Implode a Few Gentlemen

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Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by Saint-Just on Sept 13, 2011, 3:59pm

Sinclaire Thames was most displeased. At the precise moment at which this narrative joins him, a great many matters were circulating in his formidable mind. Why had he neglected to bring along his white furs, so as to effectively conceal his presence within the hoary storm? No, he had needed to be dramatic, imposing, and so here he was, a great black spot amidst endless waves of purest white. His cloak, fastened tightly and offering the support of a formidable hood to which was affixed a visor of sable plates forming a wicked beak of sorts and thoroughly obscuring the eyes of the wearer save for two miniscule, curved slits, fluttered frenetically about his ankles, securely belted riding boots of oiled black leather preventing the motion from becoming a nuisance. Beneath the folds of the mantel Sinclaire clutched convulsively at a pair of ornate Cohen revolvers, the recently released Cavalcanti model which, in the grips of capitalism’s fervor, the wealthy gentleman had procured. They offered a feeling of the greatest security and power, each capable of not six, but seven consecutive shots before requiring any sort of attention. With such arms any man would feel invincible.

Invincible until, of course, a pack of some nineteen vaguely lupine abominations circled hungrily about. Sinclaire had strayed far too close to the Laclair Woods, the dangers of which any savvy traveler knew very well. The Fiendtide had swept through in that wretched generation, contorting all which is touched in the most deceptively horrendous of fashions. Trees grew taller, thinner, lighter of coloration,as did the local fauna. All signs of a properly functioning ecosystem had gone; there were no flowers, no bees, no birds, no sounds. Only the muffles tramping of beasts upon a sea of pale detritus, even these twisted predators seemingly afraid of making more sound than necessary. Something lurked there, be it merely an idea, a memory, or something more tangible, and it permeated an aura of the most essential terror.

This was of no concern whatsoever to Sinclaire. He was a botanist, an avid horticulturalist, and it had been his pleasure on several occasions to walk amongst the muted aspens whilst belting out a tune most merry. Even now, surrounded by the fell hounds of the silent glade, he sang “Une vie qui s'est perdue en cherchant une juste revanche...” as his mind poured over the situation at hand. The beasts worried him little; easily had he felled abominations twice this size and number, being a charter member of the Huntsman’s Society. Never mind that he had done so in considerably more favorable conditions and with a group of lackeys; the spirit of the endeavor was the same. No, his concerns surpassed the such trivialities as hungry monsters craving one’s flesh.

Sinclaire was late. This was wholly unacceptable, for in spite of his constant insistence upon doing whatever he pleased at all times, the pale young man was in fact exceedingly punctual and respectful of engagements with persons of importance. He was to be in Chercheur Ciel that evening to meet with a favored associate, one Celia Maxwell. The call was one of business, and a devil of an honor by the reckoning of both parties. Sinclaire, at the very least, considered the woman to be adequate in her capacity of token female scientist, though she barely amounted to more than a pawn in his grand conception of the world. Was he not glorious, free, beyond the limitations of mankind? Perhaps his presence would offer her an avenue of advancement. On a more practical note, it was of the utmost importance to Mister Thames that he smooth out the details of a pending transaction with the Lucretzia Compound. The Kurtz Corporation had made no attempt to hinder his acquisition of the necessary ships, chemicals and what have you. No, they appreciated profit. They had proper business principles. Those wretched busybodies at the medical convent, on the other hand, felt it “unethical” to provide a private citizen with large quantities of volatile biological agents. Heaven forbid they acknowledge the importance of money in their isolated little world of saving lives and finding a brighter tomorrow. Bloody infants, the whole lot of them.

“D'un côté la fille, de l'autre le sable et la mer. Je veux vivre au bord de la mer...”

Celia would understand. She was a scientist, yes, but her years with the Kurtz corporation had to have imparted some basic mercantile sense. Ah, but the wolves... he would need to tend to those first.

Re: Zone III: La Côte Nord and Morvyron Post by areyu on Sept 21, 2011, 4:58pm

Not even life in the cold and decidedly inhospitable city of Jardin had prepared Meifeng for this. The storm currently assaulting her and her companion had to be among the worst she’d ever seen—however, storms do tend to seem all the more turbulent when one is out in them, as opposed to merely watching from the safety of a warm house. She tugged her coat closer to her form as a strong gust buffeted the pair. “Arkwright,” she called against the wind. “You… you must have seen how bad of an idea this was.”

The male, despite being dressed entirely too lightly for an encounter with a blizzard, was a good deal less effected by the harsh conditions presented to him and was able to shrug the cold off relatively easily. “Not as foolish as to bring a girl who can’t bloody stay awake on such a lengthy trip. If I could have left you behind, my dear, I most certainly would have.” Arkwright adjusted his top hat, the article of clothing having been made crooked by a squall. “Dsalor is not set to return home for another several months. It’s best if we go to him to have this matter resolved in a timely fashion. No doubt you’re as anxious as I to be rid of one another, eh?”

“Could we not have waited out the storm, at least…?”

Arkwright chuckled. “You’ve never been this far north, have you?”

The girl gave no answer, but a query of her own. “If it’s always this bad, then how did Dsalor come all this way on his own?”

“I suspect he didn’t, the boy’s too intelligent for that. If there were any other scholars willing to brave these conditions, he would in all likelihood have had them accompany him. Regardless, we’ll either find him at the convent’s library or stumble across his frozen corpse on the way there.”

“That’s… comforting. What will we do if the latter happens?”

Arkwright glanced back at her, aggravation altering his features. “What, pray tell, do you think we could do about it?” he muttered.

Meifeng sighed. She’d noticed the boy’s patience with her growing increasingly thin as of late, perhaps rightfully so. Though their present dilemma was almost entirely his fault, she could not help but feel like she owed it to him to be helpful—or not irritate him, at the very least, and she was failing even at that. Arkwright did not make a secret of the fact that he resented her and considered her to be little more than an inconvenience; he could keep up the facade of civility with her most of the time, but there were moments where his rage overtook him, and the animosity with which he regarded her displayed itself like an ugly scar… In those moments, she would happily die if it meant ridding him of the burden that was Meifeng Hemao.

Arkwright’s steps came to a sudden halt. Out on the horizon, a tiny black shape could be seen against the snow. “There’s somebody else out here.”

“N-no way,” Meifeng replied, teeth chattering. “Maybe it’s him?”

This irritated the boy enough to bring a scowl to his face. “Meifeng, do you have any idea of how bloody idiotic you sound right now?” This remark, in conjunction with the cold, caused the girl to physically flinch. “Why on earth would he be out here if he’s already made it to the convent? What possible reason could he have for being out in this storm?”

“He could be—e-escorting some more scholars to the convent… We can’t be sure it isn’t him unless we go check.”

“That’s—… actually a valid point. Fine, fine.” Arkwright’s shoulders dropped and he sighed through gritted teeth. “For your sake, I should hope it really is him, or this will be but a waste of our time. You slow me down enough as it is, dear girl.” He began to forge ahead in the direction of the unidentified black spot, his jacket fluttering as a squall blew past.

“I’m sorry…”

By all rights, the march through the snow should have been quick and without hardship. The male had a surprisingly high tolerance for most things, such as pain or cold, but he found the frigid air to be effecting him more than it had ever done prior to this—not as much as it seemed to trouble Meifeng, but enough for him to notice it. It was minute details like those that allowed his well-concealed terror to overwhelm him at times; he did not look it, for certain, but he was already quite old, closer to death than anyone would expect. The last year had found him suffering more pains, battling more ailments than had ever dared to afflict him in the past. The pain and discomfort never had any apparent source, and he was left to assume that it was his deceptively timeworn body beginning to die. He did not age, but he was very much still mortal.

Silently, Arkwright cursed both his misfortune and the blasted snow that assailed him. He would, hopefully, not have to put up with it—or the girl—for much longer, as the pair was already quite close to the convent, provided the black dot on the horizon was not the man they sought. As a matter of fact… “No. That’s not him, he’s not that tall.” He whirled around and glared daggers at the exhausted female. “That’s not him, Meifeng.”

Meifeng fidgeted. “How are you able to tell that from all the way over here?”

“How is it that you are able to inconvenience me in so many ways?!” he snapped.

The girl pulled at her coat. Eyes downward, she stepped past him and in the direction of the unidentified man.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to go inconvenience you some more.”

“Meifeng—!”

“I’m checking to make sure they’re not about to freeze to death!” the girl hollered back at him. “I know you could care less about anyone who you can’t somehow use, but I’m not quite that apathetic!” Paying no heed to Arkwright’s discontent, she pressed onward.

Re: Zone III: La Côte Nord and Morvyron Post by Saint-Just on Sept 21, 2011, 5:44pm

"A bit closer, hounds... just a bit... we shall educate you. You who exalt yourself at my misfortune, I usher your departure from this hated plane..." muttered Thames, the tip of his boot firmly pressed against a faint glyph in the snow. A number of these symbols had taken shape around Sinclaire, an intricate web of runes forming a circle of great alchemical meaning. All things having their limits, however, Sinclaire had been unable to expand the radius of his circle sufficiently, the pack of wolves circling just beyond his reach. From time to time one would stray in, only to dart back out through some unnatural perception of his arcane machinations. Their mutations rendered them sensitive to such things, he reasoned, inwardly cursing himself for not anticipating it. At long last they grew impatient, eight of the wolves crossing into the magicked region in desperation. A few more, just a few, and he could easily dispatch the survivors with his pistols...

Then she appeared.

The wolves snapped back their vicious, salivating heads, awareness of a potentially easier meal drawing their full attention. Five at once bounded toward the approached girl, the others hesitating. Growling in frustration Sinclaire released the Alchemical Form he had been holding steadily in his mind's eye, the circle about his feet shining violently as, in the fluttering of a humming bird's wing, the snow surrounding Thames melted, pooled beneath the remaining five wolves, and promptly impaled the unfortunate beasts as the water simultaneously erupted skyward and refroze. With a satisfied snarl Sinclaire drew his Cavalcantis and proceeded to expertly obliterate the four wolves lingering just beyond his circle of carnage.

For a moment he considered going about his business, the ten remaining predators having given up on consuming him with the promise of softer flesh approaching over the hill. Certainly it would be the easiest of matters to just walk away, vanish into the woods perhaps, and permit nature to take its course. On the other hand... he was bored. Traveling alone had its charms; the occasional robbery of a traveling merchant, wild nights in roadside inns, quiet moments to gather flowers... but the wastes of northern Ghalea offered no such delights. A companion might be decidedly ideal. Having reached his decision, he began strolling toward the besieged figure, lazily firing off a couple of shots at the wolves as he advanced. Three more fell in mid gallop, leaving only seven to immediately threaten the traveler. We say 'only' in a relative sense, seven wolves being quite pleasant when compared to nineteen, but utterly terrifying in any other scenario. Sinclaire hoped that the traveler would take the former view and avoid collapsing in sheer horror.

Re: Zone III: La Côte Nord and Morvyron Post by areyu on Sept 21, 2011, 8:39pm

Something about the atmosphere had deeply unsettled Arkwright; it was not the stranger, no. It was something else altogether, more immediately threatening. He called out to his companion, darting after her and maneuvering through the snow as only one born in a snowy wasteland could.

“Meifeng, stop!”

She turned back to face him. “What do you want?!” she spat back at the boy. Instead of an answer, she got a quick shove in her shoulder, which caused her to topple into a snow bank.

Through the space she had just been occupying leaped a disturbingly large creature; while wolf-like in appearance, it was entirely too big to be a mere wolf. The monstrous thing landed but a few feet away from her, taking Arkwright down as it landed and effectively trapping him beneath it. “Oh my god… A-Ark! Don’t move—”

“Do not stand up! Do you hear me?! There are more of them out there!” the boy roared. His warning could only deter her so much. Terror demanding she make an effort to defend him, Meifeng began to articulate a glyph.

The wolves were no cause for concern; Arkwright could dispatch of them with relative ease. It was the fact that she’d allowed herself to be discovered and for him to be attacked that put her in fear—the male’s wrath trumped the bloodied maw of a lupine abomination easily, and she’d managed to trouble him yet again. Shivering, she unleashed a powerful gale at the offending animal and sent it careening several feet, freeing Arkwright.

The boy picked himself up and dashed over to her, rage contorting his features. “I swear to God, Meifeng…” He was cut off by another hound launching itself at him, which he disposed of with a wave of energy that cleanly removed a sizable chunk of its snout.

“I-I’m sorry—”

“Not yet, you’re not.” Two more of the bear-sized dogs made their way over to the pair. Meifeng stood, and rapidly and repeatedly struck them with blasts of air that prompted them to flee while they still had their lives.

The last three of the beasts had become pensive, hanging back while the others were bombarded. They likely would not have attacked at all, but, overtaken by anger, Arkwright made absolutely sure they could never cause them harm again. A sickening cracking sound broke through the wailing of the storm winds; the canines began to whine and howl in agony as their bones splintered, their already distorted frames twisting and bending in unnatural ways. Meifeng loosed a scream, burying her face in her hands as she turned away from the carnage.

When at last all grew silent some minutes later, Arkwright turned his rage upon the girl. “You.” He grabbed her by her hair, jerking her towards him. She shrieked, thrashing and fighting his pull. “You owe me.” With one last movement, he threw her down into the snow and continued on his way without her.

A look of surprise overshadowed his angry visage as he made his way over the bank, and he stopped in his tracks; what could only be described as a veritable trail of remains littered the otherwise empty plains of snow. There had been more of the beasts wandering about—over twice what they had encountered. Having caught up to him, a tearful Meifeng wiped her eyes and visibly cringed at the sight of the other slaughtered canines.

“Looks like somebody had a tougher time out here than we did,” the brunette remarked, eyeing the hooded figure, as well as the circle of bodies surrounding him.

Re: Zone III: La Côte Nord and Morvyron Post by Saint-Just on Sept 21, 2011, 9:13pm

I want that spell, mused Sinclaire, lithely stepping over the carcass of a felled wolf with a movement reminiscent of a ballerina's dances. The cloak now free to bustle about behind him, a handsome leather jerkin of black shot with gold was exposed, plated at the chest and in a straight line descending along the midsection. Unsurprisingly, his slacks were also black, as was the long jacket he had neglected to button. Having deemed the situation safe enough, he calmly deposited the revolvers in the holsters strapped to his thighs.

"Fancy, aren't we?" he smilingly declared, halting a few yards from the strangers. "I do hope you weren't too put off by that little mix up. Frankly, my greatest concern is my apparent dearth in palatability when placed beside you two. I have always fancied myself exceedingly delicious, having been considered a suitable meal for a good many beasts. A few people too, if I recall. No matter."

His smile widening enough to reveal his disconcertingly sharp white teeth, he fixed his obscured gaze upon the male. "What sort of magic was that...? I confess that I was not nearly close enough to study your actions properly... but from the look of the corpses over yonder, you seem to have, well, imploded them. Quite nicely, I readily add. I might like to implode a few people myself."

Re: Zone III: La Côte Nord and Morvyron Post by areyu on Sept 21, 2011, 10:06pm

The newcomer’s latter remarks brought a smile to the dapper gentleman’s face. “No need to trouble yourself. Neither of us blame you for this… mild inconvenience.” He directed his gaze at Meifeng for a moment, who seemed to have noticed, as she covered her face with her hands and turned away from him. “As for that spell, it’s nothing more than a metal manipulation glyph that I have modified. You’ll find it’s not so effective on people, however, unless their latent magical energy is particularly weak. My apologies, good sir,” the male said with a tip of his hat. Admittedly, Arkwright liked the disposition of this peculiar nobleman; professing the desire to implode a good several men immediately upon introduction was a refreshing change of pace.

“You… you’re alright, then?” the girl mumbled, the sight of his pointed teeth evoking a shudder. “I-I—we thought… We saw that there was s-somebody else out here, and…” A sinking feeling filled the pit of her stomach; every word she spoke likely aggravated Arkwright further, and he was already adequately upset with her. Ah, but… she certainly did not want to seem discourteous to the mysterious gentleman, regardless of the inevitable wrath of the well-dressed fiend who had become her unwilling companion. “As long as you are well,” she sighed. “May I ask for your name, and—and to where you are headed?”

Re: Zone III: La Côte Nord and Morvyron Post by Saint-Just on Sept 21, 2011, 10:27pm

"Ahhhhh..." sighed Thames, looking utterly dejected. "I do something of the same with an unraveling glyph. Tailors disassemble fabric, I disassemble fools... the trick is in the rate of unraveling, you see... regardless..." Removing his hood in such a way that the plated visor created a crested collar of sorts, Sinclaire offered a shallow bow to each traveler in turn. "There was indeed someone else out there, dear girl; you have met him. You may refer to me as Dantalion, for I can never tell when using my proper name will bring about some unforeseen disaster. I am many things to many people, and many of those things involve a death threat. As to my destination, I willingly admit the intention to visit Chercheur Ciel on a matter of business. However... I am suddenly seized with a desire to do... anything but that. It matters little, as I am under the impression that the individual I was hoping to meet is no longer in her office. Call it a hunch."

In truth, that hunch was more of an observation, a sledge carrying a young woman in white furs having careened past in the distance. The emblem emblazoned upon the vehicle were clearly those of the Maxwell family.

"Indeed, I do believe I shall be visiting the Lucretzia compound. Have you ever entered a medical convent? Very fascinating. There are few in this world who have mastered the related arts of butchery and justification of butchery to the degree demonstrated by doctors."

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by areyu on Sept 22, 2011, 12:19am

“T-that’s where we’re going,” Meifeng chirped with surprise. The news, in reality, was not all that surprising, as there were only a handful of structures in existence that far north in the country. Again, she covered her mouth. Stammering… how mortifying. Of course, Arkwright was used to it by now, but Dantalion was not. The dreadful cold did not help this matter at all. “Pardon me—I am Meifeng.”

Her consort fussed with his sleeves and began to make his way towards the compound, the girl following close behind him. “Totavali, Arkwright. It would be wise to keep moving, lest our fanged friends return for us.” A small grin crept onto his face. “My poor pet was too frightened to do away with a few of those devilish things.”

“My spells can only be used for defense!” Meifeng whimpered, refusing to make eye contact with either of the two men.

The boy laughed. “And not even self-defense. It’s quite pathetic, really,” he commented as he nodded to Dantalion. “She’s only the least bit useful when in unusually specific circumstances. Don’t expect her to be anything but an annoyance for the duration of this trip… Unfortunately, sparing her the journey up to the convent was not an option.”

“You’re s-so mean…” she whimpered, and absentmindedly tugged at her coat. She’d nearly gotten herself eaten but a few minutes ago, how could she argue with him on that point? Provided her companion would accept it, an apology was in order for the next time they were on their own. However, he did seem to genuinely enjoy the company of the sharp-toothed wanderer—as long as this was the case, she had the slightest chance of sidestepping his wrath.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to part ways once we arrive at the Lucretzia Compound. The two of us have urgent business with an acquaintance of mine who is studying at their library,” Arkwright continued.

The faint shape of a building could be made out in the distance through the curtain of snow. They were getting close to the convent now. Meifeng could not help but breathe a small sigh of relief. Finally, Dsalor would be able to reverse his spell, and then she and the blood-drinking parasite could go their separate ways. The several miles’ distance they had been limited to by the botched linking spell was simply not enough—it could never be enough.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by Saint-Just on Sept 24, 2011, 5:23pm

A light, airy chuckle of a disconcertingly high pitch, something like a small bird being pecked to bits by a larger creature, bubbled forth from the sable wanderer's pale lips. Sinclaire could barely begin to imagine the circumstances responsible for the creation of so mismatched a duo... clearly it was by no will of theirs. It would be amusing, he fancied, to keep them together for as long as possible. Perhaps the male would kill the weaker one, as she apparently lacked the ability to adequately defend herself. That man would have gone on a tangent about mice and hawks, or something of that sort. A fancy hat does not a philosopher make, Thames mused, walking along in relative silence. Relative, of course, is used to denote an absence of direct conversation with one's party, for while Sinclaire made no attempt at discourse with his companions he clearly saw no reason to refrain from humming.

As the little band grew closer to the convent, Thames became visibly more aware of his surroundings, a gleam of activity in his hazel eyes.

"I shan't argue; we all have our private business. A word of advice though, as I seem to owe you something or another for joining my lupine slaughter... if any of the scientists offer to take you somewhere privately, it would be prudent to decline. The Godrite slaughters have abated as of late, reducing the influx of research materials. Even men of science succumb to desperation."

Nearing the gates of the compound cradled at the base of the mountains, he moved to the front of the group with some haste. There was the Maxwell sleigh Thames had earlier observed; all was as he anticipated, then. There had been a tense moment in which he considered the possibility that Celia had been en route to one of the aerodromes and thus quite decidedly beyond his reach, but such a worry appeared entirely unfounded. Almost gleeful in his movements, Sinclaire skipped to the door and pounded out a little tune.

"Master Neilst and company, open up!" he sang, continuing to knock with a childlike insistence. In mere moments the hefty gates were dragged open by way of mechanical parts, a small man in a white linen coat expectantly waiting beyond. There was something... exceedingly sterile about him.

"Come in then, all of you... goodness knows we're busy, don't just float about..." he grumbled, thick mustache quivering.

"Chin up, Bumbles, you've got a face like a slapped Nancy," tittered Sinclaire, brushing past the portly scientist in so irreverent a fashion that resulting reddening of visage contrasted beautifully with the ever-falling snow. Glancing back, Sinclaire waved lazily at his two companions. "Do as you like. If they give you any trouble, make up a name and treat them like children. They'll very rarely correct you. Propriety, what fun..."

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by areyu on Sept 24, 2011, 11:48pm

“Finally,” Arkwright sighed. Perhaps a warmer atmosphere would do him some good, as the frigid air had begun to agitate him, which was irritating in and of itself. He disregarded the short man that had greeted them, walking past him without a single indication of having even seen him.

Meifeng, on the other hand, chose make a less coarse introduction. “Pardon me, but could you perhaps tell us where the scholars from Jardin can be found?” she piped somewhat anxiously; Dantalion’s warning had put her the slightest bit on edge, despite her suspicion that it was simply the rambling of someone who’d been out in the cold for just a tad too long.

“We don’t keep tabs on such things,” he grumbled as the red tinge faded from his cheeks. “I’d imagine you’d find one of them, if not more, in the library. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to be doing.” After pointing the pair in the right direction, he delivered a small bow and hurriedly took his leave, Meifeng waving halfheartedly to his turned back.

Arkwright took off at a brisk pace, and the girl scurried down the hallway after him. “At long last, this will all be over,” he murmured as he heaved a heavy sigh.

“Y—yeah…”

“You are troubled?”

She flinched with surprise. “No! No, not at all… I just don’t know h-how I’ll… get home from here.”

The boy raised an eyebrow, his usual mien of ennui marred by confusion. “I had assumed I would be escorting you home. Is this no longer the case?”

“W-well, that—that would be bothersome to you, wouldn’t it?”

“Now you concern yourself with my comfort,” he chuckled.

“I—I do hate to trouble you…”

“That has yet to stop you from doing so, my dear.” His smile softened a bit—perhaps that was a mite cruel. “Regardless, what would you expect me to do? It would be simply dreadful for me to allow a young girl to travel across the country unattended.”

Meifeng cast her gaze upon the floor, her head hanging with shame. “Don’t fret for my sake…”

The boy put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, much to her horror, and she yelped in alarm. “Out there be monsters, dear girl,” he grinned. “I should know, being quite monstrous myself.” Meifeng would not tolerate any of his nonsense and frantically pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me—please.”

Arkwright laughed, equal parts amusement and pity inspiring his mirth. “You’re so odd. Why—”

“T-there’s the library!” she chirped as she rushed over to the enormous set of metal doors. She knocked twice and, receiving no answer, made her way inside. A bemused Arkwright merely shook his head and followed suit.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by Saint-Just on Sept 25, 2011, 1:59pm

The place was... somewhat larger than Sinclaire recalled. Perhaps the ambitious researchers had expanded. It was also entirely possible that Thames had simply compressed the site to a few buildings of interest in his memory, and the true size of the Lucretzia Compound was entirely unchanged. Yes, that made the most sense; hiring builders in this icy hell would be too much trouble. Regardless of the details surrounding the large number of identical, low buildings crouching like so many frozen corpses amidst the snow, the fact remained that he had no idea where to find Celia. Lacking the patience to find a directory, Sinclaire instead grasped the shoulder of a passing scientist, spinning the hapless man about to make undoubtedly unsettling eye contact.

"Salutations, monsieur..." Squinting furiously, Sinclaire identified the name "Maurice" upon the fellow's coat, "...monsieur Susannah. Tell me, have you seen mademoiselle Celia Maxwell lately? She ought to have arrived earlier today."

"Su-Susannah...? But I'm-"

"No time, Amelie, there is no time! Have you or have you not seen Maxwell?"

"Yes! Yes I have!" Ejaculated the deeply confused scientist, nervously fiddling with his lapels.

"Speak, man! The fate of the world depends on your answer!" As he spoke, Sinclaire gleefully shook the poor man, small tears forming and quickly freezing around the bulging eyes of Dr. Maurice.

"L-l-lab nine! LAB NINE!" Roared Maurice, matching Sinclaire's excitement in hopes of appeasing the strange man.

"Lovely. You have done a great thing today, Tabitha. One day you shall be thanked. That day is not today. Away with you." Watching bemusedly as the scientist stumbled away in shock, Sinclaire eventually turned about to gaze at the nearest building.

There were no numbers.

"A pox upon thy house, Belinda! I'll make you into a finely-cut jacket!" Roared Sinclaire, the fleeing Dr. Maurice picking up his pace considerably.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by areyu on Sept 26, 2011, 9:33pm

“You there!” Arkwright called to a nearby scholar who had been absentmindedly collecting his reading material off of a shelf. The sudden and unexpected demand for his attention very nearly caused the intellectual to fall off the ladder on which he was perched. “We seek a scholar by the name of Dsalor. He ventured here from Murota University in Jardin to study from Lucretzia’s medical texts.”

The scholar, having collected the last of his texts, made his way down the ladder and pensively touched a hand to his cheek. “Dsalor… Refresh my memory, what does he look like?”

“Young. Messy white hair, green eyes,” Arkwright mused. The scholar still had a look of mild uncertainty about him, as if there were thousands of young men with white hair and green eyes milling about; the boy sighed as he adjusted his top hat. “He’s got a mark—a tattoo underneath his eye.” He put a finger to the indicated area on his own face.

“Ooooh!” the young scholar exclaimed. “Yeah, him. He’s a damn encyclopedia, that one—and brave! He went out into the snowstorm to help each group of new arrivals to the compound.” Meifeng grinned at this, and eyed her consort slyly. She had to admit, the scholar’s casual, almost unrefined manner surprised her.

Arkwright opted for a grimace, rather than a grin. “I’m well aware of what he’s like, just bloody tell me where he is.” The boy paused as an expression of embarrassment flashed across his face; whatever good the warmer environment had done in lightening his mood had very hastily been undone. Feigning a sudden fit of coughing, he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth with it. “Pardon me, I’m quite exhausted from the trip here. If you would be so kind as to inform me of Dsalor’s whereabouts, it would be most appreciated.”

“Yeah, well,” the scrawny young scholar muttered, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but he left over a week ago. Probably couldn’t handle all the snow.

Each of the pair’s faces dropped, and they exchanged nervous glances with one another. “You’re not serious,” Meifeng gasped.

“As a heart attack. If I’m right, he’s on his way home to Jardin.”

“But he was not scheduled to return home for three more months!” hissed the boy, wringing his handkerchief. “Why has he left?!”

The white-clad scholar shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me. He said something about ‘finishing ahead of schedule.’ If he was trying to say he read all the books in the library already, he’s full of sh—”

“Thank you, sir,” Arkwright grumbled as he began to massage his temples.

“W-where are the rest of the scholars?” chirped the mildly panicked girl.

The academic, if he could indeed be referred to as such a thing, shrugged his shoulders a second time and went to collect his books from a nearby desk. “We don’t do our studying in here, our rooms have much better lighting. But yeah, I’m done here.” He hoisted the massive pile of tomes from the desk and took his leave. “Sorry you couldn’t find who you were looking for!” his voice echoed as he exited the massive library.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by Saint-Just on Sept 29, 2011, 9:01pm

"Sir... there is no 'lab nine'. We don't number things. We're scientists, not school children."

This was a blow to Sinclaire Thames. This was a more dire blow still to Dr. Maurice, who despite having retreated to his securely locked chambers could not help suppressing a shudder as Sinclaire's concentrated malice transcended time and space to invade the poor doctor's solitude. Having been informed by a subsequently interrogated scientist that the directions of Maurice were entirely useless, the increasingly irritable Thames surrendered to despair, retreating in a huff to the gatehouse. En route he paused, a thought growing in his pretty mind... smirking with a somewhat restrained aspect of hunger, he ducked into one of the many identical structures. He could smell the fear floating about the place, a quavering and pitiful aura clinging to every atom.

In his dim chambers, Dr. Maurice began to shake violently.

Prowling about amidst the sparse furnishings, Sinclaire silently approached a nondescript door.

Dr. Maurice let out a little yelp, a deep chill permeating his being.

The door opened.

Five minutes later, the door closed.

Mood significantly elevated, Sinclaire calmly strolled away from the dwelling, quite certain that all would work out precisely as he wished, the being of an all-around agreeably disposition. Three days later, someone would notice a strange stench in the chamber visited by Sinclaire, discovering upon further inspection the remains of Dr. Maurice, the unfortunate fellow having been awkwardly fused with a desk and the lamp thereupon. Judging by the large quantities of bodily fluids littering the area and the scuffed wood beneath the horrid appendages passing for legs, death had been rather delayed in seizing Maurice and had surely been welcomed with great enthusiasm, insomuch as it is possible for a furniture chimera to express joy.

Having dealt with the day's antagonist with great panache, it was with a toothy grin that Sinclaire slunk into the small gatehouse, greeting the gentleman responsible for the great steel levers -no doubt a profoundly challenging and thus rewarding occupation for a man of science- with such confidence and a general air of not-having-done-anything-questionable that the man simply nodded in response. The easiest thing to do, Thames decided, was to rest beside the window and wait for Celia to depart. She would appear eventually, and he was a very patient man.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by areyu on Sept 29, 2011, 10:20pm

Meifeng’s eyes zipped nervously about the room. Her traveling companion as not pleased, and tended to lose his temper when things did not go his way; mercifully, there would not be an audience this time. “A—Arkwright, I’m so sorry—”

“No, don’t be. There’s no way either of us could have known. We didn’t even find out he was supposed to come here at all until recently…” he pondered. His mouth twitched and the corners descended into a frown. “To waste a whole blasted week… Damn it all, he’s likely home by now. We probably passed him by on the way here…”

The girl bit her lip nervously. “W-well, ah… I wanted to apologize for the, um—” She froze as the male turned his gaze at her, his expression unreadable. He eyed her suspiciously. “The wolves,” stammered the brunette. “I’m sorry that they… that I let them attack us—attack you.”

“Ah.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket and strode over to Meifeng, shoulders raised in such a way that made him slightly more imposing. “While I am willing to concede that you could not have known of their presence, and that you happened to walk into them while very dutifully investigating the identity of our sable-clad friend in the hopes that he was, indeed, the scholar we sought,” he began, his speech a rapid string of words, “I will not be so inclined to come to your aid in the future. Do not cause me any further distress, is that understood?” The boy stepped uncomfortably close to her, unnerving her enough that she physically stepped away from him.

“Perfectly,” she yelped as she made a hasty retreat. Being ever graceful, Meifeng ended her flight with an impact, her back colliding with the side of a chair.

At that moment, the boy came to an absolute standstill, placing a hand on his back. His expression was one that was hard to place—shock, and deep contemplation, and his eyes repeatedly flicked from his companion, to the chair, back to the girl. His eyes locked on Meifeng, who stared back in wide-eyed horror. “S-something wrong?”

Arkwright approached the girl, who recoiled with terror. “Bear with me for a moment,” he muttered coldly as he took a hold of her arm and set about removing her glove. Normally, Meifeng would have protested, perhaps even violently so, and briefly considered doing just that; as long as her coat was still on, however, she had no complaints. Arkwright gripped her hand and scratched at her palm, drawing blood despite the girl’s panicked struggling.

“What are you doing?!” she shrieked as she bolted backwards and smacked into a table, cradling the injured limb. The boy matter of factly displayed his own palm. It too possessed a wound identical in both appearance and placement to the one Meifeng had received. In damaging her, he’d damaged himself as well.

“Tell me, Meifeng, do you feel this?” he asked in a flat tone as he dug a nail into the back of his hand. A baffled Meifeng glanced down at her respective appendage, then back at the boy, blinking several times in quick succession. “You’re—are you being serious right now?”

“You don’t feel it.”

“Of course I don’t feel that! Why would I?!”

Arkwright rushed toward her and placed his hands on the table behind her, his arms on either side of the brunette. “Do you know what I’ve just now discovered?” he growled at his terrified companion, who’d raised her arms defensively. “Those mysterious pains I’ve been suffering, the ones that led me to believe I was dying—you cause them.”

“Ah—w-what?”

“You see, when something like this happens to you—” He grabbed her by the wrist and slammed it down onto the tabletop, a loud crack resounding throughout the room. “I feel it, too!” he roared. “But apparently, the same does not apply to you.”

“But how—?”

“Consider, then, what would have become of me if those animals had gotten to you—”

“I’m sorry!” she snapped back at him. “What would you have me d-do about it now!?”

“My life is dependent on yours and you cannot even defend yourself.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Yes it is. No one’s magic is naturally restricted to the protection of others—”

“It’s always been that way.”

“Then you are damaged. Crippled.”

Meifeng gently pushed him away by the shoulders and went to retrieve her glove, donning it quickly. “Well, I’m so sorry you’re stuck with me,” she murmured as she clasped her injured wrist. “But you did this to yourself.”

“If I recall correctly, you agreed to it.”

“You tore out a man’s throat in front of me! I was prepared to do whatever you said!” Arkwright narrowed his eyes in response, obviously angered but not going so far as to protest; the girl continued her defense regardless. “You’re the one who chose to live this way, and you used that linking spell on me. I accepted because I thought it would mean… you wouldn’t have to kill anymore. I-I wanted to help you…” She dabbed at her eyes and quickly turned away from her regally dressed companion.

How he hated to see a woman cry. “And Dsalor is the one who provided me with the faulty spell glyph,” he thought aloud in an effort to draw attention from his past lapses in judgment. Nothing was to be considered his fault as long as he could find a third party to blame. “Your magical energy is terribly strong… How on earth was I to know that you—” His line of sight fell on Meifeng, who was quietly sobbing into her sleeves. He cringed. “I’ll be outside,” he muttered as he made his exit.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by Saint-Just on Oct 6, 2011, 4:00pm

Time had passed. Not a considerable quantity, but enough to unsettle Sinclaire as he jolted awake, his consciousness aroused by the thunderous vibrations of the gate’s opening.

“Blast it all… thrice-condemned slave of the machines, could you not have considered a more soothing method of rousing me?” he mumbled, leaping to his feet and rushing furiously to the window. A small yellowish shape was mounting a sleigh with the aid of a somewhat browner speck, indicating that his quarry was escaping. Snarling with rage colored by desperation, Thames kicked aside his chair and dashed for the porter’s gate, a shout of “Maxwell!” piercing the ever falling snow. It is a scientific fact, according to the researchers of Murota University, that the voice of Sinclaire Thames is significantly colder than the average temperatures of the Ghalean wastes, giving him something of an edge in such environs. Seeing that the girl had paused and dropped from the expectant carriage, he slackened his pace slightly. She was… too short. Heart sinking, the possibility of his having erred became all too apparent.

“Celia…?” murmured Thames, more to himself than the two figures some yards ahead of him. As the perpetually cinereous haze of the hoary climes gave way to reveal the finer textures of the supposedly desired party, disappointment was cemented. “Ah…” he mumbled, “…you.”

“…me?” answered the blonde girl in a tone which in its neutrality echoed the general sentiment of the painter of the grand Ghalean mural. She was, indeed, short. As Celia Maxwell was by no means a dwarf, it was quite clear with whom Sinclaire was now dealing.

“Emily,” stated Sinclaire, staring blankly. “You are not the one I wanted.”

“I get that a lot,” she retorted. This was true; when one is the teenage sibling of a renowned scientist, visitors are comparatively scarce. Emily’s valet suppressed a caustic chuckle, though the girl appeared to take no notice.

“Was not your sister meant to be here on III Quintidi?”

“Most assuredly.”

“She came with you, then?”

“I am afraid not.”

“She traveled separately, her means of conveyance having been stored away to spare the beasts the biting winds?”

“No sir.”

Sinclaire bit his thin, cracked lip in frustration, swallowing a string of expletives. “What, then,” he began with apparent difficulty, “has brought us to this point?”

Giggling airily in a fashion much envied by her sister - albeit with the most dire secrecy conceivable – Emily patted Sinclaire’s arm condescendingly. The patronizing gesture was not lost on Thames. “Poor, scatterbrained man! It is II Quintidi, is it not Alan?”

“Quite certainly, mademoiselle, for I know my nephew’s birthday to be tomorrow.”

“And how is little Glen-“

“Kindly dispense with the gibbering,” interjected Thames, glaring balefully at the servant. “Your nephew is of no concern to anyone, chattel. Coarse horror that is your breed, wriggling about in the dirt of the race, devil take him if his cake has cream, for it is no doubt some manner of vulgar substitute for the genuine article…” The rant, so charmingly executed, ceased abruptly as Sinclaire grasped his temples in agony. “Venus preserve me… my head…” Though Alan was far from sympathetic, having been so thoroughly derided at the most personal level by the pale invalid, Emily’s look of slight amusement faded, replaced by muted concern.

“Poor, tormented man…” Extending an arm to once more pat Sinclaire, she was harshly rebuked by a sharp downward strike to her petite arm. Having employed the hand previously engaged in clutching his head in the half-hearted assault, Sinclaire’s countenance was now wholly exposed, a look of the most unmitigated ferocity almost burning the startled girl with its intensity.

“Don’t touch me.” The acuate whisper accompanied eyes wide, wild and cruel. “Do not pity me; I am greater than you will ever know.” So saying, he wheeled about and staggered back to the gate, kicking impotently at the porter’s door until the gate operator unlatched it. Wounded by the man’s declination, Emily cast her eyes downward as Thames vanished, shivering in the suddenly noticeable cold. Alan silently draped a heavy fur over her and, having helped his charge into the sleigh, mounted the driver’s bench and urged the reindeer into a gallop. In the relative warmth of her dark cabin, Emily wiped away vain tears. Not for Thames, as anyone vaguely aware of the man knew that he was beyond help. Emily wept for herself; a child can only be reminded of her insignificance so often before breaking.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by areyu on Oct 6, 2011, 10:36pm

The pair had said not a word to one another after leaving the library. Arkwright was relatively unaffected by the silence—he quite liked it, in point of fact; Meifeng fared altogether less favorably under such conditions. Arkwright was literally all she had until she got home, and the possibility of him being cross with her until they arrived back in Jardin made her ill with anxiety. How incredibly unpleasant a week’s worth of travel devoid of civil conversation would be.

Having spotted Dantalion, however, Meifeng’s mood lifted substantially, as he could serve as a buffer of sorts between her and her irate colleague. “Oh, thank goodness,” she mumbled to herself as she approached him, Arkwright opting to hang back. With feigned cheerfulness, she greeted the cloaked individual with, “Hello, again!”

Arkwright briefly considered retrieving her—this was a person who’d easily felled a dozen or so lupine monstrosities, and who clearly possessed the ability to fell a human with fairly little trouble. But to do so would be insanity, he reasoned. More importantly, it would be a tipoff that he was invested in the girl’s safety for reasons other than pleasant company, as he’d already made it clear that he despised her very presence. Reluctantly, he refrained from taking any action.

“Thank goodness we’ve run into you again! The scholar we were searching for has returned home already,” the girl started, unable to make eye contact despite her attempts at an airy and self-assured countenance. “We were wondering if you could, perhaps, tell us if it’d be possible for us to procure a set of rooms for the night?”

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by Saint-Just on Oct 7, 2011, 4:09pm

"Set of... rooms..." grumbled Sinclaire, apparently failing to process the girl's request. Everything was pulsating... motes of blinding light danced at the edges of his vision worsening the throbbing considerably, as did every sound above a whisper. Squeezing the bridge of his nose in an attempt at soothing acupressure, yet entirely to no avail, he at last muttered "there are no rooms, this isn't a bloody hotel" as he made a vain attempt at finding a solution. It quickly became apparent that he was in no mood to be at all productive, leading Sinclaire to his favored method of problem solving, that is to say, removing anyone capable of perceiving the problem.

"Pass out. In the middle of the room. They'll take you to a hospital chamber." Finding himself unable to rely upon the girl to follow his expert advice of her own accord, Thames languidly placed his hand upon her forehead in an almost religious motion, letting flow a hastily composed Form carrying glyphs of sleep, rapidity and endurance. The intent was to force her into an extended sleep, if only to silence her and accordingly permit Sinclaire to rest undisturbed in some quiet, shaded corner.

Re: Implode a Few Gentlemen Post by areyu on Oct 14, 2011, 11:44pm

“Get up!”

The impact of a pillow with her face woke Meifeng from her light slumber, just as she had begun to stir. “Oh gosh, how long was I out?” she jumped as she frantically surveyed her surroundings. Dantalion had been right; the two had, apparently, been brought to a hospital room after being knocked out.

Arkwright scowled. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been out for as long as you have,” growled the male as he somewhat groggily reached for her arm.

“You passed out, too?” the girl mumbled as she was half-heartedly pulled from her bed.

“It would appear that my state of consciousness, among other things, is linked with yours,” he grumbled, suppressing a yawn.

The brunette looked away guiltily. She could not claim to have any semblance of a sleeping pattern, and nodded off quite easily if not occupied; the whole train ride to the compound had been spent lapsing between light slumber and wakefulness. It had not appeared to effect the male to which she was unfortunately bound in even the slightest. Her difficulty with her sleep schedule, and even her sleep in general, had a natural, if not uncommon, cause—not so with her latest bout of “sleep.” She had not drifted off into the land of dreams, but had instead been knocked unconscious, and Arkwright followed suit.

“If my sleep disorder hasn’t bothered you yet, there’s probably no cause for concern. I don’t think I’ll be getting knocked out again any time soon.”

“I should hope you’re right, for your sake.”

Meifeng sighed, and glanced at the boy with marked apprehension. “Arkwright… I really am sorry. I swear to you, I’ll—I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“That would be much appreciated,” he murmured, still mildly dazed. Blinking several times, he continued, “Perhaps it would be in our best interest if we remained here, for the time being. I still feel… rather faint.”

“And goodness knows, we might have to fight off a doctor or two. They may be after our kidneys,” the girl chuckled.

With feigned seriousness, the boy responded, “Precisely, if they’ve not taken them already.” Contrary to commonly regal manner of conducting himself, the male lazily dropped himself into the nearest chair, and resigned himself to a much needed rest. “And once he returns home, Dsalor will not be going anywhere…”