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.
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