Strangers DNI. Sideblog for specific RP AU (Circus Aevitas), featuring a rotation of muses:
Captain Nemo, Hawley Griffin, Mina Murray & Orlando (from LOEG & their own books heavily AUed.)
Current dormants: none
Mun: 30s, they/them. All content is ic unless explicitly stated otherwise.
Hello hello! The stowaway is here with an update on things, as it's been a while since I posted... ._.' (sorry) there's not a very exciting reason why, just health stuff =_= I thought I'd post a list of active and hibernating WIPs on here for accountability and clarity, as I have been writing for the blog in the last few weeks, but not posting yet orz
Hibernating WIPs
Garden of Eden event threads: Orlando & Havar, Hawley & Sherlock. I'm happy for us to continue those, or we could plot out what happens and keep that as shared lore between characters, or something else entirely, I don't mind!
Halloween fic, pertaining to the immortality of the Nautilus crew: to focus on the active WIP below, I'm putting it on hold until next spooky season c:
Now onto the upcoming stuff!
Active WIPs
active thread: Nemo & Mycroft, I owe 1x reply
event fic: 3rd part of my Garden of Eden fic, Family Matters, is a WIP currently, but it wraps up Tres Poenitentes' plot and emotional outcomes for the event.
Multipart fic, charting Hawley & Henry's relationship from 1877 to the 2000s, through diary entries, transmissions, and finally, free indirect style. I have been working on this since last year, I'm several chapters and thousands of words in, but it's a bit of a gruelling write as; especially as Edward Hyde is involved, it digs into themes of abuse dynamics, but I think that writing it is making me a better writer. That said, from my editing I don't think that it will be an easy read in several chapters, either, so each chapter will be content-warned individually. The fic can be dipped in and out of, skipping chapters wherever, I just wanted to chart their relationship dynamic and evolution throughout the decades. I will hopefully start posting the first few chapters in the next few weeks, and then work on and post it between now and October, so I can go back to the (much shorter) spooky season fic in good time.
The final and most rapidly approaching completion WIP... is that, a sideblog, approaching? It looks like a camper, that's been modified into... a rocket? The hell??
A continuation of the 11pm fic. Set immediately after the events of the Uniqueness Theorem thread.
Content warnings for: mentions of suicide attempts and rape, violence, grief.
Hawley was actually watching that odious man leave, his gaze lingering with the yearning of a Romance heroine. Lando kept her silence a moment more, before her disgust spilled out.
"'A request for a loved one's resurrection', hm?" she asked, as he turned to her, his face contorting in a myriad little ways as he remembered she had been by his side throughout his conversation with their host. "That was your real wish?"
He stumbled over his words to justify himself. "Well, I..."
"You lied to me?"
"It was to--"
"You betrayed your own father?!"
At that he looked appalled. "No, he had your wish!"
She was almost too stunned by his gall to speak. "Because damn whatever Orlando wants, is that it?!"
"You said--"
"Oh don't start as if you wouldn't have tried to talk me out of it if I'd had a wish of my own!" her voice was strident with righteous anger. "You truly are a nasty little man, I never fully saw it 'til now."
"Lando--" he was gasping desperately, like a suffocating fish. "Please, it was for Henry, if--"
"I bloody well know it was for Jekyll, Griffin!" she yelled, incredulous. "You think that makes it better?! You owe the Captain your life, and you'd trade his salvation for one last fuck from some ancient Presbytarian?! Not only him, but what about your young painter who was murdered?! You had a thousand other wishes you could make, and you chose the most selfish one, in the most cowardly way imaginable!"
Griffin's mouth was a perfect 'o'. Orlando ran a hand through her hair in frustration as brain caught up with her mouth. "Look, I shouldn't've... I get it, really I do, but... you're young to all this, you don't know. Henry's had his time, and he had a god he believed in and wanted to be beside. He attempted suicide for the first time years before he knew you, do you not think--"
"Don't you dare."
Orlando had never heard Griffin speak like that. It was his usual monotone he spoke in when he wasn't animated, but there was a quiet finality to it. He wheeled round to fully face her. His eyes were wet with tears.
"You think you know everything because you've lived as long as you have, but you have no idea what he and I lived through, so don't you fucking dare speak to me about him as if I were some dunce. He and I saved each other. We had experienced things no man ever had before--"
"No you hadn't," Orlando cut in, sardonic at his reproach. "You always talk as if you were the first invisible man, as if there hadn't been magics and curses worked throughout time for such things. Same with your dearly departed changling beau. Same with losing someone at the height of your love." In spite of herself, Orlando's own eyes were shining, "I nearly wrote Sinbad's name on that slip, but you know why I didn't? Because he wouldn't have wished me to. You have to understand that Henry's with his god now, so--"
"Henry was burned alive, a prisoner in the body of the man who raped and - to his mind - murdered his lover." Hawley said bluntly. "Henry died mere weeks after he cried tears of joy at feeling strong enough to return to a congregation once more, now that he had me. He wasn't 'at peace', lackwit, he was in torment. I won't pretend I haven't been false to you, or that I'm not selfish in my need of him, but he needs me too! We saved each other--!" a choked sob.
Hawley shook his head violently. "And yes it is different to the magics of other ages! This was science; there were no gods for us to pray to, no fairy circles or sages or whatever to give us hope! Henry wanted to go to Hell rather than live on as Edward, and I was- I was--" the tears overspilled.
"I was nothing, I was less than nothing, I was less than a man, I was no longer human, I had no-one-- and, and Henry saw me, and he loved me, and that was healing him! God above knows someone like me could-- but I want to save him, love him, heal him in return! I owe him that much."
"You had no-one, eh?" Lando watched his histrionics with the frustrated detachment she'd hidden until this point. "Funny, because after your indorser's monster left you for dead, No-one took you in. No-one saved you, clothed you, loved you, and adopted you. And tonight, you spat in his face.
"Perhaps your loneliness had less to do with your invisibility and more to do with your character. It would explain the trail of monsterous lunatics you've courted, past company very much included."
To her surprise, Griffin's face did not crumple into further sadness, but went completely taught, almost blank. It startled her, as did the dispassionate, quiet voice that spilled from his lips next.
"When will you stop this pretence of Orlando The Great Sage? Will it be centuries from now, when you tire of it, as you tire of everything, be it a fashion or a lover, or will it be tonight? Will it be when you or I reveal to your immortal wife, who you know damn well only became your immortal wife for fear of becoming a vampire, learns that not all vampires are wicked? And she starts to realise that she does not have to spend eternity with a vapid, arrogant, heartless Delilah of Sodom, and can instead leave and live and die as she chooses, leaving you just like me, another lonely curiosity clinging to long-dead memories, not fit for anything more than a fleeting fancy?"
She felt her own jaw slacken, her own feet step back, as if it had happened to someone else. Griffin felt it too, his face alive once more, nervous fingers dabbing at the gouge in his temple where she'd saved him with the ormalu clock.
"I--"
But he had no time to finish his sentence, before her hand, her swordsmaster's hand, stuck him sharply across the face, snapping it to his side. He froze where the blow left him. She could hear voices murmuring around them, their attention drawn to the loud and unmistakable sound.
"When you find your own way home tonight, know this," she hissed furiously, not even deigning to look at him. "Nemo shall know every word of what you said to me."
And with that, she turned on her heel, and marched away to the pleasure rooms, where she would go to forget that rotten Englishman, and that deep, unspoken, gnawing fear that he was right about her and Mina.
What persistent facet of weakness, stubbornness or otherwise dominant vein of idiocy is it that drives such wretched souls to beg from those who would sooner burn them? Whether for the purpose of sport or simply fuel for his grand furnace, James would not rush to stipulate over which. Kindling— that is what he sees piled before him.
Yet desperation continues to cling to Mr Griffin like an unsavoury aroma, blood irises pooling in supplication for a scrap of acknowledgement beyond his immediate, functional use. Is this beggar before him the genius who discovered the chemical formula to render oneself unseen to the naked eye? He would scarcely believe the claim, if his appearance had not matched the accounts that James had gathered otherwise.
This man wishes to be chosen. He would tell that him that he will never be chosen.
Not so long as he prostrates himself like a common wretch.
Instead, the Professor permits a crooked smile to bloom upon his pallid features at the sight of that modest warmth rising in Mr Griffin's countenance.
Viscous, honeyed courtesy.
Such as well is the melodious voice that muses in response to his customer's pertinent line of questioning, gathering the chemist's heart-held hand instead into his own gloved palm and laying his other atop it— his spider-like fingers slowly closing as a tooth-lined trap might about Mr Griffin's own.
"Call upon me at your convenience. However—" He chuckles with the softness of a feather's edge, instruction hence given following a veiled pretense of patience and open generosity. "Do be sure to send word ahead of time. I expect my schedule will be quite demanding, and should very much like to arrange an appropriate afternoon during which we might continue our discourse."
James releases Mr Griffin's hand once more, as delicately as one might have placed a porcelain doll before withdrawing to view her new arrangement upon the mantelpiece. Straightening to his full able height once more, the host folds his hands neatly behind himself and nods curtly in signal of his intended, imminent departure from this engagement between them. One more glittering smile, for good measure.
"It has been a delight, Mr Griffin. I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, here in my garden of earthly pleasures."
His heart is thumping in his chest at the gestures of delicate affection his host bestows upon him. It's everything he wanted— so he hears the bite behind the illusion of patience. The wine, long-ago drunk, lingers bitter in his mouth.
It is not his fault; no-one can suffer me for long.
So he cherishes these favours of polite affection; touch, smiles, the delicate returning of his hand; like prescious treasures. He keeps his eyes locked on Mister Marley, nodding along at his instructions.
"Of course, I should not wish to trouble you, Sir, not now, not in the next century."
He's trying to play it off as frivolity but the night has exposed his soul as few other nights had; his desperation to belong, and his eagerness to please to do so, thoroughly denuded.
The finality with which his host wishes him well hurts. He wants to be invited to talk with him, to laugh with him, to hear more about the fascinating life he must have lived to become the patron of this place, but he daren't trouble him.
I'm too foul for such fine company. I should be grateful he invites me to stay at all now that our business is done.
And so, the first words out of his mouth are,
"Thank you,"
and he bows, his carefully returned hand across his chest, "I am sure I shall. It was a pleasure to have met you, Mr Marley."
And he hopes his manner was courtly, not foolish, as he watches the man disengage from his dealings with a guest of such inadequate calibre to the assembled.
Despite all the harrowing turns of the last twenty minutes or so, Mycroft quite enjoys the final twist of his own compliment being returned his way— in quite the elegant fashion at that. He permits a small smile to flit through his features, a flutter of returned confidence and satisfaction. With this expression he once again raises the weapon for reclaimed ownership, waiting patiently for the famed seafarer to take it before stepping backwards and allowing him the space to collect his other belongings once more. His observing eye strafes the items in question as they're gathered: the traditional kirpan, the pistol, knives, dart and chakram.
With no small measure of amusement does he note the sheer volume of weaponry Captain Nemo had brought with him tonight: enough to slay a small platoon of soldiers, let alone a lone government clerk in his office. Just what resistance had this seasoned warrior been expecting to face? Quite the fearsome image he seems to have struck, simply from a description given by chance through the medium of his brother's flattering imagination. Extraordinary notion, really. He watches as these items for personal destruction are bundled away into a rather non-descript carrying bag, crafted from otterskin— naturally proofed against water, his lifestyle would demand as much.
Mycroft lifts his head again with mild composure, appreciating the rapid evaporation of threat between them: at last, it feels as though they are seeing eye to eye. An accord of some fashion being struck here, he doesn't feel altogether certain where their singular acquaintance might lead from the shrouded boundaries of this room, if indeed it would lead anywhere at all. Part of him expected his image of the Captain before him to fade into the annals of legend once more, never to be witnessed by his eyes again. He might even come to regard this instance as something more akin to a strange dream, or a rare and altogether supernatural experience.
Glancing to the hand offered to him, Mycroft reasons that such an estimable figure in the realm of seafaring would regardless present a compelling friend in future. Even, at this point, a purely speculative one. He takes the hand outstretched to him for a courteous, consolidating shake.
"As a decidedly landfaring creature, I am not entirely certain when our paths shall cross again— nor indeed if they shall ever do so." He speaks his observations candidly, in a mellowing tone steeped with deeper contemplation.
"That being said, I am hardly immune to the fruits of offered friendship once extended with due sincerity. I wish you well, Captain Nemo. Believe me to be sincere in expressing that much, in turn."
Wit, confidence, even small smiles have returned to the young man, and he is glad of it. He should stand tall for his efforts in Mysore, and his guile in the face of death mere moments before.
Perhaps one day his brother's opinion of him shall be true.
And now, that was a comforting thought; a British government helmed by a man of reason and (more importantly) morality, not the gutless moneymen of her current court, paying their debts in others' blood.
His own smile deepens as his handshake is accepted with an honest witticism and sincere acceptance. His eyes twinkle as he regards the man.
"And I you, Mister Holmes, with that same sincerity." Speaking with him is like the first forrays of friendship he had had with Miss Murray on the long voyage from Lincoln Island to Cairo (though shorter than that voyage would have been on any other ship in existance, naturally); where that initial hostility gave way to mutual respect, and that had become firm friendship.
I pray to Kali night and day and yet I still cannot hate her as I should.
But any good captain knows when to change tack, so he focuses on the witticism.
"I have met many a landfaring creature, and perhaps I was one, at one time. But storms bring great changes, Mister Holmes; my first mate was once a schoolmaster, and my quartermaster was once an Indian princess. My most recent crewman did not see the sea until he was four-and-twenty, and went about in it for the first time five years later, on my ship.
"Many a landfaring creature is glad of The Nautilus' friendship come the rains, so I shall give you something few men have ever been given: the means to freely communicate with us."
Not losing his grandiose nature at any of this, he reached in his overcoat and plucked out a small metal whistle, blowing on it once. After a few moments a single brown rock dove alighted on one of the windows of Mycroft Holmes' office. Nemo nodded towards it.
"That is Letty, I believe. One of the trained rock doves I keep upon my ship. In giving her to you I must reveal another of my ship's mysteries; but the device about her chest," he gestured to a device akin to a leather pigeon fancier's harness, if a tad thicker, "listens in upon her surroundings as well as any human ear, if the ship is close enough, and pigeons are quite plentiful about the Strand, I believe.
"To preserve my technology and your privacy I will remove that from her, but she is your bird now, Mycroft Holmes, and can be cared for as any pigeon can be. But see the metal about her leg? That contains space for a scroll. Write to us and set her forth and we shall return to you as soon as we are able, and if she returns to us without note or with a blank note we shall assume the worst and return to your defence. Repayment for my assassination attempt, you understand."
He nodded, as if this squared everything away. "So. When you bring Letty in, and after I remove the secrets of my ship from her and give you her whistle: what is your preference? That I leave through the door, passing your man, or drop from the window into the night?"
At last Mycroft feels as though he might stand a little more upright, sure upon his own two feet again. His attacker's contrition apparently sincere, the initial flare of indignation within him has now simmered to a somewhat appeased satisfaction. It is therefore with comparative composure that he retreats from the mariner's immediate vicinity and otherwise occupies himself with clearing up the books that had fallen from his shelves, checking their interiors before placing them back in their appropriate slots against the wall. The process in itself proves to be a calming one, returning order to his thoughts as well as the state of his workplace library.
Behind him he can hear the Captain flicking through his paperwork, at a rate and pace that suggests the other man is at least granting him the courtesy of reading it through with a close eye. At the drop of a compliment made with regard to his constitution, Mycroft stalls in the midst of placing yet another book upon its designated shelf— unexpected, but not unwelcome. He's not entirely used to the word nor sentiment being attributed to his person, and so finds himself uncertain as to how to react exactly. Sliding this final tome back into place, he straightens his evening jacket somewhat before turning to address the famed mariner once more.
"I shall oblige." Mycroft takes the report back with cautious regard, daring once more to turn his back on this intrepid explorer that he might pack the stack of papers into a leather case he keeps in his office on the occasion of necessary transportation. Once this is done he rights himself and turns to face Captain Nemo with that same tentative curiosity, gently leaning his hip against his desk that he might remain propped for the duration of what promised to be quite the enduring speech. He listens as more abstruse crimes of his government are exposed with detail fit to condemn, as the questions he had once held concerning that appointment made in the autumn of 1876 are slowly granted their answer, as figures more than familiar to him are named one by one.
Campion Bond. Charles Augustus Milverton. Though attempting to maintain a stoic decorum his expression nonetheless twitches with a tinge of inherent disgust— he had been spying on each of them for several years now, suspicious that they had plunged their hands into affairs more deeply corruptive than even the average clerk or minister in service. Still had an undertaking of this magnitude evaded him, and Mycroft can feel his gut clench with mounting frustration towards his own ignorance. Had this been the fate meant for him on that sunlit afternoon in October? Would he have charted a different course, or found his hands only similarly stained with the blood of civilisation?
It was a daunting question for him to confront, prompting him to turn his head and focus instead upon the remainder of the Captain's account. Aside from the immediacy of his own alternate fate, Mycroft is consumed with the breadth of new information given to him: talk of time travel, of distant descendants for humanity. It all seemed to his ear the work of more fantastical fiction, and yet he could not detect a sliver of dishonesty nor confusion in the other man. However extreme the account that was given to him, it was the truth. Almost the whole of it, as well. What follows is then quite the remarkable apology from such a proud figure, characterised so far by his resilience and confidence in his own course.
Mycroft otherwise feels the tension in his form drop slightly at the mention of the doorman's wellbeing; it had been a concern lingering at the back of his mind in the duration of their confrontation. Relieved to hear that their had been no further victims threatened or made since their conversation at the Banqueting House, he looks upon the sheathed talwar now stopped at his feet— its magnificent hilt glistening beneath the sliver of moonlight cutting through the tall windows beside them.
He was not about to start the count himself.
"Captain Nemo." He begins with brisk courtesy, tilting his head to indicate an unbroken respect before continuing to speak his piece. "Sir, you have already repaid in full with your frank and forthcoming response. You have demonstrated both honour and candour throughout our engagement, even as you were set against me on false presumption."
It is at this point that he bends his knees, sliding his cushioned hands gingerly beneath the sheathed talwar and lifting the weapon so that he now bore it in a presenting fashion— its curving length resting atop both of his open palms, held out in invitation for the other man to take up once more.
"You have cut through my ignorance. I see no need for any man to shed more than that tonight." Mycroft raises the talwar with urging, nodding as well to the pile of belongings similarly discarded from his guest's person. "Please."
Perhaps against the young man's own preference, given the great transgression against him, Nemo felt a growing affection for him. The fastidious way he had tidied his books (as he would often tidy the smoking room's library after a vicious storm), his slight pause at being correctly commended for his bravery, the way he ardently restored his stately manner, and those grey eyes alive with a myriad thoughts at once. They reminded him of chess games across from Miss Murray, facing an opponent whose intelligence glittered with green fire.
All the more reason to be cautious, you old fool.
As much as he was loathe to admit it, it was much harder to remember to hate Murray for her actions than it was Quatermain. He had had plenty a fascinating discussion with the old hunter by firelight, even shared camp with him multiple times, but he had never felt that kinship and deep personal respect that he had for Miss Murray and her fiery cunning.
Quatermain was born a man and an English one at that, he had no hope of understanding.
But for all she has done, Miss Murray was different, and he knew, from the documents he had read, that Mister Holmes was so.
His conclusion is proved in the man's magnamity, though Nemo could not have predicted all that came with it. At gracious words, the scourge is tongue-tied.
A chuckle escapes his lips out of nerves. "Ahah, it was your rapier wit that has slain my ignorance tonight, Sir."
He bows, taking back his talwar, then his symbolic kirpan, restoring it about his neck. He does not re-armour himself with his other weaponry; pistol and throwing knife and dagger and pneumatic dart and chakram alike are bundled into the otterskin bag over his shoulder, a far less gruesome cargo than he had imagined carrying back when he had slung it across his back as he left his carriage. He is clear with his actions: he will not arm himself against Mycroft Holmes.
Straightening, he lets his eyes meet Holmes' fully. No illusions behind his overwhelming, awkward appreciation.
"You have my deepest gratitude, Mister Holmes," he offers his weathered hand to the man. "It appears both our paths are across trecherous waters, may we part as friends, for they are hard to come by in these parts.
"Should yourself, or your brother, ever require an ally outside of the bounds of lands and Empire... The Nautilus shall answer that call."
practices the rpc needs to Collectively Get Back Into:
commenting on peoples’ posts, threads, art, graphics, etc. just telling them that you see it and that it looks good / is entertaining / etc. – because content creators can’t read your mind and as nice as it’d be for us to always serve ourselves with our work … realistically we will lose motivation to continue creating without some kind of support. if you like something then say so !!
sending each other’s muses messages about muses they’re talking to or characters from their canon and just generally getting actively involved in the narratives other people create & encouraging those people to discuss them
asking people random questions about their characters without fear that it’s too outlandish, provided the question isn’t invasive or rude
sending honest, heartfelt notes of positivity and making loveposts about other creators and the work they do. not chainmail, not lazy generic shit, but real kindness, in our Own Words
drawing people fanart of their characters / ships / OCs !! please !! really !! i don’t know when that EVER became something people grew too nervous to do !! most people ADORE it. even if it’s just fucking stick figures, man, i PROMISE you that taking the time and putting in the effort to show someone that the work they do inspired the work you do will make their whole fucking day
telling !! each other !! that !! we’re !! doing !! good !! jobs !!
being NICE to each other OPENLY and FOR NO REASON with NO PROMPTING
making sure other people feel included in discord servers, roleplay groups, groupchats, multi-way threads, art trades, events, and just. like. overall
acknowledging !! each other’s !! art !! metas !! threads !! worldbuilding !! and !! style !! PLEASE !! PEOPLE !! DONT !! KNOW !! YOU !! LIKE !! THEM !! IF !! YOU !! SAY !! NOTHING !!
and NOBODY with ANY goddamn sense is EVER going to react negatively to you Just Being Fucking Nice so stop worrying about doing that !! PLEASE !!!!!
&. KNOWING YOUR WRITING PARTNER CAN POTENTIALLY MAKE WRITING TOGETHER A LOT EASIER. REPOST. DON’T REBLOG.
– BASICS.
• NAME ALIAS: the stowaway
• PRONOUNS: they/them
• SEXUALITY: oh, no thank you :) (queerace)
• TAKEN OR SINGLE: as in, rping with a specific group or indie? I rp with a specific group (waves at CA folks <3)
– THREE FACTS.
1. I originally wanted this blog to be written entirely in-character, but I have come round to occasional ooc posts like this (even created a dedicated tag for it.)
2. As such, my mun handle was chosen approximately half an hour ago, I have just been going as 'the mun' on here for several months.
3. It is a badge of personal pride that I was trusted to play the Joker in a DC rp group in the 2010s. As you can imagine, many Joker rpers of that era were insufferable, but I'm just a clowning enthusiast with a love for Silver Age characterisation, so I was allowed to play a goofy-silly-but-still-dangerous crimeboy, and my group didn't find me annoying or unfunny (exhales.)
– EXPERIENCE.
• HOW LONG (MONTHS/YEARS?): eight total (four years text-based, four years informal-but-structured LARP), spread over the course of a lifetime
• BEST EXPERIENCE: getting to rp with friends and friends-of-friends on discord and tumblr over the last couple of years. Written RP wasn't accessible to me for some time since I started in my teens/20s (it began to get very overwhelming, stressful, and sometimes even triggering) but medicated and rping with folks I trust, I feel much less pressure to perform and much more able to relax and have fun. ^u^
– MUSE PREFERENCES.
• FEMALE OR MALE GENDERS: I write/play any and all genders, and characters have have complex/changing relationships with their genders. When I was younger I used to play a fair few cis men, but that can get dysphoric for me to play longterm, so now most of my masc characters have some form of more nuanced gender identity.
• FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT: (raises hand) one of each, please! (though in reality I think I am slightly more interested in angst and fluff than I am smut: I love all three.)
• PLOTS OR MEMES: both! I try to ration how much I meme on here because I need to tend to/nourish the plots first, but I am *always* down for a silly time XD
• LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: I'd truly love to say both, but even when I try to do short replies they get longer, soooo ._.' something I need to work on, for sure. XD
• BEST TIME TO WRITE: after taking my meds for the day, but other than that ??? whenever, I either slot in chipping away at replies around other chores, (eg, on the bus, when resting from washing up, etc) or I set aside a dedicated time to Do Replies and work through as many as I can (important note: I have to refer to all my passions as chores/work or my ADHD-and-chronically-fatigued ass will not do them, so those words are being used with neutrality here.)
• ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSES: (takes a deep breath) so. XDDD None of my muses are just like me frfr, but for me to be able to play them for any lengths of time there has to be some commonality there, usually shared trauma and/or mental illnesses, because... erm, I have a lot of them to go about XD, and because I use creating fanworks for self-exploration/discovery, as well as ofc play/crafting. I'm much more comfortable and prolific as a fanfiction author than I am a written rper for this reason; for me fanworks can be quite a vulnerable act, and rp is a fanwork that invites others into that space, so I have to really trust people to rp with them.
Spoken rp is for me somewhere in-between fic and written in terms of how comfy I can get with characters in it. For example, after years of hovering on the sidelines I recently got into the IWTV fandom. I'm comfortable with my interpretations of some of the characters, I've even started scripting some fancomics and doing warmup sketches. If you told me tomorrow "hey, you're invited to an IWTV LARP" I'd be like "cool, can I play Armand or Santiago?" confident that I could do a good job. But am I ever going to written-rp Armand or Santiago? GOD no, even the thought of that stresses me out! (Also there are far better muns than I absolutely eating up the IWTV space <3) I think it's the length of time you have to spend in the character's head/with the character in your head that makes me so picky. (Related, I love irl rp, but takes a lot of energy, and can totally exhaust me very quickly.)
With this trio of four in particular; rping them is the end (for now) result of a journey with these characters that started when I was 14/15 (or in Mina's case, 11/12.) I'm in my 30s now. I've had over half a lifetime of learning about them, reading/watching different interpretations, forming my own interpretations, and changing them as I grow, and their influences changing me as I grew. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen fully ended in that time, so I truly feel like I've spent a lifetime with those interpretations of the characters, and as such I'm not only comfortable, but eager to play around with my reinterpretation of them. :)
tagged: @lostsovl and @varldsormr
tagging: whoever wants in! ^u^
There has certainly been a shift in the Captain's energy, this Mycroft begins to notice only when his fear at last grants reprieve enough for him to surface above its obscuring depths. It had been the factor of confusion that had previously snagged his every thought in a tangling net, the sudden horror of recognising that contrary to his initial deductions he had in fact no foundation upon which to explain this man's actions against him. Relieved of the more immediate terror of expiring without ever knowing why he had been taken to trial by the famous mariner, his curiosity was now inevitably beginning to outweigh his former objective to survive.
Perhaps the honest laughter currently filling the room was also itself a strange balm to his nerves, if a somewhat humiliating one.
"At us both, I would say." Mycroft cannot help but express in a rare drawl of petulance, even casting a somewhat resentful glance towards the stalwart man blocking the exit to his office. Really. After everything else that had just transpired, must he suffer profound embarrassment in turn?
Nevertheless he is sharp enough to catch the almost occurring slip of tongue on the Captain's part, certainly he had not been about to mention a child? He racks his brain for data he may have previously come across on such a relation to the legend, but finds himself occupied rather in what stream of information follows on from there. If not a child, then evidently a charge. With the revelation however comes another injection of genuine well-meaning on the part of the older man, remarkable pendulum swing as this had been between demeanours exhibited towards him. Given that this had all evidently been some manner of misunderstanding, perhaps this shouldn't come as so much of a surprise.
"Your proof." Mycroft declares with a short huff and scowling sharpness as he once more stands before the Captain, directing his stack of papers out towards the Captain with an outward whip of his holding palm and unintentionally (or intentionally) rapping the man's coat with this very documentation. Conscious though he was that confidential figures and calculations were contained therein, he would not stand accused on false charges a moment longer within the walls of his own workspace.
"If you peruse the content of these papers, you will see that I have been engaged in an ongoing argument favouring the plight of our countrymen. Figures that systematically disprove the most persistent arguments made by less sympathetic colleagues, accounting for abuses in administrative privilege and artificial shortages manufactured exclusively by profit-motivated men in office."
There was, then, a tilt of his head— an expectation of being deemed correct in advance, and presumptuous enough to pursue that line accordingly.
At the young man's sharp tone, Nemo leans out of the light, so no amusement is found in his features, and addresses his former quarry honestly.
"You have my apologies, Mister Holmes. My laughter was directed at myself alone, I hold you in high regard, and have no wish to make light of my grave injustice upon your character."
He accepts papers shoved into his chest with polite quietude, ignoring any disrespect meant, though it tickles him to think that in another fairer world this sharp mind could have been his Commodore in a great navy.
But nothing is more sobering than the contents of these papers. Mycroft Holmes spoke it true; he was fighting for Mysore with his pen as hard as any could wield a talwar. Nemo read them, not at his leisure, but as thoroughly as Holmes, and their people of whom he spoke, deserved.
"You are a brave man indeed, Sir," Nemo says, offering the papers for their wielder to take. "And I am truly sorry for my attempt on your life. I will fulfill my end of the bargain, and once I do, I ask you humbly to hear two more utterances from me." And he stands ramrod straight, chin upturned, delivering his report.
"The British government has long been aware of phenomena, beings, and devices that are outside of what can be explained by modern man and his sciences. In 1877 it employed a small covert group of individuals who have experience with these phenomena to investigate them further on behalf of the Empire. Though I feel no loyalty to this bloody Empire, I was made to fear for the safety of my home should I refuse, and the opportunity to further pioneer my field intrigued me, so I accepted my role when I was tapped. I was one of six field operatives, forgive me for not disclosing their names, but I am certain you understand fealty borne of shared wounds. There are, however, some names I will gladly share.
"We reported to a man named Campion Bond, and he reported to the head of our unit, a Mr Milverton. These two men were venal cowards, who misrepresented the work they sent us on as research and recovery of stolen goods, when it was in fact destruction and pillaging. We outplayed Milverton, and he went to ground, no longer under the employ of Her Majesty. Bond took his place, and was far worse. In the summer of 1877, we were told England was embroiled in a time-travel war with some of humanity's far descendents, sapient beings called Morelocks. The time-travel was real. The Morelocks, terribly so. But there was no war. Yet Bond played us for fools, and convinced my colleagues - not myself, mind - to unleash disease bombs on the Morelocks. It was a genocide, instigated by Bond, killing Morelock and destitute Londoner alike in a secret war; all so your government could get its hands on a device that could sail through time.
"I left the service immediately upon discovering this fact. One of my colleagues was in my care at the time due to a vicious injury, he has stayed loyal to me. Two more were killed in Bond's false war. I know not of the lives of the final two, nor do I care to, for they procured the disease bombs."
Nemo sighed heavily. "There. You have names, timelines, even details of an incident. As for my two further utterences..."
This will be difficult.
"I said a wicked thing to you at Bank House, denied you your place in our kin. That was wrong of me and false. You are every bit as Indian as I, Mister Holmes, and I apologise for my accusations otherwise.
"Lastly," Nemo's stance relaxed again, only because he was busying himself with his equipment as he spoke, "Many things in this world are unfair, Mister Holmes, but I like to think I am not one of them. I came here alone, and your man on the door should be at his post as normal, completely unharmed. My own accomplice has long since left, with instructions not to turn back should the hue and cry be raised." He loosed his belt, kicking his sheathed talwar across the floor. He dropped his other weapons atop it, even the ceremonial kirpan he wore atop his undershirt, and stepped back.
"I made an attempt on your life. Now mine is in your hands. Do as you will, Mister Holmes."
The clock-wound gesture stings a little, unexpectedly; Called by old names, old history. No slight known or quite intended on her part, of course, he reckons. Nay, it's merely a start reminder of just how long it's been since they had met each other last, how the centuries have passed since then, how sparse reunions of old friends-- how bittersweet. Even so, the trickster snickers at her motion all the same (never one to miss a beat) and waves a hand at the semantics. It is true this is a queer spot, after all. "Aye, well, you know me, lass - never one to stay in place, same as y--"
--with a puff of air and barely a stagger, his sentence gets cut off by her veritable lunge towards him, the wrap of her arms squeezing him with palpable excitement (and notable strength--) which manages to catch even the former patron of such quickness half off-guard - amber eyes briskly widening and hands thrown up for just a heartbeat before his laugh cracks over the surprise, and his own arms come around to pat her back in turn.
Bit sluggish on the reaction time, there, bub. Is it the wine which makes him slow? Perhaps. Not so bad, this, though. A sense of strange old fondness reawakening as a quite refreshing energy permeates when Mrs. Lando pulls away, starting to recount her own adventures as of late at a speed which might put Him to shame, and then--
"Steal? Me?" A hand clasped to the open neckline of his shirt in a dramatic fashion, Havar sucks in a gasp in mock, frankly affronted and similarly scandalized by the implication of her words. "Why, I resent that accusation," he says, doing his best to put on a new expression of offense, only somewhat diluted by a double twitch of amusement at the corners of his lips, as well as the twinkle of mischief in his eye as the spirit pointedly leans in a little closer; "Who said I needed one, at all?"
With a wink and and another airy sort of chuckle he withdraws again, adapting a more languid stance as he slips his hands - and the obol - into his pockets. With some interest, he lets his eyes pan over the woman a little more consideringly, now that they've separated, cocking his head to the side accordingly as he regards her own disheveled state with growing curiosity. Eyes flicking from her, to the door behind her, and then back again.
"Aye, but what of you, missus? Congratulations for that, by the way. You here for work, now? Pleasure?" Another twinkle, and there's a slight shift in his voice, a singly brow quirking inquiringly. "Both?"
She's certain he's humouring her with his surprise at her embrace, one as quick and quick-witted as he would never be caught out by her, but she allows herself a little pride in his shock, regardless. Perhaps she's more drunk than she imagined, for she clutches at poetry in their embrace; a reunion after multiple lifetimes of... worship, in a way. For what was Orlando if not the harlot warrior-thief? But those pontifications didn't feel right: the god's arms did not have to be grand or reverent to feel like home.
She laughs at his dramatics over her accusation, and smiles in awe and approval at his answer.
"I was a fool to think otherwise of you, maestro." she grins, cogs turning for how she could apply this to a function in future. Bluff, disguise, simple breaking and entering, or simpler still seduction? She wants to know but doesn't want to be told and ruin the game of it.
She notices the coin slip away into his pocket, and is taken aback by the pang in her chest at the gesture. She realises she wants him to be Hermes, in the same way a child wants her favourite toy to be brand new forever, and is almost taken aback by how much it bothers her that he has moved on. She did not remember feeling this way when he was Mercury, and Lugus, but now she realises that in her memory he is always Hermes; Hermes-as-Mercury, Hermes-as-Lugus. But she is not Bio-as-Orlando...
Her reverie is interrupted by his gaze flicking over her and the door. Perhaps another would feel ashamed at what the god they had worshipped in their youth had caught them doing, but Orlando was far too old to feel shame for her proclivities.
"Thank you, I was not expecting to marry... but, ah, my lady-wife is not behind that door. That's the wife of the celebrated Docteur Ramond, and her artiste companion Mademoiselle Clotilde Saccard." belatedly realising how that sounded, she continues in a hurry. "I am not presently a courtesan, but my wife and I enjoy the pleasure of others, with each others' full knowledge and blessing. In fact, I would have loved for her to accompany me to this affair, but alas, she refused. She was certain it would be a hotbed for vampires, see. She had a terrible experience with one of the Old-Worlder Wallachians," she rolled her eyes at what she imagined Mina's cowardly bastard of a tormentor to resemble, "You know how they can be, I'm sure."
She sighs. "I'm mainly here for pleasure, though some thoroughly dull business too. My wife is wonderful, and I'm delighted to spend eternity with her, but she's terribly moral. I love that about her, but due to her passions, I've fallen in with... effectively in-laws of the same moral type. She runs a little group of them. Got one of them in the door as my guest," she drinks a deep draft of the elixir, to prove to herself as much as her patron that she has no interest in these affairs outside of her love for Mina, "They're terribly worried about the intentions of this Marley chap. Whereas I," she smirked, "Am far more interested in the company he keeps.
"How about you?" she charges her glass to him. "Business, pleasure, or perhaps even a little taste of home?"
If he had hoped he would miraculously inspire reason in the drunk man with his words, it raptly becomes evident that they have had the opposite effect; Almost as soon as he has voiced the accusation, another wail springs forth with wretched fervor, sudden and loud enough that even the giant might've jerked, if the alchemist had not likewise chosen that moment to cling onto his furs. Wobbling him forwards to his own surprise-- Gods, he does not fare much better, does he?
Yet he could swear he had not drank to such an excess. No more than a few glasses from the fountain. A bottle of whiskey, or two. The inebriation of his company--
Jormun's brow furrows with a puzzlement and an eluding recollection of the night, events blurring together, trying to recall when he had let himself go languid: all the while the pale one wipes his tears against his front, soaking the pelt and muffling sobs. Turning a set of soft and sorrowful yet yearning eyes to gaze up at him, pleading, as though he pictured him a savior. A slightly disconcerting thought. Is this what it felt like to be prayed to? (Wet...?)
He sighs, and lets his arm fall gently 'round to rest a hand over the young man's shoulder, having to hunch a little as he does. Despite it all he does... feel for him, in a sense. That manner of despair...
"I'm afraid I am not so benevolent." He speaks, a little softer than before (a little bitter) but no less firm upon the sentiment, much as his mind is far to hazed to be affronted. If the man wishes to die the serpent will not be an instrument nor tool - not that he could claim to remember ever having turned someone to foam in such a fashion, if it were even in his power. But there are other reasons still, besides; "And-- I believe the Captain would find some means by which to undo me, if I were. He does not strike me as a man to offer kinship freely."
He huffs, mustering what little humor he is capable (it is half a jest and half a serious concern), though the sound turns to a clearing of his throat as the eyes which'd drifted in his thought lays on that sorry state again, scouring his mind for what a wiser man than he might say. And a more sober one.
"Death will not absolve you, boy." Careful of the hands which yet cling to him, the giant lowers to his knees to equal level, and he rumbles. He may sparsely understand a thing of what percieved slight ailed the Alchemist, but turning to water rarely offered a solition, much as he might've wished it did, himself. His grip firms on his shoulder. "If you regret your actions then make up for them another way."
Major content warnings for internalised ableism, disfiguremisia, and queerphobia, and themes of suicidal ideation
The god's presence is so comforting, even as he refuses him is mercy, Hawley just wants to stay cloistered with him forever.
You don't deserve his mercy, craven. Sodomite. Madman.
He cries harder at his guilt of finding yet another way to abandon his father, but he does not have the strength of character to push away, isolate himself as he should. He has never been worthy of humanity, why does he circle it, still?
Monster. Traitor. Addict.
He wants Henry. He wants to be wanted. He wants the love and the acceptance and the attention all the world is granted but him.
Cripple. Degenerate. Albino.
Albi-no! Albi-no! Albi-no!
A pebble to the eye in the playground becomes a boot to the chest in the Iping town square, becomes the jeering officers of Scotland Yard and their rough hands and lye. His father's words of condemnation become Kemp's missive to the police to slow him down with broken glass for his bare feet, becomes Hyde's smashing his face through the library window.
It's terrible business, but it's the only way he'll learn.
It's a pathetic life, but it's the only one he has.
"Death will not absolve you, boy."
The ancient snake god is down at his level, staring him in the eye. Hawley clings to him and trembles. Too afraid to sob anymore, the tears fall silently as Hawley musters all he can to speak. He must answer the god, even if his voice is bearly a whisper.
"I know," more silent, guilty tears. "I just wanted to leave."
He drops his head and holds tighter, waiting for divine rejection, or perhaps retribution. Instead, there is a hand upon his shoulder.
"If you regret your actions then make up for them another way."
He nods through terror and tears, shaking, babbling voicelessly.
"I-I want to, but every path I take I fear burns three more.
"Where can one begin to make amends for the crime of themself?"
He does not expect the great serpent to answer him, no matter how much he wishes he would. He no longer deserves the solice of prayer.
characters with both the abject terror and murderous desperation of an animal that knows it is cornered and destined to be eaten. you just can't get that kind of angst out a successful hunter. but alternatively i posit: predator animal fear. which is a totally different thing
Steadily do the scales appear to fall from those uniquely carmine eyes: something he has said has evidently steered Mr Griffin towards adverse sentiment, and thus he feels as though the other man begins to grasp the less savoury reality of his circumstance. James Moriarty is not a kind man. He is neither generous nor engaged with interests of charity. Ah some would say, but he has dedicated his life to public service, shared his profound knowledge with the student body— how strange it is to him, for teaching to have grow into such a selfless and noble profession within the public eye.
It is and has always been an exercise in ego. Leaving one's mark in the annals of academic celebration, dictating the course of minds and destinies alike. You rule your walled kingdom without room for dissent nor permission for diversion, similar to how interests of business were best conducted in turn. Mr Griffin was beginning to see him for what he was; not so much a miracle maker, wish granter or some equivalent trifle. More a merchant with wares to sell him, genuine and costly to correspond with their due value.
As with Mlle. Armetta and M. de Lioncourt before him, Mr Griffin was at last able to partake in more candid conversation with him.
"I very much concur, Mr Griffin." His smile deepens with crooked satisfaction, lifting his head in such a way that the wall-mounted lamp above them burns warmth into his cold grey irises; life restored to a walking corpse. In truth with multiple successes to count from the course of this evening so far, he was feeling more invigorated than he had in years. How splendid to feel so resolutely his return to form.
"Perhaps we can resume this conversation another time. This venue shall be closed for a short period following tonight's occasion, however, I intend reopen our doors in time for the coming new year's celebration."
Already sifting through established dates in his prospective calendar, James all but thrums beneath the prospect of adding yet another business opportunity to his portfolio of upcoming projects and ventures. How fortuitous to have gathered so many eager customers here tonight, trapped in the honey he had doled out to them in demonstrated possibility and promise.
"Shall we agree to meet once more in the twentieth century, renewed and refreshed with hands ready to chart our own daring course?"
Hawley wants to trust Mr Marley, wants to believe in the best of him, but he cannot ignore the light in his eyes. It is the light of the craftsman when he chooses his best tool for the job. Hawley is intimately familiar with it from his time invisible. And Marley had shown him this face before, when he had been so interested in him, when there were gods and submersibles to discuss.
See me, please.
There was something of the carrion bird in Mr Marley's keenness, his manner, his effortless twists from flow to swift, sharp, motion. It drew Hawley to him; he trained and tended to the Nautilus' pigeons, watched and fed the frigates and gulls curious enough to land on the guardrails when they surfaced on the open ocean, but most of all, it reminded him of when he had needed to survive off scraps. He wouldn't wish his two years outside of humanity on anyone, let alone a friend, however new and venal.
Mr Marley talks business, and Hawley nods along. He's caught between excitement at the prospect of Henry restored, fear of what would need to be done to achieve that, and a longing for Mr Marley to return his attentions. He finds the man charming and fascinating as he fears him. Not since the otherworldly drunkenness of his first draughts of the wine has he felt such an intense, sorrowful yearning for the man's eye. The frustration, pain, and shame exhaust him. He wants Henry, he doesn't need Marley, or the late Count Montresor, or poor, dearly departed Basil. But Mr Marley shimmers in the light, and his final question is full of promise.
"Shall we agree to meet once more in the twentieth century, renewed and refreshed with hands ready to chart our own daring course?"
Hawley is not of a pallor that could hide his blush, and has no will left to hide his laughter. After everything he has seen this night, he cannot pretend that he only wishes to orbit Mr Marley for the sake of Henry, and he hates himself for it.
"I should like that very much, Sir," he places a hand over his heart, "I have your card, should I call upon you in the new century, or should you send for me? I am more sea-tossed than most, which can make that difficult." He's sincere in his playfulness, but the words feel spoken through shattered glass. He has been so thoroughly broken by the night.
A smile cracks through his gelid features with the brusqueness of breaking ice, winter itself humored by the slightest application of pressure. Some bite to this one after all, if more so a nip to one's heel in composition. Temperature adequately plunged for the season ahead of them, he affects the impression of an apology with a slight bow and silk-bound hand slid over heart most sincere.
"The dust will clear on first application of water, I assure you." Naturally he offers his regrets for the stains imparted on the other man's evening clothes as opposed to acknowledging any fault for the inconvenienced condition of his mind. This was a party, and though sin abounded under this roof in many forms he was absolved of the one accounting for his making tonight's occasion interesting for everyone.
Ah but there is the hook, Mr Griffin catches onto his thrown line with the eagerness of a thrashing salmon. What heavenly delights had those blood red eyes witnessed within the hidden sanctuary of his own mind? Could he be witnessing the fruits borne from that fantastical garden he had planted the far-reaching imaginations of so many just moments ago?
Surely it had been so, and such would only continue serving him well.
"I maintain an interest in granting it. My skill, though extraordinary, carries with it the requirements of any— it demands continuous perfection and practice." He straightens somewhat, drawing in a breath that sees his fine embroidered waistcoat expand but slightly beneath the negligible pressure. He is a profoundly lean man, and even with air drawn in he retains his attenuated figure.
"Though of course, I am no longer able to give this boon freely. There would be a cost, my question to you at this time is how much you might be willing to pay?"
There's a sharpness to Marley's dismissal of the pain he'd caused that's sobering. Griffin knew enough to know that he was not a sentimental man, and yet... he had drugged dozens of people. They both knew that. And he talks only of the stain. Hawley cannot hide his sharp intake of breath at the revelation. The banality with which he had been intoxicated, the blowing past the harm... it reeked of Kemp.
Certain his features had soured beyond politeness, Griffin shifted his weight in his chair to pull focus to his proposition. Sure enough, his captivating voice pulls him under the waters again, and he is lost to the reverie of reunion, and also to the intrigue of what it would take to get there. He remembered Mary's 'wish-granting' as a taut implaccable bargain, and remembered Nemo's grief as his body was mutilated to uphold it. This, and the eye of the unfathomably large creature that had affixed on him earlier - surely the higher power which facilitated Marley's skill - fought against Henry's gentle, careworn smile in his mind.
What were these monstrous consequences to one old doctor?
But he knew he could not decide. Before Henry, he had been inhuman, unlovable, as lonely as any man could be: feral after two years of unique isolation. He was desperate for a friend, to be anything other than a curio and a tool... and he had long abandoned the dream of being loved at all, let alone romantically. But Henry had loved him. After two years begging for a cup of water in the desert, Henry had drowned him in ambrosia. They had been truly happy, he had been complete, and they had only been given a scarce few weeks together.
He couldn't just abandon his Henry to the hereafter, when Henry had saved him from his own hell, could he?
Marley's breath shifts through his waistcoat, a shimmered detail he had observed on Henry when he dressed for dinner. Hawley would steal his scarf, and when he turned to reach for it, hook it round his neck and steal a kiss. God, he had been so boisterous after Henry saved him... he barely recognised himself in his memory. Without Henry there, the cashmere around his neck felt like a noose and a mockery. He thought back to the vampires reunited on the stage. He felt a profound lack in comparison to those pristine creatures, he and Henry were broken things, but it could have been them. That was his wish.
It took a long time for him to settle on an answer, staring into nothingness from his chair, white and gold splattered and daubed in red and purple.
"Quite. And given my own... experiences, with powers beyond scientific endeavour, these services must be costly." he catches Marley's eye at that, curious as to what the man must have done to enact his miracle. He sighs, his head almost bowed, but his gaze unbreaking.
"I cannot say, 'name your price, Sir', but I can say I understand its necessity. I am confident we could agree to terms, in private."
"Mister Griffin." He expresses with profound emphasis put to his lilting cadence, determined to catch the prodigious chemist's attention at the first as opposed to wasting even a moment on potential confusion. Even with the crowning achievement of this evening behind him, James remained nothing but attentive to the remaining tasks yet ahead of him. Housekeeping as much as they were for the most part in nature, he knew well enough that he would remain quite restless until he had seen each of them through to completion.
Certain that he had both his fellow academic's blood-like gaze and the sum of his corresponding regard, the host for tonight's occasion nodded to himself with satisfaction and straightened somewhat within his curving stance. A somewhat wretched sight this man now seemed to him, puffy-eyed and evidently wounded in some fashion— he wondered briefly as to whether Mr Griffin caught a whiff of that powdered concoction thrown to the audience, whether that talented mind had thus found itself riddled with flights of fancy.
He'd feel more pity if didn't more so threaten him with inconvenience.
"If you are within your senses, I should like to consult you on a proposition. It would be regarding the wish you submitted earlier this evening— am I right in recalling that it was as well a request for a loved one's resurrection?"
He knew very well already that it had been, really he was merely indulging in the pleasantry-led etiquette of polite conversation here.
He and Orlando spoke in low voices about nothing as he regained his composure. He did not want to tell her anything about what he saw, and she was determined to pry under the guise of helping him.
An obvious, superficial lie. Since when has she ever cared about me?
At least his anger quelled the tears. He had regained an equilibrium, when their host's voice rang through the crowd and there he was.
Jacob Marley, who had made him sick with wine.
Jacob Marley, so alike to his Henry he had almost believed he was back.
Jacob Marley, who did not care for him, only for his proximity to gods and the Nautilus.
Jacob Marley, who set the leviathan's eye upon him.
Jacob Marley, who had drugged him and countless others.
Jacob Marley, who had raised the dead.
Griffin is quiet, raising himself in his chair, gathering what dignity he has left off the floor. His temple is bruised and bloody. His heart is in his throat. His mind has been his enemy all night, and his skin is clammy from the hallucinogen, but his eyes are focused, and his intentions clear.
He regards Mr Marley with all the wonder and fear he deserves, and he doesn't flinch when the man has knowledge he shouldn't.
"Mr Marley." He says, not bothering to push past his naturally flat affect.
The mockery in Marley's next words makes his blood boil. He cuts across him at the end of his sentence.
"I am keenly aware of all my senses, Sir," His tone is icy, a distillation of what had been the white-hot rage of being known as 'the half-wit albino', 'the mad albino', and 'the vivisectionist' for years. He presents the purple-stained fingertips of his gloved hands. "Dusty eaves notwithstanding."
But his next words made his heart skip a beat. He was present, but he yearned to be elsewhere. Cocooned in combed cotton and filigree.
His eyes are hungry. His mouth is dry. He tastes ozone.
