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.

Bonaventura! E5 "Roses and Relations"

Roses and Relations

Curious indeed the complex emotions of a woman. They perceive deeper meanings and more subtle ideas, but can be overwhelmed, manipulated and abused. Sometimes by nothing other than their own thoughts. Yuko was just about to discover the consequence of choice, a challenge of paranoia and the roots of mistrust.

Yuko had been awoken by the commotion inside the camp. But she found something added to her tent instead of stolen; a solitary crimson rose. Her curiosity was captured immediately. Any other women might have assumed it was a token of some bold admirer. But Yuko gleaned a special meaning from this object. She confirmed this when she discovered that the living stem had been hollowed out to conceal a message for her. A clandestine meeting outside of camp that evening.

Yuko found Vengarl and showed the old soldier the gift. He was wary, but relented to accompany her to the meeting, concealing himself within arm's reach so as to strike any fool who tried to harm her. Once darkness had fallen, Yuko left the camp. She had learned from her previous mistake and had cast upon herself a basic spell to protect her from harm. It might have been more effective if Telmage had not distracted her. She was beginning to mistrust him. I did find some amusement in the perception of Telmage. Had he truly changed? Or was the change merely in Yuko? It's hard to look a man in the face who did try and kill you after all. Telmage was a savvy man socially, and had picked up on the change, but was also proud enough not to run headlong into a problem before it had fully matured into a problem.

With Vengarl glowering from behind a clump of tall grass, Yuko walked out of camp towards a cop of dense trees. The faint outline of a man appeared like a demon; his dark features illuminated in the red glow of his cigar. Yuko was instantly infatuated. Not because the man was attractive. He was in fact, a handsome fellow. More akin to those of the Southern Alliance, with their dark olive skin and black hair, he was heavily tanned, muscular and arrogant as a hyena. Yuko, like most women, had created something about this man that was completely fantastical and had focused on this.

The man's name was Miguel Escribano. He was a member of the Legion, working on behalf of some "friends" of Yuko. These benefactors wanted to remain anonymous.

I realize that many might not know much about the Legion outside of a few grotesque stories and sordid rumors. Fortunately, most of them are true. But they are rarely fair in their representation. The Legion of the Crimson Rose, or the Legion as it is more commonly referred, is a private order and is seen more as a mercenary group. They seek dangerous adventure, have a unshakable fidelity to their brothers in the legion and will die rather than surrender. They have been known to resort to savagery in conflict, making them formidable to everyone they encounter. Anyone can join the legion without question. They are known to frequent gin houses and bars, taking new members on the spot. But life as a legionnaire is a challenge. There is a begrudging respect for any man who proudly identifies as a Legionnaire. To deny him is to challenge him, and that might result in you losing your tongue.

Miguel held himself with confidence any man, woman or child would have found attractive. He assured Yuko he'd be close by if the need arose. She could reach him by placing a note in her own mailbox sealed with the ring of the order. He gave her just such a ring. They then parted, each walking in the dark to their own camp. Vengarl was of course unimpressed. But they both agreed that trust should be given sparingly. Upon their return, Yuko discovered that half the group had gone in search of Lindion who had been spirited away by Griffons.


Ghouls!

The party had rejoined their efforts as they descended down the ancient halls of stone, picking their way over old traps, bones and remains of a bitter battle. Winding further down the old halls, the reached a long hall which intersected with a stairway. Lindion heard her friends and hailed them. After an abrupt reconnection, as Lindion was currently under the influence of Tryloxal. That is why, when the heart-stopping, bone chilling scream crashed down upon their ears, Lindion fled, leading the majority deeper into the old castle.

Father Collins remained in the hallway. His ancient knowledge of the darker things of this world served him well. Once the hideous creature crawled its way into view, his fears were confirmed. Cutting off their escape was a Ghoul. Whispering a few words, he successfully cast Ectoplasmic Bond and secured the creature long enough to retreat towards his friends. He and Mayflower barricaded the door into the next chamber as best they could. Father Collins tried to blast the stones away so as to bury the path but was unsuccessful.

They found more traps, spikes and detritus of traps that had been successfully activated a long time ago. They found some small trinkets and oddities which would be worth something to the right collector. Lindion and Thomas had continued down to the next door and triggered a trap; a rope secured to a stake which held the door shut just enough. Once the stake was loosened, the roped would release and drop a large stone down on the head of the trespasser. Lindion pushed on and made directly for the next door. Something else screamed, the voice amplified by the stones and nearly scared Lindion senseless. Cackling, the thing retreated.

The rest of the group joined Thomas and Lindion now. Lindion tried to convince Mayflower to strike her, but Mayflower refused. The others also unsure of the purpose of this extreme measure watched as Lindion tried to get control of herself. She failed. And so, she charged through the next door, right into a pool of sticky, blacky ichor covering the floor. Retreating, she tried one of the other doors and found some old weapons and decaying armor.

Thomas, having examined the sticky substance, set it ablaze, thus removing the obstacle. The group passed through this next door, finding more wicked traps and obstacles. Lindion charged forward, despite Mayflower's cautions. He grabbed her arm to stop her from getting herself killed. She tries to strike him, but the man was stronger. The group decides to tie Lindion up before she injures herself with the reckless behavior. While sitting here, Lindion managed to gain control of her own mind. She collapses, barely saved from a nasty fall by Arthur who was at her side.

The rest of the group discovered the gem of this place. Cut into the stone in intricate, highly detailed relief carvings was a dramatic scene of the old world. A great battle fought long ago between the demons and mankind. Once Lindion had regained her senses, she began taking notes of this great scene. Inscribed along the top of this magnificent wall was the words, "Fort Bonaventura". Father Collins and others also noticed the empty eye holes of the Empress, as well as some strange eyes of a demon casting his gaze towards a particular stone. They realized this stone could be rotated.

A scream echoed far above their heads...

Bonaventura! E4 "Fight and Flight"

Tobias Flint was leaning against walls of the gryphon nest, shifting uncomfortably from the large bruise that was forming along his fourth and fifth ribs. That Eldren woman was a haughty little she-devil. Just like a lush to shoot a stranger in the middle of a forest for doing nothing but bein' a proper gentleman. Just because they don't have the same skins. He pulled out a metal flask which looked like it had seen a few years on the road, and painfully pulled himself towards the edge of the nest so he could watch as the gryphons defended their home from the dandies fighting atop the ruins below. He threw back a swig of gin, the burn dulling his senses and erasing the taste of blood in his mouth. 

The gunshot had of course alerted the others who had scrambled towards the tower. It had also alerted the gryphons. Stupid woman. They didn't have common sense in places like this. On the other hand, Tobias Flint had to admit he was rather impressed by the priest who had, on two occasions, managed to down a gryphon. Tobias flint wondered if anyone had ever thought to bring along a holy man. As they beasts swooped and strafed their targets, they had managed to survive the razor claws and sharp beaks. The two gnomes had avoided a terrible fate and the tall human had bravely charged with sword in hand at the thing as it passed overhead. The other human, the bookish fellow, had somehow managed to fling a rope to a vine branch and shimmy his way up to a window lower down on the tower. He had also managed to avoid getting scraped off the side of the tower by the gryphon. The second bolt of lightning arced through the sky and finally brought the beast down, sending it plummeting down into the gaping ruins they had almost started down on. 

Tobias Flint leaned back as the priest said something in their strange tongue and the whole group started floating. Best not to be seen right now. He set himself gingerly down on the cobbles with a good line of sight on the entrance to the tower, placed his pistol under his coat and waited. A few minutes passed now and the whole of the tower became quiet again. His breathing was hard and painful, but the gin was helping make it tolerable. Then out of the gloom two figures emerged.

Tobias knew it before he saw the bundle of Big Alf being carried between Lemon and Doyle. They set his body down and crouched in the shadows. The group was silent. Nobody wanted to say anything yet. Tobias finally broke the silence by removing his cap and staring heavenward.

"He was a good man, Big Alf." Tobias said gravely. "How'd he take'it?"

"Right in the chest, boss. Quick as mud." Lemon said as he stared off into the emptiness. 

"Should have let it along," Doyle muttered under his breath.

Nobody was prepared for how quick Tobias moved. Doyle was laying on his back, his nose wringing with blood as Tobias stood over him glaring down. His pistol was in hand. "Last time I checked, Doylie, I'm the boss! I gives the orders, see. I makes the rules. If I say chase that woman down after she tries to kill me, you do it. If I says to run them dandies through with steel, you do it. If I says to cut our losses, we cut and run. Hims that don't like it, can draw blade and prove his worth. Is that what you want, boy?"

Doyle shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Lemon let out a steady breath and slid his gun back into his belt. "What's next boss?"

Tobias tucked his gun away and picked up his gear. "There was a priest down there. Big Alf deserves a proper send off. Father wouldn't deny him that." He glanced at his boys and knew that nobody disagreed, even if they wanted to do so. Big Alf was the best of them and should have the best. "Lets find ourselves a Father."

Bonaventura! E3 "Griffons and Girls"

Tobias Flint squinted into the gloom of the wood. He held his hooded lantern out in front, but the tendrils of inky shadows repelled the light. There was no sound but the wind rustling branch and leaf.

"Still don't know why ya sent the boys out, boss." Lemon said as he stirred the small kettle sluggishly bubbling over the small fire. The outcropping of rock danced with shadows as the flames. They were almost completely concealed from prying eyes. The edge of the wood was not any safer than in its heart. But Tobias had insisted just in case someone came snooping that they make camp deep along the old trails that the bandits knew all too well.

"You saw it," Tobias said defiantly, "same as us. Foul things they are. Tales tell them to be half lion, half bird."

"Old wives' tales," Lemon scoffed. "Simple as mud." 

"Old wives know a thing or two when everyone else forgets." Tobias said quietly. Lemon studied Tobias for a few seconds as the boss fell into silence. Tobias never talked about the old crow. But he knew enough to know she was a religious woman, and not in the way most priests would approve. She kept the old ways. She knew things. Dark words and old runes. Tobias had gotten drunk once and talked about her. He had seen her work some strange magic. She had...talked to things. A particular being that Tobias called the Dark Man. But whatever he had done or said to his mum, Tobias would never talk about no matter how much liquor he had in him.

"Soups ready." Lemon said with an approving smack of his lips.

Tobias settled down on the log and quietly ate his food. It was almost an hour later when Big Alf and Doyle slipped into camp. They had exchanged the proper signals so as to not get shot. Lemon threw a few logs onto the fire as the boys sat down and warmed their hands. 

"Well, lads? Anything to report?" Tobias asked as he tried to conceal his excitement.

Big Alf deferred to Doyle who told the tale. "Nothing much. We was watching them seein' as they might come to close to the wood, just like you told us. They made camp and..." Doyle dropped off as his eyes flicked between Lemon and Tobias.

"Alfie will vouchsafe for me, we never touched a drop of the good stuff all day." Doyle said. Big Alf nodded.

"What did you see?" Tobias asked.

"They went down after dark, set up in a cop'o'trees with long guns. Little feller watched from the hill so as to see what came down to the river. They caught one of them Hooked Beaks and...it was very unnatural." Doyle licked his lips. Even Lemon was listening now. "One of 'em winged the beast. Then that short feller, some kind of weaver, and caught that thing with tentacles straight out of hell. Big Alf saw it too."

Big Alf nodded and the group fell into thoughtful silence. "Well." Tobias said after a few seconds. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained as the good books says. Then what happened?"

"There was a big commotion at the camp. Big Alf snuck in close to see what'd happened. Those dandies chased into the wood like a pack of coyotes. Most all the men set off on horse and going after one of their own. Is what Big Alf overheard, least ways."

"The pretty one gone and got pinched," Big Alf chimed in sheepishly.

Tobias rubbed his stubble. "I knew it in my bones, lads. Them is magic and you don't go about touching it." Tobias smiled as if he had suddenly thought of something. "What became of the beasty?"

"Let it go." Doyle said dryly. "They all got pretty lost I reckon. Tracks were easy enough to follow. But they is deep in the wood now."

Tobias rubbed his hands. "Well, we should make the most of this, my lads. As the good book says the 'heavens help those who lend a hand to those in need.' There is good coin, here lads and a chance to make good as gentlemen."

"We gonna raid the camp while the lords are away?" Lemon suggested hopefully.

Tobias looked a bit pained. "No such vulgar talk, Lemon. We is gonna take the secret ways right this moment and see if we cannot...help them lords out a little," he added with a grin.

The boys all exchanged a glance. Tobias stood. "Mount up. We ride right away. Where abouts did you say they were?"

"A sound pace from the river." Big Alf said as he grabbed some scraps of food and checked his gun.

"Then we have a good headstart. We'll take the upper ford. That's near the old tower, Lemon?" Tobias asked.

"Spooky old place. Bones thick as mud." Lemon said crossing himself and whispering a prayer.

The gang broke camp and mounted their horses in a few minutes. Climbing up a small hill, they pushed through a thick hedge of branches and vines onto a thin road, hidden between large boulders and ancient willows. Spurring their horses on, they road hard through the winding paths of the old world like fish up a stream. Soon they emerged behind a wall of stone. Dismounting they climbed up the broken stairs and onto the ramparts. Tobias peered down on the moonlit rocks of the ancient keep and saw as a processional of horses road up the main road towards the ruin.

Tobias gave a low chuckle. "I knew it! Grifs love old ruins. Well lads. Time to make us all rich."

Bonaventura! E2 "Thieves"

Tobias Flint was not a particularly educated man. He had never gotten "book learning" but knew his "good book." He did like to have a broad interpretation of those "Thou shalt not" bits. He was an otherwise good man despite these shortcomings. His men thought he was a virtuous person by comparison. Certainly not a saint, but he believed in loyalty, giving a man a fair shake and he was a man of peace. That was, until someone drew down on one of his boys, kinfolk or "was asking for it." The small gang asked about this point in particular since the caravan they had been following all day looked well-armed. Tobias told them, through a gob of chew that no, they would not shoot them in the back or slice any throats. 

"But doesn't the good book say we can defend ourselves?" Big Alf asked as he sharpened his knife against a stone.

Tobias snorted. "Of course, a man has a right to defend hisself. But shooting a man in the back ain't right."

"Not very sportsmanlike neither," Doyle added with a yawn.

"Dem straight," Tobias said firmly.

"So," Big Alf said with some consternation as he tried to connect the threads of his thoughts, "we can shoot'em if they shoot first?"

"Not unless we have to. This is going to be a quiet job." Tobias said with a save of his hands, as if he was about to perform a trick. "We is going to wait for them to stop for the night, sneak in and take what we need without anyone being the wiser."

Tobias produced a stick and began sketching in the dirt. "Big Alf is going to keep watch and give out a call if anyone goes snooping. Doyle will pinch a few of the horses while me and Lemon dig through the stock. Any questions?" As Big Alf raised a hand, Lemon cut him off with a sharp look. "Clear as mud, boss." He spit his mangled toothpick to the ground and stood.

Tobias pressed the field glasses to his eyes as he chewed on some salted ham. "They are sure in a tizzy, Lemon." 

His partner nodded, a sneer playing across his unshaven face. "They going to be chasing poor Doylie all the way into the wood. Smart as mud, boss."

Tobias nodded, allowing himself to enjoy the compliment. The plan had worked perfectly, though Doyle had almost blown the whole job by getting spotted by a gnomish man and a human. Fortunately, Doyle was just a slip of a shadow and had hidden from the keen eyes. It was a rum business not getting the fresh horses. But they had helped themselves to the stores and Lemon had found a brace of new pistols. Tobias stroked the hand of the beautiful weapon now tucked into his belt. It was an afterthought to have Big Alf trace a path away into the Wood and then double back along a used path so he couldn't be spotted. "It's going to keep them busy for sure."

They both watched the posse of horses rush off along the fake trail toward the wood. He frowned and shifted the lenses of his glasses. "Looks like a twofer are making their way off by their sweet selves."

"Should we kidnap them?" Lemon said with a gleeful smile. "Good coin in that, boss."

Tobias sniffed. "You know what the good book says about the pro-liferation of bodies."

Lemon frowned. "We pro-lifered plenty of bodies. Some even liked it."

Tobias scanned the horizon. "Your big bag of beans! No slaves."

Lemon rubbed his stubble. "But we picked up that kid last year. And those twin sisters the year before."

"They was not that fare. These are fare folk. Sure, they worth coin, but they tend to remember and hold grudges." Tobias said with sagely tone. "We are avoiding any additional law right now."

Lemon shrugged. "What are they doing?"

Tobias sniffed. "Not sure, mutton. They be talking for sure."

Lemon reached for the glasses. "I can't read them lips. Let me see." 

There was a few moments of silence as Tobias munched on a stock of grass. "Well?"

"He says he likes her forehead. She said she liked trees. He's saying something about being broke and tarry about her expedition. Something about tainted mermaids. She says she's a moved on past it." He squinted. "He seems surprised that she has not produced a party. Can't see her face...he says something about a wrong time and she's saying she's gonna live a long time."

"Looks like the boys gave up," Tobias said with a mocking click of his tongue. Horses pounded through the fields as the posse returned.

"They look like they racing down the hill now." Tobias said handing the glasses back to Tobias. "She's mighty fine. Fine as mud, boss."

"Probably a hundred years old. They live a long time, I hear." Tobias said authoritatively. "Lets get back to the boys, Lemon. I hear Big Alfi is making us a feast tonight."

"Feast as fine as mud, boss." Lemon concurred.

Bonaventura! E1 "On the Road Again"

Train Station Platform, Ravenmere

The train gave a high whistle and belched a cloud of grey smoke from its smokestack, the sharp grinding of steel bringing the engine to a graceful stop. A few seconds elapsed as jets of steam burst and then wafted down the intent of the train, filling the platform and momentarily blinding the travelers waiting there. Then all at once the cabin doors opened and the travelers' traded places. 

I can appreciate the rhythmic life of a train. Everything is at the mercy of the conductor's gold pocket watch as he consults the little hands as the wind around the face, marking the delays, the stops and the end of the line. It is a journey, progression of stops all dictated by a predisposed path which never alters until you reach your particular destination and step off. Some philosophers and poets have wrongly likened the whole of life to one long track in which everyone gets off at their fateful destination. One quickly realizes just how easily it all falls apart. It's a romantic notion. Life is Time. And it will all run into the ground at some point, and everyone will have either stepped off long ago or run right over the edge with it. There is also a magnificent explosion. 

As I was saying, I do so appreciate the punctuality of the railroad. Time is a slave to none and a master of all. My business is all about time and I am no sluggard for it to pass any quicker or run any slower. Time always runs out in the end. And that is one of the few wonderful things we can be sure of in life. The train will always come.

Our expedition of fellows deboarded the train, spilling out with the rest of the travelers. Their bags and gear followed in abundance. The Ravenmere station, and town for that matter, was located some 50 miles from the boarder of the Greenwood and was one of the last stops between Knifewatch on the Northeast boarder and Redsmith in the Northwest. This made Ravenmere one of the key stations along the route for anyone traveling across the High Moors. Everything passed through here, making it one of the fastest growing cities. Located in a wide valley of green hills and fertile ground, the whole town had grown organically, spreading out in a fashion that built itself around the railroad and out. Despite being a center of commerce and trade, it still had a very rural feel to it. The primary residents were country folk, farmers and ranchers. There were traders, merchants and growing industries. But somehow it maintained a languid and casual air of a hamlet. The roads were broad, recently cobbled, the buildings only a few stories tall and spread out with corpse of trees dotting the lanes and neighborhoods.

Arthur had set off immediately to hire carts to carry them into the open country. The ladies mingled, making small talk and observing the proceedings. Mayflower and Thomas were overseeing the organization of the servants and gear into the cart. Dr Psmith lingered in the background watching and keeping his lips closed. Telmage commenting on the dryness of his throat from too much travel and went in search of liquid rejuvenation. The ladies browsed among the shops and stands selling common wares and traveling goods. Thomas purchased a pamphlet titled "Survival: The Wilds of High Moor" written by an adventurer and physician who had spent the better part of his life exploring, treating animals and humanoids, and compiling his knowledge and experiences into a series of books. The publishers were doubtful such a dry, encyclopedic work would sell to the general populace. They encouraged him to compose a short work to test the markets. They publishers were, of course correct in their professional assumptions, much to the disappointment of its author.

Lindion, for her efforts, was rewarded with finding a sturdy hand-stitched ruck sack to sling over her shoulders during their various adventures.

Mayflower, having organized the servants and goods, was getting the rest of the equipment loaded when Father Collins moseyed over to talk with him and Thomas. He stifled a yawn and greeted the two men. Thomas was of course very reluctant to see Father Collins again so soon. The common greetings were terse for his part, but Father Collins was used to both welcoming gestures and lurid ones. They might have talked further, if Mayflower had not launched into a lecture on the benefits of the "buddy system" and then continued on the woes of "Toorakish prisons." *

The carts and horses wound their way along the rutted roads, passing miles of farmland, small villages and estates. As the passengers squinted into the low orange sun, the camp was struck. Tents were quickly erected with the help of a clockwork gearbox set into the central pole of each tent. A common area was covered with a canvas tarp and a fire was started. Each individual had a tent, certain families shared, and the servants had their own tent. Supplies were stored under simple tent to cover it from the weather. 

As everyone joined for the evening meal, stories of past hunts, adventures and monsters naturally came up. Lindion was asked if this was her first safari, and she told them that she had been on several with her fiancé, but that was long ago. Mayflower was surprisingly empathetic, before regaling the group with a tale of the Wobberjacky; a mythical creature who lures its prey into danger with the use of mimicry. 

Eventually everyone settled into sleep for the night. Everyone that is, except Father Collins. He was a creature of the night and was enjoying the first book when he heard a unusual sound. He peaked out of his tent and listened. He heard the horses moving nervously and saw the shape of a man in the dark. Father Collins attempted to move quietly, but Thomas heard him and also went to investigate, shielding his lantern with a rag. Father Collins saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than some spooked horses. He turned and noticed Thomas hastily backpedaling into the cover of some bundles. Whispering the words of an incantation, Father Collins cast Lumen, an orb of bright energy illuminating everything in the near vicinity. Thomas had recovered as Father Collins approached him. Thomas was of course suspicious of why this priest was nosing around outside, but he agreed to take a look near the horses. He noticed one of the leads was untied, but there was no way to know if someone had done it or it had come undone on its own. Thomas and Father Collins decide to camp out and watch through the night in case their prowler returned. Taking provisions, they huddled down in a clump of grass.

When Thomas awoke, the sun was just cresting the far ridge. Father Collins was alert and chipper as ever. The walked back to the camp in search of coffee. They settle in the mess, as food and drink are being prepared. As they waited, one of the servants rushed out of the supply tent exclaiming that something had been stolen.

*This is a common expression among those who have traveled abroad in the Emerites and the Southern Alliance in the far South. Toorakish Prisons are notorious as they are comedic. Toorak is a nomadic people who tower over the rest of their kin. Rumored to have giant's blood, they are fearsome, not very intelligent and have a skill in organization and administration. The prisons themselves are almost a joke considering some of the greatest prison escapes have been made from their jails. 

S1: E28 "Revelations"

The Late Parsons

I will admit a certain amusement at this turn of events. Thomas was always so reliably boring. How surprising then to witness the lad grow a bit of a backbone. It was not inspiring in his bravery. It resembled something akin to those kickable mutts who bark at other dogs when they know there is a fence separating them and the larger, more predatory creatures.

Thomas had secured a larger animal in the form of Mayflower, a bold and daring fellow with the basic shame and judgement of a Pitbull. Mayflower knew what he was about, it appeared, and pushed until he got it. The only difference between Mayflower and Thomas is that Mayflower had money. Wealth really did buy you a lot of things. But good sense was not one of them. But that hadn't stopped Mayflower. Ambition was the name of the game, and the two men now approaching the Parson's residence were ready for anything Fate threw at them. Thomas had tried to prepare an inquisitive Mayflower as to the nature of this visit. He told the fellow about the Spring-heeled Jacks and their mission in getting the inventions Jacqueline Parsons had made for her gang. As they neared the gate, they noted the presence of two constables who were stationed at the entrance. The quizzed the constables, who having exchanged several puzzled glances, merely waved them in. They informed the gentlemen, who gave the constables their names, that they had 10 minutes, before walking down the street. 

Reaching the front door, they knocked. None other than Morty and Boyd, two lackeys of Thomas' former employer, Roald. Thomas and Mayflower both were on alert, aware that they would need to tread carefully with these two breathing down their necks. The two goons led the pair up to the study and waited outside while Thomas and Mayflower entered. The study was paneled in dark wood, a large desk, sizable paintings and a wall of books filled the room. The fire snapped out against the darkness, but only managed to cast longer shadows. A solitary figure, a dwarven male who was presumably Mr. Parsons, sat facing the fire in his high back armchair. Every line in his face was deepened, the color gone from his cheeks and his voluminous beard and thick eyebrows, streaked with grey, hung about him like a brooding cloud. It was not the sight of an industrious man. I cannot say Mayflower was moved much, but Thomas was sympathetic to this man's loss. 

Thomas attempted to approach Mr. Parsons by pretending to men of business, hoping to help arrange for the managing of the Late Mrs. Parsons assets. It appeared immediately that Mr. Parsons had no idea of his wife's extracurricular activities, nor of her intimate relationship with her murderer, the ork driver they had formerly employed. Thomas successfully related a lie. Thomas likely thought he was sparing the old dwarf some pain, or perhaps thought better of revealing the true nature of his dearly departed wife. The parts about Jackie saving Thomas were true enough. He just missed a few key details. Thomas changes tact at this point, revealing to Mr. Parsons that his life was likely in danger from the two men now standing guard outside his rooms. Mr. Parsons was also ignorant of this detail, and growing more annoyed by the minute, stormed from his study to come face to face with Morty and Boyd. This was when Thomas grew bold, and Mayflower wilted. It's understandable. Mayflower was quite confused as to what was going on. Declaring that he would wait outside, Mayflower left Thomas and Mr. Parsons staring down the mean dogs in front of them. Morty was growing irritated, trying to rouse the others into some kind of fight. Mr. Parsons was growing equally indignant at the insinuations of Morty about his wife. I was rather hoping someone would snap and start shooting, but Morty and Boyd were under strict instructions not to create another scene. And so finding themselves at an impasse, they left out the back, Morty whispering to Thomas that "I won't forget." 

Thomas, glad he would not have to skewer anyone else this evening, quickly left, and having found Mayflower, made him promise to have his men return to claim the prize in the back workshop. They then departed, Mayflower at once insisting they return to his home for a meal and a much-needed lesson in etiquette for Thomas.

Sometime later that day, Mayflower received word from his fellow vigilantes that the workshop in the back had been cleaned out and anything of obvious value had been removed. There was a small safe cleverly hidden behind a false panel that had been opened by a professional and now lay bare.

Confrontations
Now we go to the business of Philip. I imagine any reasonable employer would have scolded their servant, and maybe for good measure just sacked him too. But Lindion did not toss Philip to the street for breaking trust. Philip was at first completely offended that she would think him such a scamp as to reveal personal details about his mistress to the Duke. But then it dawned on poor Philip, like the light of a nightwatchmen on an unfortunate burglar, of the error of his ways. For Philip had recently made the acquaintance of head mistress in the employ of the Duke. They both shared a similar position, and it helped that she retained some of her good looks and charm. What is more, Harriet Dodds was an encouraging listener. This information had somehow made it into the ears of the Duke. Lindion, having learned there was no obvious nefarious intent, informed Philip that he would endure punishment instead of being sacked. He would for the foreseeable future partake of her new elixirs, potions and concoctions. Dear reader, you had not the pleasure of hearing her voice, seeing that look in her eye or the fear I so relished in Philips eyes. But rest assured, her threat worked. In fact, it worked too well. But I won't spoil what happens next. For it shall prove equally enlightening. Lindion for her part, reminded Philip that he was low class and Lindion was highborn, and that there was a difference.

He accepted his fate with the grace pummeled into butlers and excused himself. He returned a few moments later to announce a Miss Dendrarr was requesting an audience with her. She was ushered into the parlor and Philip was instructed to keep everyone out of earshot. An indelicate parting shot at Philip I have no doubt.

Yuko wasted little time in relating the dire warning spoken by the assassin. Yuko had sent a letter to the Lorieths and speak to Lindion's aunt as soon as possible. Lindion thought it best to send advance warning and simply risk a visit. Philip departed early by carriage and let the Lorieth household know they would be coming shortly.

The ride over was not terribly eventful. Both were occupied with their own thoughts. When they arrived, they were escorted through the halls of the Lorieth estate. The black and white tiled floors shimmered in the low light. They walked past an abundance of marble pillars, alcoves which sheltered statues, relics and items of the old world. The house was very quiet, so that the only sound was their own shoes clicking on the floor and their hearts pounding in their chests. The passed through double doors and were seated in a comfortable room, elegant in its decor in the simplest of terms. A few paintings hung on the walls, a fire had been lit and a few seats were set before the fire so as to make a comfy place to speak with guests. Soon tea and a lemon watere were brought for Lindion and Yuko, followed soon by the glowing hostess, Genevieve Lorieth. Yuko wasted no time telling her hostess of the threat spoken by the assassin. I shall not bore you with the specifics of the diplomatic talk of two people both feeling out the other for a confirmation. There were the obvious denials and the deflection from commenting on the situation. They spoke of the desire for the war to end, but Yuko soon learned that the perception of the North was thoroughly clouded in a misunderstanding of history. Both looked to the other as the instigator, their perceptions of history Yuko had taken for granted completely non-existent in the eyes of the Lorieths. They didn't even know about the Ivory Queen and the good she had done, nor of the connection between their beloved monarch and the Voice of the Alluminat church. The terms of peace for the West were a complete surrender of the forces in the North. Yuko knew the implied meaning of such terms and deferred until a later time. 

Lindion and Yuko left, the ambassador confused and unsure of her move forward. As they drove through the lanes back to the Belebrante estate, their conversation turned to the Safari that was on the horizon. Yuko desired to invite Remallia Ulbrinter. Lindion commented that this was not likely, as the Ulbrinters would not so easily part with a second child or place them in danger. Yuko, being curious, inquired further. Lindion told her that she was once engaged to be married to their eldest son who was lost at sea before they were to be married. Lindion changed the subject, Yuko turning to her other guests. She also had invited Telmage, much to Lindion's chagrin. Lindion carefully suggested asking Father Collins along as his knowledge would be most useful source of knowledge if she wished to understand the conflations in their two histories. Lindion had ulterior motives, of course. She managed to get Dr Psmith to accompany her as her personal physician. She wanted Father Collins to get a sense for this man who was far too excited about plumbing the depths of her mind and memory. 

Once they arrived at the Belebrante estate, Lindion requested to speak with Arthur. The head of the house was sitting behind his desk, consumed by his work and preparations for the expedition. Lindion told Arthur about her encounter with the Duke in a vague and direct way, leaving out specifics where it was possible. She then asked Arthur again why he invited her. Arthur was dismissive and even evasive in bringing his opinion to bear on the topic. I watched with some amusement as the frustrating nature of Arthur brought out the personality of Daverreinna. The annoyance was replaced with a coquettish grin. Arthur noticed. It was delightful, as this outbreak of Daverreinna was likely to further complicate the implied attraction of Lindion to Arthur. But Arthur was no fool, and politely ignored her. Recovering, Lindion mumbled "Not again" and left flustered and desiring for a private place to scream into a pillow.

Bonaventura!

Each Adventurer has received a special invitation to join a safari into the wilds bordering on the Greenwood in hunt of wild game, hosted by the Belebrantes and by extension, Yuko Dendrarr. The invitation is geared to each specific character, as seen below:

• Lindion Mavienness - Personally invited by Yuko Dendrarr to accompany her.
• Benedict Mayflower - Having used the ruse of a hastily assembled hunting expedition company. He is to organize and guide the hunt.
• Thomas Thompson - Accompanying the expedition as some of the help, maintaining the weapons, gear and carts transporting the group.
• Father Collins - Personal guest of Yuko Dendrarr, asked along to inquire about the religious history of the Aluminat church and its beliefs.
• Dr Psmith - Invited by Lindion Mavienness as her personal physician and to lend his knowledge to the group.
• Additional guests: Anastasia Dendrarr, Telmage Etherington

Additional servants accompanying the safari are servants of the Belebrantes, Lindion's gardener, Joe, and some additional hunters to aid in the hunt. A pair of hounds are coming along as well.

Adventuring Gear

Each Adventurer will receive an allotment of personal gear, along with access to other items as part of the caravan. But they must request access to these items or have one of the servants along to carry it.

Personal Items: Sturdy traveling suit/dress, wide brimmed hat, heavy boots, umbrella/cane. You can carry a knife if you wish. (If you have a something (like an asset) that grants you better clothing or gear, you may substitute the item for something of better quality.) A tent, cot, small writing desk, lantern and 1 personal touch that you could have requested beforehand.

Group Gear: There are items available for use that you might find useful but will require a requisition from the Group Supply. Sometimes these items will be given out if the group is heading out, but is regulated so as to not lose or let things get damaged. Dishes, soap and blankets are readily available.

Gear 

• Backpack
• Bucket
• Lantern
• Camping Kit
• Small Animal trap
• Spy glass
• Clockwork Compass
• Wooden matches
• Rope 30 ft
• Medical kit
• Cart and horse (Max 3 available)
• Riding horse (Max 5 available)
• Change of clothing (Max 1 pair available each)
• Tool kit

Weapons

• Baker Rifle   Skill (Firearmes)    Damage (10 dice, ROF 1, Shots 1, Reload 6, Range 250 yrd)
• Centaur .36 pistol    Skill (Firearms)   Damage (10, ROF 1, Shots 6, Reload 5, Range 30 yrd)
• Elephant gun 6-bore    Skill (Firearms)    Damage (10, ROF 1, Shots 1, Reload 5, Range 150 yrd)
• Axe (hatchet)    Skill (Improvised, Specialist (axe), Fisticuffs)    Damage (6)
• Knife (small/large)    Skill (Swordplay)    Damage (4 or 6)

You may request additional items but may only requisition up to a max of 2. 

Lore

The rolling plains are a sea of prairie grass, small farming communities, quaint towns, a few lakes and the Serberis River. Knots of trees, craggy rocks and low hills protrude gracefully, giving the prairie a bit of character a naturalist or painter would appreciate. 

Sitting on the horizon like a perpetual brooding storm cloud is the mysterious Greenwood. It is considered one of the last true strongholds of Elves. Not unlike the Eldren, these are pureblooded, proud and cloistered away from the rest of the High Moor. In the East, Hellgate Keep is a bastion against the creeping decay of the Tortured Lands. Two mountains peak out from the canopy of old green trees, giving a point of reference. The one in the North is named the Lonesome Peak. The cluster of mountains in the South is known as the White Peaks. Very few people venture into the wood, and those brave or foolish enough, return with stories of strange creatures, monsters and tales of daring deeds. Others just don't return. A few have even come out having no memory of anything after they tread across the border of the Greenwood. Some tell of Fairie creatures spied from the windows of the train which passes through the wood. Others glimpse strange lights and tell of spine-chilling growls and mournful howls. Not much is known of the region, and that is just how its residents would like it to stay.