American Sake: The Starting Line

Writing from 2006 posted for gits and shiggles. I like looking back on old stuff :3

Echo Bazaar: A Trade in Souls 1, the Regretful Soldier

I happen to know a man who, perhaps, knows too much. Given the circumstances, it would be unwise to record his identity, so for the purposes of this recounting I shall refer to him as the Regretful Soldier.

The Regretful Soldier is, so far as I’ve been able to deduce, a warm-hearted citizen of the Neath. Due to this unusual quality of character, I’ve taken an interest in him despite my misgivings with attachment. I have…not a “weakness,” but an “affection” for those who genuinely care. Consider it a vein of romanticism that I’ve been unable to quash, despite Fallen London’s abrasive nature towards such things.

The details of the Regretful Soldier’s tale are not the focus of this document (for that, see ‘Neathy Secrets’ compendium- section 4, sub-section 23.) This is actually the recounting of my own story, which was born from the need to find an acceptable ending for the Regretful Soldier’s nightmarish tale.

Let me say, I have never held a firm interest in the Brass Embassy’s affairs, but on this particular account regarding the Regretful Soldier, I must weigh in. It is the unfortunate consequence of the Brass Embassy’s interference with my respectable companion’s life that I must interfere with the workings of the Devils, but let it be known that I hold no personal grudge against Hell’s operations. This is, you could say, a quiet, professional disagreement.

I plan to set forth and investigate the Soul Trade, and through that investigation I will recover the Regretful Soldier’s long-lost wife’s soul. I will not stand idly by and watch him suffer any longer in his old age. For all the man has been through, he deserves to die peacefully, with his beloved by his side and with his kind heart intact.

The Regretful Soldier is unaware of my operations. I prefer to keep this foray into the Soul Trade as clean as possible. In the event that I disappear, may these documents assist whomever is willing to help recover my own lost soul.

~Shar d’Ney

Echo Bazaar: A Trade in Souls 2, Sour Elizabeth

The Flit is a cesspool of lurid information, and it took less than half a peach-brandy to hear of a sudden increase in Soulless among the Flowers. I couldn’t help but cringe. Flowerdene Street is a grim, unclean place that never seems to lose the overwhelming odor of bat guano from the rookery. It had been some time since I last visited.

It was at the Flowerdene Rookery I managed to uncover a stray scrap of paper, wedged between two uneven stones. A soul contract, likely left behind by one of the Soulless who had already forgotten the significance of anything material. This, of course, was not the contract belonging to the Regretful Soldier’s wife (it was, after all, a transaction that took place decades ago,) but it did contain the name of whatever Spirifer took this particular unfortunate soul.

Whether it is one or several Spirifers operating under this name does not matter. He, she, it, or they go by the name ‘Sour Elizabeth,’ a phrase that I’ve overheard whispered between the “patrons” of Spite. I also happen to know that I can learn more of Sour Elizabeth at Ladybone’s Road…

~Shar d’Ney

Echo Bazaar: A Trade in Souls 3, A Shepherd of Souls

Sour Elizabeth, it turns out, is female after all, but I would hesitate to call a creature such as herself a ‘woman.’ Women can be devious and even downright malicious, but still I don’t consider them soul-sucking monsters of the Neath. Not quite like Sour Elizabeth, at least.

It turned out that Mr. Chimes had recently taken an interest in Sour Elizabeth. Why, I cannot say, other than the fact that Mr. Chimes seems to have a morbid fascination with the deranged. It is fortunate that Mr. Chimes has also recently taken an interest in myself (though I would hardly consider myself derange. It is more likely for the fact that I simply know how to know anything… a useful skill, I admit.) It proved easy work to enter the House of Chimes and lure her into one of the private chambers.

I daren’t report too many details on her appearance here, other than the note that such a malevolent individual can’t help but reflect such a horrifying disposition on her features. It’s a shame, really, since it made the initial seduction into a private space all too simplistic. It had apparently been quite some time since she’d gathered any form of positive attention from a man.

Once the door was properly secured and the key tucked deep into my cloak, I revealed what I knew of her and how I planned to destroy her lively-hood should she not offer the information I required. Had I not known what fiendish crimes she persistently committed since years previous, I might have felt pity for the wilted creature.

Unfortunately, she knew nothing of the Regretful Soldier’s wife. However, she did offer to buy my silence with her current brood of souls which she had not yet sold to the Devils. I accepted the deal, naturally, and I must admit I was shocked at the enormity of her reaping. 120 souls, neatly bottled and packaged in crates, locked safely away in a warehouse in Spite. I would have never guessed one individual was capable of such monstrosity.

Despite such apparent evil, I felt (and still feel) that it is not my place to pass judgment on any individual. As such, when the transaction was complete, I let her go on her way without harm. My goal is to recover the Regretful Soldier’s wife with as minimal attention as possible. Should a Spirifer of Sour Elizabeth’s caliber suddenly go missing, it would surely be noticed. I can trust that she will remain silent on my involvement, else she suffer greatly at the hands of the Constables.

As it turns out, none of the 120 souls belong to the Regretful Soldier’s wife. But looking upon their sad faces, drifting aimlessly within their dusty bottles, I cannot bare to simply leave them like this. I fear I may have to return them to their rightful owners, or otherwise risk a guilty conscience for the rest of my life…

~Shar d’Ney

Echo Bazaar: A Trade in Souls 4, The Committee for Vital Restitution

Curse my need for peace of heart! Plenty of methods are available to me for peace of mind, naturally. I can easily think of a hundred reasons why I should not interfere with the destinies of these lost souls. The Soul Trade is a protected economic function of Fallen London, protected by the Constables, encouraged by the Masters, and ignored by the Church. But even knowing this, my heart simply will not rest until I see this affair to the end.

They moan. And I cannot sleep.

Given the authorities’ disposition toward the Soul Trade, I must turn to sects that hold alternative political standards. I’m well known among the Revolutionaries, so a few inquiries to the right ears turned up a secret extremist faction of the Church called the ‘Committee for Vital Restitution.’

My stance towards the Church is about as neutral as my stance towards Hell. Truth be told, I hold an equal distaste for both. So, it could be said that my desire to meet with the Committee for Vital Restitution is another quiet, professional interest.

Unfortunately, I have been unable to dig up any tangible information on how to find this committee. The Constables’ investigation is leading no where, so from this point I will have to pick up my own leads. My followers and I will be keeping our eyes and ears open for more clues.

~Shar d’Ney

A plan…

I’ve uncovered the secret.
Is it possible?
It must be done. I must know the truth.
It’s maddening.
I leave my earthly possessions to Maybell. Av would not know what to do with it all.
~Shar d’Ney

Canes of Peach Brandy

Av did not recoil from the bundle of canes that clattered unceremoniously on his table. The lack of reaction did not surprise Shar. After all, Shar was certain he’d never once seen Av recoil from anything but the mention of a bath. The books Av had been reading, though, that was surprising.

Both men (if Av was a man, Shar was never quite certain) eyed the canes as if neither understood how they’d gotten there. “I’m not much of a thief,” Shar announced, “but when I am, I try for the good contraband.” He gestured to the canes, almost tensely. “You know these, of course?”
“Cains?” Av back-handedly brushed one off his book.

“No.” The cane briskly lifted, pulling Av’s attention with it. “Oriental canes.” Shar tugged on the handle, and it gave way with a wooden ‘pop.’ A small bottle of peach brandy slid into Shar’s palm, and the offering was set before Av. Shar grinned proudly.

Av, however, was not so impressed.

Found slipped under the cracked back door…

Dear individ’l o considrable note:

Smy misforchun to inform yo that yo accomplis was found kilt by poison. We’d taken alook at im but seems e’s not gon wake. Es been burnt ta hide any evdince his body mighta ad. I shouldn be writtin this note ta yo but seein ows my frens canna read o writ it don matter mucha anythin. I’s just noes yos a cleva indvidul that us stretskids owes a favor n I’s thought yo’d wanna noe.

Yos fren,
Urchin

Special Constables for a Special Man

Shar’d Ney of the Echo Bazaar
I’ve never had any difficulties with the gentlemen in blue. They’re about as corrupt as they come, and unburrying modern gossip has been my forte since I was a child. A red stocking here, a little blackmail there. “Oh my, Mr. Constable, what have we here?” They’re never too difficut to dissuade from investigating my daily activities.

The Special Constables, though. They are formidible indeed.

There was a time when I didn’t care for politics. If Mr. Pages and the Ministry of Public Decency claimed a topic was too vile for the public to muse over, I could only benifet. Social climbing becomes natural, like breathing air, so long as the words you’re exhaling are teetering on the Ministry’s edge. I don’t miss those days. Perhaps if I were still as naieve as I was then, I may long to return to the safety of Society’s posh social rings, but I have come to realize there is heracy afoot, and it’s not in the ranks of the Flit.

My association with the revolutionaries is purely coincidential. Hellfire and cannon is not to my liking, and there are many war-ragers among the revolutionaries. My knife and candle is the words I press to those in the public willing to listen (and there are many.) Yes, I own a printing press. Yes, it is likely the revolutionary pamphlet in your hand was written by yours truely. Do I consider myself a revolutionary? Not particularly, but my kinship with the higher-minds of the revolutionaries is absolute.

The constables that drew up beside me in Spite were dressed in black. They consider themselves important, and I was not impressed. However, being a gentleman, I politely agreed to pull our conversation to a location more private.

I did not, nor will I ever, succomb to blackmail.

To die a thousand deaths rotting in the bowels of New Newgate would be far more attractive to my immortal conscience than to become the dog of the so-called “Masters.” The men determining the fate of our lives are churlish, impertinent, and base individuls with mental capacities comparable to bats. If the truth can only be expressed in the form of insult, it is only the fault of those neddy men in officer’s garb (and I did not hesitate to inform them of this.)

So I was taken to prison.

I will not reminise on my time there, only admit that it was as abhorrent an experience as I remember it being the first time.

However, since then, the Special Constables have been following my movements closely. Again they approached me (not even two days after my escape!) to inquire about The Giver. It was to my fortune I happened to be dressed finely on that occassion (details withheld.) It gave the illusion that my time in New Newgate assisted in redirecting my ambitions back to trivial matters of Society. As a direct result, my winding, backhanded lie as to why the idol was in my possession was concievable. They let me go-

only to chase me down for jay-walking outside of the very Veilgarden retreat we’d held our conversation.

A fool’s error. I’d underestimated their desperation for the information I carry. Again, I sit in New Newgate, sighing whistfully and waiting patiently for the next opportune moment to escape. They’ve bought some time, perhaps three days, before I return to the roads of Fallen London. The “Special” Constables better make good use of it. They won’t have me again.

The University Library

But where was I to begin? The section on the Third City? the Fourth? Oriental Traditions? Classical Myths? Lost Gods? Confounded Devils? The sketch of the flint idol I held in my hand wasn’t the best work of art I had produced, but the very thought of staring much longer at that scowl-less scowling face was abhorrent. I couldn’t very well bring the actual item with me. I did what I could, made the notes I could stand, and raced to the University in attempt to uncover the truth behind this…thing.

Several hours of fruitless hunting left me exasperated. But finally, on a topmost shelf, I stumbled across a collection of traveler’s journals. Some spoke of the unterzee, others of the exile’s rose. All very interesting, but what struck me was a leather-bound collection of anecdotes by a certain Dr. Balthus.

Dr. Balthus had in his notes a sketch of an idol quite like mine, though it was described as being much, much larger and carved from a crag of basalt. Natives of the Elder Continent called it the “Giver-of-Skins.” He continued with several gruesome details that I will not repeat on paper (lord please lift them from my mind) but was particularly adamant in reporting that any individual foolish enough to make sacrifice to the totem would be ritualistically executed by the natives.

What does this mean for me? And how did an idol such as The Giver make it all the way to Fallen London? The natives feared candles for they believed the flames attracted The Giver. Perhaps I should take to sleeping in darkness- though, admittedly, I may fear worse what those shadows will bring.

A Grim Idol

When I lie awake at night, my thoughts wander to the man found washed up on the Stolen River. I remember the glint in his eyes: a desperate plea. The exact nature of his plea eludes me still, the only clue to his intentions being this silent, scowling statue he’d pressed upon my palm. He passed on without a word.

Perhaps, instead of waiting on the cold, dank banks for the stranger to recover from that nasty stab-wound, I should have pulled him to somewhere safer. Then, maybe I could have gotten a scrap of information on this strange idol. All events considered, the constables did arrive on the scene at a suspiciously convenient hour, just as the man began to take his first breaths.

The idol now sits silently on my dresser. It’s a fiendish looking statue, and I hope that it may suffice to ward off the dangers of the night. Thieves, assassins, devilesses whom I shall not name. If only it could scare away the nightmares (oh lord, the nightmares) that occur to me every fitful hour.
Three long nights now I have drempt of a lime-stone cave. It is dimly lit, the ground lined with flickering foxfire candles. For a time, I watch a drip of wax roll sluggishly down one candle, pool on the cool stones, and solidify. It grows darker. I look up, and the little flames, one by one, are turning to wisps of smoke. I’m consumed by darkness and then-

a metallic sheering sound.

I startle awake every time, drenched in my own sweat. Never before has this dream occurred to me, and yet the moment this grim idol came into my possession, the same horrors repeat every night. I fear to throw it back into the Stolen River. What if the wretched statue were bestowed upon some other unfortunate soul? What if it returned to me?

I’ve determined to research the blasted thing. An idol this old, this striking, and this affecting must have a history of some kind. I have access to the upstairs University Library. I will begin my search there.

Neither Whisper Nor Echo

It’s true, my relationship with Av was purely professional. I had certain talents in the social arena, and Av had certain talents in…other, less tasteful arenas. I won’t get into the details on how we met, but let’s just say it seemed only natural that we would work together.

We were, after all, two sides of the same coin.

There was a time when I held my composure around him. Whether out of pride, out of fear, or something in-between, we were both distinctly uncomfortable in our meetings. We needed each other, but we didn’t want each other. What would they say if a gentleman of my stature were to be found gallivanting with an individual of Av’s disposition? It was one matter to hire a thief, it was another to befriend one.

I would have to say it was the 77 First City coins that tipped the scales to our scandalous friendship. While trapezing the bars of Veilgarden, I overheard whisper that a set of coins could be found within the Museum of Mistakes. Further research (in and out of beds of one nature and another) revealed this to be quite true, and that the path into the museum would prove to be quite perilous.


“They go for a good price at the Bazaar. It may be worth your time.” At that time, any mention of a good penny was enough to capture Av’s attention.

Our relationship was monetary, after-all. I remember watching Av scratch at his chin (her chin? His? I’ve never seen a spot of stubble, at the least) and look upward in consideration. If Av refused my offer, I would be down thirty coins and up one very particularly vengeful monkey.

His massive shoulders shrugged. “Awright.” A man of few words, but always the correct ones. I expelled a tense breath, but a fraction too soon. Spotting my silent celebration, he added, “screw me and I rip you limb from limb, aight?”

And I knew he would.

Golden Oak

Golden Oak by Jill Hackett

At the edge of the world, there is only crashing waves. The frothy ocean goes on into infinity until it reaches God.

At one time, man built great ships to sail into God’s Land. They left Earth for different reasons. Some for exploration, more for riches, others in search of divine pleasure, but most for their desire to see and hear the One they loved.

God’s Land gleamed as the sun, and its beauty forever blinded every mortal that entered. With no eyes to guide them, the ships fell mercy to Winds Fate and Free Will. The sailors became lost among the diamond waves of heaven, and though no physical body could experience the suffering of starvation in God’s Land, separation caused their mortal hearts to writhe.

They prayed.

God grew sad that His children’s love had blinded them. So, He created a miracle. At the edge of the world He planted a grand tree and named it “Oak.” God then took rays of sunlight and tied one to the bow of each ship. He cast the rays forward and they fell onto Earth as ribbons made of gold that wound around Oak’s trunk. God could lay these miraculous paths for His children, but now being mortal paths in the mortal world, only mortal hands could touch them. So He waited, and prayed.

They drifted. The sailors had no vision, and so incapable of seeing the golden ribbons, they began to feel that God could no longer hear their sorrow. They grew resentful of Him, and with each passing moment in the glistening waters of God’s Land, they grew darker.

The ships began to weigh with the bitterness of their hearts. It became difficult for even Winds Fate and Free Will to move them. Water spilled onto the deck and washed around the worn feet of sailors, but their souls would not move. They were drowning.

Oak held fast to the edge of the world. The tree could not pull the ships in, but being a creation of God and a creature of Earth, it would bear the weight of all His lost children. Oak waited, and prayed.

A hand. As the ships sank and bodies drowned in the darkening waters, a single mortal reached out. For what, he did not know, but he grasped, feebly at first, as if giving a last farewell to the Earth he longed for and the God that had abandoned him. Golden cloth swirled in the current between those sorrowful fingers. It gently grazed. “At last,” it said.

The twist turned into a grip, of surprise and then of hope. The sailor’s spirit lifted and his body strengthened. He pulled. His might alone was not enough to raise a ship, but the man’s face broke surface. He breathed sweet air as if for the first time, and with it he cried, “Reach out! You have no need to see; reach out!”

On faith, hands sprang from the water like young sprouts, unraveling long tendrils at their ends in search of what they did not know was there to find. The ribbon flowed about their arms, and the sailors grasped. The ribbons grew taut.

They heaved and they hoed with all their resolve. Soon, the great ships began to rise from the sea, pouring gleaming waterfalls from every surface. They pulled, and they pulled, and together they could tread undulating deep through infinity until they reached their home…

Sailors no longer voyage to God’s Land, but they pass their story through generations. Oak still stands at the edge of the world, looking over the endless ocean beyond. Strangely, though every sailor returned to their home, several golden ribbons are still dutifully wound about Oak’s trunk. Their ends are adrift in the ocean, carried by the currents of Winds Fate and Free Will. No one knows who still lingers in the waters of God’s Land, but the sailors wait, and pray, “reach out,” until the ribbons-

-go taut.

Delivered by Carrier Bat

My friend,

I must admit, the rooftops and docks are lonely without you, despite your incorporeal tendency even when you are present. The initiative has been taken by Maybell and myself to care for your lodgings, particularly your flock of endearing bats, while you are away. The, ah, ‘Out ta Lonch’ sign was removed as to allay suspicions of an empty and vulnerable boat.

Were you aware of my Maybell’s excavations in Spite? I became aware of her dealings after a ‘quid pro quo’ demand involving my injury. Oh, I just remembered you’d already spirited yourself away before that incident. Well, I was attacked by a lizard creature in the mushroom marshes and nearly had my leg torn off. Maybell was kind enough to care for me during my recovery, but only after I admitted the truth. I suppose claiming it was an injury inflicted by the Dutchess’s feline companions was stretching it a bit far, even for her wildly imaginative mind.

I’m writing this letter to divulge to you a concern of mine. While traveling the streets of Wolfstack one night, I stumbled upon a home with front doors wide open. The state of ease to which I could enter was alarming, and so having a curious spirit, I had to peer in.


It was horrible, dear friend, positively nightmarish. A…wolf-like creature, enormous, dark as night with glowing, terrible eyes was attacking a family. Blood had already been splashed about the floors and walls as if it were merely paint. I don’t have the heart to leave screaming children to the whims of such a beast, so I managed to beat it back, but not before it landed it’s own blow that’s marred my skin like no other scar I have previously collected.

Your bite mark from the Eater of Chains. My own is frighteningly similar…
I cannot bare to think of it much longer. Sleep has been difficult enough for me to wrest through. The more recent of my activities, and the one that you may find most interesting, is my guilty pleasure of inconveniencing the Jack-o-smiles. Since diving into the other forms of nightlife that Fallen London has to offer, I’ve developed a very acute sadistic streak involving the Jack-o-smiles. Ever since The Incident at the Men’s Club when he took it upon himself to dismember several of my esteemed colleagues and nearly myself, I’ve been struck with the desire to repay the favor.

Not by dismembering Jack-o-smiles’ colleagues (if he even has any) of course. I’ve found a much kinder way to feed my kindling flame of distaste for the creature. By saving the criminals he’s dibbed. The brilliance, I must say. Doing the public justice as well my more less-lawfully-inclined friends a favor, and simultaneously thwarting the being who has caused myself such trouble.

I’d almost consider it a sport.

Enough about me. I’ve simply missed our long silences and the rocking of your boat beneath the moonish light. Mushroom wine is best with good company. I hope that your bat has managed to deliver this letter to you without interception or suffering harm. It’s rather selfish of me to use her as a carrier pigeon, but of all the creatures of Fallen London, I suspect Oz is the most capable. She’s missed you deeply, and I hope she finds you well, friend.

Return wealthy and soon.
-The Puff

Character Study: Shy, "Alone"

Stop. 

Wait.

The words echoed in Shy’s mind. Rattled against her skull bones and made the tossing at night worse.

Where are you going?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know, but she needed to get there. Her legs moved, struggled against sheets. Her arms swung and she rolled, squirmed, fought, anything as long as it was movement.

You’ll never make it alone.

Eyes snapped open.

She could see perfectly. Moonlight streamed in from the window, but it was more than just that. It was the dialation of her pupils, her sensitivity to her surroundings, the vibration in the air that told her what was there, what she saw. It was Aim’s room. Small, singular, above the city.

She shouldn’t be here.

Shy slowly sat up, pushed the wool blankets aside that made her skin itch until it turned red. Bare feet touched the thresh mat, let it crinkle as her weight settled upon it and she stood.

Where are you going?

In circles. She was going in circles. Around and around and her feet might have bled had it not been for the endurance of her skin. Sand packed itself into her lungs, weighted her breath, clinched her throat and no matter how many times she coughed, she could not get it out.

Nails scraped at the red. Where Aim felt nothing Shy felt everything. Aim might have bled but Shy could not no matter how hard she tried.

The contradiction made her laugh.

A hollow, open laugh. Airy. One that tilted her head back, grated against the sand in her chest until it began to upturn. Rise, and with it a trembling heat and volume and full body convulsions until the laughter errupted from her small frame like a volcano that had been quiet for too long.

The sand tore her throat until the sound had become high-pitched knives that sliced the air and rended it with the force of her anger.

Her body became unhinged and whiplashed outward. Claws drove into crates, thrashed until they burst against walls like firecrackers with desert supplies instead of arcing sparks. The mattress fell prey next, air became feathers which became pricks in her throat when she devoured them as sacrifice to her screams.

Glass shattered, glistening, reflective, angular, beautiful.

Shy froze.

The glass bled. A translucent red line that slipped along its edge. The window cried and Shy could only reach out with her own hands that cried as well. “I’m sorry.” she whispered, taking the bleeding shards into her hand. The sticky warmth pooled there. Pooled in her lap when she’d settled on the ground to cradle the glass that hurt so much she could feel it. “I’m sorry.” Feathers settled. “I’m sorry.”

You’ll never make it alone.

Fingers clenched and the glass clung tighter.

“I’m so sorry.”

Character Study: Aim, "To Ambrosia"

They would need water. Even if they traveled only at morning and dusk, the afternoon heat would still shrivel them up in two day’s time. Aim ignored the worried look Shy had when she watched her. That expression seemed to make a permanent resident of itself recently. It marred a perfect beauty. “Here.” Aim tossed a wide-brimmed hat at the girl. “Put it on and never take it off.” Aim put her weight into the crowbar and snapped open another one of the large crates in her room. They’d leave in the morning. It would give them a good ten hours before anyone became suspicious of their absence. Shy held the hat, continuing to watch Aim with that same, stupid look of concern. Aim gritted her teeth and snatched the hat back from her. “Put it on, idiot.” She rammed it onto Shy’s head, perhaps a bit too harshly. “Make yourself useful. Fill the canteens.” Shy nodded, carefully picking up the sacks and slipping silently down the flight of stairs.

They would need water, Aim thought again. More water than they could carry and more water than they had containers for. Even if they could carry all the canteens, it would only last the two of them for three days, tops. Miahara was at least twelve days away.

She swallowed dryly, standing up straight for the first time since she began riffling through her supplies. Her back hurt, and her neck even more when she craned it back to curse god.

This was a suicide mission.

Eyes closed.

She’d known it was a suicide mission since the moment she told Shy they’d do it. This was a suicide mission that Shy would gladly give her life for. And Aim?-

Her breath was warm on her lips.

-Well. It would have to be.

The crowbar wheedled its way into the crate, and with an almost angry shove, it cracked open. Sand billowed as Aim kicked the top off, and she choked on it when she’d instinctively gasped.

Sitting carefully wrapped in protective plastic was the last thing Aim had expected.

The Key.

“Huh,” Aim said.

A grin slowly twisted its way across her lips. The hovercraft could carry the water. And reaching Miahara would still be seven days away, but Aim knew of someplace else she could make in three. Someplace they could stop to refill the canteens and then maybe, just maybe they could make it.

Ambrosia.