Aer Telum and electrocute the creature before him in a blaze of green lightning. He stepped over the smoking corpse and finished off the other ghoul just as quickly. The tendrils of shadow retreated as soon as the body of the tortured soul went limp on the ichor-soaked stones.

As the rest of the group began running about madly, Thomas had made a mad dash up the side the ancient device and slid into a most convenient opening. He slid into the dark interior where light failed to penetrate the oily interior. He had barely scrambled into the furthest corner when a hand clamped over his mouth. A cold voice whispered a warning not to cry out or fight. Thomas acquiesced. He could tell by the sound of the voice that it was a female. With promises to cooperate, she released his face and allowed him to answer some of her questions.

Though not terribly interested in him or the problems of the party, she was going to leave out a secret entrance as soon as the things outside had been dealt with. Though callous and brisk, Thomas was anxious to also leave and compelled her to allow them to leave with her. She reluctantly agreed and they both emerged from the enclosure. Father Collins was attempting to calm everyone down and help them regain their sanity. Thomas revealed an alternative path out of the fortress, but the strange woman was unwilling to parlay for anything less than a favor in the future. To those more astute, she seemed aloof and cold, but oddly perceptive. Lindion also felt she recognized the shadowed woman from a distant memory or a brief encounter. She knew her but had hard time fingering the exact moment. Fleeting images called to her memory but were just as readily driven away as if they were shadows behind a thin vale. She tried to diplomatically move this strange woman to see things from her perspective, but the woman was indifferent. She remained uncaring and aloof. Eventually, the party agreed in exchange for a safe path out of this place to help her in the future. She then led them from the underground tomb through a secret door in the wall, up a dark staircase and through a myriad of passages into the open night air.

Before she bid them farewell, she asked Father Collins to speak with her. Much to his surprise, she asked for his blessing. He gave it, as all good clergymen are likely to do. She seemed better for it. She then took off her glove and opened her bare palm to him saying, "A gift, Father." Giving him precious moments to study the symbols, she replaced her glove and turned, vanishing into the dark.

Bonaventura! E6 "The Infernal Engine"

Lindion walked back and forth, her hand working tirelessly as she recorded every important detail she could find on this stone mural. She did not know when she would return, nor did she find any means of capturing the grandeur other than her words. As she scribbled endlessly, Father Collins examined the grand picture at the end. He discovered a cleverly hidden crack running the whole length, right in the middle of this image. This seemed to him, and the others, that this was actually a door. Thomas knew this was far too heavy to open and thus surmised it must be some kind of clever mechanism. He was about to turn the stone "handle" they had found when Father Collins suggested allowing him to do it from a short distance away.

He summoned forth a spectral hand, an exact replica of his own skeleton that moved as his own hand moved. As the group huddled in the next hall the hand floated forth, gripped the bit of stone and turned it fully to the left. The hall rumbled as the stones in the ceiling directly above came crashing down. They would have killed anyone foolish enough to try and activate the door. This led to the next problem; what exactly did they need to do to open the door? Once the dust settled, the hand turned the nob again, but nothing happened.

Thomas set about to learn how this door worked. He managed to dislodge the bit of stone from the wall and revealed a mesmerizing clockwork gear system that engaged two separate sets of gears. He surmised that one activated the deathtrap while the other (he hoped) would open the door. The only other obvious mechanical bit on the door was the empty eyeholes that appeared to hold some kind of complex tumbler set. So, the logical step was to find a key and thus engage the handle to open the door.

Meanwhile, Father Collins and Lindion had retreated to the broken door further up beyond the hallway and investigate. Father Collins wiggled through the opening and found a few small treasures. He found many treasures, but one scrap of parchment was of particular interest to Lindion who set about deciphering it right away.

While these two were hoarding treasures, Mayflower had, through some truly inspiring words and rallying Arthur to help break down another door. Combining their strength, they broke down the door. Inside was more bones, a almost fully intact skeleton and a strange device. While Mayflower dismembered the skeleton and donned his rusty chainmail, Arthur picked up the dual pronged item and showed it to the others. It was, to their shock, the missing "key" they had been looking for. 

Sliding the complex metal key into the holes, they hear a clicking sound. Thomas then turned the gears and the humongous doors opened out. Stepping across the threshold, they gazed upon the ancient ruins of a humongous device, bigger and more complex than anything Thomas or anyone else had ever seen. Father Collins, almost intuitively, realized that this was something far more dangerous. This was a War Engine of the old world, a weapon so terrifying in its destruction all knowledge of them had been erased.

But then, as they stared at this wonder, the chilling screams of the Ghoul could be heard just down the hall. They glanced around but realized that there was no easy way out. Turning to face their foe, they readied weapons and braced for an attack.