Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains
Posted: Sat Dec 24, 2022 3:29 am
While Gomez cursed under his breath, Zeb raised his flask as only an oblivious drunkard could, belting For He's a Jolly Good Fellow in response to Vlastos' wild display of mirth. Predictably, he chose to elongate fellow as they rushed headlong into the cliff face-
Impact never came. Instead, it felt as though Preston had attached a jet engine or two to the mangled and remade mess of metal and bolts, or as if they were traveling so high up that the conjured wings and near-busted rotor met very little resistance. The air didn't feel thin, however, but a glance downwards would've shown the group that they were indeed far higher than before, and could see what looked like a patch of English countryside in wintertime roll lazily underneath them. Distance made their progress seem slow at first, but Hauser would be more than skilled enough to realize that something about Faerie's air amplified the aircraft's capabilities.
Soon, he'd spot what looked like the more grandiose cousin of Roman viaducts, rising so high and carrying water so far that the craft could've safely slipped between two arches Soon, however, wind seemed to direct them towards some sort of tall and white gorge - like duplicated and flipped versions of the Cliffs of Dover forming a bone-white canyon. At its end waited another opening, something like a reinforced and settled cavern, the inside of which was absolutely jam-packed with houses and buildings of every style traceable to the United Kingdom's long history, from a few recognizably Scandinavian bluffs covered in green grass to slightly-askew Tudor houses and Regency-era townhouses.
"London-Upon-Faerie, lads!" called out Zeb as he stifled a hiccup. "We made it!"
London's Faerie twin followed a layout that made it vaguely evoke the actual city's boroughs, and an analogue to Big Ben was hard to miss in the cityscape, if Big Ben had been assembled by master Clanksmen who'd probably been alive back when Naughton's offices were first opened. Instead of Buckingham Palace, however, a stout Medieval castle of three sections waited near the center of town.
Preston wouldn't have long to spend looking for a place to land, as blue-green firework-like flares soon began to shoot forth from the roof of a squat and stone-hewn building, on the castle's second floor - rather obvious signals, compounded by what looked like a livery-wearing relative of Gubbin's gesturing with two torches. Down below, he'd see part of the other guests, namely Three, Carrie and what looked like Jameson, briefly stop in their tracks to take notice of their arrival.
Unsurprisingly, the only ones who looked unbothered by all of this were those with a foot in the mortal world. Marius and Preston would have ample time to notice things like the castle's apparent milkmaid singing herself before hurrying indoors, or a gaggle of small children suddenly shrieking in terror. Aircraft likely didn't make it directly to this part of Faerie. That seemed to sober up Buck to some degree.
"That's a shame," he noted, "we're the guests of honor, circumstances pushed us to pick unorthodox means of travel, and this is the kind of first impression we leave?"
"It's not like it's our fault, hombre," noted Vargas with a shrug. "Lanterns with reusable fuckin' wicks feel novel to some of these people, and here we come with what's started to look like a rejected concept for a Mad Max aircraft - nevermind the noise we're makin'!"
* * *
Herbert grimaced slightly, but this seemed to be business as usual for the Draugr. They moved awkwardly at first, as if their undead physiology needed some warming up, but then progressed from shuffling steps to a reasonably quiet jog within the next ten seconds. Bragi signaled for what had to be the more limber of his men to venture ahead with Jenkins, which would leave him to realize that this really had been a fairly small residence in the past, as far as private castles were concerned. Still, it was obvious that Abbadon hadn't made much of an effort in retrofitting what had previously been students' common areas into reading nooks or personal spaces. Construction material could be spotted here and there, but evidence suggested that only Abbadon's own spaces had been thoroughly customized; everything else still felt like an afterthought.
Wormsworth looked particularly disgusted by the sight of a torn-out patch of flooring on the second story, likely justified by what looked like the impending installation of a reinforced steel frame and plated glass panels. The planned sunroof would've been a nice addition, but it seemed as though the old Pride commander had opted to leave his contractors with very little, in terms of safety gear.
Eventually, after slinking through two levels and murdering some eight men, Charles and his new Draugr buddies came onto stairs leading to the last accessible level, a fairly restricted floor just before the tower's battlements. Herbert gestured for Jenkins to wait, and then quietly tapped the doorknob with a clawed index finger, eyelids drooping as he focused. A shiver made his wings flare slightly, and he nodded to himself.
Glancing back to Charles, the Prince of Pride slipped his own words in the veteran's mind. "This panel has been modified to serve as a gateway back to Hell, it seems. I wouldn't be surprised if a killing floor or some other restricted area waited beyond. If you barge in, both yourself and our new friends may very well be butchered on sight.
My summons is what matters, Charles," he said, referring to the letter. "Start by knocking on this door and announcing yourself clearly."
* * *
"I'll have to ask Enlil, eventually," nodded Three. "I'm only familiar with the more Humanist types in the bloodlines - artists or self-made philosophers."
He couldn't get much further, however, as shouts and a few panicked shrieks sounded, the placid background of the city's distant noise being progressively drowned-out by an oddly-pitched staccato noise they'd almost all recognize, except perhaps for Regis.
"Is that... a helicopter?!" he asked, his shock rather hard to miss. Instinctively, he hopped away from Mary and perched himself on a nearby sconce's wrought-iron fixture. "If that's one of the choppers we saw back in Hope during the war, I'm King Bloody Arthur!"
Three squinted as Preston banked down. "It's... I've never seen anything like it; it's almost like someone took one of Hauser's usually-mentioned bits of kit, tore it apart and welded it back together without leaving any solder marks and - added a pair of wings for good measure..."
Carrie stuck her hands at her hips and squinted ahead, as well. "Drake could tell you we were big on DIY like almost any other squad stationed in Afghanistan, and I've seen some Kurds do some crazy shit with USSR-era trucks - but this? This takes the cake, for sure."
Regis looked glad to have at least one point of reference. "Oh yes," he said, although the sleekness of the overall design reminds me more of our betentacled friends than of military ordnance patched with a farmer's forge's idea of aftermarket parts..."
* * *
Vernon scanned the room again, as if searching the private and secluded countenances of the Commoners seated for a meal or a spot of tea could help him divine their intentions. What seemingly sparked something was the sight of a pointy-eared child armed with a box of Crayola wax crayons, likely obtained from a sojourn in the mortal plane, as he innocently scribbled stick figures of both himself and Alastriona on an off-white sheet of cast-off paper. He sent his daughter an encouraging smile so she wouldn't be left hanging, and then allowed himself a few added seconds of amused silence. The tyke had given him a head in the shape of an inverted teardrop, had exaggerated his loose flesh at his neck and jowls, and rested his stovepipe at an askew angle - which finally ripped a warm chuckle out of him. Alex's own depiction was about as on-par as you could've expected of a kid of about six or seven years, but the box hadn't contained a crayon of a shade that was close to the dryad's own skin tone. With a shrug, he'd started filling in her face in the same lavender-ish blue tone he'd used to color Vernon's clothes.
"We can act as any decent Fae Lord or Lady would," he then suggested, "and host our own luncheon back in the mortal plane. Eirean isn't here with us, but I've every confidence that Bagley or Gubbin could testify in her stead. If the Commoners of my realm could see you, speak with you as Hope's own people were able to do, today - if they could speak their concerns to you before the Old Ways are invoked, this could at least instigate a more diplomatic approach. All you would have to do is convince enough of your subjects that you can be objective in my regard and ultimately declare me fit while having their best interests at heart."
He shrugged lightly. "Past that, if they still want to see me chestbare and with flaming oak branches in hand and still want you to act the part of a druid or bĂ nfaith, we'll have a clear conscience and will be able to say we've offered them a chance to form their own opinion."
* * *
"Thank you, dearest," the former Augur gratefully noted. With his attention split between his relief and his lasting wonderment at their surroundings, he missed what had Archie cant his head to the right, his optical sensors' LEDs gaining the slightest hint of a reddish tone.
"Does anyone else hear it?" he asked. "Chopper blades, I mean."
Eirean glanced sideways as she focused on her hearing, and then nodded slightly. "It's on the other side of the bailey; I wouldn't worry unless the guards sound the alarm-"
She couldn't finished, as Spector was almost liquid in how he slid off his chair, landed with one knee to the ground in order to be compact enough in the carriage's provided space, and curtly fixed his jacket's button and his tie's knot. "I'll go take a look," he said, on a tone that seemed deceptively casual. Judging by the way nothing was heard when Bill slipped out of the carriage, even Mayhew hadn't noticed. The only thing that seemed to manage to give the Faerie horse any pause was what felt like Spector having hopped atop the carrigage to then use it as a kick-off point.
In the meantime, Archie's alarm could've let to misinformed folks to think Nereus had slipped into a bout of anxiety-induced narcolepsy, as his eyes had almost immediately rolled back in his head. He'd started by slumping towards Meris, but some sort of unconscious mental routine made him pitch the other way before he could pin the selkie inside her seat. Azazel, however, hadn't been briefed.
"Really, mister Marinos?!" he seethed, his voice kept low. "Now's not the time to grab forty winks!"
Archie raised a placating hand. "Nereus likely went to check on the Darkhallow for any signs of subconscious intrusion. This isn't a nap; it merely is a tactics-mandated shift in consciousness."
The former Scapegoat squirmed a little, as he now was the one who had to deal with the brunt of Nereus' girth. Seeing his predicament, Archie leaned forwards and grabbed the Squid by the shoulders, righting him in his seat. The former Augur's head briefly tipped backwards, leaving enough space for a particularly noisy intake of air. Holden produced a little tsk of faint annoyance and then righted the squid's head and airways.
"While the sounds involved aren't present," he explained to Azazel, "the more skilled amongst Mister Marinos' brethren aren't entirely defenseless, even whilst asleep. Aidan had months to relay anecdotes Nereus told him by mail. To put it simply, these creatures' idea of somnambulism is particularly active, like you'll find out of some nocturnal vampires - and more than appropriately lethal, if need be."
The young demon looked unconvinced, but Meris wouldn't have much trouble recalling aborted tragedies that had preceded their plans' ultimate undoing, like abortive attempts by a younger Chamberlain that hadn't yet formulated a strategy against them. On some nights, Nereus and Meris had gone to bed alone, only for a third body - now long dead - to be draped across Nereus' belly in the morning. Harrogath's own plans had been in motion for a while, so chances are he'd acted as the couple's own insurance policy, Nereus barely pausing between two snores as his right hand shot out and crushed a hapless would-be assassin's throat.
* * *
Apophis might not have been human, it was obvious that the implications bothered him as much as they did Bucky. The man, the creature they were about to meet, was in actuality more insane than even Chambers - and it had the reins of an underground metropolis' religious cult, no less.
Fake Nereus sighed. "Just once, Ness, I'd rather deal with my own idea of bad guys, see? Make 'em a Squid if they have to be, but I'd take a loan shark or, I don't know, a horseracing bookie from up in Providence! Fraud's enough of a charge, isn't it? What is it with these idiots' need to messin' everything up for everyone else? Why do we hafta suffer 'cause of some moron of a Prelate's death wish, huh?"
Judging by Apophis' look, stakes that were not cosmic in scale were practically unheard of in Dalarath. Aatxe, in the meantime, gave the palace's main hall another look. "I wouldn't discuss these creatures' sense of Ethics in this precise moment, compadres - there is too much at stake. We should meet this Speaker, see to the servitor's return to Respite Point, and then see ourselves to London."
Impact never came. Instead, it felt as though Preston had attached a jet engine or two to the mangled and remade mess of metal and bolts, or as if they were traveling so high up that the conjured wings and near-busted rotor met very little resistance. The air didn't feel thin, however, but a glance downwards would've shown the group that they were indeed far higher than before, and could see what looked like a patch of English countryside in wintertime roll lazily underneath them. Distance made their progress seem slow at first, but Hauser would be more than skilled enough to realize that something about Faerie's air amplified the aircraft's capabilities.
Soon, he'd spot what looked like the more grandiose cousin of Roman viaducts, rising so high and carrying water so far that the craft could've safely slipped between two arches Soon, however, wind seemed to direct them towards some sort of tall and white gorge - like duplicated and flipped versions of the Cliffs of Dover forming a bone-white canyon. At its end waited another opening, something like a reinforced and settled cavern, the inside of which was absolutely jam-packed with houses and buildings of every style traceable to the United Kingdom's long history, from a few recognizably Scandinavian bluffs covered in green grass to slightly-askew Tudor houses and Regency-era townhouses.
"London-Upon-Faerie, lads!" called out Zeb as he stifled a hiccup. "We made it!"
London's Faerie twin followed a layout that made it vaguely evoke the actual city's boroughs, and an analogue to Big Ben was hard to miss in the cityscape, if Big Ben had been assembled by master Clanksmen who'd probably been alive back when Naughton's offices were first opened. Instead of Buckingham Palace, however, a stout Medieval castle of three sections waited near the center of town.
Preston wouldn't have long to spend looking for a place to land, as blue-green firework-like flares soon began to shoot forth from the roof of a squat and stone-hewn building, on the castle's second floor - rather obvious signals, compounded by what looked like a livery-wearing relative of Gubbin's gesturing with two torches. Down below, he'd see part of the other guests, namely Three, Carrie and what looked like Jameson, briefly stop in their tracks to take notice of their arrival.
Unsurprisingly, the only ones who looked unbothered by all of this were those with a foot in the mortal world. Marius and Preston would have ample time to notice things like the castle's apparent milkmaid singing herself before hurrying indoors, or a gaggle of small children suddenly shrieking in terror. Aircraft likely didn't make it directly to this part of Faerie. That seemed to sober up Buck to some degree.
"That's a shame," he noted, "we're the guests of honor, circumstances pushed us to pick unorthodox means of travel, and this is the kind of first impression we leave?"
"It's not like it's our fault, hombre," noted Vargas with a shrug. "Lanterns with reusable fuckin' wicks feel novel to some of these people, and here we come with what's started to look like a rejected concept for a Mad Max aircraft - nevermind the noise we're makin'!"
* * *
Herbert grimaced slightly, but this seemed to be business as usual for the Draugr. They moved awkwardly at first, as if their undead physiology needed some warming up, but then progressed from shuffling steps to a reasonably quiet jog within the next ten seconds. Bragi signaled for what had to be the more limber of his men to venture ahead with Jenkins, which would leave him to realize that this really had been a fairly small residence in the past, as far as private castles were concerned. Still, it was obvious that Abbadon hadn't made much of an effort in retrofitting what had previously been students' common areas into reading nooks or personal spaces. Construction material could be spotted here and there, but evidence suggested that only Abbadon's own spaces had been thoroughly customized; everything else still felt like an afterthought.
Wormsworth looked particularly disgusted by the sight of a torn-out patch of flooring on the second story, likely justified by what looked like the impending installation of a reinforced steel frame and plated glass panels. The planned sunroof would've been a nice addition, but it seemed as though the old Pride commander had opted to leave his contractors with very little, in terms of safety gear.
Eventually, after slinking through two levels and murdering some eight men, Charles and his new Draugr buddies came onto stairs leading to the last accessible level, a fairly restricted floor just before the tower's battlements. Herbert gestured for Jenkins to wait, and then quietly tapped the doorknob with a clawed index finger, eyelids drooping as he focused. A shiver made his wings flare slightly, and he nodded to himself.
Glancing back to Charles, the Prince of Pride slipped his own words in the veteran's mind. "This panel has been modified to serve as a gateway back to Hell, it seems. I wouldn't be surprised if a killing floor or some other restricted area waited beyond. If you barge in, both yourself and our new friends may very well be butchered on sight.
My summons is what matters, Charles," he said, referring to the letter. "Start by knocking on this door and announcing yourself clearly."
* * *
"I'll have to ask Enlil, eventually," nodded Three. "I'm only familiar with the more Humanist types in the bloodlines - artists or self-made philosophers."
He couldn't get much further, however, as shouts and a few panicked shrieks sounded, the placid background of the city's distant noise being progressively drowned-out by an oddly-pitched staccato noise they'd almost all recognize, except perhaps for Regis.
"Is that... a helicopter?!" he asked, his shock rather hard to miss. Instinctively, he hopped away from Mary and perched himself on a nearby sconce's wrought-iron fixture. "If that's one of the choppers we saw back in Hope during the war, I'm King Bloody Arthur!"
Three squinted as Preston banked down. "It's... I've never seen anything like it; it's almost like someone took one of Hauser's usually-mentioned bits of kit, tore it apart and welded it back together without leaving any solder marks and - added a pair of wings for good measure..."
Carrie stuck her hands at her hips and squinted ahead, as well. "Drake could tell you we were big on DIY like almost any other squad stationed in Afghanistan, and I've seen some Kurds do some crazy shit with USSR-era trucks - but this? This takes the cake, for sure."
Regis looked glad to have at least one point of reference. "Oh yes," he said, although the sleekness of the overall design reminds me more of our betentacled friends than of military ordnance patched with a farmer's forge's idea of aftermarket parts..."
* * *
Vernon scanned the room again, as if searching the private and secluded countenances of the Commoners seated for a meal or a spot of tea could help him divine their intentions. What seemingly sparked something was the sight of a pointy-eared child armed with a box of Crayola wax crayons, likely obtained from a sojourn in the mortal plane, as he innocently scribbled stick figures of both himself and Alastriona on an off-white sheet of cast-off paper. He sent his daughter an encouraging smile so she wouldn't be left hanging, and then allowed himself a few added seconds of amused silence. The tyke had given him a head in the shape of an inverted teardrop, had exaggerated his loose flesh at his neck and jowls, and rested his stovepipe at an askew angle - which finally ripped a warm chuckle out of him. Alex's own depiction was about as on-par as you could've expected of a kid of about six or seven years, but the box hadn't contained a crayon of a shade that was close to the dryad's own skin tone. With a shrug, he'd started filling in her face in the same lavender-ish blue tone he'd used to color Vernon's clothes.
"We can act as any decent Fae Lord or Lady would," he then suggested, "and host our own luncheon back in the mortal plane. Eirean isn't here with us, but I've every confidence that Bagley or Gubbin could testify in her stead. If the Commoners of my realm could see you, speak with you as Hope's own people were able to do, today - if they could speak their concerns to you before the Old Ways are invoked, this could at least instigate a more diplomatic approach. All you would have to do is convince enough of your subjects that you can be objective in my regard and ultimately declare me fit while having their best interests at heart."
He shrugged lightly. "Past that, if they still want to see me chestbare and with flaming oak branches in hand and still want you to act the part of a druid or bĂ nfaith, we'll have a clear conscience and will be able to say we've offered them a chance to form their own opinion."
* * *
"Thank you, dearest," the former Augur gratefully noted. With his attention split between his relief and his lasting wonderment at their surroundings, he missed what had Archie cant his head to the right, his optical sensors' LEDs gaining the slightest hint of a reddish tone.
"Does anyone else hear it?" he asked. "Chopper blades, I mean."
Eirean glanced sideways as she focused on her hearing, and then nodded slightly. "It's on the other side of the bailey; I wouldn't worry unless the guards sound the alarm-"
She couldn't finished, as Spector was almost liquid in how he slid off his chair, landed with one knee to the ground in order to be compact enough in the carriage's provided space, and curtly fixed his jacket's button and his tie's knot. "I'll go take a look," he said, on a tone that seemed deceptively casual. Judging by the way nothing was heard when Bill slipped out of the carriage, even Mayhew hadn't noticed. The only thing that seemed to manage to give the Faerie horse any pause was what felt like Spector having hopped atop the carrigage to then use it as a kick-off point.
In the meantime, Archie's alarm could've let to misinformed folks to think Nereus had slipped into a bout of anxiety-induced narcolepsy, as his eyes had almost immediately rolled back in his head. He'd started by slumping towards Meris, but some sort of unconscious mental routine made him pitch the other way before he could pin the selkie inside her seat. Azazel, however, hadn't been briefed.
"Really, mister Marinos?!" he seethed, his voice kept low. "Now's not the time to grab forty winks!"
Archie raised a placating hand. "Nereus likely went to check on the Darkhallow for any signs of subconscious intrusion. This isn't a nap; it merely is a tactics-mandated shift in consciousness."
The former Scapegoat squirmed a little, as he now was the one who had to deal with the brunt of Nereus' girth. Seeing his predicament, Archie leaned forwards and grabbed the Squid by the shoulders, righting him in his seat. The former Augur's head briefly tipped backwards, leaving enough space for a particularly noisy intake of air. Holden produced a little tsk of faint annoyance and then righted the squid's head and airways.
"While the sounds involved aren't present," he explained to Azazel, "the more skilled amongst Mister Marinos' brethren aren't entirely defenseless, even whilst asleep. Aidan had months to relay anecdotes Nereus told him by mail. To put it simply, these creatures' idea of somnambulism is particularly active, like you'll find out of some nocturnal vampires - and more than appropriately lethal, if need be."
The young demon looked unconvinced, but Meris wouldn't have much trouble recalling aborted tragedies that had preceded their plans' ultimate undoing, like abortive attempts by a younger Chamberlain that hadn't yet formulated a strategy against them. On some nights, Nereus and Meris had gone to bed alone, only for a third body - now long dead - to be draped across Nereus' belly in the morning. Harrogath's own plans had been in motion for a while, so chances are he'd acted as the couple's own insurance policy, Nereus barely pausing between two snores as his right hand shot out and crushed a hapless would-be assassin's throat.
* * *
Apophis might not have been human, it was obvious that the implications bothered him as much as they did Bucky. The man, the creature they were about to meet, was in actuality more insane than even Chambers - and it had the reins of an underground metropolis' religious cult, no less.
Fake Nereus sighed. "Just once, Ness, I'd rather deal with my own idea of bad guys, see? Make 'em a Squid if they have to be, but I'd take a loan shark or, I don't know, a horseracing bookie from up in Providence! Fraud's enough of a charge, isn't it? What is it with these idiots' need to messin' everything up for everyone else? Why do we hafta suffer 'cause of some moron of a Prelate's death wish, huh?"
Judging by Apophis' look, stakes that were not cosmic in scale were practically unheard of in Dalarath. Aatxe, in the meantime, gave the palace's main hall another look. "I wouldn't discuss these creatures' sense of Ethics in this precise moment, compadres - there is too much at stake. We should meet this Speaker, see to the servitor's return to Respite Point, and then see ourselves to London."