Episode 2: "Carnage in the Club"
The Pinch
The number "six" is significant across the whole of creation. Its important to the spawn of darkness as well as the enlightened of the heavenly host. Perhaps the "Roku", the six, had little idea of the significance outside of that fact they could count that high. Despite their propensity for higher math and ability to speak the common tongue, their beastial nature was left fully in tact.
This was why the collection of raccoons found the most comfortable place to suit both side of this conflicting personality, went out into the chaos of Newhaven. Roku stopped by his local pharmacist in High Park. Dugy, a little sour dwarf who was having a good day, took the carefully selected silver sheets secured in glass cases and handed them to the proprietor of the corner grocer. With a promise to develop the photos in a few hours, Roku set off for The Ames, a social club for men and women both to enjoy races, cards and share a drink or meal together. he cared not for the track, the drink or the company. He did care for the games of chance. Though armed with a perfectly poker face, fate did not favor him. He played a number of hands and lost a few pounds of money. Bored, Roku went to the restroom and was in the process of escaping the suit which allowed him to pass undetected in favor of causing mayhem. The nature of a beast can never truly be suppressed no matter how many layers of humanity you splice together.
It was a odd chance that Hiram Barnaby entered the stalls at the Ames Club. He wasn't even a member. His late wife had spent many a day playing cards with her companions and a cup of gin to treat herself once in awhile. Hiram adored his wife and allowed their meager income to allow for these indulgences. But when she passed Hiram, like all grieving widowers, couldn't bring himself to deal with the memories and attachments which aggravated his depressed state. It was some months until he finally went to the club to cancel his wife's membership. When he had thus dealt with the paperwork and pleas to reconsider from a pleasant receptionist who only saw more club dues disappearing. Hiram, thus aggitated and insulted, finished his business and went to relieve his aging bladder in the men's room. He set his polished mahogany cane next to the vanity and went into the open stall. The cane was a anniversary present from his wife. It was simple and sturdy. She always said it gave him a certain swagger. He smiled when he thought of that dinner at their favorite restaurant. The large case she had delivered to the table and the glowing smile as he unwrapped it, and the pure joy that danced in her eyes as he proudly tried his weight upon it. So enraptured in these thoughts that he failed to notice click of the latch in the stall next to him, the stealthy movement of limbs and the quick retreat back into the stall.
What would possess a man to part with a cane he had never let out of his site in all the years he had owned it? Perhaps the weight of his emotions, the overwhelming sorrow at burying his wife all over again, the reminder he was alone, made the stick a wretchedness to him. Perhaps his mind was so clouded, he forgot himself. Confusion or grief, he broke from his habits. Cursing the names of all the cruelty fate had dealt him when he realized his cane had vanished, Hiram made a promise; never again would that previous cane leave his sight. Though furious, he was not devoid of reason. He was also a gentleman. The cane should not have just walked off by itself. It wasn't one of those kinds of canes. That left the obvious answer. The culprit was in the room, thought it would have been a lark to pinch an old man's cane and had been off with it. Hurrying out of the room, he cut down the hall with a quick gaze of his eye. There was no one with his cane. So, the culplit was inside still, waiting of the foolish old man to leave. Hiram summoned a waiter and explained the situation. He then positioned himself outside the door, intent on searching every last fellow who left the club. Fortunately for the staff of the Ames, Roku was the only person to exit the men's room, straight into the waiting arms of a very red faced, irate Hiram Barnaby.
Roku waited only a fraction of a second before bolting, the mahogany walking stick carefully wedged inside the special suit he wore. The words were barely out of the old man to search Roku, when the legs received a quick jab in the face to hit the bricks. The arms and torso acting with some delay. The effect of was a ungentlemanly juke to the left as one leg sidled, the other flying wide to compensate and arms swinging around akimbo. One hand slapped the old man before the raccoons regained control and righted itself, flying through the crowd with surprising alacrity.
Again, the voices of survival and human reason collided. Roku, inserting himself into the current situation, believed that, like the predators of the wild, threats of violence and fear was a simple but effective way of clearing the way to the nearest exit. But unlike those predators, a humanoid with a hat for a head and perpetual smiling stick face painted upon it has never induced fear into its prey without some kind of reputation. Reputation is everything. Death needs no introduction. Fear has no business cards. Pain wants not for detestators. Roku had no reputation. Nobody paid him any attention, that is, until now. His attempts to scare or bully his way through the crowd merely aggravated the situation as men with a sense of honor and one too many pints thought it a good day to beat down a rude, uncivilized man instead of get out of his way. Thus Roku found his path of escape closing. But there is few things that can stand before a deperate gang of raccoons when faced such odds. The fists began to fly, sending several men back on their heels and others diving for cover.
Clearing the main room, Roku bolted for the front doors. It was then two very large men stepped into his path to freedom. They were the sort of men who looked like they spent an abnormal amount of time lifting very heavy things and liked it. They also looked like they sort of men who took pride in their jobs and relished the sound of breaking bones and snapping sinues. But the truth is Hank and Jim were honest fellows, both had families and hoped to improve their social standing by earning a honest keep. They had previously defined themselves in the underground fighting ring, earning a pocket full of bills and some nice bruises. Some said they had a future. But Hank and Jim wanted a simpler lif with a loving wife in one arm and children reared upon their knees. Working as doormen occasioned them a steady paycheck and the distinct pleasure of sometimes throwing a man out on his sitzfleisch. Roku was thus faced with a conundrum. Be returned to a angry mob and potencially exposed, or attempt to duck around these two gatekeepers somehow. He opted for the latter. Roku hurredly claimed his wife was in labor and that he was desperately needed elsewhere. The two men were sympothetic, as father's often are towards the plight of one who is just venturing out into the wild unknowns. Perhaps they would have been reasonable if Roku had merely been willing to explain what had possessed him to flag down several men in a respectable club. The other option was to have his arms broken. Roku decided that he would risk his chances with the doormen then the fastly encroaching mob and offered to have his arms broken. This gave Hank and Jim pause. It wasn't the fact someone had ever dared them to try. It was that a man built like a twig was more then willing to have his arm snapped off. He was almost happy about it. This was not normal. It was while Hank and Jim were trying to sort out this philosophical question that Roku made a break for it. Hank's arm snapped out and caught the tails of the fleeing Roku. Hank always had good reflexes. But Roku had the momentum and Hank the unyielding weight of delicious cooking to hold him down like a rock that the Roku fled, his tails tangling in the hands of a very confused Hank. (He would later inform his wife that the world was going to the dogs and they were moving to the country as soon as he could scrape the money together. She was not amused)
The Proposition
Outside the city in the small suburb of Vertfield, Lindion began her day as she normally did, with a cup of coffee and a copy of the Newhaven Times. She turned over the front page of the Times, skimming through the articles regarding the war in the north, the religious factions warring over theology and the latest fashion from Lloyds. Blinking from dry eyes, she started to rise but hesitated. She sat down and reached for the bell near hear elbow and summoned her manservant, Philip. The servants were an idea from her mother who insisted a woman of her class should have servants.
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| Philip, the Butler |
Philip entered with her eyedrops. He was an old veteran; serious, respectable, patient and unflappable. Like all good vanguards of the gates of their mistress' strongholds, the watchmen is ever vigilant. His keen eye, protective loyal nature and vivid imagination, he had a great sense and understanding of people. Despite all his so-called virtue, this was his critical flaw; he saw ghosts and visions that others failed to realize. He was also a incurable gossip. It was impossible to keep these ruminations to himself. Tina, and her daughter and Lindion's personal maid, Lillian, were the most frequent to enjoy his fanciful stories and vivid descriptions. But his loyalty prevented him from spreading anything outside of the walls that would reflect poorly on his mistress or upon her house.
Philip also produced a telegram from his other hand and gave it to Lindion. He mused how it was a name not regular in their post, piquing the curiosity of Lindion. She opened it and read the message. Addressed from a Bramwell and Lorena Rosznar of House Rosznar. They requested her presence at their home for luncheon. Lindion told Philip to inform the Tina she would be gone for lunch and to send a telegram, and her personal card, to the Rosznar's that she would join them that very afternoon.
Once she had breakfasted, she finished her newspaper,wrote some letters and gone over the expense accounts (the grocery bill and postage had exceeded the alotted amount), Lindion dressed and instructed Philip to send a cab to pick her up no later then 12:30. Wearing a beautiful LaClaire suit with silk touring hat, and a pair of leather heels. She arrived promptly and was ushered into a old stone estate in the homes build along High Park and the polished walls of the Palazzo. Ushered into the tasteful home, a layering of modern fashion atop antiquities of the far past, Lindion sat down to dine with the Rosznar’s.
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| Bramwell and Lorena Rosznar |
Isabella Rosznar. A capricious girl of 18 years old. Such imagination, spurred by sources near and far to reach towards a legacy which lay there in the strands of her heritage, forgotten and buried beneath years of social behavior and strangled in proper etiquette. But the spirit which longs for freedom and imagination broke free of its shackles.
The clash with proper decorom, of aspirations beyond their current station, and the spirit which longs to carve its own path, connected the fate of Lindion and the young Rosznar. It was not the first time their fortunes and fates had been connected. It was no accident it had happened again. Isabella was the heiress of the Rosznar fortune and shipping empire. Albeit small, it would subsidize if note make the future of a ambitious husband. The Rosznar family very much wished that their daughter would carry this name into proper society. But poor Isabella had no interest in her wealth, responsibility, or place in soceity. Isabella had failed to be quelled by any measure. Lindion was naturally unsure of how she could help, since Lindion felt the Isabella and she shared more in commen then the Rosznar's would ever think, or appreciate. But Lindion, knowing her reputation was esteemed in their eyes, and naturally inclined to help anyone in need, gave them the option of having their daughter come live under her roof. To say the Rosznar's were suprised by this, is a understatement. They would never confide how improper and desperate this sounded, but perhaps out of fear of offense or a relief to have their daughter be someone else's problem, they relented to their superior in class and position and agreed. Lindion, already working out in her mind how she would instruct this surprising pupil stipulated her terms and took her thoughts and a sizable check in hand as she mounted the carraige and returned to her home, her mind afire with ideas on how to tame this wild foal entrusted to her care.
The Invitation
Finally, we come to Thomas Thompson. He still has not noticed the flaw in his formulas. I can't blame him really. He's not exactly a engineer with anything but passing knowledge of electrical energy. Like so many men of the day, he retains enough information to pass for a pugalist without knowing how to land a blow that won't completely fracture his hand. Fortunately, Thomas received a telegram that tore his attention away from his chalkboard before he realized his mistake. Richard Grier, plucky young engineer who at least tolerates Thomas' views on electricity though his trust of the volatile electrical engines is dim. But he is a optimist with a view to the future. Of that, Thomas and he have more then enough in common. Richard is also a member of the Assembly of Autonomous Engineers (AAE). It just so happened that the club was hosting a party of sorts. This was for guild members and their friends. It allowed the guild to bolster their reputation and allow "outsiders" to become jealous. They also had mini sandwhiches.
Thomas, seeing he had some time before the event, wasted little time preparing his toilet and hastening to the Way of Steam and descended into the belly of the magnificent bronze beast. Piled into stacks of scrap, broken machines and detritus, was the Scrapyard. The man who ran the shop there had established a reputation as a fair minded opportunist who would, for the right price, dig though the piles of garbage and salvage anything that looked interesting. The man, who preferred to stay anonomous (his name is Griffon, or Grif to his "friends"), had developed an eye for things that would bring him that extra coin that kept him in good tabacco and rye. Thomas negotiated with the man for a time and with a promise of repaying him when his inventions bore some fruit, he departed. Racing across the lanes of the Guilded Row and into the waiting arms of his friend, Richard greeted him with an alacrity that speaks of intimacy which has long been delayed in its renewal. Richard was as interested in his own news as the business of his friend. The guilds were all talking about the new Symposium of Experimental Science and Innovation coming to Newhaven in a month's time. This was open to the public and would draw non-guild applicants. It was in fact a hunting ground for guilds who wanted to pick up fresh talent into their hallowed halls. Accidents in science were very normal. You had to freshen the ranks with new faces to keep club rosters full. You also had to keep them out of the rosters of rival guilds. It wouldn't do to let someone else have someone who showed any cleverness. Clever people were dangerous. It was far better to snap them up yourselves and keep them busy filing paperwork or emptying dustbins.
Richard told Thomas he just had to enter something. Thomas was more then excited at the news. He was esctatic. Finally! A opportunity to demonstrate a future free of magic and wholly dependant on electricity. Even Richard's own guild might offer him a position if he can show he has the stuff worthy of membership. Their conversation naturally diverged into the latest technological gossip. After a few moments of animated conversation, Richard excused himself so he could catch one of his colleagues.
Thomas, content to venture into the jungle alone, was unaware of the natural predator lingering in the wings, waiting to pounce. The name of this particular species was named Ammiras Uriah Lygon. He was the current headmaster of the Worshipful Order of Horologists. He "accidentally" bumped into Thomas and began circling his helpless prey. The questions began, as they do with a man looking for a particular weakness by which he can snare the prey, found Thomas a nimble adversary. He was just about to sink his teeth into the subject of prosthetics, when Richard descended like a guardian angel and steered Thomas away. Lygon was not so easily dissuaded though, for he mumbled and placed a note in his special book to inquire into the nature of Thomas' hand and future in prosthetics. For, as Richard explained to Thomas, the invention and innovation of prosthetics was a closely guarded field by the Worshipful Order of Horologists. But Thomas was saved, and decided to pocket a collection of sandwhiches and leave, having spread word of TechEverlasting and sufficient food for thought himself.
He hadn't quite finished his meal when a nock came at the door of Thomas' labratory. Inspector Morse, entered, and inquired as to the information Thomas had promised to file with the local constabulary the prior day. Obviously, the situation was troubling to Inspector Morse. But once again, Thomas proved he was not a mere simpleton. He managed to dodge the amateur traps set by Morse and also divert his suspicion for a few more days. Thomas supplied Morse with an address for his "cousin" in a poor district, some old digs of his in a paddingken. Morse left, with no obvious recourse, and no means of arresting Thomas. He had his nose and his instincts. But he would need more then that to prove something fowl was afoot.
But that will come later. A most amusing event, by all accounts. But I haven't told you about Ed Gurukul. Now, that was interesting...
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