Author Topic: An Inquiring Mind  (Read 2923 times)

William Roberts

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An Inquiring Mind
« on: October 27, 2016, 01:15:18 AM »
Portrait

William Roberts wrote for more than a dozen years for the Newsbill, the local broadsheet of Blackchapel and famous for its coverage of Bloody Jack. He worked his way up from hawking papers on the corner to the most recognized byline in Blackchapel. His favorite journalistic beat was, in fact, sensational crimes because he had both a flare for dramatic prose and a keen understanding of the investigatory and legal processes.

Because of his physical appearance and his ease with the Vistani, William is rumored to have some Vistani blood coursing in his veins. He denies any relationship, however, as the most likely source of such ancestry would implicate his mother as an adulteress. Despite being an upper middle-class woman of some education and accomplishment, the neglected Elizabeth (Morris) Roberts was rumored to have fallen in love with and had a rambunctious affair with a Half-Vistani captain of the Mists.

William's legal father, Terrence, was a mild-mannered professor at the University of Paridon in Shadewell who was disappointed that William (his only son) never showed a similar intellect or at least dedication to his studies. In support of the rumor of his siring, William resembled Terrence no more in lifestyle than in looks. Whereas Terrence achieved some note for his often obscure mathematical articles on engineering subjects, William preferred to write sensationally for the popular press. Consequently, the two seldom talked, and—after Elizabeth's death from "influenza" five years ago—William lost touch with Terrence entirely.

The only similarity William seems to have had with his legal father is a mutual affinity toward women of the upper class.  But of course such a predilection would be in keeping with the reputation of his rumored biological father as well. Moreover, unlike the less than torrid relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, none of William's numerous romantic partners ever accused him of having only a mathematician's imagination.
 
Upon turning 30, developing wanderlust, and realizing that the entrenched editor of the Newsbill would not be vacating his position anytime soon, William decided he would look for work and adventure elsewhere in the Core. Some say a besotted 17-year-old daughter and her unhappy and powerful father (who also happened to be a major financier of the paper) influenced William in his decision.

Whatever the cause, he boarded a ship bound for Port-a-Lucine with a fair amount of money saved but was waylaid by Blaustein pirates, who robbed everyone aboard. He consequently arrived in Dementlieu with far fewer solars than he had anticipated.

He diverted himself to Vallaki to cover a story, he says, but what story that could be is anyone's guess.


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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Re: An Inquiring Mind
« Reply #1 on: October 31, 2016, 11:54:39 AM »
[The following entries are recorded in a moleskin-covered notebook among many other jottings and sketches, including diagrams of depraved crime scenes.]

To a man long in the business of interrogating others, having that role reversed has made me pensive. I do not much care for self-reflection, but her question warrants an answer: why have I developed so fervent an attachment so swiftly?

Certainly all the dalliances recalled by faces (and sensual forms) that flow so easily before my mind’s eye now were oftentimes more rapid in their ultimate, physical consummation. When the doctor instinctively cleansed where my hand had touched her, I feared she could sense all those many women who had felt that selfsame intimacy before, so that the thought of my dissolution with them made me loathsome to her.

Is it our shared experience in Radu Keep and the diabolical branding that has bound us so soon? We smelled the odor of each other’s burning flesh, heard each other’s most animalistic screams, and helplessly watched as the mortal light flickered from each other’s eyes. Then, sodden with her own fetid disgorgement and our blended blood, she conveyed my lifeless shell through the dread of a Barovian night to succor—or I should not now be penning these words.

My feeling for her, however, is more than gratitude. Nor can it be some witchcraft that the mad priest invoked with these identical marks he emblazoned across my heart and her womb. For, after all, what first drove me against all my better judgment to follow her into the darkness?

Our corporeal tie was midwifed into life by all that she most despises: religion and filth.

Yet a more wholesome power had first planted a purer seed, and, with struggle, Saskia, my darling, we shall right its present corruption back to good.

« Last Edit: October 31, 2016, 01:18:54 PM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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Re: An Inquiring Mind
« Reply #2 on: November 26, 2016, 02:37:56 AM »
[These entries are recorded in a moleskin-covered notebook among many other jottings and sketches, including diagrams of depraved crime scenes.]

I have neglected my craft since coming to this archaic backwater, letting my pen grow blunt whilst my interest in adventure has sharpened. Where so many are illiterate, I must continually remind myself why I chose to leave Blackchapel. I am no longer a callow youth, and it is time to put away childish things and focus on what I want to accomplish in this life. The Blaustein pirates seem to have waylaid—in addition to my geographical location and funds—my resolve.

To be sure, I have progressed much in a short time, discovering that the power of the uttered word can accomplish more even than that of the written. Yet, as Terrence so often told me, never mistake activity for achievement. Fighting a demonic horde whilst stripped to my underclothes may prove that I do possess the physical courage I was never certain of before now, but it is not an activity that I intend to make habitual.

The irony, of course, is that the one great measure of self-discipline I have had—not to allow any woman to set her claim on me—lies at the root of my indecision.

Despite my growing desire for only Saskia, my old flirtations persist: how else to explain providing that “damsel in distress” 1,200 hard-earned fang yesterday on a whim? And why did I, whilst paying off the hulking brute oppressing her, put myself in unnecessary danger by blowing pipe smoke directly in the dullard's face? This need acquired over a lifetime of impressing every woman I meet is hard to break in one month of trying to learn what it means to be singularly devoted.

Perhaps I was still full of elevated bravery from laying that demon low and receiving an enormous payment for the deed. Such over-confidence will get one killed, as it was only the arcane magic surrounding and empowering me that made my ax able to strike the hellish creature down. Well do I recall that, scarcely a few days before, two all-too-human thugs set on me without provocation and left me a bloody heap. As they did not even bother to ransack my purse, I remain baffled what was the cause of my beating. Likely as not, I cleft the heart of some younger sister of one of my two muggers.

My pack grows heavy with the weight of dried herbs because Saskia says she is impressed by honesty and work more than pretty words. Besides the brands burned into us and our shared nightmare of suffering and death, my fire toward her may be kindled by her rejection of what has proved for me the key to many a maiden's bed chamber. Courting her requires I exhibit those qualities I have less confidence in...above all, patience.

Little else in this land at the present entices me to stay. Those familiar with the place have discouraged pinning my hopes on Port-a-Lucine, saying the folk who inhabit it are all vile, backstabbing scum, wearing masks of gentility and class that hide upright, ravening wolves (much like the doppelgängers back in Zherisia). These informers say those in positions of power in Dementlieu are more depraved and disgusting in secret than the worst Vallaki peasant.

If true, more the better for a man who wishes to investigate and bring such corruption to light.

« Last Edit: November 27, 2016, 09:31:18 PM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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Re: An Inquiring Mind
« Reply #3 on: November 30, 2016, 02:47:23 PM »

News captured my attention of a fantastic trial to occur in Port-a-Lucine, and—although I could scarcely spare the costs of carriage there and back—I felt I must attend. Nothing brings my creative juices to boil like courtroom drama, particularly when a heinous deed or deeds clamp a uniquely cruel criminal in the stocks.

The “crime,” however, left much to be desired. Apparently a common mink ran amok and killed some Dementlieuse ponce incapable of defending himself against an animal scarcely one fiftieth his size. (My opinion of the feebleness of those Mordentish folk has been confirmed; it’s a mystery that the Falkovnians have not long ago prevailed against such an infirm race.) The defendant—a woman whose looks were hardly helped by the forced wearing of an uncomfortable gag throughout most of the trial—used an incantation to obliterate the mink, and the cheese-eating citizenry viewed her vivisection as the foulest necromancy. Worse for her survival, when the gendarmes searched her, they found many incriminating items on her person, including a vial of Liquid Agony.

The trial itself brought little drama as it was a textbook exercise in how such courts favor expediency over justice. The woman most certainly would have bettered her chances by squaring off with the authorities in the street rather than allowing herself to be arrested and thereby consenting to such a farce. (Port-a-Lucine gendarmes mince about as though they would be no hardier than the murderous mink she was accused of dispatching, indeed, with a single word. Naturally, they did not stop this mighty beast in its noble-killing rampage.)

In any case, the wretched woman received the death sentence and in short moments had her head separated from her body by the snuff-sniffer-in-chief, who was dressed as though wanting to impress a coterie of post-pubescent girls at their coming-out cotillion. It was a gory spectacle that caused many of both sexes to swoon and wretch. I felt ill as well, but only on account of the cravenness of it all.

My trip was not a total loss despite the feeble crime and the lack of suspense in the trial. The defendant’s life bears further investigation because—although undone by a single trivial mistake—she must have had far more decrepit skeletons in her boneyard. The posters plastered throughout Port-a-Lucine allude to her long history of (and associations with) nefariousness, which I intend to dig into, when and should I return.

I also met a fellow Zherisian in the gallery who was a bit of an intrigue herself. She comported her compact person with reserved sadness (even more than is typical for our kind when in public), but the most curious fact revealed about her during the trial’s course is that she is local royalty. How did that come about?

I wondered as much aloud, and an insufferable windbag who galed my ear throughout the proceedings answered, “By merit or marriage.” Thank you, Doctor of the Indisputable.

Finally, I was loathe to make a night-time journey back to Barovia unaccompanied, so I spent the evening at the Mist Camp, where Mademoiselle Marchand and I plan to host our poetry reading. During the course of those hours, I made the acquaintance of a both forthright and discreet woman named Tabitha, who seems to have many insights into how Port-a-Lucine operates. She, also, would be a worthy alliance for any stranger trying to establish himself in the city.

When the sun had barely arisen, I hastened back to Vallaki faster than my muscles alone could transport my flesh. If any superstitious peasant had questioned how a mortal man travelled so rapidly, I would have answered that desire for my long-absent beloved drove me past human endurance. That explanation would have been at least partly true. 


« Last Edit: November 30, 2016, 03:16:04 PM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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Re: An Inquiring Mind
« Reply #4 on: December 12, 2016, 10:19:38 AM »
The first endeavor of the "Société de Belles-Lettres" succeeded in all its aims, and happily Saskia was in attendance of the triumph. Although she cared little, I think, for much of my efforts—the dress seemed to make her outright uncomfortable—nevertheless, my own best is brought out always by the desire to impress a woman. I played the devil-may-care hero to my mother my legal father never was, in hopes she who provided me with so much would be less unhappy with our dreary home life, and now…now, something in my Mauerblümchen inspires similar labors.

Saskia, however, suffers under a far different deprivation. Whereas Mother once enjoyed a social life at which she had been the center and always had many male admirers before Terrence Roberts caged her, Saskia fears to reveal her brightest plumage. I don’t know whether to try to draw her out against her will, or leave her be: to love her is to accept her as who she is, but the girl is so young to be so certain that only solitary work can atone for all the obsessive guilt she carries with her.

Regardless, some personal good has already come from her influence. I was asked why Mademoiselle Marchand and I did not hold the festival like its predecessors in Port-a-Lucine, which has magnificent facilities and is known for its support of the arts. Yes, Port is a cultural beacon, but part of my hope in this "Société" undertaking is to spread an appreciation for the fine arts throughout more of the Core. Coming from a modern city myself, I find it very puzzling that the advances I take for granted are so slow in their adoption elsewhere.

Many say fine art is an impractical luxury in hardscrabble lands like Barovia. But I say artistic expression separates us from the animals. We each live alone in our isolated minds, but art—if it is sincere and truthful—for a moment lets us peer with recognition into another’s personal world.

Like lightning jumping from cloud to cloud.

Trying to understand Saskia and formulate my feelings about her have helped these ideas mature.


Die Mauerblümchen



My Love may wilt to bear this poem. Her eyes—
That camouflage in iris fronds of green
All hoped for joy and succor my bootless cries
In agony summon from their jaded sheen—
Are staid, unmoved. Despairing poet dies,
Impaled on thorny glance of sadness keen.
My lips, a fertile lyre, she stills unstrung—
Raised finger stems the pollen of my tongue.

She rues that filthy soil corrupts her roots,    
Believing not in her own human soul.
She cloaks in purist white her tempting fruits,
To ward my wound that would but make us whole
And grant those gifts of grafting (nascent shoots),
Appended boon to wedded, golden bole.
Though I drew aside dark drape and cleared my sill—
This empty window she declines to fill.

My shear could by no means cut her petaled grace    
From out the barrenness in which she grows,
And bear her slighted body in full embrace,
Across my threshold like a potted rose.
For though her fragrance fills my heart-shaped vase,
An ancient gardener chides as one who knows:
“Such flowers blossom twixt the cracks of stones:
“Tis meet to leave die Mauerblümchen ‘lone.”

[The model for the poem's verse structure is "Sailing to Byzantium" (Yeats).]
« Last Edit: December 12, 2016, 12:02:45 PM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

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Sicklied o'er with the Pale Cast of Thought
« Reply #5 on: February 06, 2017, 12:29:41 AM »
More than a month has passed since the public triumph of the poetry reading and last I saw Saskia. She insisted that she was safe to return to Vallaki alone, but why did I listen to her? After Em’s murder, how could I indulge another woman I love in the same reckless separation?

To be certain, I do not know that harm has come to her, but the scars branding my chest and hidden on her abdomen remind that any travel in Barovia invites terror and suffering. There is no sign of the medical practice she began and no trace of her despite my many times going by the Broken Bell where she last lodged. After our intimate conversation I felt sure we had reached an understanding despite all her misgivings about male faithfulness and her own desirability. Yet perhaps those same obsessions of hers erupted once she was outside the range of my heart's persuasion, that same feeling that she is fundamentally…unclean and that all human relations are rife with contagious disease.

The headaches have returned. Now I find it difficult to decide whether they are truly a curse; they at least distract from the ache in my soul. One can suffer only a single cause of anguish at a time. I have neglected my errand in service of Em’s memory...delaying with indecision and inaction like some infatuated teenager! Oddly, it is not Melody’s or Em's face or voice I see and hear chastising me over my aimlessness. No, it is the doppelganger that Edgar Byron arranged for me to meet. Although in my dreams it is angry with me, it seems to enjoy also having justification to inflict me with pain.

The nocturnal visits from Melanikus turn my headaches to their most gruesome until I believe if I had a pistol handy I would blow my brains out, if only to stop the pounding.

Then all this news out of Port-a-Lucine—the tenor of stories that were I back at The Newsbill no one could have stopped me from investigating and reporting. I envy Alanik Ray’s being there so much that I feel about to burst.

I must try to resolve the situation with Saskia and discover the answer to her fate. Only then then shall I know what to do. Perhaps she gave up and returned to Lamordia, too ashamed to tell me of her decision. Or too afraid to face my hurt. At least I would know she is safe—safe from the horrors that be and the worse horrors yet to come.


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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The City of Love
« Reply #6 on: February 08, 2017, 08:38:12 PM »
I have been back to Port-a-Lucine seemingly against my own volition. The city was alive as always with plots and rumors. Other than news of Alanik Ray, most of the regional tripe held little interest. I rather despise royalty’s constant positioning of themselves—either rampant or supine—for a kind of power orgy, as if trysting with this rank or that will finally achieve a satisfactory consummation for all these colorless wardrobe wearers.

While there I saw two local “newspapers”: one, a rumor-mongering embarrassment, the other obviously the product of some social bounder who hopes by giving this little puddle of aristocrats a tongue bath to rise above the glistening pond muck in which he scuttles. I have twice spoken with the Dame Tabitha Cal’raheal of whom this “N Kelter” writes, briefly, and if she is half the woman I take her to be, she shall recognize his transparent sycophancy for what it is.

In Paridon I was well acquainted with such knee-walking specimens, and that approach to journalism makes me want to dole out a sound horsewhipping. The bootlicker would doubtlessly enjoy my attention.

Otherwise, I learned that my fellow countrywoman I met at the trial and execution of Mariska Lerch has now been imprisoned herself on some vague but incendiary charges—likely trumped up. One, she seemed far too mild and timid to have done all she is accused of, and two, I rather doubt the local fops could stand that a red-blooded Zherisian had, without even trying, beaten them at their own conniving game. Certainly had she the audacity to commit all of which she is accused, one would think her similarly equipped to hang onto her ill-gotten title and lucre, rather than be so triflingly deprived of both by a gaggle of napkin-doffing cheese eaters.

Were any genuine reporters trafficking their trade in that sordid decadence, such chicanery would be in the spotlight, instead of devoting column space to the vanity of the idle Ladies Mercedes of the world and how these blonde bubbles take their morning coffee. Little wonder that the city is milked dry by corrupt aristocrats when the lawyers are all parasitic pettifoggers and the press infested with ambitious scoundrels.

Why was I there, then? Is it because I am a hypocrite who finds Barovia hopelessly backward and crude? Was it in the wish that a change from familiar scenery might help me forget a region I can associate with only a single misplaced face? Or was it with the intent of buying a gun so I would have the capacity to end this twofold agony?

Perhaps all of those are true, but I also know I was there because I could not help myself. I must solve the mystery with which I have been tasked. I must find him.

No, I must find…it.

« Last Edit: February 08, 2017, 08:55:31 PM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

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The City of Justice
« Reply #7 on: February 12, 2017, 02:21:50 PM »
Having met and conversed briefly with my countrywoman Edith Bertrand, I had slightly more personal interest in her murder trial than the fascination capital crimes always provide me. This was the second example of Port-a-Lucine justice I had the pleasure to witness, and, if this is how the Dementlieuse practice it, I fear what must transpire in the worse backward Barovia.

Thankfully, I had a front-row seat, right in the middle of it all, so I was able to witness everything up close, as well as hear many remarks meant to be confidential among the various participants. In contrast to my attendance at the execution of Mariska Lerch, I had much more pleasant company than a pontificating windbag. To my right sat a man who seemed to have considerable knowledge of the case's background and shared some of it with me during the duller moments of the trial. A charming musician and her somewhat sickly brother occupied the two seats to my immediate left. Behind me I occasionally overheard the comments of a man who (by his clothing) holds a prominent position in the Red Vardo. I recall from the previous trial that he showed particular interest in the remains of Miss Lerch, and I believe his name is Elias.

The trial itself was a farce from start to finish. The fellow who knew so much background told me that Mrs. Bertrand's attorney had received the case perhaps only minutes before having to present it. During the proceedings, the prosecutor barked several orders to the beleaguered chap, whereupon I concluded that the former must be the military commander of the latter. “So that's how it is,” I thought: “They are conspiring together to send this poor Zherisian to the chopping block.”

The defendant was indeed a pitiful spectacle. I could not easily discern how far along her child is, but I believe much of the time she was preoccupied with it and the physical maladies such as fatigue and discomfort accompanying expectant motherhood, rather than her own life-and-death circumstance.

The prosecution's case was so weak that in any fair court it would have been dismissed without even having to call a witness for the defense. Consider:

1) The first witness, although able to prove he still had the hearing of a much younger man, had no support for his testimony at all. He made a claim to have overheard a conversation. Well, anyone in the courtroom could make such a claim with just as much evidence. There was nothing at all to corroborate it. Moreover, even if one believed the claim, it was irrelevant to the case as it pertained to some mysterious bodyguard of Mrs. Bertrand's who was not at all involved in the actual murder. (Why did the witness never mention this supposed conversation when it might have done some good?)

This superfluous testimony took a good hour of the court's time.

2) The second witness was a falling-down drunk who I am sure a word from his wife would have been sufficient to dissuade one from lending any credence to his (again) unsubstantiated yarns.

3) The last was a weird specimen of a noblewoman, the sister of the murder victim, who proceeded to perjure herself. She did make, however, for a fine sketch that drew considerable admiration from those fortuitous enough to be in a position to see my work.

4) The State had already tried and executed one woman for the murder. On this grounds alone the defense should have carried the day because the State could hardly argue the unfairness of its having deprived the defense of such a highly material witness. Vera Krillin (I believe that was the unfortunate bodyguard's name) might have exonerated Mrs. Bertrand, were she yet alive. In any case, the State cannot keep holding trials and executing people willy-nilly for the same crime, hoping eventually to get the right perpetrator.

Or perhaps the State can when its name means “demented.”

At long last the truth seemed to come out. The man to my right showed me some screed written under a nom de plume that accused the deceased of being a “Frightful Fiend,” who had committed the worst unspeakable crimes. The perjured witness had an outburst in which she confirmed the same. Although the judge ruled Charles Bertrand's behavior not pertinent, she eventually found in the defendant's favor. Generally, it seemed the onlookers approved of the outcome, but the remarks directly behind me exhibited some displeasure.

In the meantime, the comely musician expressed the possibility of providing me with a private concert back in my hotel room. Although the old Will would have been much tempted to experience her no doubt virtuoso playing, I could not put Saskia out of my mind. With such a preoccupation, I was certain not to have given the woman's beautiful artistry the attention and appreciation she deserved, and so I instead offered her my room for her own sleeping comfort. The hour was late, she told me she was facing a cold cot otherwise, and I was impatient to return to Vallaki.

As I had declined her offer, however, she likewise refused mine. 

« Last Edit: February 12, 2017, 02:36:34 PM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

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The Iron Gates of Life
« Reply #8 on: April 24, 2017, 08:58:14 PM »
Except for preserving the life of those I most love, everything has seemed to come easy to me until now. Life in Port-a-Lucine thus far has been little different, and I have the greatest confidence that soon, very soon, Saskia and I will leave our poor quarters and move to a quartier where I shall worry less at night whether she is going to make it home safe and unscathed—to a dwelling of security and civilization, fit to breech the threshold with a beloved bride and contemplate the raising of children.

I am not yet certain whether it is the distance from Paridon, the mystical wound I received on my chest in Vallaki, or simply the influence of this strangely tempered Fraulein Doctor, but I do know the resolve with which I left my motherland has weakened. Whereas before I could think of nothing but meeting with Lord Adrian Ramsey, Doppelganger expatriate from Zherisia, and conveying Edgar Byron's treatise to him, now I have so many projects on my mind. Despite my ever-present and damnably over-weening ambition, I so often feel that my former obsession has given way to a recurring question: What will please Saskia?

For in that I have found a new and more difficult challenge. Mastering the violin, child's play. Wooing a myriad of Zherisian hearts, elementary. Oh, and dancing...did Saskia guess when I fibbed to her to ease her discomfort on the ballroom floor that I was not so little practiced as she? She is so young, and yet her always skeptical mind does not miss much.

Still, if I denigrated my undisclosed talent, she had an enjoyable time as a result of my ploy. What one accomplishes is more important than how one accomplishes it. If I must play even a wounded, distressed ship to melt the floes of Saskia's ice-sheathed port, the prize for us both shall be worth it once I am gloriously anchored in her harbor.

Until then, there is work. Although our mutual concepts of this abstraction may differ—Saskia seems to believe in the virtue of steady, dutiful progress, whereas I crave sprezzatura—underneath we share a kindred yearning for personal achievement. Though we are different in so many ways, neither can abide idleness. From this mutual bent I take myself into the Port-a-Lucine sewers and the Mists, to Perfidius and elsewhere in search of knowledge and wealth.

I suspect that whatever her Lamordian predilections, Saskia, too, can cast off the garment of the sober practitioner of science to reveal an equal risk-taker hidden behind her impassive exterior. (Witness the outfit she wore to the ball.)

Our plumage may vary, but Saskia and I are both amorous birds of prey that would devour time. Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet together we shall make him run.

« Last Edit: April 25, 2017, 09:13:00 AM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

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A tall ship and a star to steer her by
« Reply #9 on: May 01, 2017, 09:37:10 AM »
Work continues to consume the greater portion of life. Saskia progresses nicely in both her employment with the government and her botanical knowledge, whereas I feel on the verge of another significant breakthrough in my own arts. I struggle to set aside time to find uses for these many strange essences I have acquired in my dangerous travels, but knowing the powerful manner in which Edgar Byron employed such gives me incentive.

Besides my journeys into the fabled Mists--including becoming quite lost after some devilish creature devoured the Vistani caravan driver--noteworthy also has been the auction of The Harridan that I attended. The fine vessel bore an ironic name, given events that transpired.

Also at the auction were the usual Port-a-Lucine fops, as well as Tabitha Cal'Raheal, who I suspect is with child. She did not exhibit the energy and force of personality I have observed in her on previous occasions, although she declined my offer of aid in ascending the ladder from beneath the ship's deck. I also noted that during the auction her husband mentioned something to the effect that his wife's condition would brook no patience for long, drawn out bidding.

The ship herself was of excellent construction (though not equal to Zherisian standards or capable of withstanding the assault of any top-of-the-line Zherisian vessels on the open sea). Considering those who sought to own her, however, she was more than sufficient for such purposes as...cotillions. Happily the worst of the lot, some newly minted noble of some sort who was quite the boor, failed in his attempt to acquire her.

The highlight of the proceedings was when a scarlet-derriered woman spat upon the snuff-sniffing lad's boots. Unfortunately for her, her apparently drunken outburst had her hauled down to the brig by the several Dementlieuse "men" it took to subdue her. What became of her afterward I have little idea, but most likely she was allowed to sleep it off, as regardless of this display the Republique seems to owe her some past favor (or at least she so claimed whilst under the influence of copious rum). The humiliation of the dandy warmed my commoner soul, despite the autumnal sea wind that cut like a whetted knife.

As for the outcome of the auction: the winning bid came from the same fellow who recently held the charity ball for orphans. Given the vast sum he was so quick to offer, I do hope he is not embezzling the funds set aside in good faith for such a worthy cause.

Perhaps his idea of helping the impoverished children of Port-a-Lucine is to take them for the occasional lark--or serve at his next cotillion--aboard The Harridan.

« Last Edit: May 01, 2017, 10:59:16 AM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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Burning Down the House
« Reply #10 on: May 09, 2017, 05:14:02 PM »
Son coeur est un luth suspendu...


On the whole it had been a dull, dark, and soundless day. All of Port-a-Lucine seemed to wait for the first evidence of spring. I occupied some time perusing the second issue of a new publication appearing in the City of Lights and chose to contact its editor about free-lance submissions. His name seemed familiar, but only after posting the missive and checking through an old notebook did I recall that he was the elderly arcanist whom I had travelled with on my adventure in the sewers versus the large-brained rats.

Thoroughly bored and Saskia being occupied with gendarme bureaucracy, I decided to distract myself with an evening at the Cathedral Theatre, although I had scant hopes for any Dementlieuse production. Invariably I find that the literary work here is all chauvinistic and aimed at instilling a militaristic support of the state. Perhaps it is because the men of this spoiled and effeminate city prefer to play at being soldiers rather muchly to dirtying their fine uniforms.

The production--"Discovery"-- instead seemed to focus on some sort of Bella Sans Merci tale of a colorless pretty-boy naif who falls victim to an enchanting temptress. In truth I found myself distracted by an exotic, dusky-skinned lass who relocated to my vicinity and began to chat me up throughout the play's unwinding. She could not understand the narrative's language, but I explained to her it was of little import as it merely summarized what was happening to the "hero" on stage.

Thankfully, the handsome male lead had precious few lines to deliver himself as he was as wooden as a teak bowl. Little did I know that his dilatory delivery would soon prove nearly fatal to us all.

The drama was short, which I think most pleased the churlish woman sitting in front of me, the Viscount's wife. I over-heard the gnashing of her rather equine teeth several times, perhaps because her always perfumed husband was supposed to accompany her and did not? This coupled with Saskia's absence put me in foul reception of the evening's performance.

After some obligatory applause we began to rise to our feet en masse when a noticeable cooling swept through the theatre confines. I turned to see a man clad entirely in white pass by me and approach the stage. The figure--according to my notes his name was something like Lemot--proceeded to hold forth about what a great and famous director he was and that we must all attend to his performance. With a snap of his fingers, a large metallic cage appeared on stage.

This and the temperature change made me uncertain as to whether he was a mad charlatan or perhaps some sorcerer of great power. I cocked my pistol in my waistcoat in case of either exigency.

Still, it was the Lady Tabitha's game, and since she seemed willing to engage the figure I held fire. Likewise, her husband claimed to know him, although Lemot dismissed Elias as "a bit player."

To summarize the next few moments, the eccentric ordered several people one after another to try to act in his rather stereotypical yet inane production. None performed to his liking. so that his anger grew apace. I could sense that he was about to turn on us and warned the ebony beauty beside me now was the time to flee. Unfortunately, the theatre's exit had been magically blocked. Whereas previously the man's presence had caused us all to feel quite cold, now flames began to erupt from the theatre's curtains and cascade down them.

In Paridon we have a bit of experience with terrific fires, and I knew the danger facing us was not to be trifled with, despite the generally bovine reaction of the Dementlieuse, who proceeded to herd from one place to the next with alarmingly little sense of alacrity. Some even began to offer the buffoonish suggestion that Lemot's play be re-enacted to appease hm.

At least one woman had the roll-up-your-sleeves good sense much more common in Zherisia than here. I believe it was Diane Passeleau, the auctioneer of the ship, who undertook to break out a window while many armed guards stood (or even sat) around waiting for both themselves and the objects of their protection to be consumed. Only one man was taking any practical action that I saw: Laurier, who at least appeared to be using his own incantations to try to rebuke those of Lemot.

To Diane's command that we all flee, I responded, along with a sensible married couple and Diane herself. In doing so I had to push past the teeth-gnasher, the smoke seeming to have stupified her, but I rather think her too cold and stony to burn. The owner of the theatre also emerged unscathed, along with her retinue of parasitic bodyguards.

Once outside, I was none the worse for wear except for a bloody gash from grazing the window's jagged glass whilst escaping. To our collective surprise, we saw no smoke or other evidence of the fire from outside the building. Perhaps Lemot was simply an extraordinary illusionist or hypnotist?

We were eventually  joined by Magda Marceaux, who came out coughing and wheezing and, if possible, in a worse mood than ever. Her husband appeared on the scene, and, observing their delightful domestic interactions, I can see why the man has two time-devouring jobs. If he were not such a self-regarding ponce--and had not the power of life and death over Saskia--I might actually feel pity for the whipped martinet.

On the bright side, I have at last adapted to the injury done my tongue last fall in Vallaki. I can once more speak with only the subtlest of impairments. Moreover, I have now received a positive response to my free-lance inquiry and will soon have another income stream. I shan't be buying Saskia a sailing vessel anytime soon, but it is progress.



Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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The Phantom of Delight
« Reply #11 on: June 11, 2017, 10:59:32 PM »

At sunrise I watched the tall ships billowing into Pernault Bay, the crews already straining on the lines and sails as the first rays of daylight pierced the night's hold over the mostly quiet sea. My coffee still felt warm against my hand in this temperate season, and the complex flavor was like the company of a long forgotten friend—each nuance awakening a memory of why I enjoyed it so. Across the way, the Promontoire du Sud rose out of the bay, to break a turquoise serenity, and through the morning mist I could just make out hidden in its wooded peaks an ancient stone tower with a sharply sloping slate roof. What happy family lives there? I wondered.

I imagined them slumbering for a moment in their peaceful domesticity before my eyes traversed the horizon south to north to gaze on the less rustic, gleaming towers of the University of Dementlieu. Mordentish scholars were there, including almost certainly Lord Adrian Ramsey, making ready for a day of research and teaching—much as my legal father likely was in Shadewell, across this vast expanse of water. I felt charity even for Terrence Roberts at that moment, knowing he was growing old without the companionship of my mother (although he had never appreciated her); after all these months, he might have come to miss me. Would he approve at long last of a choice I had made, were he to be informed of it? He should at least find Saskia's scientific view of the world agreeable, as well as her practicality. Yet he had no use for anything feminine, certain as he was that the female was in all ways the inferior sex.

"Marriage is a necessary evil as the most sound means of perpetuating the species," I could hear him pontificate. "Romantic love...only a fool puts stock in such humbug."

All around me the wide world was setting once again about its business.

I turned my position now so that I could look back into the brightening city, where light's march had not yet advanced into all the alleys and twisting, narrow streets. How had I not realized before how beautiful Port-a-Lucine truly was? Everything was still damp from the night's rain, and the slanted, streaking rays of the sun touched each puddle and clinging drop with magic flashes and sparks of silver and purple. Not yet extinguished lanterns and lamps added to the bejeweled tableau so that the City of Lights lived up to her nickname.

I know Port's reputation and have observed firsthand that beneath her colorful beauty and the ornament of her architecture is a fickle society not to be trusted. But in that moment with all her charms on full display, I was entranced, and my full heart nearly burst with the pleasure of living for today in her confines.

For as my eyes took in the immensity of Port-a-Lucine and her complex labyrinth of rues, boulevards, and alles filled with nobles, aristocrats, and citizens—her wealth and poverty, her high art and low corruption—more important than all of that, hidden somewhere in the city's penumbra a tired, lone soul was by the light of a single candle carefully finishing the duty of her report. As long as that individual occupancy be the case, this spot binds me under an unbreakable enchantment, for here also is where my treasure lies.

If I believed differently about the nature of the cosmos, I might have prayed or given thanks at such a moment when I felt both so grateful and blessed in a universe of isolation and doubt to possess such surety of purpose. Instead, I could but vow to make of myself someone more deserving of all I had received in this life, including the unmitigated delight of a morning filled with so much promise.

I am now and forevermore held fast by a word, and the word is yes.


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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A City Grossly Carnal in Its Pleasures
« Reply #12 on: July 04, 2017, 11:44:04 PM »
The euphoria of Sasky's acceptance clouded my vision and perhaps even my reason—for the moment—to the true nature of Port-a-Lucine. When I read now over my last journal entry, I see what a romantic fool I sound, caused, doubtless, by my recent absences from the city except on those occasions when I knew she and I could snatch a rendezvous. Naturally, therefore, I came to associate this location with the agreeable sensation of her company—much like a starving dog might learn to associate the pain of a cacophonous bell with the pleasure of his succulent dinner.

The change I perceive coming over her, however, has reawakened me to the insidious influence of this corrupt bag of cutthroats, bullies, swindlers, and social climbers. In Vallaki, Sasky had aspirations and walked with ambition and vigor, eager to demonstrate to her family that a Fraulein doctor could succeed and bring medicine and science to these ignorant, superstitious locals. She will not reveal to me the cause of her present discomfort, blaming it on fatigue only and saying that she cannot discuss her current case work out of police professionalism, but none of that explains her broken spirit.

Her lack of confidence while needing to prove herself, her continuous washing and scrubbing and fear of contamination, the antiseptic scents with which she drowns her body's natural odors, they are all casebook examples of a psychology consumed by guilt and belief in inevitable personal failure—that her outward appearance and mien are only a brittle subterfuge for the true and flawed creature within. It is no wonder that a cesspool environment such as Port-a-Lucine would cause this infection to fester. In keeping myself healthy and free of the local polluting effects by constant travel and adventure, I have neglected Sasky's own psychological well-being out of consideration for her sense of independence.

I suspect her so-called comrades sneer at her and do little to restore my Mauerblümchen's wilted self-esteem. I have not forgotten how at the poetry reading I had to coax her not to flee the bawdy company in the tent, as she was over-whelmed by so many strange people, including that ridiculous Caliban. However much she speaks otherwise to me, I am certain that the derision of her Lamordian skepticism by her fellows has injured her to the core.

What am I to do? I have learned my lesson with Em: I shall not forebear my protection from another independent woman until it is too late. Sasky enjoys self-worth only to the degree she is busy and productive. Hopefully, then, the herbs I have provided her will yield her some activity that she can call her own and feel success with, regardless of the brackish louts she must endure. Likewise, I must keep myself healthy so that she has a sound mind with which to anchor her own: it will do us little good should I become as morose and discouraged as she.

At least my personal fortune continues to grow. In Port-a-Lucine having money is never a bad thing, and thus far I have been able to accumulate it without selling any portion of my soul. As for danger to the body, I should make out a will to Sasky, given some of my recent close calls. Elen could likely be trusted for that office.

It would do me good to see my name again in print, as I am quite satisfied with my recent article for the Mithril Owl. I daresay the thoughts expressed there are more than original for this surprisingly conventional city. I cannot achieve Sasky's success for her, but she may at least feel in the meantime that she has accomplished something in life by winning the attention of a prosperous man of his word.

I submitted two pieces of art to the local museum for their project but have heard nothing. I suppose they want only efforts from the provincials—an excellent mechanism for protecting mediocre Mordentish talent.


Spoiler: show


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.

William Roberts

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Lazarus
« Reply #13 on: June 26, 2018, 01:54:57 AM »

For so many months I have buried myself in my objective academic writing for the Society without the least impulse to produce anything autobiographical. Has an entire year passed since Sasky accepted my proposal and my future was filled with ephemeral visions of happiness? A year ago I stood looking upon Pernault Bay as though I could captain my ship as I wanted, and the world and our destiny together lay before us like a placid turquoise sea of only clear days and balmy breezes, waiting at our pleasure for the two of us to choose together our course. Now the wind is chilling, the waves haunt like a foreboding melody, and a dark and treacherous tide seeks to draw us both under.

I hope only that my strength can bear us against the maelstrom, for my poor companion’s slender limbs were exhausted already when she at last found her way to me.

What an insipid fool I was even after three decades now of bitter knowledge and experience. A year ago Sasky’s affirmation sufficed temporarily to douse all the costly wisdom I had purchased through the blood of Em. I am condemned, it seems, to permit strong-willed women to prevail against my own judgment and incapable of protecting them from their headlong rush to self-destruction.

I paid for my weakness with months of suffering in which my loss presented itself as absolute and complete, though always I held out hope that my Mauerblümchen yet lived. I fruitlessly offered a reward for any hint of her and forced myself to discount rumors that she was dead. I suspected but could not prove that the LaSalle “suicide” must be related; it, too, gave me a dark and grim hope in that no one had employed similarly public means to eliminate her.

I stare at the report in my hand that I have read over and over until the words are as burned into me as the scars from the demon priest on Sasky’s midriff and my own chest. A mocking irony sees my love’s precise letters forced to record on this pure, white paper crimson deeds of cruel and vicious treachery—that familiar hand that till now I read over with eager joy, my eyes following her serifs and strokes with the same recognition as each curve of her form, while she reported for me her mundane duties and how she longed to be once again in my arms.

Those who critique my comparative work between Glamers and humans abhor my argument that the former could be capable of any aspiration beneficial or noble. Have my readers considered their own race’s conduct? What of the human soul, friends, and the darkness that dwells therein? Look only upon the horrors of the Dementalieuse in this civil war and then dare accuse Glamers as “monsters.”

With just as much trepidation as with which she revealed her secrets, Sasky trembled to have her vulnerable and naked form exposed again to my eyes, for she was aware how she had changed since our earlier intimacies. Nothing about her condition, however, could have dampened my feeling for her, as all I saw in each mark and injury were tokens of her suffering, all reminding me of what she had endured while absent from my arms. Although her scars and emaciation quickened my desire to offer her whatever surcease I could for both her physical and emotional pain, to reassure her that my passion remained immutable, not all emotion that coursed through my heated veins as I drunk her in after so long a thirst was benign. I put aside my anger for now for her sake, but for all the compassion I felt for her, I also burned with fury against those who had disfigured my love.

Our bodies joined with one another, and I rued that our minds and spirits were constrained by those boundaries of flesh that provided us such pleasure. For regardless of the love we made, Sasky’s insecurity at her appearance and skill caused her to suffer doubt needlessly. Had she seen with my eyes or touched with my hands she would have been reassured of both my faithfulness and love. As best I could with the skills and all the sincerity I possess, I persuaded her she had after her journey through darkness found a place of comfort and security…and she slept.

« Last Edit: June 26, 2018, 10:19:34 AM by William Roberts »


Beauty like a tightened bow, a kind that is not natural in an age like this.