#maiserel

[neathbound]

What would you take from the Radiant Architects' quarters?

A glass case of bones, taken from no animal living or dead

A pile of handwritten recipes, with oddly-specific preambles

A jar of exotic dried meats labelled "Eos"

A numbingly-cold stone marked with meaningless symbols

A mechanical array of magnifying glasses and mirrors

A chessboard of black glass and stained ivory

A collection of battle-scarred nameplates, all reading "Landsknecht"

A sheaf of letters both written by and addressed to Maiserel

A knife which has no reflection or shadow

A mask which cannot be made from anything but skin

Voting ended onOct 17, 2024

Joining this trend, after seeing @lord-emerson's!

[neathbound]

The Kolomans are such bad spies that Maiserel has incepted themself with conspiracy theories. Now they're certain that the Kolomans' utter lack of experience is actually a front, and that they want everyone to think they're terrible Surface spies.

Why? ...We'll figure that bit out later.

[neathbound]

London, 21-3-99, 1:53 A.M.

A sallow middle-aged man stumbles off a ferry, recently arrived from the Cumaean Canal. The man's eyes dart, frantic, from place to place, behind his thick bifocals; his hand runs endlessly over his balding head: an unconscious gesture of comfort.

It is unclear whether his patchy blond stubble is the result of having forgotten to shave, or if it's all he can grow; it is unclear whether his scholarly clothes are stained as a result of his entry to the Neath, or if they needed cleaning long before that; it is unclear whether his clear agitation and anxiety is due to the newness of his surroundings, or if he is always like that. It is clear that his badly bloodshot eyes do not compliment the deep bags beneath them.

He avoids the dockworkers of Wolfstack - even they intimidate him - and finds his way (not without a shout of fear the first time he sees a Clay Man - and the second - and the third) to the University, where he looks only marginally more comfortable.

He openly stares at the devils of Benthic, at the strange symbols and experiments, mouth half-agape; he finds a suitably human-looking individual and manages to stop them, stammering badly.

Eventually, he manages to convey to the Approachable Scholar exactly what he is looking for: "a young woman, called Amalia," he says, in a wavering, reedy Welsh accent, "and... someone called the Radiant Architect?"

When the Approachable Scholar asks what he wants with the professor, he fails to hide the candid bafflement that crosses his face. When he composes himself, he finds the words he's looking for.

"I'm David. Their ex-husband."

[neathbound]

The problem with the latest chapter of Firmament is that Maiserel isn't that concerned with saving Burgundy. They've seen the visions. If Burgundian dominance of the Neath is on the table, well, Maiserel would be happy to wait until the city's been incapacitated to step in & help.

Frankly, it's why they're on Maximilian's side here. Not because they like the guy, but because the Duchess is mad they tried to kill her. And, you know, because they wouldn't mind a war between Feastmen and loyalists decimating both sides.

[neathbound]

At long, long last: there is no item I have ever wanted more than this one. What better representation of Maiserel's state of being?

[neathbound]

The temptation to make a whole slew of Stacks AU Maiserels now that we know for sure that there can be alternate universe versions of real people...

[neathbound]

Maiserel, wreck that they are, spent ten minutes agonizing over whether to dance with Summer or Tatterdemalion - they eventually chose Summer, but spent the entire dance making eyes at Tatterdemalion over Summer's shoulder.

[neathbound]

Maiserel stared at the newspaper clipping in their hand: DAUGHTER OF OTTOMAN DIGNITARY FOUND DEAD.

They sighed, and began drafting a brief letter of congratulations to their Surface agent. After that, they wrote a pair of missives for some of their other selves, notifying them of the success.

The Masters will no longer have a bargaining chip over the Dignitary, Maiserel wrote, and he will turn his attention back to his Surface interests (and allies).

A knock at the door of their study. They folded the letters and turned, just in time to see themself step into the room. The doppelgänger before them was truly identical to them: not even a scar or hair out of place. Not like those other rogue elements.

"Writing to the Surface?" Maiserel asked.

Maiserel nodded. "Successful mission. Have you worked with the Woman from Málaga? She's quite effective."

The other Maiserel's eyes drifted toward the newspaper clipping on the desk. They frowned. "The Ottoman Dignitary?"

Maiserel smiled. "His daughter died of natural causes, of course; no investigation will be able to prove otherwise."

Maiserel's face fell. "You had a man's daughter killed to further your own interests?"

"Death is a part of the Game."

"That's what Cups said."

Maiserel froze. They met their doppelgänger's gaze. "This is different."

"It's not. Was she important, or was she just a way of getting to him? Did you even know her name? Did another innocent daughter lose her life for no reason other than to cause her parent grief?"

Maiserel stood. "It's not like that - it was a necessary evil - a means to an - you understand, I know you do. We're the same person, for G_d's sake!"

Their doppelgänger took a step back. "I don't know that we are."

Before Maiserel could stop them, Maiserel was gone, footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. By the time Maiserel followed them out into the hall, it was empty, save for a shattered mirror.

They looked down at their own broken, distorted reflection. It gazed back up, and for the life of them, they didn't know the person looking back at them.